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shanastoryteller · 7 months ago

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Merry bday! A continuation of Enola Holmes marrying the viscount of Basilweather would be really cool 😀

a continuation of 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

She wrinkles her nose when Tewksbury passes over her cup of tea with two sugars, unstirred, and she knows.

She puts down the cup too quickly, blood pounding in her ears, and Tewksbury frowns, reaching for her hand. "Enola?"

"Got to go," she says, pushing herself to standing, almost just leaves him sitting there, hand outstretched, but he's her husband and she loves him, so she darts over to smack a kiss on his lips before she's running for the door.

"Enola!" he calls out again, but now he sounds less worried and more exasperated, which is better, which is good. There's nothing for him to worry about.

She wants her mother, who's banned from London and is causing political unrest in Southern France currently, or Edith, who's doing something clever and illegal in Scotland. She'd take Victoria, but Mycroft will be there, and he's the last person she wants to see right now. Sherlock, while beloved, is useless, but his boy is a doctor.

She drops in at 221B Baker Street, picking the lock like always, and is relieved that Sherlock is still asleep and decides not to have any opinions on the various bones scattered about the kitchen table. She assumes there's a reasonable explanation for them.

"Oh, Enola!" John grins and shoves some femurs to the side to make space at the table. "Here, join me, would you like some oatmeal? Are you looking for your brother? I can wake him-"

"I'm pregnant," she blurts out, then bites her bottom lip.

John blinks once, then twice, then says with a gentleness that had made her like him in the first place - because Sherlock wanted to be gentle, but was quite bad at it, so someone had to teach him - "This is what you wanted, isn't it?"

Wanted seems like not the correct word, although of course it is, because she and Tewksbury had been, not trying, but not-not trying, which probably amounted to the same thing, considering how often they - well.

"I can fix it," he says, voice low and serious, "if it's something that needs to be fixed."

Enola lets out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "No. No, it doesn't need to be fixed."

She loves that he offered. She loves John, more her brother than Mycroft will ever be, sometimes even more her brother than Sherlock is. If nothing else, her brothers had picked their partners well. Victoria and John are a delight.

John is the functional one between them, explosions and skeletons notwithstanding. John is the one that coaxed her brother into a proper relationship and John is the one that knew they were like parents to all the Irregulars and John isn't normal but he grew up normal.

"Are you worried something's wrong?" he asks. "I can look you over."

"No," she says, although, "I mean, yes, that'd be nice because Tewksbury will go spare, but no, I'm not worried anything's wrong."

He leans back in his chair, looking her over, and after almost ten years of dealing with her and Sherlock and even occasionally Mycroft he can read them almost as well as they can read everyone else.

"It's alright to be scared," he says finally. "Lots of women are when they find out, even when it's wanted, even when the baby's healthy."

"I'm not scared," she says, but for the first time her words feel like a lie. "I shouldn't be scared. What do I have to be scared of?"

She wishes her mother was here.

Will her children miss her like this too?

Sometimes she misses her mother even when she's right in front of her, and if nothing else, she's her mother's daughter.

John gets to his feet, stand in front of her, and opens his arms. She looks away even as she steps forward, like if she doesn't look at him when she does it then it doesn't count as weakness.

His arms close around her. He smells like chai and antiseptic and it's only years of association that make the combination comforting. "I can't wait to be an uncle."

He'll be an uncle. Sherlock will be an uncle. Even Mycroft, and Victoria will be delighted to be an aunt, and to raise her children with Enola's. Of course there's her mother-in-law, and Tewksbury's uncle, who have been angling for her to have a child from the day they married.

There's Tewksbury, who loves her, who isn't going to die on her or leave her if either of them have anything to say about it, who isn't going to leave her to raise their children the way her mother raised her.

Alone.

She's been saying she wasn't going to do this alone from the beginning, but standing here in Sherlock's kitchen, with John holding her steady, she really believes it.

#prompt answers #prompts are closed #asks #anon #enola holmes #if we get a third movie my characterization of john will be wrecked #but know in my heart he is a lovable mad scientist with poor impulse control

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doingbad · 2 months ago

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Let's talk about Sherlock Holmes' work style when we first are introduced to him in A Study in Scarlet (lost post!)

He explains his job to Watson like so:

I’m a consulting detective, if you can understand what that is. Here in London we have lots of Government detectives and lots of private ones. When these fellows are at fault they come to me, and I manage to put them on the right scent. They lay all the evidence before me, and I am generally able, by the help of my knowledge of the history of crime, to set them straight.

Here we get the famous title "consulting detective" and what it means originally: That people consult Holmes and then prove their problems themselves without much more interaction.

[Watson] “But do you mean to say,” I said, “that without leaving your room you can unravel some knot which other men can make nothing of, although they have seen every detail for themselves?” [Holmes] “Quite so. I have a kind of intuition that way. Now and again a case turns up which is a little more complex. Then I have to bustle about and see things with my own eyes.

Holmes even says he does most of his work in that conversation with the client, or at least by thinking it over in his room. It is only "now and again" he actually goes out and does the legwork that he is famous for in most of the stories.

You may note this sound an awful lot like the methods of Sherlock's older brother, Mycroft Holmes. Here is Holmes explaining Mycroft's brilliance to Watson:

'You wonder,' said my companion, 'why it is that Mycroft does not use his powers for detective work. He is incapable of it.' 'But I thought you said-!' 'I said that he was my superior in observation and deduction. If the art of the detective began and ended in reasoning from an arm-chair, my brother would be the greatest criminal agent that ever lived. But he has no ambition and no energy. He would not even go out of his way to verify his own solutions, and would rather be considered wrong than take the trouble to prove himself right.

Seems like the Holmes brothers used to have pretty similar method. Sherlock may have more energy "now and again" but he's also nearly a decade younger than Mycroft.

So what changed? Dr Watson

Watson convinces him to take the STUD case

“Surely there is not a moment to be lost,” I cried, “shall I go and order you a cab?” “I’m not sure about whether I shall go. I am the most incurably lazy devil that ever stood in shoe leather—that is, when the fit is on me, for I can be spry enough at times.” “Why, it is just such a chance as you have been longing for.”

and even then, Holmes only goes on the condition that Watson joins him

“Get your hat,” he said. “You wish me to come?” “Yes, if you have nothing better to do.”

and later in the book Holmes says as much directly:

I must thank you for it all. I might not have gone but for you, and so have missed the finest study I ever came across: a study in scarlet, eh?

All of this is a long way to say: I think there is strong canon evidence that Holmes has his adventures because Watson is there. Watson is what makes them adventures and his enthusiasm, help, and encouragement are just as big a motivator for Holmes as the cases.

#also they're in love #acd canon #sherlock holmes #john watson #mycroft holmes #holmes x watson #holmes tag

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daipeanutsaiban · 23 days ago

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some family headcanons (in order: van zieks, baskerville, asogi, holmes) not everyone has names yet 🫣💦

i wrote more details under the cut ⬇️ this info can also be viewed under the "tgaa oc guide" in my carrd (linked in my profile).

Holmes

Mycroft: he’s 7 years older than his brother in the ACD canon, but I wanted him to be around the same age as Klint and Lady Baskerville. He and Sherlock are 7 and 15 respectively here. I wanted his hair to be dark and over his eyes so it’d match his cynical attitude that things are about to go bad at any time. Also, it’s a nice contrast to Sherlock’s lightly toasted color, so you could say he got “burnt”. Mycroft usually wears gloves, both because he dislikes touching things directly and because he has a tendency to be dishonest (a classic character design trope - though it’s probably less obvious in a game where almost every character of the upper social classes will wear gloves due to the setting). Mycroft predominantly wears green (next to yellow on the color wheel). Despite his avoidant and anxious behaviours, he has a sharp tongue, and rarely addresses people by their proper title. For someone who wants to avoid trouble, he doesn’t try really hard to fit in due to being a contrarian in that aspect... he’s a genius, but he’s an idiot too (lol).

Sherlock: The most important thing is that he’s recognizable without being dressed identically to his adult self, because he hasn’t come into his own yet (and it would just make no sense). He’s wearing rather nice clothes since the Holmes family belongs to the gentry class, but my friend suggested that his clothes would be dirty often since he’s crawling around trying to “solve cases” all the time, and I really love that idea. His mother is probably despairing about it. Sherlock takes himself very seriously at this age, but of course he says ridiculous things all the time.

Father (unnamed): I wanted the brothers to have a point of reference or inspiration for their creativity with inventions and general resourcefulness, so he’s a toymaker who specializes in automata. Mycroft learned from him for some time until he eventually surpassed him due to his inherent genius, but Sherlock lost interest quickly despite also showing talent. Their father is a friendly man whose work usually keeps busy, and he’s on good terms with his wife. I’m undecided on whether the toy shop should be connected to their house or not.

