#Di Dimmock

[alistonjdrake]

WIP INTRO: A Woman of No Importance

A Woman Of No Importance: A Look Into the Political and Sex Lives of Medieval Women All Tied With a Nice Enemies-to-Lovers bow

The Early Ages was a fraught time for a budding country, and no one knows that better than historian Sabina Sphar, whose deep dive into one long-gone country leads to an obsession with two women held responsible for its downfall. The year is 946 W.C. and King Oswald of Vilsland has just ordered the execution of his once beloved aunt, Princess Mathilde. Now wanted for treason, Princess Mathilde seeks refuge in her childhood home, currently occupied by a woman who holds a powerful grudge. Twenty years ago, Cierra Dimmock and Princess Mathilde were rivals in the midst of a bloody game of intrigue and court manners. One was a standing regent struggling to keep her grasp on the court and the other the new, foreign wife of a prominent duke. Their feud resulted in one being jailed and the other humiliated. Now, the tables have turned and Cierra is a wealthy widow and Dowager Duchess while Princess Mathilde is an exile looking for political asylum. In a moment of pity, Cierra allows her old enemy to spend the night in her home. Their fates will be sealed by morning and this decision could cost both women their lives. But what is certain is that their country and history will never be the same.

Told through interviews, land deeds, court diaries, letters, Cierra's own narration, and the musings of several historians. A Woman of No Importance tells the story of a rotten feud between two middle-aged women but also the ill-fated history of Vilsland and how the interactions of these characters wiped it off the map.

AWONI is currently looking for early readers so please message me if interested or learn more below!

Prominent Characters

Sabina Spahr: Queer Early Ages historian most interested in the well-documented feud between Cierra Dimmock and Princess Mathilde. Cierra de Bellièvre: Remembered as the foreign wife of Notker Dimmock. Cierra has left behind little written record of her life except for her pious and astute nature. Mathilde of Dester: Born a princess, raised as a hostage, died as a traitor. From successfully leading a country as its regent to fumbling a treasonous uprising, there is little Mathilde hasn't done or been criticized for. Edelgard Notkerdotter Dimmock: Cierra's daughter and the only sovereign duchess of Dester. Sister Gisela: Cierra's nun companion who writes extensively about her mistress during their youth. Ivo Túfel: A soft-hearted poet who ventures to the court of Vilsland to write of beauty and romance.

AWONI discusses topics such as: sexual assault, religious persecution, discrimination based on gender, and discrimination based on sexuality, so readers should take care.

[imjustanauthor]

“Detective Inspector Lazarus,” Charlie quickly corrected, firm in his tone but not in any way hostile. That, it seemed, was a sore point for him. He was still a DI, thank you very much. Maybe he hadn’t got that DCI promotion that everybody had been saying he would, but that was hardly his fault, was it? He’d get it eventually, once he’d proven that he was still every bit the detective that he used to be.

The moment of seriousness was gone in a flash, Charlie swiftly returning to his previous smile. Mind you, that was unusual for him - or, at least, it was compared to how he’d been when he had last spent time in the morgue. Charlie had very much been an all work, no play kind of guy back then.

“Yeah, it’s for a case. See?” As if it somehow proved his point, he pulled his warrant card out of his pocket to show Molly. Though the title had not changed, the photograph had. Gone was the somewhat aged, young photo of him from before. Now, it had been updated - notably, the new scar on his forehead clearly visible. Unless he had spent his year of medical leave learning how to forge documents, Charlie reckoned it was pretty damn hard to argue that he wasn’t supposed to be back on the job.

But, of course, him being a detective was not what was being questioned. Molly was asking if he was supposed to be working on the case, which he most definitely was not. She didn’t need to know that, though. He’d be careful - her involvement never needed to be known by anybody outside of the room.

“DI Dimmock asked me to have a look. His DCI’s breathing down his neck to get this one solved quickly, so it’s all hands on deck. I’m sure you know how it is. Must get busy here sometimes, no?”

Or maybe not. It was, after all, a morgue.

   Molly Hooper, the pathologist in question, was in the morgue—where else would she be?—tending to some bodies that had been brought in prior. She'd already examined them over, made her diagnosis' and filed them away, neatly and efficiently, before tending to some loose organs that she was examining.

