#Laszlo kreizler fic

[nocapesdahling]

Put that Pen Away

Laszlo Kreizler x GN! Reader

My Masterlist

Summary: You come across a man writing in books in your bookstore and have to put a stop to it. Yet you can’t help but think he looks familiar and for a book vandal, he’s surprisingly charming. 

Warnings/Tags: Fluff; Modern Laszlo Kreizler; Featuring Laszlo’s glasses

Word Count: 667

A/N: This one is a bit short, but I’m very excited to be dipping my toes back into writing and a sweet and silly fic featuring Modern Laszlo seemed like a perfect place to start. Hope you enjoy!

You were walking the aisles of the store to see if anyone needed help and to make sure no books were out of place when you saw him. You first noticed his profile, bearded with a lovely nose, his neck wrapped in a scarf and a pair of clear circular glasses rounding out the look. What really made you stop however was not the fact that it was a handsome profile, but that he seemed familiar somehow.

As you gathered yourself and walked closer, the next thing you noticed was he had one of the books out open on one of the tables as he leaned over it. And he wasn’t reading it. Oh no, he was writing in it. Writing in one of your store’s books. That was unacceptable, it was defacement of the highest order. That poor book. Handsome familiar profile or not, you couldn’t let that stand.

“Excuse me, sir. You can’t write in the books. Please don’t do that.”

He sighed and it sounded world weary, like he’d been caught writing in books before and he was tired of people stopping him. Well good, he should be. He should have learned his lesson the first time.

He had the audacity to finish whatever it was he was writing before gently closing the book and sliding it back onto the shelf. You made a note of where it was for its later removal and held in a shudder at the thought that he might have written in others.

He turned to you and you moved your eyes away from the books to take in his face. The gasp you let out was hopefully inaudible. It was Laszlo Kreizler. The Laszlo Kreizler. The author whose books you’d devoured since he published his first Alienist novel, reading them again and again, and the man you’d had a slight crush on ever since seeing his author photo at the end of book one. Well if you were being honest with yourself, it was a little more than a slight crush. However, it was nice to fantasize about people you’d never meet, and a famous author was a harmless person to have a crush on. It’s not like you ever thought you’d meet him in real life. Your favorite author was here in your store, and even more handsome in person. Somehow. And he was writing in books?!

“Can I do it if I’m signing my own books?”

You then realized what aisle you were in. Mystery and Thriller in the K’s. He’d been signing his own books. He hadn’t been defacing anything after all. You were giddy in your relief and smiled at him without thinking.

He was patiently watching you. His dark brown eyes behind his glasses were piercing and seemed to take in every detail as he analyzed your face and expressions. At your smile, his cheeks reddened slightly and he glanced away.

“Yes, that’s okay Dr. Kreizler. That’s wonderful. It’ll be such a nice surprise for buyers. I may have to ask you to sign mine while you’re at it.”

His blush was impossible to hide now and he cleared his throat, his accented voice hesitant. “You know of me? You’ve read my novels?”

You smiled again and gave him a once over. His author photo really didn’t do him justice. “I’ve read all of them multiple times. They’re some of my favorites.”

“Oh… well, it’s nice to meet a fan.” He looked down for a moment before making eye contact again and smiling back hesitantly.

“It’s even nicer to meet you, Dr. Kreizler. Do you do this sort of thing often? Come to bookstores and sign your books?”

“Yes, I have been doing it for years now though I am not often caught.”

“Really? That’s amazing. I’d love to hear more about it and any of your other signing misadventures over coffee. What do you say, Dr. Kreizler?”

“Coffee sounds lovely. On one condition.”

“Oh, what’s that?”

“That you call me Laszlo.”

Reblogs, likes, and comments are much appreciated. Thanks so much for reading!

A/N: This is the first fic I’ve posted in ages, so I hope you all liked it and please let me know if you did! 

If inspiration strikes, then I might end up writing a sequel to this about their cozy coffee date because I love the idea of drinking a hot beverage and talking about books with Laszlo. 

My Masterlist

[andy-15-07]

A Love Unscripted

Summary: Daniel and Y/N, co-stars on a film set, experience an intense connection that quickly blossoms into love. As they navigate their deepening relationship, they find that their off-screen romance becomes the greatest story of their lives.