Mother (unnamed): I really wanted her to look like her youngest son without being an exact replica of him, with a simple and uncomplicated design. She’s a housewife with no other occupation officially, but she’s adept at sewing and often takes on requests from friends and neighbours. She also makes clothes for her husband’s creations, as well as for her children. Will dress up Mycroft and Sherlock in dresses on occasion, sometimes to get back at them for causing trouble and sometimes just to try out designs. Sherlock doesn’t mind it, and neither does Mycroft though he’s annoyed at the “punishment” since it’s usually his brother who ropes him into trouble. Their mother is constantly fatigued by their antics, so I feel a little bad for her (their father is more easygoing, so he doesn’t get as stressed out by their sons). Her relationship with her oldest son was complicated for some time due to his tendency to withdraw from the world, but her youngest helped her understand that his brother does love her in his own ways.

Van Zieks

I tried my best to incorporate angel motifs in their design to reflect Barok’s “fallen angel” motif later in life, hence why his and Klint’s father has white hair for example. The feather lace on their mother’s sleeves was a last minute addition; I think I’ll revisit their designs again soon. Klint wears his hair the same as he does as an adult to keep him recognizable, but I think it’d be funny if when he was very young it was parted on the side and he hated it or something.

Claes: Their father’s name. It’s Dutch and pronounced “Klaus”, but I keep pronouncing it wrong (a little bit on purpose because I like the sound of it spelled out). He has a constant poker face, but he’s actually the most affectionate parent in this entire lineup..! He’s meant to be smiling in the drawing, but a stranger wouldn’t be able to tell. I love characters whose personality subverts our expectations we’d usually have based on their appearance, so he looks and acts very seriously but would rather spend time at home with his family and hates going to work (lol). Also fond of cute, small, and typically “feminine” things, but he keeps that part of him a secret since it’d be frowned upon for a man in this era, especially within the upper class which is all about appearance (his wife is aware of it, though). Maybe that’s why he dotes on his kids so much? He’s very corny as well and has plenty of nicknames for his wife and children, which Klint hated at this age. I also wanted Claes to be the same height as Stronghart, with an imposing build and expression, so that the next authority figure in the brothers’ lives following his death would “fill” the gap he left. But that didn’t end so well, did it...

Evana: Their mother’s name. Similarly to Claes, her personality is meant to subvert her elegant appearance. She’s a complete airhead and once got lost in her own house. Evana is nonetheless stricter than her husband towards her children and puts a lot of emphasis on what is or isn’t proper. She’s in tune with trends and gossip as is expected of a lady in her position, and might come across as superficial to some, but she is very loving. When young Lady Baskerville would visit, she and her future mother-in-law would get along tremendously well (to Klint’s annoyance as he also wanted to spend time with his fiancee but couldn’t relate to most of their conversations). Evana had the most religious faith among the van Zieks, and would encourage virtue, integrity, and nobility of character above all else in her children.

Barok and Klint: Two well-behaved, beloved children. Barok is of course the little darling after all; I think Klint was probably the more rebellious one but became very serious after their parents’ death with all the responsibilities now on his shoulders. That was probably a very lonely period for Barok, until his brother cheered up again.

Baskerville

Primrose (Lady Baskerville): In flower language, her name means “I can’t live without you”. I didn't know this at the time I named her, but it fits the story very well, so thank you to my friend who taught me this! Primrose’s outlook is very unconventional for the era and especially at her young age, but she’s grown disillusioned with her lot in life as well as men following her mother’s death. I wanted her to be the only one in the family to be a redhead to reflect how she’s not fitting the mould with her assertive and brash personality, and how she feels "out of place". Her father dresses her in very impractical, often white dresses to assert his control over her as a form of “love”; to thwart her tendency to sneak out of the house without permission and participate in unladylike activities.

Her and Klint become codependent on each other following his own parents’ passing and promise to marry each other even though Lord Baskerville is set on finding his daughter a suitor with a more stable future.

The woman is her stepmother, and the others are her father and her half-brother. Since I’m working on a project involving all of them, I don’t want to reveal too much about them yet. All I can say is that it’s not a happy home, and no one in particularly close to each other (except the twins, maybe)...

Asogi

Genshin: I imagined he used to be short and got his growth spurt late (shown at around 12 years old here). Genshin looks a lot like Kazuma due to his eyes and nose, but thankfully he has a distinctive hairstyle already. I'd like to think he grows out his hair at around fifteen. The scarf's pattern is meant to evoke snake scales! Sorry for how lazily I drew Karuma here, haha. As for his personality, he has a poker face but I like to think he can be quite mischievous, though not towards his immediate family as the repercussions would be non-negligible. His brother in law, Hiroki, however, is the perfect person to prank since he's both kind and naive. I also imagine it's tradition for every (male) Asogi to dedicate their life to training, though he’d have a bamboo sword instead of Karuma at this age, probably... I wonder how Genshin discovered the hilt trick? If he was a kid or teenager, maybe he hid snacks inside (lol).

Miwa: Genshin’s older sister. She wears men’s clothes most of the time. Being their father’s legitimate child, she was going to inherit the clan despite being a woman until Genshin showed up. With Genshin having the “luck” to resemble his father, as well as being male, their father decided to make him the heir instead. Miwa resents Genshin for taking this chance from her, despite knowing deep down that he is not personally at fault. Still, she is outwardly bitter and dismissive of him, and spites his efforts to become closer to his sister. Miwa is both vain and arrogant while also following a rigid moral code. She distrusts men, most likely due to her father’s treatment, but she also respects her father greatly as a warrior. Miwa displays surprising gentleness towards children and women, namely Genshin’s girlfriend and later wife Yukari. Her abrasive personality mellows out when she becomes a mother herself, but she was unable to repair her relationship with her brother before his death. Since that’s very sad, in modern AUs I like to depict them on better terms.

Hiroki: Miwa’s husband through arranged marriage. Hails from a family of performers; his specialty is traditional dance but he’s skilled in rakugo as well. I wanted a character with a sensitive side, who is in touch with his emotions, to contrast the serious and tense atmosphere of the Asogi clan. Thanks to that side of him, Hiroki gets along well with Yukari who has a similar easygoing and “refreshing” personality. However, Hiroki’s sensitivity creates problems since Miwa is confused by a man exhibiting such behaviours (he’s the type to be moved by beautiful scenery and cry over small animals). Hiroki believes everyone can do good and that most people act from goodness, but for this reason he’s easily tricked- namely by Genshin. Despite amusing himself at his expense (since Genshin is quite clever), Genshin enjoys Hiroki’s company since he’s a very mellow person and doesn’t bring up dreadful topics like inheritance and power and such. Hiroki is surprisingly well-built under his clothes, and his weapon of choice is a naginata. I guess Syoma wanted his son-in-law to be strong..?

Syoma: The central figure in the Asogi household. Still alive during the events of TGAA. A very serious man who accords a lot of importance to honor and tradition to the point it’s stifling. Distant from his children, though Miwa claims Genshin is the favorite. The kind of father to make his children compete to “make them grow”, even though one of them is almost an adult and the other is barely a teenager. Although Genshin was conceived after his late wife’s passing, Syoma sees Genshin as a reminder of his dishonourable actions (mainly due to Genshin’s mother being a prostitute), and thus avoids him despite placing the onus of inheritance upon him. All of that results in a house Genshin doesn’t want to stay in- and contributes to his reasons to go study abroad. In his own twisted way, Syoma loves his children, but he was never meant to be a father, or at least does not know how to parent without a wife’s help (tradition and patriarchy is very much a theme for the whole clan lol). I honestly struggle to write him because the things he says can be very hurtful, especially towards his daughter-in-law. His character is a lot more comedic/nicer in modern AU (think pseudo yakuza with mother hen personality), but so is everyone’s. (it’s very sitcom-like, haha)

Thanks for reading if you made it this far!! This post could be even longer but I decided to spare everyone💗 have a bonus papazieks and children doodle for your time👼💗

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fairy-writes · 10 months ago

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Would it be too much to ask for a William James Moriarty x Holmes sister reader? Like she's a travelling archaeologist/anthropologist who's a genius in the field and has found many artifacts and lost cities and can be a bit of an eccentric looney like her older brother Sherly but she's also incredibly kind to those in need and often donates her treasures to the less fortunate and even helps Sherly from time to time which is how he meets her and is impressed by her smarts and sarcastic wits. Also, a bit of a parkour junky likes to wear mens clothes tailored for her measurements and often wears her hair in loose buns or ponytails and loves riding horseback much to Mycroft's displeasure🤭

A BUSINESS PROPOSAL

Reblogs and Comments are greatly appreciated!!

__________________________________________________________________________

Fandom(s): Moriarty the Patriot

Pairing(s): William James Moriarty x Reader

Word Count: 3k

Genre(s)/Tag(s): Female!Reader, Holmes!Reader, Mildly sexist behavior from Mycroft? It is the 1800s after all.

Notes: So this was super fun to write!

Fun fact! I took an archaeology class for my associate’s degree in criminal justice and highly recommend taking one to anyone in college!