   This stuff was always interesting to her, getting to see the veins, vessels, how they worked—a weird trait for a woman to have, no doubt, but she didn't seem to care. Her insight, she thought, was important for when detectives came down to inspect for themselves and ask for her notes. She might be little, mousy Molly Hooper, a woman with quirks and strange interests, but she was an intelligent one at that.

   She was moving some bowls into more secure locations when Charlie had wandered into her morgue. Strange, she was half expecting Greg to be coming through, or even Sherlock. That's who came in most of the time when it came to bodies, so the surprise on her face was valid enough when she was it wasn't. ❝Oh! Mister Lazarus, hello,❞ She curtly greeted with a smile, her hand raising to wave as she made her way over, ❝Sorry, Detective Lazarus, isn't it?❞ She winced with a nervous laugh. Small talk, Hooper, you're not very good at it.

   Her brow raised then at his inquiry—the body from the river... Oh! She knew which one. ❝That one... Yeah, I can.❞ She nodded, turning toward the refrigerated area where the bodies were kept, grabbing her trolley in which the slab and body would fall onto. Turning to look at him, Molly raised her brow again, ❝Is this—um—is this for a case?❞ She asked. She'd heard about his accident—everyone did. The news displayed it, multiple stations discussing it... it was mortifying. Partner dead, him severely wounded... the thought alone was terrifying, but seeing it on the telly? How he survived, she'll never know—in theory, and any logical standing, he should have died—thank God he didn't, though. She didn't know ALL the details, and getting a hold of the reports alone was a task, as she only saw the one for his partner. Her mortuary, after all. Was he even supposed to be doing this sort of work? As long as it was to finalise some possible notes in the report, viewing this body shouldn't hurt. She let Sherlock do it all the time, and his title was literally self-proclaimed.

[scottishstoner]

D.I Dimmock had a thing for Sherlock CHANGE MY MIND

Fucking “to assist you..I mean” *puppy eyes*

[taylorinthetardis]

Thoughts after The Blind Banker

- I miss Sarah. She was badass.

- This episode is way more chill that the first and last. Honestly it’s almost boring, but in a good way, like taking a downer after being on amphetemines.

- Dimmock was shit and I’m glad he never came back

- Sherlock was definitely asking John on a date.

[elennemigo]

Every character in every episode: ~ 1x02 The Blind Banker ~

[imaginedilestrade]

Prompt: You and Greg are both in the force, unrequited love situation- oh so you think, you guys have a fight, so you leave the force and get a job in Stockholm- and you don't tell him- carry on the story PLEASE WRITE A GREGXREADER FIC, PLEASE YOUR WRITING TRUMPS EVERYONE ELSES

A/N: Firstly thank you for the request, I hope you like it! And secondly uhhh THANK YOU! 😭❤️ that’s so sweet of you to say that about my writing! It’s made my week so thank you so so so much!

P.s. It’s a tad long (I got carried away)

—————————

You couldn’t help but look behind your shoulder hearing a light laugh echoing around you. You caught yourself smiling, it disappeared before anyone else could notice. You looked down to your gun and loaded it, trying to focus on something else other than the man behind you.

“You okay?”

Your focus vanished.

You turned on the spot to face Greg “Yeah, I’m fine. How are you?”

Greg smiled, you were the only one to ask him how he was feeling “I’m alright. You know the plan of attack?”

“Do you think I’m an amateur?” You teased “Course I know.” He nodded with a small smirk before talking off. You let out a sigh and placed your gun in your holder. You couldn’t help but feel that the feelings you felt for Greg were one sided. You had been crushing on him for years.

You got into position, waiting for the signal to go and as soon it was given, you stealthy manoeuvred around the building in attempts to find the suspect. You caught Greg out of the corner of your eyes and smiled to yourself again.

But you let your guard down and the suspect took advantage of that.

His towering figure knocked you to the ground causing you to whack your head off the concrete.

You looked up and saw him run off until one of the other officers grabbed him and managed to cuff him. You rubbed the spot that hit off the ground, it was warm and wet. You pulled your fingers back and let out a groan seeing the blood on your hand.

“Y/N?” You looked up and saw Anderson “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” you grumbled as he helped you up “Where’s-” you cut yourself off as your eyes caught onto Greg who was chatting and laughing away with one of the female officers.

“Where’s who?” Anderson asked and you snapped back into reality.