Paring: Daniel Brühl x reader

Words count: 2907

Daniel Brühl Masterlist | Masterlist

It was a bright, crisp morning in Berlin, and the air buzzed with excitement as the cast and crew gathered for the first day of shooting. This was no ordinary film set—this was the next big project from a critically acclaimed director, and everyone knew it had the potential to be a masterpiece. The title of the film, still under wraps, hinted at a deep, emotional journey that would challenge both the actors and the audience.

Y/N arrived on set with a mix of nerves and excitement, feeling the weight of this opportunity. It was their first major role, and although they had done their fair share of indie films and theater, this was different. The script had resonated deeply with Y/N when they first read it, and they knew this role could be a turning point in their career.

As Y/N stepped out of their trailer, adjusting the costume that already felt like a second skin, they noticed a familiar face on set. Daniel Brühl was speaking with the director, his warm, easygoing smile lighting up his features. Y/N had always admired Daniel’s work from afar—the subtlety of his performances, the way he could convey so much with just a glance or a slight change in his expression. Meeting him in person, however, was something they hadn’t quite prepared for.

Taking a deep breath, Y/N walked over to where Daniel and the director were chatting. As they approached, the director noticed Y/N and smiled broadly. "Ah, Y/N! Perfect timing. Come meet your co-star."

Daniel turned towards Y/N, and for a moment, the world seemed to slow down. His eyes met Y/N’s, and there was an unmistakable spark—a connection that went beyond the usual pleasantries of a first meeting. Daniel’s smile widened, and there was a warmth in his gaze that immediately put Y/N at ease.

“Hi, I’m Daniel,” he said, extending his hand.

“Y/N,” they replied, shaking his hand. The touch lingered a bit longer than necessary, and Y/N felt a strange but pleasant flutter in their chest.

“It’s great to finally meet you,” Daniel continued, his voice smooth and genuinely kind. “I’ve heard a lot of good things about you.”

Y/N chuckled, trying to ignore the heat rising to their cheeks. “Well, I hope I can live up to the hype.”

“I’m sure you will,” Daniel said, his eyes never leaving Y/N’s. “I watched some of your previous work. You’re really talented.”

Y/N was caught off guard by the compliment. “Thank you, that means a lot coming from you.”

Before the conversation could continue, the director clapped his hands. “Alright, let’s get started! We’ve got a lot to cover today.”

The first scene they were shooting was a pivotal one—an intense confrontation between Y/N and Daniel’s characters. The air was charged with anticipation as the crew set up the shot. Y/N took their position, trying to focus on the character’s emotions, but found themselves distracted by the fact that Daniel was standing so close.

Daniel, sensing Y/N’s nervousness, leaned in slightly and whispered, “Don’t worry, just be in the moment. We’ve got this.”

Y/N nodded, taking a deep breath. As soon as the director called “Action,” the transformation was instantaneous. Y/N slipped into their character’s mindset, and the world around them faded away. The scene required them to confront Daniel’s character, emotions running high as they delivered their lines with a mixture of anger and vulnerability.

Daniel was incredible. His performance was raw, powerful, and it drew Y/N in, making it easy to react naturally. The chemistry between them was undeniable, and it crackled with intensity, as if they had known each other for years instead of mere minutes.

When the director finally called “Cut,” there was a moment of stunned silence on set. Y/N blinked, coming back to reality, and noticed that the crew was staring at them with something like awe. The director had a wide grin on his face.

“That was fantastic!” he exclaimed, clapping his hands together. “The chemistry between you two is electric. If we can capture even a fraction of that in every scene, we’ve got something truly special here.”

Y/N glanced over at Daniel, who was still looking at them with that same warm smile. “You were amazing,” he said softly, his eyes full of admiration.

“So were you,” Y/N replied, feeling the flutter in their chest return.

As the day progressed, the initial nerves melted away. Daniel and Y/N fell into an easy rhythm, their connection both on and off-screen growing stronger with each take. Between scenes, they would chat about everything from their favorite films to their experiences growing up in different parts of the world. They discovered they had a lot in common—a shared love for classic cinema, a penchant for exploring new places, and a mutual respect for the craft of acting.

During lunch, they found themselves sitting together, away from the rest of the cast and crew. It wasn’t intentional, but it felt natural, as if they had always gravitated toward each other. As they ate, their conversation flowed effortlessly, punctuated by laughter and the occasional teasing remark.