I actually took several anthropology classes (intro to anthro, bio anthro, and archaeology). I even considered switching my major to anthropology at some point! (I switched it to English lol)

PART TWO HERE

__________________________________________________________________________

Otis whinnies, and you reach forward from your place in the saddle to pat his neck.

“Easy, Otie, almost there.” You whisper to him and gently nudge him to turn down the familiar road of Baker Street. You could spot your brother’s flat from where you were at, an unfamiliar carriage parked in front. You frown briefly and then shrug. Sherlock could have whoever he liked over.

But… he did promise to take you out on the town in celebration of your latest discovery. Did he forget?

No… He wasn’t the type to forget something like that. You had been exchanging letters for weeks about your coming home.

A tall man was at the front of the carriage, tending to the horses. He had spiked black hair and a glove on one hand. He looks at you with skeptical eyes as you draw near and dismount your horse. The Cleveland Bay snorts, ruffling your hair as you smooth your hand up his snout and between his eyes. Then, you promptly tied his reins to the post outside 221B Baker Street and went up to the front door.

The door knocker was more worn than you last remembered, with the shiny brass turning a glimmering gold color from all the hands touching it. You rap the door once, twice, then a third time, and wait, stuffing your hands in your trouser pockets.

A young man opens the door, sandy blond hair combed neatly and brown eyes alight with curiosity. A grin breaks your face, and you step forward into his arms as he realizes just who is at the door.

“My dear John!” You shriek, and he chuckles, lifting you off your feet and spinning once in a circle before setting you down.

“I thought you weren’t due back for another two weeks!” He replies excitedly, and you laugh gleefully.

“We finished early! Anyhow, how’s Mary? Sherlock said you two were expecting!” You say and slap his shoulder good-naturedly. He ducks his head, a pink flush on his cheeks as he nods.

“She’s home at the mo. But yes, we’re expecting. The midwife thinks it’ll be a girl based on how she’s carrying.” He said, and before you could say any more, there was a noise at the top of the stairs.

You turn, and your grin widens even more until your cheeks hurt.

“Sherly!” You crow, and he bounds down the stairs to sweep you up in a bear hug. His boisterous laugh made your heart sing, and you buried your nose in his hair. He smelled like cigarette smoke and whiskey. He must have been on a case. He squeezes you tight and sets you down.

“I thought you were coming back in two weeks!” He exclaims, and you roll your eyes,

“So John said, I told you we finished early!” You tease, and it is then that you notice that there is someone else in the flat.

He was tall, probably around your brother’s height. He had blond hair and deep scarlet eyes that studied you with interest. He was dressed in a brown suit with a crimson tie. A lord. That much is obvious.

Sherlock notices that you notice his friend and gestures to the man at the top of the stairs.

“This is Liam! A mathematics professor at Durham University and a friend of mine who helps me on my cases.” He says proudly as “Liam” descends the stairs and approaches you.

You stick out a hand and introduce yourself. His hand is smooth like you expected, as opposed to your calloused one. You had bandages littering your fingertips from blisters from shovels and tools.

“William James Moriarty. I’ve heard stories about you.” His British lilt is proper and endearing. You feel your heart flutter and your ears burn. But you smile warmly nonetheless and give his hand a firm shake.

“As much as I’d like to say the same, Sherly has yet to tell me about you in his letters.” You direct the last sentence to your older brother in the same teasing tone as before.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and punches your shoulder lightly while William watches on in amusement.

“I got distracted!” Sherlock complains, and you break out into giggles.

“I would love to hear some stories if you’re up to it.” William cut in gently before you, and Sherlock could start bickering. You brighten. A chance to tell stories of your work and not have someone get bored? It sounded like heaven!

That was how you got to where you were at the current moment.

You were seated next to Sherlock at the Moriarty dining table, regaling them with a story of the most current dig you had been on.

“—and Egypt was absolutely smashing! It was so beautiful!” You say, waving your hands excitedly as you describe the tomb that had been uncovered. It had taken weeks to uncover everything, almost months. But oh so worth it.

“Might I ask what you did with all the artifacts you found?” William inquires, and you hum as you sip at your wine.

“Donated it all back to the locals. It’s the least I can do. Plenty of archaeologists steal their finds and bring them back to England to show in museums. I try and do the opposite.” You say and were pleased to see William nod in approval.

At least someone shared your sentiment.

You got a letter to your very old and very dusty flat a week after your return to England, summoning you to your eldest brother’s estate. You had been dusting and cleaning your furniture when the postman knocked on your door. You frown, brushing your pants on the seat of your trousers, and answer the door.

The letter was short.

Dearest sister,

I have received news of your return to Egypt. I would like to have your company at the family estate for dinner to discuss business and your adventures.

With best regards,

Mycroft Holmes

A summons to the Holmes family estate that your oldest brother had inherited after your parents retired to the country. You look at the ceiling and groan, eliciting a funny look from the postman.

This was going to be fun.

As soon as Otis realizes where you are, he tosses his head and tries to turn around. You tug the reins so he faces the right direction and nudge him into a walk down the road.

“Otie, I don’t want to do this either. But I’d rather not have Mikey send special forces after us or something.” You say to Otis, and when you reach the stables, Mycroft’s hired stable hand takes your beloved horse’s reins. “Take good care of him!” You nearly reprimand the stable hand who agrees and welcomes you back with ease.

The maids welcome you in excitedly when you rap on the massive double doors, and you are ushered upstairs into the dining room.

Mycroft was seated at the head of the table, where your father would be if he were here, and he stood to greet you. He offers a handshake, but you simply smile warmly and hug him tightly. He may have grated on your nerves, but he was still your brother. Mycroft stiffens and pats your shoulders awkwardly when you step back.

“As awkward as always, I see Mikey.” You said and took a seat at the table next to him like you did when you were kids. He clears his throat and calls for the kitchen staff to bring in the food.

It wasn’t much, considering there were only two of you. But it was as extravagant as Mycroft always demanded it to be.

“Would you like to change into dinner attire before we eat, sister dearest?” Mycroft says suddenly, just as you are about to dig into the delicious roast prepared by the staff of the household. You put your fork down and scowl.

“Don’t start with this, Mikey. You know I hate dresses.” You snap, and he raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push the issue.

At least… he doesn’t until you are done with your meal and in his study, talking about your travels to Egypt.

You down the rest of your whiskey and set the glass whiskey tumbler on the table between you two.

“More whiskey?” He offers, and you shake your head.

“I want to be able to ride home after this.” You say and hold in a yawn. The excellent food combined with the fireplace blazing with a crackling fire is lulling you to sleep.

Suddenly, Mycroft stands and walks in front of the fire, setting his own glass down on the mantle and turning to face you.

“Might we talk some business?” He inquires, and immediately, your mood sours.

So this was his end goal? Get you sleepy and drunk so you couldn’t ride home and were subject to his pleadings?

“I don’t want to hear it, Mikey.” You say and stand, holding onto the back of the wingback chair for a moment as the dizziness sets in.

He scowls,

“You are of perfect age. The season is just starting. You could still join in and find a potential suitor!” He tries, and you scrub at your face.

“I already told you I wasn’t interested in courting! I’m interested in—”

“Your work, I know. But what happens when the digs dry up and there’s nothing else for you to do? What will you do when you get too old for this?!” He snaps, and you whirl, steadying yourself with the chair as your anger flares.

“It won’t dry up! There are thousands of years of history still to be discovered! Hundreds of thousands of cities and archaeological finds!” Your voice rises to a shout, and you hear distant footsteps as maids scurry away from you and your brother’s anger.

This goes on for several minutes until Mycroft a bomb on you.

“Mother and Father have decided. If you don’t find someone to court, they will no longer fund your excavations, and you’ll be stuck here with me.”

You freeze, hands wound tightly in your hair, and argument dying on your tongue.

“B—But that would mean—” Mycroft cuts you off gently and approaches, putting his hands on your shoulders.

“You’d be stuck here until you find a husband—no more digs. No more artifacts. Not until you do as they and I ask.” Tears well up in your eyes, and you shrug off his hands violently and flee.

Your boots pound against the hardwood floors, and you run outside where it has started pouring rain. Instantly, your clothes are soaked as you make it to the stables, dress Otis in his saddle and bridle, and swiftly mount his back. He tears out of the stables at a thundering gallop, and the stable hand barely dives out of the way to save himself from being trampled.

Otis’s hooves dash against the cobblestone roads. You cling to his reins and hunch over his back as tears stream down your face and sobs wrack your body.

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

Taking away your funding?

No one wanted to fund a woman on an archaeological dig!

Much less one as young as yourself!

You were screwed! Doomed to live as a housewife because that was society’s and your parent’s expectations of you!

Otis eventually comes to a halt, and you dismount, collapsing onto a bench, breathing hard as rain pours down your body. Your shirt sticks to your skin, and your trousers swim in water as you sit in a puddle on the bench. But you can’t bring it in you to care.

A carriage rumbles to a stop before you, and you look up as the door opens.

“Might I interest you in some shelter?” Comes a proper and endearing accent that you recognize.