“No one, it doesn’t matter…” You huffed out and held onto your head as you started walking. You cursed yourself for being so stupid, letting him of all people distract you with his stupid perfect face and his stupid perfect smile, those stupid perfect things caused you to get hurt in the first place. In more ways than just the cut on your head.

You walked to your car, constantly wiping away the blood that was dripping down the side of your face.

“Hey!” You felt a hand grab on to your wrist “You’re in no fit state to drive home!”

“I’m fine, Greg!” You spoke through gritted teeth and tugged your hand out of his grip.

“Y/N-”

You cut him off “Oh Greg will you just fuck off!” His eyes widened at your sudden outburst “Stop pretending you care about me!” You screamed, capturing everyone’s attention.

“Stop shouting and I’ll take you home!” He snapped.

“Just leave me alone…I can get home myself, you can get back to that young officer you were attempting to chat up earlier.” You walked away from him and got into your car, despite greg calling you back dozens of times.

You didn’t know how you managed to get home in one piece, the blood loss was making you dizzy. You cleaned up your wound and put a plaster over it, luckily it wasn’t as bad as you initially thought. You sat yourself down on the couch and grabbed your laptop. You thought checking over your emails would help clear your mind a little.

Instead-one email in particular- made your mind whirl even more. A friend who had moved to Sweden about a year ago had sent you an email describing her adventures in great detail and attaching photos of where she had visited.

At the end of the email she had wrote; ‘You’re welcome to visit me (and Stockholm) anytime! Hope to see you soon x’

Your fingers twitched over the keyboard, you were about to reply but your fingers took you elsewhere, to various airline sights and hotel sites. Then you found yourself looking at long term rentals, then more permanent homes. The more you looked the more you felt a pull to move. You checked out the website that had information about the police force in Stockholm. It would be fairly simple to get in, you could fast track your application and be accepted within a week.

So you filled out the application form.

—

You had been stuck with DI Dimmock all week which you were half thankful for. At least you hadn’t seen Greg although Dimmock constantly brought up what happened the week prior.

“He just wants to talk to you yanno,” Dimmock told you, again, and you rolled your eyes, again.

“I don’t want to talk to him.” You uttered out and slumped in the seat of the police car you were stuck in with him.

“You’ve always been stubborn,” he laughed “I remember the day you first joined. You argued with the HR department all day, asking them to move your desk because you didn’t want to sit across from Anderson.” Dimmock giggled away in his seat.

“Can you blame me?” You asked raising a brow and before you knew it he had parked up beside your front door “Thanks for the lift home.”

You reached to open the door and grab your bag but froze when he said “See you Monday!”

You turned to him with a fake smile “Sure! See you then.” You grabbed your bag and made sure the letter you had written had intentionally fell out “Bye Dimmock.”

You shut the door over only to open another, your front door. You smiled at the bags that were lying beside it. You wouldn’t see Dimmock on Monday. You’d be in Stockholm.

—

‘I quit.’

After two years Greg was still heartbroken with your two worded letter. He felt like it was his fault you had left. Greg had no idea where you had went, it was as if you had vanished into thin air.

He always regretted how that day had turned out, he wanted nothing more than to make sure you were alright, hug you all night and take care of you until your head was better…he’d even continue to take care of you after you had healed.

But what you said stuck with him; ‘Stop pretending you care about me!’

Greg did care. Couldn’t you tell? He tried his very best to try and let his feelings to be known to you but you were oblivious, and Greg didn’t exactly try his best. Nerves always got the better of him.

Greg sighed and mindlessly played with his pencil that was lying on his desk. That was until Donovan barged in with a panicked expression “Sir! Turn on the news!”

—

You glanced down at your watch and let out a sigh at how long it was taken you to make a simple deposit at the bank. There was only two people in front of you as well.

You feet began to involuntary tap in attempts to pass the time but you jumped when you heard a cashier scream. You sent wide eyed and saw the man in front of you point a gun at the woman.

The man standing in front of you made an attempt to run but the gunman turned around and shot him in front of you eyes “Get down!” He screamed at you, looking clearly distraught at what he was doing and at what he had just did “I said get down!” He pointed the gun at you and it took you a few moments to register the situation you were in. You put your hands up and lay on the ground. The shooter told the woman behind the desk to come out and she did, lying beside you.

“It’s okay,” you tried to soothe the sobbing woman, you knew it wouldn’t be much use but you tried. “What do you want?” You calmly asked the gunman who was pacing anxiously on the tiles “Money?”