“You know,” Daniel said, leaning back in his chair, “I didn’t expect to meet someone who’s as passionate about cinema as I am.”

Y/N smiled, feeling a warmth in their heart. “I could say the same about you. It’s nice to talk to someone who gets it.”

Daniel nodded, his expression thoughtful. “It’s rare to find someone who really understands what it’s like to lose yourself in a role, to feel that connection with the character and the story. I can tell you’re someone who does.”

Y/N looked at Daniel, their eyes meeting once again. There was something in his gaze that made their heart skip a beat—an intensity, a depth that went beyond mere attraction. It was as if they were seeing each other, truly seeing each other, for the first time.

“I feel the same way,” Y/N admitted, their voice soft but sincere. “There’s something about this project, about working with you… It feels different. Special.”

Daniel’s gaze softened, and he reached across the table, his hand gently covering Y/N’s. “I feel it too,” he said quietly. “I think this could be the start of something really wonderful.”

The rest of the shoot passed in a blur. Days turned into weeks, and with each passing moment, Y/N and Daniel’s connection deepened. Their scenes together were electric, filled with a chemistry that was palpable to everyone on set. Off-camera, they spent more and more time together, often finding excuses to stay late after a day of shooting just to talk, to be in each other’s company.

One evening, after a particularly grueling day of filming, they decided to take a walk around the city. The night was cool, the streets quiet as they wandered aimlessly, talking about everything and nothing. Daniel seemed more relaxed than usual, his usual charisma softened by the late hour and the intimacy of the moment.

As they walked along the Spree River, the moonlight reflecting off the water, Daniel suddenly stopped. Y/N, who had been in the middle of a story, turned to look at him in surprise.

“Is everything okay?” Y/N asked, concerned.

Daniel smiled, a little sheepishly. “Yeah, it’s just… I’ve been wanting to ask you something.”

Y/N’s heart began to race, a mixture of curiosity and anticipation bubbling up inside them. “What is it?”

Daniel hesitated for a moment, as if searching for the right words. “Do you believe in love at first sight?”

The question caught Y/N off guard. They stared at Daniel, their mind racing. Did they believe in love at first sight? They had always thought it was something that only happened in movies, in the stories they told on screen. But as they looked into Daniel’s eyes, so full of sincerity and something deeper, something that felt a lot like love, they found themselves reconsidering.

“I’m not sure,” Y/N replied honestly. “But… I think I might be starting to.”

Daniel’s smile widened, and without another word, he took a step closer. The distance between them disappeared as he gently cupped Y/N’s face in his hands, his touch warm and reassuring. Y/N’s breath caught in their throat as Daniel leaned in, his lips brushing theirs in a kiss that was soft, tentative, and full of unspoken emotions.

The world seemed to fade away in that moment. There was no film set, no crew, no cameras—just the two of them, standing by the river, lost in each other. The kiss deepened, and Y/N felt a warmth spread through their entire body, a sense of rightness, of inevitability, as if this was exactly where they were meant to be.

When they finally pulled away, both of them were breathless, their foreheads resting against each other as they shared a quiet moment of connection.

“I’ve wanted to do that since the moment we met,” Daniel admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

Y/N smiled, their heart full. “So have I.”

They stayed like that for a while, wrapped up in each other, the rest of the world forgotten. It was a perfect moment, the kind that Y/N had only ever experienced in the movies they loved so much. But this wasn’t a script, and this wasn’t a role. This was real, and it was happening to them.

As they walked back to their hotel, hand in hand, Y/N couldn’t help but feel like they were living in a dream. But it was better than any dream they could have imagined—because it was real, and it was theirs.

The days that followed were a whirlwind of emotions, both on and off set. Their relationship blossomed quietly, just under the radar of the curious eyes of the cast and crew. Though they kept it professional during filming, it was impossible to hide the subtle glances, the shared smiles, and the way their hands would brush as they passed each other by.

Y/N found themselves falling deeper for Daniel with every passing day. He was kind and considerate, with a sense of humor that caught them off guard and made them laugh when they least expected it. They had never felt this way before, and it scared them as much as it thrilled them. But there was a comfort in Daniel’s presence, a sense of safety that made them feel like everything was going to be okay.

One afternoon, they had a rare day off from shooting, and Daniel suggested they explore the city together. Berlin was full of history and culture, and though Y/N had been there for weeks, they hadn’t had much time to truly experience it.