“William?” You sniffle, and he smiles, extending a hand.

“If you’ll let him, Fred will handle your horse. How about you step inside the carriage, and we’ll take you back to the Moriarty estate.” He says over the rain. A young man with a blue scarf wrapped around his head gets off the front of the carriage and approaches. You hiccup and nod, handing Otis’s reins to the young man and accepting William’s hand into the carriage. He sheds his overcoat and offers it.

It’s warm and heavy as you wrap it around your shoulders and sit down. Your boots squelch against the floor, and William knocks twice against the carriage's wall, and it starts moving once again.

The Morairty estate is even grander than you remember, looming over you as the carriage stops by the front doors. You nearly slip in your haste to get inside and are taken up the stairs to one of the many bedrooms.

“Draw a bath and get warm. I’ll have some clothes brought by. We can have a talk after you’ve collected yourself.” William says gently, and you nod, taking off his overcoat so he can have it back. He excuses himself, and you are left alone in the suite.

The bath is nice and hot, and you let out a sigh as you shed your clothes into a pile on the floor and sink into the warm water. Your tears are drying, but your emotions are still raging like a rabid dog inside you.

How could they?

Didn’t your family know archaeology was your passion? Your dream?! Of course, they did! You never shut up about it when you were but a little girl learning to play the piano! You babbled on and on about fossils and artifacts in between lessons until you were blue in the face!

It wasn’t long until you were done in the bath and dried off. As William had promised, some clothes were left on the bed. A button-down that looked like it might fit you, a pair of trousers that might be a bit too long, and a pair of undergarments. You tugged on the underwear and then the trousers, having to cuff them at the bottom so you didn’t trip. The shirt fit better than you thought so you pinned your hair out of your face and left the bedroom and down the hall. Hadn’t there been a sitting room just down the stairs?

William was inside, stoking a fire with a poker, his back to you. He stood and turned when you rapped lightly on the entryway. His lips curled in a welcoming smile, and he gestured for you to take a seat.

“Would you like some tea? I had Louis put the kettle on.” He said, and you nodded, sitting on the couch beside the fire.

“Thank you. For the clothes and… everything else.” You mumble, and he shakes his head,

“Don’t mention it. Sherlock mentioned you hated dresses.” He says and pours you a cup of tea.

It’s delicious. It warms you from the tips of your ears to the ends of your bare toes. You scuff them on the plush carpet as William sits across from you. His scarlet eyes are illuminated like glittering rubies in the oranges and yellows of the fire. They’re alive like a torch resides inside.

“Now, might I ask why you were out in the rain?” William asks as soon as you’ve settled into your spot. You bite your lip and wonder if you can trust him with your problems.

Sherlock trusted him well enough…

Perhaps…

“I got into an argument with Mycroft. He said my parents will cut off my funding for excavations if I don’t find a proper husband.” You blurt, and he hums as he takes a sip from his cup.

“I assume they’ve been funding your past archaeological escapades?” He says, and you nod.

“Correct. But that is going to change unless I get married.” You grumble, and he cocks his head to the side, setting his cup down on the tea table next to him and seemingly mulling something over.

“This may be a bit forward, but I have a proposal. A business proposal, if you will.” He starts, and you narrow your eyes. A business proposal? You set your own cup down and cross one leg over the other.

“Go on…” You say hesitantly, and he clasps his hands together as if working out a problem in his head. Sherlock did say he was a mathematics professor.

“I could marry you.” You inhale sharply and proceed to choke on your saliva. William half gets out of his chair to come to your aid when you finally get your coughing under control.

“Why?!” You demand, and he shrugs,

“I’ve done some research into you. You are spearheading the way in new archaeological techniques. You donate your finds back to the locals in need. And frankly, I find you fascinating. If we go ahead with this, you’ll have access to my brother Albert’s influence as well as the Moriarty name and fortune.” He says, and you sit back, stunned.

“I could continue my work?” You say skeptically, and he nods.

“Indeed. There’s no reason to stop you. I might ask for a lecture or two from you at Durham University. But that’s it. So…” He extends a hand for you to shake. “Have we reached an accord?”

You are speechless as possibilities run rampant through your brain. You’d be free from your parent’s influence as well as pleasing them. Though pleasing them was the last thing on your mind. Yes, you’d be married. But like William said… it was more of a business proposal…

You reach forward and shake his hand. His smile widens marginally as you speak,

“I accept your proposal.”

#william james moriarty x reader #william james moriarty x you #william james moriarty x y/n #moriarty x reader #mtp william #mtp william x reader #ynm william #ynm x reader #mtp x reader #moriarty the patriot x reader #yuukoku no moriarty x reader #fairy writes

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lilmoonbunny · 11 months ago

Text

Denial; Mycroft Holmes

Mycroft only seeked you out to deduce you (aka, how Mycroft realised he liked you).

John and Sherlock were, without a doubt, the loudest neighbours that Y/N had ever had.

Gunshots at God only knows what hour, constant stabbing, banging, and so on. Despite this, she still considered them dear friends and the best neighbours that she had ever had. Sure, they were weird and loud, but they were also kind and genuine, at least for the most part. Alongside this, they also appreciated her baking, especially after long cases.

A gentle knock sounded on the door the 221B catching the attention of three people.

“You can come in, Y/N,” Sherlock called from behind the door, greeting the woman with a nod before turning his attention back to Mycroft whilst John smiled at her.

“Hi, Sherly. Hi, John.” She smiled at the two friends before turning to the older Holmes brother. “Hi, Mr Holmes.” Y/N greeted him with a smile. Although she hadn’t met him before, it wasn’t difficult to deduce who he was; the expensive suit and the fact Sherlock was glaring at him gave it away.

“Sherly?” Mycroft spat, grimacing at the nickname given to his brother. “Who on Earth would you let call you that?” He asked.

“This is Y/N, our neighbour. What have you brought for us today? I’ve been looking forward to this all week.” The sweet smile Sherlock gave to the woman made Mycroft feel ill. He had no clue who this woman was and absolutely no idea why they seemed to be this close.

“Chocolate cake, sugar cookies, and love.” She joked, beginning to laugh at the way Mycroft audibly gagged. “I’m only kidding. No love.”

“I should certainly hope not,” came Mycroft’s response, one which simply made her laugh again.

“Are you jealous, Mycroft?”

“Because of the cake, he is.” Sherlock interrupted, waving Myrcoft off. “No, I won’t take the case. You can leave now.”

“This is an urgent matter, brother mine.”

“Don’t care.”

With a groan and a roll of his eyes, Mycroft lifted himself to his feet and prepared to leave.

“I’ll leave these with you, just in case you change your mind. Goodbye brother mine. John.” The hesitation was obvious on Mycroft’s face, despite how well he typically hid his emotions, as he faced Y/N.

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr Holmes.” Y/N smiled sweetly, earning a simple nod from him before he left.

Sherlock, who had leaned to grab the tub of baked goods from the woman’s hands, rolled his eyes as Mycroft left and immediately began to eat.

It wasn’t long until Y/N’s entire life had been researched.

There wasn’t much there. No criminal record, a few jobs, occasional moves, but no sign of her posing any danger to Sherlock and, by association, John. However, the way Mycroft felt upon seeing her was unusual, so he decided to do his own investigation.

“Morning, Mr Holmes,” he was greeted before he reached the empty counter. “Welcome to my bakery! Would you like anything?”

“Just a coffee, please. Black.” Mycroft nodded, not returning the smile she had given, despite the odd feeling it gave him. She was evil and he would prove it to Sherlock.

“Coming right up! Take a seat wherever you’d like, and I’ll bring it over.”

As Mycroft occupied a seat, he took a moment to properly assess the woman making his drink.

She didn’t seem threatening: a content smile on her lips as she prepared his coffee, humming a quiet tune that he barely picked up on. In fact, she didn’t seem out of the ordinary at all, but the feeling when he first saw her – a feeling Mycroft couldn’t explain – had him needing to investigate her further.

“Here you go, Mr Holmes.” Y/N said, placing a hot coffee and chocolate cake on the table in front of him. “Sherlock mentioned that you like cake, so I grabbed you some. It’s all on the house.”

“Why?”

With a small laugh, she responded without hesitation. “You’re Sherlock’s brother.”

How odd, Mycroft thought to himself. She doesn’t even know me and she’s giving me things for free…

Despite his thoughts, Mycroft simply nodded, watching as she took a seat opposite him. “I hope you don’t mind. It’s quiet today so I figured I’d try and keep you company the best I can. I’m sure you have better company than me, though.”

“I don’t mind,” he replied before even thinking. It was safe to say that he didn’t enjoy the way his chest felt whilst he watched her smile.

Maybe she’s a witch? No, don’t be stupid, Mycroft. They don’t exist.

“So,” Y/N’s voice broke the man from his thoughts. “It’s a funny story how me, Sherlock, and John met. I was actually working and Sherlock bursts in demanding to talk to me. My baking stuff had been found at a crime scene and he thought it was me!”