“It’s too late for money!” He screamed at you and pressed the gun to your head.

“Okay!” You whispered out, trying to remain calm “Okay what do you want?”

“I lost everything!” He screamed and wiped away a tear with his palm while holding the gun-shakily-in his other hand. “I lost my wife, I lost my child, my home all because this place wouldn’t give me a loan.”

“Okay…” you slowly spoke and held your hands up in defence “I’m sure we can help you.”

“No you can’t!” He roared and you lightly shut your eyes.

“Well I can try but in order for me to try you have to let the woman beside me go…” he raised a brow at your request “There isn’t much point of her being here if I’m the one helping you.” He was about to speak again but was cut off my police sirens. The woman had obviously pressed an alarm. “Let her out now. I can help you. I can talk to the police.” You tried to convince him and you had barely managed to.

He let her go.

Shortly after he was dragging you to a phone, you could see all the police officers outside with guns, some of them your friends and colleagues. You picked up the phone that rang “Hello?” You answered, conscious of the gun being pointed to the back of your neck. You had a conversation with your superintendent “Do not shoot on any account.” You firmly demanded “And why the hell are news crews so close? Tell them to get back! Listen I’ll be-” the gunman cut the line.

“Sit on the floor now.”

—

“Can you get a flight so soon?” Donovan asked as Greg ran out of the office.

He saw you on TV with a gun pointed to your head, he wasn’t going to just sit about. It did surprise him to learn where you had been all this time.

“I don’t care if it costs ten grand I’m getting on the next flight!”

—

You pressed your head to the wall as your captor sat across from you with his gun still firmly in his grip.

“What’s your name…?” You softly asked. You received silence “I’ll tell you mine, it’s Y/N.”

“Why are you telling me this?” He sneered.

“Passing the time…” you trailed off and glanced up to the clock. Five hours had dragged in.

“Adrian,” he uttered.

You smiled at him. Not because you learned his name but because an idea popped into your mind. You had studied the infamous 'Stockholm Syndrome’ before. Funny how you had ended up in the same predicament as those people did in the 1970’s. You could do your best to act like you trusted him with your life and maybe then you could convince him to let you go.

“It’s a nice name. I know you mean good by this situation…”

“What makes you say that?” His voice lightened.

You shrugged “You want justice. I admire that.”

You saw him smile to himself. He was beginning to believe that you trusted him.

—

Greg made it to the scene, police officers had to restrain him back before he showed them his badge “I know her!” He said “She’s my-” he cut himself off, not quite sure what you were to him now. He knew what he wanted you to be. He passed through the guards and saw you sitting crossed leg across from your captor…smiling?

He saw your lips move, he was certain you spoke his name.

If he was in there he would have realised that he was right.

“So who was this Greg to you?” Adrian asked.

“He was someone I loved. A part of me still loves him. I don’t think he ever felt the same…” you trailed off with a sad smile and Adrian looked to the floor.

You looked over and saw the dead body that had been lying for almost nine hours now. It was getting dark outside but in the bank the lights were bright and harsh, making your eyes constant squint to adjust to the brightness.

“What will happen if we leave?” Adrian asked in a whisper.

You went wide eyed and sat up a bit straighter “I won’t let anything bad happen to you. I’ll make sure you are okay.”

“Okay…” he reached his hand out for you to take, the other still held the gun.

You slowly walked out with him, he was holding you close. Your eyes caught onto a silver haired figure “Greg…?” You whispered out and Adrian heard you.

“That’s him?” He asked and you nodded, barely noticing the hundreds of gunmen around you “He must really love you if he came here.”

You blinked and tore away your gaze from Greg to look at Adrian “I miss my love…” the gunman sadly smiled and attempted to shoot himself but you quickly grabbed onto his whist and twisted it causing him to drop the gun before you tackled him to the ground.

“I can’t let you do that,” your breaths were rugged “I can’t.” Officers came in and arrested Adrian, he let out soft wails as they did. Another officer took you to a ambulance, you had lost sight of Greg in the crowd. You almost thought that you dreamt of him. A twisted hallucination.

“Why do they keep putting a blanket on me ?” You grumbled to yourself and tossed it off your shoulders.

“You’re in shock…” you turned and saw Greg standing there with his hands in his pockets.