They spent the day wandering through art galleries and museums, stopping at cafes for coffee and pastries. Y/N couldn’t help but notice how Daniel seemed to know all the best spots, the hidden gems that only locals frequented. He would tell stories about the city’s history, pointing out landmarks and sharing little anecdotes that made Y/N feel like they were getting a private tour from someone who truly loved the place.

As the day turned into evening, they found themselves at a small, cozy restaurant tucked away in a quiet corner of the city. The candlelit atmosphere was intimate, and Y/N could feel their heart racing as they sat across from Daniel, the flickering light casting shadows across his handsome features.

“This place is beautiful,” Y/N said, looking around at the warm, inviting decor. “How did you find it?”

Daniel smiled, a little shyly. “I’ve been here a few times. It’s one of my favorite spots in the city. I thought you might like it.”

Y/N reached across the table, taking his hand in theirs. “I love it. Thank you for bringing me here.”

Daniel’s eyes softened, and he squeezed Y/N’s hand gently. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to say,” he began, his voice serious.

Y/N felt a flutter of nerves in their stomach. “What is it?”

Daniel hesitated for a moment, as if searching for the right words. “I know we haven’t known each other for very long, but… I can’t help the way I feel. From the moment we met, I felt this connection between us, something I’ve never experienced before. I don’t want to scare you off, but I think I’m falling in love with you.”

Y/N’s breath caught in their throat, their heart pounding in their chest. They had felt it too, but hearing Daniel say it out loud made it all the more real, all the more intense.

“I feel the same way,” Y/N admitted, their voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve been trying to make sense of it, but… I think I’m falling for you too.”

The relief in Daniel’s eyes was palpable, and he let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He stood up from his seat, moving to sit beside Y/N, and pulled them into a gentle embrace. Y/N melted into his arms, feeling the warmth of his body against theirs, the steady beat of his heart under their cheek.

For a while, they just sat there, holding each other, letting the world outside fade away. It was as if time had stopped, leaving just the two of them in their own little bubble of happiness. They talked quietly, sharing their hopes and dreams, their fears and insecurities. It was easy to be vulnerable with Daniel, easy to let down the walls they had built around their heart.

As the evening wore on, they decided to head back to the hotel, their hands intertwined as they walked through the quiet streets. The city was alive with the soft hum of nightlife, but Y/N only had eyes for Daniel, who looked at them with such affection that it made their heart ache in the best possible way.

When they reached Y/N’s hotel room, they lingered outside the door, neither of them wanting the night to end. Daniel brushed a strand of hair from Y/N’s face, his touch tender and full of longing.

“Can I come in?” he asked softly, his voice full of emotion.

Y/N nodded, their heart racing. They opened the door, leading Daniel inside, and as soon as it closed behind them, he pulled them into a deep, passionate kiss. It was a kiss that spoke of all the emotions they had been holding back, all the desire and affection that had been building between them since the day they met.

They stumbled toward the bed, their lips never breaking contact, and as they fell into the soft sheets, Y/N knew this was where they were meant to be—wrapped in Daniel’s arms, lost in the feeling of being loved and cherished by someone who saw them for who they truly were.

The night was a blur of whispered words and tender touches, of shared laughter and quiet moments of connection. When they finally drifted off to sleep, tangled up in each other, Y/N felt a peace they had never known before. It was as if all the pieces of their life had finally fallen into place, and they knew, deep in their heart, that this was just the beginning of something truly beautiful.

The next morning, they woke up to the soft light of dawn filtering through the curtains. Daniel was still asleep beside them, his face peaceful and relaxed, and Y/N couldn’t help but smile as they watched him. They had never felt this content, this happy, and they knew they had found something special, something worth holding onto.

As Daniel stirred awake, his eyes meeting Y/N’s with a sleepy smile, they leaned in to press a gentle kiss to his lips. “Good morning,” Y/N whispered, their voice full of affection.

“Good morning,” Daniel replied, his voice husky with sleep. He pulled Y/N closer, his arms wrapping around them as if he never wanted to let go. “Last night was… incredible.”

“It was,” Y/N agreed, their heart swelling with emotion. “I don’t want this to end.”

“It doesn’t have to,” Daniel said, his gaze serious. “I meant what I said last night. I’m falling for you, Y/N, and I want to see where this goes. I don’t care about the logistics or what anyone else thinks. All I know is that I want to be with you.”