“How interesting.” Came Mycroft’s blunt reply, even if he was intrigued.

“You listened to it, so you must care, even just a little bit. I think that’s a win for me!”

Mycroft couldn’t help the tiniest smile that crawled onto his lips, but he internally prayed that nobody noticed it, especially her. She, however, seemed oblivious to the movement, simply staring over his shoulder and out of the window.

“Anyway, what was he like growing up? Was he like he is now? Blunt and rude?” Y/N asked with a giggle.

“He wasn’t, actually. He was rather sweet. He liked playing pretend with his friend; he always wanted a dog too.” Came Mycroft’s reply. “His favourite thing was pirates.” He said with a fond look in his eyes. Sherlock wasn’t going to be happy when he found out that he had told her, but he couldn’t resist answering her question.

Mycroft watched closely as the woman in front of him grinned, the bright and happy smile a nice contrast to what he was used to whilst working with the government. He couldn’t help but smile back, noting how her smile widened further as he did so.

“That’s sweet. I couldn’t imagine that, to be honest,”

It was time to ask the question that was on his mind. “Are you attracted to Sherlock?”

“Sherlock?” Y/N said, bursting into laughter. “No, absolutely not. He’s more like an annoying older brother. Same with John. We’re just friends, and, well, neighbours too.”

Confusion spread over Mycroft as she felt the weight on his shoulders lift at her words; she was telling the truth.

“How is she?” Sherlock asked the moment he answered the phone.

“How is who?” Mycroft’s voice sounded through the device.

“Y/N,”

“Why do you assume that I know?”

“It’s obvious you were there earlier.”

“…”

“Well, that and Mrs Hudson told us.”

“Of course she did.” Mycroft said with an involuntary roll of his eyes.

“So, how was it?”

“It was fine.”

“You like her then?”

“What makes you think that?”

“Well, you went to see her. It’s quite obvious, Mycroft. Come on, I thought you were smarter than that.”

Mycroft simply put the phone down.

He did not like her.

The next time that Mycroft came across Y/N was when it was raining.

He hadn’t wanted to seem ‘creepy’ by seeking her out again for more investigations and deductions, so he simply waited. She was friends with his brother, it wasn’t like their paths wouldn’t cross at some point. Besides, he didn’t want Sherlock to think that he liked her.

“Raining real bad tonight, isn’t it?” The driver spoke to Mycroft. He was new, so Mycroft couldn’t exactly blame him for attempting some type of conversation with him; it was still annoying, though.

Anthea, looking up from her phone was what caught Mycroft’s attention. “I feel bad for her.” She said, nodding towards a soaked woman. It only took Mycroft a moment to realise who it was.

“Pull over,” he stated bluntly, grabbing his umbrella. He simply ignored the look he was receiving from his assistant.

It had been a long day filled with rude customers, and to make it worse, it was raining, and she had forgotten her coat. Today couldn’t be going any worse for Y/N.

Shivering wildly and soaked to the core, Y/N huffed, watching the way her breath instantly evaporated; it was clearly below freezing, but she held out hope that the rain would stop and she would be home soon.

Her hope seemed to pay off, though, since she could no longer feel the rain. As she looked up at the sky, she spotted a familiar face.

“Mycroft?”

“Y/N.”

“What are you-“

“Get in.” He said, pointing towards the car before wordlessly leading her towards it, still holding the umbrella above her, even if he was getting wet.

“You don’t have to, Mycroft.” She said as he ushered her in and shut the door behind them both. “I mean, I’m soaking your car!”

Mycroft, who could feel the heat on his cheeks from their proximity, simply shook his head. He was too focused on the way her leg was pressed against his as she sat between him and Anthea who stared at her phone with a small smirk.

The ride was void of conversation, but it wasn’t uncomfortable, the only noise was that of Y/N shivering.

After a moment of hesitation, Mycroft shrugged off his jacket and handed her it. “Here.”

There was no chance of refusal, Mycroft wouldn’t allow it, so with a quiet ‘thanks’, Y/N popped the jacket over her shoulders. He just found the chattering of her teeth annoying, was what he told himself.

As they arrived at the flats, Mycroft followed her out of the car.

“Thank you, Mr Holmes.” She said as they stood on the door of her flat.

“Mycroft is fine, Y/N.”

“Thank you… Mycroft.” She said with a small smile before bidding him a goodnight.

“I see you gave her your jacket,” Was all Sherlock said as Mycroft entered 221B.

It was hard. Very hard. Harder than anything Y/N had ever experienced. Having a crush was not easy as it was, but having feelings for Mycroft Holmes was the hardest thing in the world: he rarely showed emotion, he was blunt, he was rude, but most importantly to her, deep down, he was nice.

A small sigh left Y/N’s lips as she worked on her latest batch of cookies for the morning. He was on her mind… again. It was a common occurrence by now.

“We’re not open yet, sorry!” She called over her shoulder at the sound of the door opening. As she turned around to see who it was and apologise again, a blush rushed to her cheeks. “Mycroft! What are you doing here?”

Mycroft stood there, umbrella in hand, and gave a simple shrug. “I was on my way to work so thought I would ‘pop in’ as people say.” He explained, earning a laugh from the baker.

“Modern phrases don’t suit you, Mycroft.” She teased.

With an amused shake of his head, Mycroft took a seat at the table nearest her.

“Want some cookies? They’re fresh out of the oven!”

Mycroft nodded with a grateful smile, always glad to have sweet treats. He would never turn down anyone’s desserts, least of all Y/N’s; not because he liked her and didn’t want to hurt her feelings, but because she was a good baker.

The pair sat in a comfortable silence, Mycroft gladly eating his cookies with an appreciative look whilst Y/N worked on her next batch. There was nothing awkward between them, and there, surprisingly, never had been.

“Are you not at work today?” Y/N broke the silence with a question that was bugging her. She could have sworn Mycroft had always worked this time over the months that she had known him.

Mycroft hesitated for a moment. He was supposed to be there right now but had decided to visit you before. It wasn’t like anyone could fire him for it, he was basically the British government, after all.

“Not yet,” he lied, and he was glad that he was a good liar.

“Oh, okay! I’m happy you came then. I don’t want to bother you.”

“You could never be a bother,” the words fell from his lips before he even registered what his thoughts, and he noticed the blush race up her cheeks, as did she with his.

“Thank you, Mycroft.”

As he stared at her and her rosy cheeks, a million thoughts went through his mind, but they were all related to one thing: her. It was in that moment that he realised the truth, he did like Y/N, and he had been attracted to her since the beginning; that was what he was feeling.

Oh dear…

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lisbeth-kk · 1 month ago

Text

Sherlock fandom.

Temporary Stupefaction

Sherlock pulls up the collar of his coat to protect his neck from the icy wind. The night is dark and foggy. Gloomy. It fits his mood.

John was on a date when Lestrade called with a nasty murder. Sherlock texted and even called John, but he didn’t pick up, nor answered the texts.

It had been an extraordinary case. John would’ve loved it, despite how easily Sherlock solved it. The cases were no fun when John was absent.

Colourful leaves are twirling around his feet in Regent’s Park. Sherlock is desperate to get home to the warmth of 221B. He forgot to bring his gloves.

John wasn’t there to remind him.

Still, Sherlock is hesitating to leave the park and walk the short distance to Baker Street. The flat is probably empty and cold if John’s still out. Perhaps he’s got a leg over and will sleep at that woman’s place. Sherlock is thankful that John never brings any of his girlfriends to the flat.

Small blessings.

The wind and his soon frostbitten hands, decide for him, and Sherlock approaches the black door. When he looks up at the windows, he stops abruptly. Golden light from the lamps and something incandescent, tells him that John is home and that he’s lit the fire. Suddenly John’s figure appears in the window. He stands with his back to Sherlock and he’s gesticulating wildly with his arms.

John never does that.

He’s clearly talking to someone. Sherlock checks his watch. Nearly midnight. Too late for a visit from Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade drove home at the same time Sherlock left the Yard, Molly never visits them, and Mycroft is out of the country as far as Sherlock knows.

Who can it be and why is John so agitated?

He needs more data, and hurries to find his keys and locks himself in as silently as he can. Sherlock tiptoes up the seventeen steps, avoiding the creaky one. John’s voice is loud, but the words are muffled by the door.

Sherlock stops on the landing to eavesdrop before deciding how to proceed.

“How did she know, hm? I’ve only dated her two times.”

There’s a long silence. Sherlock reaches for the doorknob but stops when John speaks again.

“What do you mean I talk about him all the time? He’s the person I deal with the most. It’s only natural, don’t you think?”

What on earth is John talking about? And more importantly; who is he talking to? The responses from the unknown guest, are apparently so low that even Sherlock’s brilliant hearing can’t perceive it.

“I’m not gay, remember!”

Ah, John is talking about Sherlock. His heart cracks every time John utters those words. He startles when John’s voice quivers.

“How did you know that I’m bi? I’ve never told a soul. And before you say Sholto, nothing happened, okay!”