“Where have I heard that before?” You smirked and looked away.

Greg walked up to you and stood in front of your knees “Why did you just leave so suddenly?”

“Honestly?” You raised your head “Jealously got the better of me…” you whispered.

“That woman on the scene two years ago, the one where you bumped your head….I was asking her a question,” you raised a brow “About you,” your brow raised even further. Greg continued talking “I was asking her for advice on how to ask you out on a date. Everything after that just exploded and happened so quickly and before I knew it you had suddenly disappeared? To Sweden of all places!” He halfheartedly laughed.

“You could have just asked me on a date…maybe then none of this would have happened.” You felt a hand slip into yours, Greg squeezed it gently. You looked up to him with a smile before leaning up to gently kiss him.

You pulled away when you realised he wasn’t kissing you back “Sorry, I didn’t-” you were cut off by lips crashing against yours. You smiled as he placed a hand to the back of your neck, deepening the kiss.

“Come back with me,” Greg asked “You’ll get your job back.”

“I’ll come back on one condition,” you whispered.

“Anything,” Greg peppered kisses around your mouth.

You pulled away and bit down on your bottom lip “Take me on a date.”

You both let out a giggle and Greg kissed you again. You took that as a yes.

[bbcsherlockpickuplines]

“I would let you look in my ‘lymph nodes’ even if I wasn’t missing my limbs.”

[yesthisismolly-fanfictions]

The Yarders and their Pokemon

[archangel-dimmock]

// look at my precious...

[alistonjdrake]

A Woman of No Importance Character Intros: Princess Matilde

Born 894 W.C to King Giselher the Crownless and Queen Ebba. Raised as a ward/hostage in the court of a man who would later conquer her father’s puny kingdom, Princess Matilde was set to become regent to her nephew (in-law) until losing her birthright home to a hostile duke and his pretty young wife. 

Princess Matilde was born to parents who were heavily in debt, living off the favors and pity of family and allies, and on the cusp of political distress and annihilation. As such, her father thought it wise to offer his only daughter and child to the King of Vilsland to garner themselves some protection and prestige. 

Wanting Princess Matilde’s storied bloodline, King Ernest of Vilsland wasted no time proposing her to his eldest son and using the betrothal to lay claim to the Van Bibbr’s ancestral lands. Matilde was only ten when her parents were forced into exile but as she hadn’t seen them since the first year of her life, the melancholy of the situation didn’t quite suite her. Instead, she took keenly to the splendor and privileges of her new home and future poisition as Queen as Vilsland. 

It would all be for naught as in 911 W.C Prince Falko would be thrown from his saddle and be rendered “incapable” just three weeks before their wedding. Matilde became a fixture at his bedside, and a holy maiden did read them their marriage rites although there would be little to celebrate. The prince would soon expire before his father and the high council finished delegating on whether or not he would even be able to inherit.  King Ernest’s second son quickly got moved up in the line of succession, but as he was already married Princess Matilde was pushed aside as the King’s “honorary daughter”. 

A year later in 912, King Ernest had her married again to his marshal. A man of seventy years to Princess Matilde’s eighteen. It was a splendid ceremony that went on for eight days. King Ernest had draw out a luxurious dowry for his son’s widow, including the castle and lands that had once belonged to her parents. 

Her new husband unfortunately died from sudden cardiac arrest during the bedding ceremony on the final day of the wedding. 

In 915, Princess Matilde was betrothed again to a cousin of King Ernest. This groom disappeared on the journey to the capital and was proclaimed dead after seven months of fruitless searching.  

King Ernest would try five more times to find Princess Matilde a husband before marrying her himself in 919 when she was twenty-five and he fifty-four. Unsurprisingly, King Ernest would die half a year later from an illness that afflicted half his court. King Ernest would die just three hours before his son and heir, thus passing the throne to his eight year old grandson, the new King Oswald. 

The hours that followed were of tense debate as Vilsland sat on the edge of crumbling into fractions, civil war, or total dissolution as the high council was set to the task of picking a regent. Princess Matilde wasted no time proposing herself as the once-wife to Prince Falko and the Half Year Queen Consort to King Ernest. Though by now she was known as a mark of bad luck throughout the realm and the lone survivor of a dead house, she was also skilled in the world of politics and she’d never spent more than a season away from court. She was also close to her nephew. 