John’s voice rises again when he mentions his former superior officer. Sherlock has always wondered about their relationship. His stomach is in uproar. John has just admitted that he’s bisexual while discussing Sherlock.

What does that mean?

Sherlock can hear that John is pacing, but he’s stopped talking. He opens the door as carefully as possible and dares to look. John seems lost in his own head. His hands are buried in his hair. He looks a bit like Sherlock does when he’s despairing about a case or useless yarders.

A quick survey of the room stupefies him. It’s empty apart from John.

Who the hell has he been talking to?

“Do we have an invisible guest, John?” he asks softly.

John turns to him, his face ashen. He stutters, then blushes.

“Sh…Sher…Sherlock! What are you doing here?”

“I live here,” Sherlock offers with a smirk.

John snorts and starts to chuckle.

“Yeah, you do. Sorry. I was just…”

“You were talking to…”

Sherlock doesn’t finish the sentence but waves a hand, indicating for John to fill in the blanks.

“No one,” John mumbles, his smile gone.

“I heard you,” Sherlock coaxes, eager to solve this mystery.

He hangs up his coat and walks to the fireplace to warm his hands.

“You forgot your gloves again,” John tuts.

“Brilliant deduction, John,” Sherlock quips.

He rubs his palms together and expects John to reprimand him further, but the flat is deadly silent.

“I was talking to Harry,” John finally says behind him.

Sherlock turns so fast he almost knocks John over. His eyes evidently show the horror he feels.

Harry Watson, John’s twin sister, has been dead for six years.

Before Sherlock can analyse this baffling information further, John grips his hands, warming them efficiently. Sherlock momentarily closes his eyes to revel in the sensation. Warmth seeps through him in a flash and sets in his chest like a burning flame. When he opens his eyes, John is gazing up at him with a look Sherlock’s seen before, but not often. It’s fond and hungry. Normally, it disappears within seconds, but this time…

“Sherlock?” John whispers.

“Are you a psychic, John?”

Shit! He didn’t mean to say that out loud.

“Just a vivid imagination, but who the hell knows? Me and Harry’s bond has always been strong. I don’t think I’ve told you, but as children we sometimes communicated telepathically.”

“You are an enigma, John Watson,” Sherlock murmurs.

Sherlock is completely warm now, and decides to be brave. He pulls John to him by his hands, guiding them around his waist. After he has released them, he lets his own hands cradle the back of John’s head and bends down. When he’s close enough to feel John’s breath on his face, he looks into John’s eyes to get confirmation. They are closed, so Sherlock bends down further and kisses each eyelid, before he finds John’s cheeks, forehead, chin and at long last, his lips.

When they part for air. John smiles and tells his sister to kindly leave them alone.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

@flashfictionfridayofficial @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @calaisreno @helloliriels

@raina-at @meetinginsamarra @safedistancefrombeingsmart @gregorovitch-adler @topsyturvy-turtely

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@mydogwatson @redmondcollege @thegildedbee @ilovegayangels

(Tell me if you want to be tagged or removed from the list)

#flash fiction friday #sherlock fandom #sherlock #john watson #bbc sherlock #johnlock #FFF273 #invisible guest

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cherienymphe · 1 year ago

Text

One Year Later (What He Doesn't Know Drabble)

You checked in on your son one last time before quietly exiting the bedroom. He was just starting to sleep through the night, resting peacefully in his crib, and so used to waking up with him in the early hours of the morning, you now found yourself evaded by sleep. You smiled at the thought of him, holding back a small laugh.

He was born healthy and hearty, and Enola’s prediction of a boy had turned out to be right. He was so lively and curious, and so wrapped up in all that came with motherhood, Mycroft’s prolonged absences bothered you none. The dark-haired man could have an entire second family, and you would care none. Although, you knew he was simply tied up with business and politics, but your marriage had never felt like such almost since the beginning.

There were times if you wondered if you would feel relieved at the knowledge that someone else occupied your husband’s attention, allowing more room for you to breathe and be with your son. You imagined that you would, and you could only imagine how Mycroft would feel, how odd he would find your reaction, but fearing the man for years almost had you wishing he would take on some mistress or two. God knows he had the free time…

His lack of interest in your son bothered you more than you thought it would. After all, it only confirmed your suspicions that Mycroft simply cared for appearance and status, and how a wife and child merely bolstered his image. There was never any genuine desire for a wife and family as people to love, and that fact both saddened and angered you.

…because it meant that you were living in torment all this time for nothing.

As much as you feared and despised your husband, you had hoped that something at the end of the tunnel would make this all worth it. The abuse, the abandonment…Sherlock, but your husband had about as much interest in your pregnancy as Enola did in rouge. It should not have come as a shock that his brother, the imposing detective, had stuck by your side more than your own husband.

After all…your son did belong to the youngest brother.

The timeline matched, and Mycroft—so neglectful—took no notice to the birth being off by a month. You noticed though…and so did Sherlock, the burly man holding your son with so much care the moment the midwife had invited everyone into the room. You had carefully avoided his gaze, heart racing because as much as you came to accept there was nothing you could do against Sherlock’s desire to have you any chance he saw fit, he still terrified you greatly.

More than Mycroft in some ways.

It was why you let out a small shriek at the sight of said man when you turned in the kitchen. He was as calm and collected as ever—an infuriating trait of his—while you had to press your hand to your chest just to calm your heart. He was dressed down, and as you stared at him, you did recall the housekeeper mentioning something about Sherlock arriving in town soon.

You liked to keep your tormentor out of your head as much as possible, so it was no wonder you had forgotten.

“Sherlock,” you finally breathed, swallowing and turning away. “I did not know you had arrived.”

You were busying yourself with fixing something to eat, debating on whether to put on some tea. The kitchen was silent for what felt like too long, and you felt…hot under the scrutiny of his observant gaze. You always felt this way when he was around, and you knocked a few things over here and there as you fought to remain steady.

“Only some hours ago,” he finally replied, his soft baritone filling the room. “You were asleep then when I checked in on you.”

You froze at that, uncomfortable with the thought of Sherlock hovering over you and staring down at you as you slept…none the wiser. You struggled to swallow, nodding to yourself as you continued to move about the kitchen. Your brother-in-law said nothing, but you knew that he had not left. His presence was enough to fill up a whole house, let alone one small room.

You wrapped your arms around yourself as you put the kettle on…watching it with pursed lips…

…and that was when you felt it.

For someone of his size, Sherlocked moved so silently—stealthily, and you flinched when you felt his chest graze your back. His body heat seemed to have surrounded you, enveloping you like a warm and suffocating blanket, and you swiped your tongue between your lips. Neither of you said a word, but you did both feel and hear him let out a soft chuckle, and you knew why. The sight of you trying to ignore this imposing and obvious man must have been a comical one.

“He is getting so big,” he hummed, and you shrank in on yourself when you felt his hand find a home on your waist. “…and so handsome.”

You didn’t respond.

“He will be very pretty to look at, I am sure,” you felt him lean in, soft lips grazing your ear. “Just like his mother.”

“Sherlock,” you murmured in warning, attempting to step away.

The other man tightened his hold on your waist, keeping you in place, and you sharply inhaled at the sudden display of strength.

“I have missed you,” he whispered.

“The housekeeper-.”

“Is fast asleep,” he cut you off. “…and your husband is cities away…leaving you all alone and neglected yet again.”

You felt your stomach tighten for so many reasons, and the main one forced a tear to escape your eye, Sherlock slithering his other hand up your body and snaking it around your neck. He forced you to lean back some, completely resting against him, and your lashes fluttered at the soft graze of his teeth against your cheek.

“I want to try for a daughter this time,” he told you, making you grip the counter. “…but mommy and her boys does have a nice ring to it.”

#drabbles

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holylulusworld · 8 days ago

Text

Mr. Holmes' Maid (4)

Summary: You’re his maid.

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Maid!Reader

Warnings: angst, power imbalance, dub-con (just in case cuddling/sharing a bed), master-servant relationship, the reader was an orphan, inappropriate behavior

Mr. Holmes Maid (3)

Mr. Holmes’ maid masterlist

Morning came without a visit from your master. After you arrived home, he told you to get some sleep while he took care of all the things he bought for you.

You barely slept that night, waiting for Sherlock to visit you in your chamber. Even under torture, you’d never admit that you missed his closeness. It’s out of the question that Sherlock could be more than your master.

If only you weren’t a mere maid, a poor orphan without any possessions. A lady could hope to get his attention. Not you. Never you.

“Maid.” You hear Sherlock call from outside your room. “My brother will come for tea today. I want you to wear one of the new dresses and shoes.”

A new dress. He wants you to wear one of the new dresses in front of his brother.

You touch your burning cheeks. How can you wear one of the dresses in front of your master’s brother? Whimpering, you glance at your usual clothes.

You’d feel much more comfortable wearing your old clothes. They are appropriate for a maid, not the expensive ones Sherlock bought for you.