Princess Matilde would be a productive and accomplished regent until the council reconvened two years later and discussed instead installing a duke who was raising in power and influence, Lord Notker Dimmock who had just inherited Princess Matilde’s childhood home due to a loophole in the deed. He arrived in the capital of Vilsland to take his new position as protector of the realm with his foreign wife, the eighteen year old Cierra Dimmock who he offered as a lady-in-waiting to Princess Matilde. 

Bitter over losing what she considered her birthright and now in danger of losing the regency, Princess Matilde wasted no time taking her anger out on Lady Cierra, who was not as socially untouchable as her husband. This would set off a long feud between the two women that would last until the Dimmocks finally left court in 926 W. C

In 946 W.C Princess Matilde is fifty-two years old, childless and nine times a widow. Currently on the run after refusing exile after losing a political maneuver against King Oswald. Now presumably guilty of treason among other things, the princess is in dire danger of losing her head if her nephew’s men catch her. She seeks out Dester, the location of the Van Bibbr castle and home of the recently widowed Cierra Dimmock 

[nashyara]

Dimmock. They only brought  Dimmock back.

Getting a tad over excited about an appearance that lasted mere seconds. BUT Dimmock :)

[maldonadonco]

Canon: gives no information on a character except for a name and sparse backstory

Me: mine now

[mimisempai]

Burden shared is burden halved 2/4

Chapter Summary:

To convince the main witness to testify, Greg reveals part of his past and Mycroft witnesses it

On AO3

When Sally and Greg arrived at the hospital, they learned that young Erik had just died from his injuries. 

A tense meeting with the victim's parents confirmed their suspicions that Dan's father, the coach, was responsible. 

They returned to his home, taking advantage of his absence to try to convince young Dan to confess that his father had asked him to attack Erik, the victim. But he continued to deny it, and the father's unexpected arrival once again put an end to any discussion.

Greg explained that the prosecutor intended to charge Dan as an adult with homicide and assault. The father made no move to defend his son and Greg and Sally had to leave the house with nothing in hand to change the turn the case was taking. 

The son was the father's sacrifice.

They were in the process of sorting out the case when Dimmock burst into Greg's office, "Lestrade!" he had a phone in his hand and continued, breathlessly, "The coach just beat up the older son! We've got to get over there! Quick!"

When they arrived at the family's home, they found the older son in a bad state, but coherent and lucid, he handed them a cell phone, "I got it all on video!" Then he turned to his younger brother and shouted, "Dan! You have to tell them!" then to his mother, "Mom! He has to tell them! It can't go on like this anymore! We don't have to pay for Dad!"

The ambulance arrived and took the older brother away while Greg and Sally once again took Dan and his mother with them for questioning.

A few moments later, Dan, encouraged by his mother, confessed that it was his father who had forced him to assault Erik, that he had to do it for the soccer club. But still consumed by fear, he refused to testify against the coach. 

Greg had gone to get some water and back, he observed the boy, looking determined behind the two-way mirror. He swallowed, Dan reminded him once again so much of another boy. 

Greg looked at his watch and realized that since he hadn't responded to the messages, Mycroft would surely be arriving soon, and all the feelings that the perspective of this date had inspired in him earlier in the day seemed to be something unattainable at this point. 

But he didn't have time to think about that now. He had something he was going to have to do, he had wanted to avoid it but given the impasse they were in, he had no choice. Greg took a deep breath, walked into the interrogation room and sat down across from the boy. 

He began to speak.

Meanwhile, Mycroft had arrived in the building.  The rest on AO3

[elennemigo]

Molly Hooper Appreciation Week - Summer 2017 // Day 4 - Just One Of The Blokes

Those times that Molly was with the guys and that one time she wasn’t.

[your-true-north]

Can we talk about Greg Lestrade for a second?!?? The guy has so much respect for Sherlock, and is literally prepared to drop everything to come and help him. He's brave and resourceful, and he's willing to do what's asked of him to help find justice. I like to think that the way he treats his job as a DI, he isn't bothered about losing his position, he's bothered about the people who are losing their lives as time is wasted, and he knows that sometimes the best way to save people is to ask Sherlock for help. We can guess that he got suspended during TRF, and maybe a little while afterwards, for the reason that he isn't afraid to ask for help when he needs it, which I think says so much about him as a person.