“Master, I can’t—” You sniffle and hide your face in the palms of your hands. You’re rocking back and forth, unable to think clearly. “I can’t… I can’t.”

Sherlock hammers against your door. “Maid, I’m coming in.” He swiftly enters your room to find you panting. You’re shaking in fear and whimpering when he crouches down next to you. “Maid, you need to breathe with me. In and out.”

“I—I can’t wear the dress,” you choke out. “Your brother. He'll know... he'll know.”

Sherlock sighs. He gets up to sit next to you on the bed and bring you on his lap. Your master easily manipulates your body, forcing you to hide your face in his chest. He runs his hands over your back, murmuring soothing words.

“You’re mine,” he confidentially says. “Mycroft holds no power over you or me. I can buy you all the dresses I want.” Sherlock whispers your name as his large hands press you closer to his firm chest. “I want you to wear the green dress, Y/N. My maid won’t wear torn dresses.”

“Torn?” You lift your head to look at Sherlock. “Master, I stitched the dresses up. They are fine now.”

“They are old and torn. You won’t wear a dress looking like a rag,” he demands your obedience. “Say it, maid.”

“I won’t wear a rag,” you sniffle. “Master.”

“Good girl,” he praises and leans closer to press a kiss to your temple. His lips linger for a moment before he clears his throat. “Now get dressed before I lose all control.” He growls the last words.

You start to squirm in his hold, finally understanding the meaning of his words. You’re still in your worn-out nightgown and nightcap, not dressed to serve your master. If anyone found you in his arms, wearing your nightgown, his reputation would be ruined, and your life would be over.

“Go, get dressed. I’ll be waiting for you,” he kisses your temple again before allowing you to slip off his lap. Sherlock hastily gets up to leave your room, repeatedly tugging at his trousers.

You set your steps carefully. One after another to not slip in your new shoes. Eyes trained on the tray in your hand, you pray that you won’t embarrass your master in front of his brother.

“Ah, pastries and tea,” Mycroft chirps. He even smiles, and you wonder what happened to the reserved and strict man. His eyes follow your every step as you drop your gaze while serving the tea. “I must say, brother, you’ve got a well-behaved maid.”

“Mycroft,” your master glares at his brother. You know the tone. He only ever uses it when people irritate him. “Please tell me why you honor us with your presence.”

“Sherlock, I came here to talk about the man you welcomed at your home some time back. A friend of yours.”

“Not a friend,” Sherlock makes a face. He scrunches up his nose, making you giggle. While Sherlock looks amused, Mycroft furrows his brows at your inappropriate reaction. “An acquaintance at best. He’s not welcome at my home.”

Mycroft doesn’t look surprised. He didn’t mention the man wanted to force you to sit in his lap for no reason. Something seems to be off with his brother’s acquaintance, and Mycroft is burning to find out more about the man.

“Oh,” Mycroft pretends to be surprised. “What happened? I thought you used to be friends.”

“Not friends,” Sherlock exasperatedly says. “I told you he’s barely an acquaintance, brother. Now, tell me about your reason to disturb my peace.”

“That man,” Mycroft smirks as he tells Sherlock about his reasons for coming here today: “he came to me to ask questions about your lovely maid.”

Sherlock’s features darken. He already punched the man’s face, but it seemed he didn’t get the message. “Why would a man his stand be interested in my maid? Brother, you are talking in tongues. This doesn’t make sense at all.”

Mycroft smirks and says, “I could ask you the same thing, brother.” He enjoys the struggle on Sherlock’s face. It’s one of the rare times he made his brother squirm. “Why would a man his stand be obsessed with a maid? Sweet and obedient, or not. She’s not of a gentleman’s interest.”

Sherlock gets up, almost knocking his chair over. You whimper at his angry expression. He clenches and unclenches his fists while glaring at his brother. “Watch your tongue, brother. I decide what’s of interest to me.”

Your master slams his hands onto the table, making you shriek as the cups tip over at the impact. “Master,” you murmur his name, silently begging him to not cause a scene. Mycroft seems to already know about your master’s intentions when it comes to you. “Please.”

“Brother, I didn’t come as a villain or an enemy. I came here to warn you,” Mycroft says as he slowly gets up from his chair. He cleans his chin with a napkin and chuckles. “Your temper always got the best out of you. Maybe we should revisit this topic if you’re not in a sour mood.”

“Warn me?” Sherlock huffs. “You didn’t come to warn me, but to lecture me. All my life, you tried to do so.”

“Sherlock, my brother. I mean no harm to you." Mycroft softens his voice to not scare you even more. You’re cowering in a corner, watching your master turn into an angry beast ready to devour his brother. “You should be aware that this man won’t give up so easily. All the questions he asked about your maid and her past picked my interest. You should be careful whom you let into your home.”

Mycroft gives you a curt nod before brushing past his brother. “I know you’re smart enough to solve this mystery on your own. If not, you know where to find me.”

“Maid,” Sherlock carefully tries as you are hiding under the covers. “I apologize for losing my temper in front of you. It wasn’t for you to see or hear. I promise this will never happen again.”

He takes his usual spot in your bed, sighing as you whimper in distress. “My sweet maid,” he says, and wraps his arms around you as so often before. You know it’s wrong, forbidden even, but you can’t help it. You go lax in his arms and sigh. “Please forget what happened today. Tomorrow is a new day.”

Tags in reblog.

#sherlock holmes #sherlock holmes x reader #sherlock holmes x you #sherlock holmes x y/n #maid reader #sherlock holmes x maid!reader #Mr. Holmes' Maid (4)

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starlostlix · 6 months ago

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even from the limited amount i've seen of it, i absolutely love the concept of Alcroft communicating via carrier pigeon whilst Albert is in prison, and that said pigeon even has a name and it's Charles Dickens.

so these dudes now have almost no pressing need to keep communicating (since Albert is no longer running MI6) but yet they insist on communicating still, and they're sending letters across london via MYCROFT HOLMES' PET CARRIER PIGEON CALLED CHARLES DICKENS instead of just going via the post or something. Albert sees a pigeon outside his prison cell window in the tower of london and is like 'ah yes mail is here' and is visibly disappointed when it's a random pigeon and not charles. plus the pigeon apparently even grows fond of Albert from visiting him so often so HOW MANY LETTERS DID MYCROFT SEND? how many trips was this pigeon flying per week? was charles dickens getting compensation via extra berries or seeds or something per flight? mycroft you better be treating that pet pigeon of yours well for all his work, i mean he's single-handedly maintaining your relationship with your imprisoned friend (or bf if you're an alcroft shipper, i don't really know if i am yet).

so in short Alcroft basically spend lots of time and letters bonding over the fact that they both thought their brothers were dead, becoming a support network exclusively held up by charles dickens the carrier pigeon.

the writer(s) of Moriarty the Patriot absolutely cooked with that one it's so funny and endearing. and why do i not see more alcroft shippers talk about charles dickens and how like i said he single-handedly maintained alcroft's relationship during that time skip. give charles dickens the carrier pigeon his credit and his praise.

#more fanfics should include charles dickens the carrier pigeon #charles dickens the carrier pigeon my hero #i don't know why i specify charles dickens the carrier pigeon its just funnier #alcroft #yuukoku no moriarty #moriarty the patriot #yuumori #albert james moriarty #mycroft holmes

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girl-next-door-writes · 29 days ago

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Defrosted

Characters: Mycroft Holmes x reader

Summary: After a grueling day, you return home, weary and stressed. But behind closed doors, the icy, calculating Mycroft Holmes melts for you alone, showing a rare tenderness.

Word Count: 1291 words

A/N: This is a mixture of requests from @anonymousmarvelfan, @howaboutlunch, @savvy-devine666, @but-hey-could-be-satan. It’s been sitting in my WIP file for a while, so I hope the final version is what you were hoping for.

The London air bit sharply through the autumn night as you pushed the door open, peeling off your damp coat with a sigh that held the weight of the day’s troubles. Exhaustion clung to you like a heavy cloak, your thoughts dulled by the long hours of tense meetings and endless paperwork. A familiar chill hung in the air, reminding you of the looming winter and the comfort of the warmth inside your home.

And then there was Mycroft.

You found him in the sitting room, seated in his usual armchair by the fire, a thick book in his hands and his brow knitted in concentration. The firelight danced over his angular features, casting shadows that softened the harsh lines of his face. He glanced up at the sound of your entrance, his expression still the practiced neutrality he wore like armor, yet there was a flicker of something warmer in his gaze.

"My dear," he greeted, voice smooth and unperturbed. “You’re home late.”

The corners of your lips lifted into a weary smile as you approached him, sinking into the sofa opposite his chair. “Yes, well, not everyone can be as fortunate as the British government’s top strategist. Some of us still have to suffer through rush-hour traffic and unreasonable supervisors.”

A small, wry smile tugged at his lips. "Indeed. I suppose not everyone can delegate quite so effectively." He closed his book with a quiet thud, setting it aside on the mahogany side table. “You look exhausted.”