Mottfiss even acknowledged that Lestrade is a hero, and fully deserves a leading role (I couldn't find the source for that, so I'd be grateful if anyone has it).

Like, imagine if that did happen and Lestrade got his own BBC Sherlock spinoff. It'd be like the Scotland Yard version of Torchwood, and it'd be the most fun, because it's just Lestrade solving cases with his team, and Donovan getting sassed by everyone, and nobody knows where the fuck Anderson is, because it's just best not to ask. Then there'd always be Dimmock in the back corner like, hi guys, just in case you forgot, I do exist.

From time to time Sherlock and John make an appearance, but they never overshadow the man who risks his fucking life day after day and is an absolute icon as a detective.

Or, even better, we get a spinoff of Scotland Yard but it's like The Office, and everytime John and Sherlock show up standing a little bit too close to each other Lestrade turns to the camera and raises his eyebrows suggestively.

I'd love a spinoff of the Baker Street women (Mary, Molly and Mrs Hudson), but give me a Scotland Yard spinoff with Lestrade as the main character and I'll be a happy fangirl.

[write-place-write-time]

Sharing It

[ Can be read as a sequel to “Keeping It” or as a standalone ]

“Mmm…. no.”

“You’re maddening.”

“No argument there.”

“That is also maddening.”

Molly sighed and put down her tablet, the medical journal she’d been trying to read for the last ten minutes a lost cause. “You’re both maddening.”

Her husband smirked behind his cup of tea, an eyebrow cocked over his reading glasses. “It is hereditary, you know.”

“Yeah, Mum. Uncle Mycroft is maddening, and I know Dad thinks Gamma and Papa are--”

Sherlock shot his gaze to their daughter in a mock-glare. “Shush. Gamma can likely hear you, even fifty miles away.”

“Which is what you find maddening,” was her sly response.

Molly reached for a piece of toast, a small grin on her face. Sherlock nudged her calf with his bare foot under the breakfast table.

“Dr. Hooper-Holmes, I’ll have you know you are maddening too. I’ll also remind you that you contributed the other half of the maddening genes we see in the creature at our table.”

“Creature?!” Another bare foot swept and nudged Sherlock’s calf, though harder than he’d nudged Molly’s. 

Laughter ensued, as it usually did when Sherlock teased the girl.

“Darling, what prompted the maddening argument?” Molly asked her, nibbling her toast.

“I asked Dad if I could help with the Livingston case. DI Dimmock called this morning and will be here by noon.”

“And,” Sherlock interrupted, “I politely - yet firmly - said no.”

“Why?” both of his girls asked in unison. 

Sherlock inwardly groaned. Twin pairs of heart-shaped faces and messy chestnut buns swung to look at him expectantly. The brown eyes were curious, but the eyes that mirrored his own in color and shape were full of challenge. A swell of pride and love rose in his chest but he beat it down so as not to look soft -- those challenging eyes were keener than his own and would see it and manipulate it with ease.

“Because it’s not appropriate--” he began.

“Fibber,” Molly smiled. “You don’t give a fig about being appropriate.”

Sherlock scowled, though without heat because she was right, of course. “Fine. Because she’s too young--”

“You were only nineteen when Uncle Greg first let you onto an NSY case!” 

She was also right.

“Sherlock.”

He looked at Molly, her laugh lines a little more prominent, her own reading glasses perched atop her head. Motherhood and wifehood had not diminished her charm or her ability to see him. “Yes?”

She just smiled at him until he gave in and smiled too. 

“Alright, is this going to be like when I came home early from the Watsons’ and learned what coitus interruptus meant?”

They both kicked their daughter under the table, who laughed and threw pieces of bacon at them.

“Artemis Charlotte Zephyrine Hooper-Holmes!” Molly chided the young woman. “You’re worse than your father!”

“Well you were getting all sentimental, something had to be done!” Artie (as she preferred because her full name was only for when she was truly in trouble with her parents) chuckled, crinkling her nose up at her mother. “We were in the middle of interrogating Dad about his lame reason why I can’t help with the Livingston case…”

Sherlock chewed the bacon she’d thrown at him, nodding to Molly. She could say what he felt.

“He doesn’t want to share you,” his wife said simply.

“Share me?” Artie stared at her father. “Whattaya mean?”

It was Molly’s turn to nod at him. He swallowed tightly and let himself feel. It was important, after all. “If you solve the Livingston case with me, it’ll be open range for the NSY to come to us both, then ultimately just you, for more cases.”