You gave a noncommittal hum, your body sagging against the cushions. “That’s one way to put it. It’s just been… one of those days.”

He rose to his feet with the kind of languid grace that spoke of countless years perfecting even the smallest of movements, as if the very act of standing could be an art form. His gaze swept over you, and in the quiet moments that followed, the transformation began—the slow thawing of the ice around him.

"Wait here," he instructed softly, before disappearing down the hallway.

When he returned, he was carrying a pair of fluffy slippers, the ones you kept tucked away at the back of the closet. He knelt before you, an unexpected gesture that pulled you from your fatigue-induced haze, and with the same careful precision he applied to everything else in life, he slipped them onto your feet. His fingers brushed against your skin, and you could swear you felt the faintest spark of warmth where they touched.

"Come," he said, standing again and extending a hand towards you. "Dinner is nearly ready."

You allowed him to lead you into the dining room, where the rich aroma of a simmering meal filled the air, the scent of garlic, rosemary, and roasted vegetables weaving together in an enticing blend. On the table sat two place settings, a bottle of your favorite wine, and a dish covered to keep the heat trapped inside. It was a sight that instantly made the day’s stress seem like a distant memory.

"You cooked?" you asked, incredulous as you took in the scene.

"I’m fully capable of following basic culinary instructions," he replied dryly, though there was a trace of amusement in his eyes. "Now sit, and allow me the rare pleasure of serving you."

The meal was simple but delicious—a roasted chicken, golden potatoes, and seasoned vegetables, paired perfectly with the deep, velvety wine. Mycroft poured your glass first, as he always did, with the kind of etiquette that had become second nature to him.

As you ate, the tension slowly ebbed from your muscles, replaced by a gentle warmth that spread through you, not just from the meal or the fire, but from the quiet intimacy of sharing this moment. Mycroft, usually terse and preoccupied, allowed himself to relax, his features softening as he listened to your accounts of the day. He commented occasionally, offering wry observations that made you laugh and rolled his eyes at the absurdity of office politics.

When you had finished, he was already ahead of you, standing to clear the dishes before you could insist on doing it yourself. "None of that, now," he chided. "You are under strict orders to relax."

As he moved about the kitchen, he carried himself with the same air of precision, each step purposeful, each motion refined. You observed him as he worked, feeling the familiar flutter in your chest. It wasn’t often that you were graced with this side of Mycroft Holmes—the attentive partner who pampered and doted, albeit in his own way. It was a side that the rest of the world would never see. To them, he was the British government, a man of intellect and authority wrapped in a cold, imposing exterior. But to you, he was something more—someone who had learned to defrost in the presence of love.

When he returned, his sleeves rolled up and his usual sternness tempered by the gentleness in his gaze, he reached for your hand. "Come," he said, his voice softening. "There’s something else I’d like to show you."

He led you to the bathroom, where a bath had already been drawn, the surface of the water shimmering with fragrant oils and surrounded by the glow of a dozen flickering candles. The warmth of the room wrapped around you like a blanket, chasing away the last remnants of the chill that had clung to you all day.

Mycroft’s hands moved to remove your clothing with a practiced ease that spoke of the years you had shared together. “You’ve earned this,” he murmured against your ear, his breath warm on your skin. "Now, enjoy it."

Once you were immersed in the bath, the heat soaking into your tired muscles, he did not leave as you expected. Instead, he took a seat on the nearby stool, his long fingers deftly massaging your temples, trailing down the back of your neck, tracing a line of warmth along your spine. It was a kind of care you knew he would never show to anyone else, a private language spoken only in the sanctuary of your shared life.

For a man so famously detached, his touch held a surprising amount of tenderness. It was as though the very act of tending to you brought him some unspoken peace, a quiet satisfaction that no position or title could grant him.

"Mycroft," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. "Thank you. For everything."

His hand stilled, and for a moment, you wondered if you had broken some unspoken rule by being so candid. But then he leaned forward, his lips pressing a chaste kiss to your damp forehead. "You’re welcome, my dear," he replied, his voice a low murmur. "Though, as you well know, I do not do these things out of some obligation. I do them because…" He trailed off, and there was a pause before he continued. "Because love, real love, is seeing all the flaws, the scars, the weariness—and choosing to stay. Something I know you do each and every day.”

You gazed up at him, and in his pale eyes, you saw the quiet promise of a man who had found his heart’s refuge in you. It wasn’t a grand declaration or an ostentatious display of affection—it was something far more enduring. It was the gentle unraveling of the formidable man before you, a defrosting that came not with time, but with trust.

As the water cooled and the candles burned low, you knew that no matter how many long days or bitter nights lay ahead, there would always be this—this shared sanctuary where the warmth of Mycroft’s quiet love would be enough to melt away the chill of the world outside.

#Mycroft Holmes #Mycroft Holmes x reader #Mycroft #Mycroft x reader #gndw fic

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holmesillustrations · 1 month ago

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Dogs Bracket is here! It turns out a lot of these dogs are horses, but there was exactly 32, which is perfect for our purposes 🐶🐴🦁

Currently on Round 3

Most of us are i think familiar enough with the stories that this wont be a surprise, but just in case i do want to warn that a few of these illustrations feature violence against or by the animals in question, i'll tag those specifically when we get to their polls as 'animal violence'

Full list of competitors under cut:

(Illustrations in green were already out, those in blue have been newly eliminated)

[Colliers Cover Illustration] Missing Three-quarter, FD Steele

"On the ledge of rock above this strange couple stood three noble buzzards" Study in Scarlet, Charles Doyle

"He laid his hand upon the glossy neck." Silver Blaze, Sidney Paget

"Close to the door of the cage lay Mrs. Ronder, with the creature squatting and snarling above her." Veiled Lodger, FD Steele

"Silver Blaze" Silver Blaze, Sidney Paget

"Phosphorous!" I said. Hound of the Baskervilles, Sidney Paget

"THE HOUND OF THE BASKERVILLES." Hound of the Baskervilles, Sidney Paget

"There's our man, Watson! Come along." Hound of the Baskervilles, Sidney Paget

"The carriage rattled past." Missing Three-quarter, Sidney Paget

"There in the centre lay the unhappy maid where she had fallen" Hound of the Baskervilles, Sidney Paget

"THE DRIVER POINTED WITH HIS WHIP—'BASKERVILLE HALL,' SAID HE" Hound of the Baskervilles, Sidney Paget

"I SAW HIS EYES FIX THEMSELVES OVER MY SHOULDER." Hound of the Baskervilles, Sidney Paget

"Holmes crouched behind the bush with the dog as the carriage approached." Shoscombe Old Place, FD Steele

"Running up, I blew its brains out." Copper Beeches, Sidney Paget

"Holmes gazed at it and then passed on." Abbey Grange, Sidney Paget

[Mycroft's brougham] Final Problem, Harry C. Edwards

[Woman with horse] Shoscombe Old Place, FD Steele

"As I slipped the bars it bounded out, and was on me in an instant." Veiled Lodger, FD Steele

"The dog sniffed round for an instant, and then with a shrill whine of excitement started off down the street." Missing Three-quarter, Sidney Paget

"Dog and man were rolling on the ground together, the one roaring in rage, the other screaming in a strange shrill falsetto of terror." Creeping Man, HK Elcock

"Holmes darted forward and barred their way." Lady Frances Carfax, Alec Ball

"They bundled him into a cab that was beside the kerb" Red Circle, HM Brock

[The professor and his dog] Creeping Man, FD Steele

"Holmes emptied five barrels of his revolver into the creature's flank." Hound of the Baskervilles, Sidney Paget

"We got off, paid our fare." Speckled Band, Sidney Paget

"We were to go to the theatre… suddenly he darted away into the fog." Bruce-Partington Plans, FD Steele

[MacPherson's Dog on the beach] Lion's Mane, FD Steele

"THE HOUND OF THE BASKERVILLES." [Frontispiece] Hound of the Baskervilles, Sidney Paget

"How far to Wallington?" Cardboard Box, Sidney Paget

""Too late, Watson; too late!" cried Holmes" Solitary Cyclist, Sidney Paget

[Lion] Veiled Lodger, FD Steele

"At the same moment Holmes stepped out and released the spaniel." Shoscombe Old Place, Frank Wiles

Full graphic with nothing greyed out:

And finally, i wanted to include every animal illustration, but i did leave out the two from Blue Carbuncle with dead geese, those are not dogs they are ingredience.

Edit: I realised i completely messed up the order of polls in the original bracket, all fine for round 1's results but would have caused problems for round 2. The current one is correct, but obviously had to be shuffled around a lot, so the numbers by each one show their order from round 1 for future reference, sorry bout that!

#acd holmes #sherlock holmes #tumblr bracket #sherlock holmes illustrations #dog polls #R1 dogs #not starting this Just yet because i dont wanna be keeping up with it while im travelling #but i'll get it all set up and then start round 1 once im back from ireland <3 #oh also i left out a spider? more bc it was a title banner (chas) than anything else

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