His daughter cocked her head to the side, a tic she’d developed early on when deducing something. Or someone.

“You’re not worried I’ll overshadow you or take over the ‘family business’, though, Dad,” she said softly and certainly. “Then why--”

“It is a wild, heart-pounding, dangerous, and exhilarating life, being a consulting detective,” he said. Molly’s warm eyes met his. “I have only ever experienced the precisely same rush in the line of work that is husband and father. And I want nothing more than for you to feel it too.”

He looked Artie right in the eye and let himself be open to her. “I don’t want to share my girl and her talents for deduction and compassion just yet. It would mean that you’re ready to not need me. Or your mother,” he added quickly, trying to maintain some semblance of his signature stoicism.

Artie’s eyes narrowed, and she was silent for a moment. As the moment stretched Sherlock was reminded that she was most definitely his child. John had said that his own silences were unnerving. But, right before the moment became awkward, Artie’s face broke into a smile.

“Dad, you’re an idiot.”

Molly cleared her throat with admonishment, but both husband and daughter waved her off with identical dismissive hands. 

“Mum, you know what I mean,” Artie smiled, keeping her eyes on her father. “Dad, I don’t want to do this because I don’t need you and Mum. I do and always will. I want to work this case because I think I want to be a writer.”

Molly and Sherlock looked to each other, then to their girl. “A writer?”

Artie sat up a little straighter, pulling the sleeves of her father’s old blue dressing gown down over her hands. Sherlock inwardly grinned. Bravado and nerves in both movements; this was a big moment for his daughter.

“I figured out what I want to major in at Oxford -- creative writing. I know, I know, it’s not exactly lucrative but I could take some cases myself as you said and that could pay a bit. Besides, Uncle John’s blog inspired me, and a-actually I’m rewriting some entries for a publication. Rosie’s doing the illustrations and I found that I loved it but I’m not getting the voice of the stories right because I’ve never seen you and Uncle John on a case. Well, not a murder case -- and we all know those are the juiciest tales!”

She was babbling, outdoing her mother as she motor-mouthed her explanation. She seemed to realize this and slowed to catch her breath. Molly and Sherlock were still locked in on her, their faces a combination of shock and intrigue.

Artie took a breath and smiled at them. “I want to write and publish these stories, Dad. Your stories, with Uncles John and Greg, Mum, Nana Hudders. I want to share you with more than London and the surrounding countryside.”

Sherlock’s throat felt tight, and a strange prickling began behind his eyes. He chanced a glance at Molly, whose eyes were swimming in pride and un-shed tears.

“Oh,” he murmured, blinking rapidly. “Well, um…” 

Artie’s hand slipped into his on the table. “Dad?”

Sherlock grasped her fingers in his, her touch grounding. He looked at Molly again, his foot finding her sock-clad one under the small table, and closed his eyes. In his mind palace (which had more windows than walls now, letting sunlight filter in and illuminate the ceilings and doors of the massive building), he found Artie’s room next door to Molly’s. Pushing the door open he saw her, all of eight years old with his deerstalker on her head and her faithful, never-far-from-reach diary open, a silly feathery pen at the ready.

He smiled as he opened his eyes and arched a supercilious brow at his currently eighteen year old daughter. “Best get your arse dressed and prepared for battle, Miss Hooper-Holmes. The game--”

“-- is ON! Hell yeah, Dad!” Artie tugged him forward and planted a loud smacking kiss on his forehead before bolting out of the kitchen and upstairs to her bedroom, dressing gown flapping dramatically. 

Molly immediately cracked up laughing, standing to clear the table. “She is so your child, Sherlock.”

He grasped her wrist and pulled her into his lap. “Again, I remind you that she is half you too, wife.” He kissed her languidly, her hands reaching into his curls (which may or may not have had strands of silver through them). They broke apart only when they heard the thump of their daughter losing her balance, no doubt trying to put on her boots without unlacing them (again).

“You better get yourself dressed too,” Molly said, pressing a kiss to his nose. “Artie’s been dead-set on joining you for a murder for ages.”

Sherlock scrunched his nose at her. “Dead-set? Molly, your jokes…”

They shared another soft, sweet kiss, ignoring the thundering footsteps and the subsequent “Ohhh come on, you two!”