Tears pricked at Y/N’s eyes as they looked into Daniel’s sincere gaze. They had been so afraid to let themselves fall, but now that they had, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

“I want that too,” Y/N said, their voice choked with emotion. “I want to be with you, Daniel.”

He smiled, a smile so full of warmth and love that it took Y/N’s breath away. “Then let’s make it happen. We’ll figure it out together.”

And so, they did. As the film production continued, so did their relationship, growing stronger with each passing day. They faced the challenges together, navigating the complexities of a public relationship in a private world, but nothing could diminish the connection they shared.

When the film finally wrapped, and it was time to say goodbye to the set and the characters they had brought to life, Y/N and Daniel knew that this was just the beginning of their story. They had found something real, something lasting, and as they walked hand in hand into the next chapter of their lives, they knew they were ready to face whatever came next, as long as they were together.

In the end, it wasn’t just a love story scripted for the screen—it was their love story, one that would continue to unfold in ways they could never have imagined. And as they looked into each other’s eyes, they knew that this was the greatest role they would ever play, not as actors, but as themselves, deeply in love and ready to take on the world, side by side.

[free-for-all-fics]

Enola Holmes and Enola Holmes 2 Prompts Part 1! Months ago I watched both films and fell in love with Henry Cavill’s Sherlock. These have been in my notes for months because IWTV season 2 came out and put these on the back burner for a while but here they are now! I wrote so many I’ll have to split them into two separate posts. Pls tag me if you’re inspired by any of these and I’d love to read it! 🕵🏻🖤🕵🏻‍♀️

1. You and Enola are twin sisters. You both ran away from home to avoid going to Miss Harrison’s finishing school, and ended up inadvertently getting yourselves involved with a young Viscount Tewkesbury and saving his life. Ever since your successful solving of that case, the both of you have been on other wild adventures as you’ve solved cases. Competent and multitalented detectives in your own right, you and Enola have worked hard to pave your own paths in the world without relying on your older brother’s legacy. You’d both rather build your own careers on your own merit rather than riding your older brother’s coattails, so together you’ve established a separate detective agency where the two of you are business partners, colloquially known as the Sister Sleuths. Though your first attempt didn’t do so well and people mistook you and Enola for secretaries and Sherlock’s assistants, your business eventually caught on once you exposed the matchstick factory as being part of a grand network of murder, money laundering, and police corruption. While Sherlock can deal with the hoits and toits, this is where you and Enola should be.

When Sherlock took you both as his wards, you were so relieved. As your brother, you love Mycroft, but you’ve tried and failed to like him as a person. He’s so odious. A stick in the mud. Exhausting to be around. Sherlock is a much better brother and legal guardian. While Enola is off on her own blossoming romance with Viscount Tewkesbury, you haven’t met that special someone yet. You’re not too worried about your marriage prospects, though. You’re still young, hardly at risk of becoming an old maid, and, even if that were to happen, you’d be content with just adopting a cat or a dog or a bird and living in single blessedness as you solve mysteries for the rest of your life. For you, your career comes first. Romance just isn’t in the cards for you yet. As an unattached man himself, Sherlock is understanding of your decision to put romance on the back burner for now.

~

“Good day, Mister Holmes, I—”

Sherlock holds up a hand. “Don’t speak. You look out of breath.”

The other man shuts his mouth, blinking rapidly and ducking his head as if in embarrassment before slowly stepping back and unconsciously biting his lip. There’s no doubt in Sherlock’s mind that this man first went to his flat at 221 Baker Street, and when there was no answer there and he realized nobody was home, he next went to your and Enola’s agency and, when Enola or your coworkers told him you weren’t there, he asked around until he finally found your family house. He’s been running all over London. Sherlock smirks faintly, taking a puff from his pipe and looking over at the chaise lounge where you were sitting not ten minutes before. When there was an insistent and very annoying knock at the door, he had you go up to your room and stay there, asking you to work on cracking ciphers, reviewing evidence, or anything else that would help solve his and/or your current mystery. He made an inference that, just based on the style of knocking, whoever was there wouldn’t leave even if asked. He made an excuse to keep you busy, out of sight, and out of earshot while he handled this, just in case it was that ninny Inspector Lestrade come to ask questions about you like the last time you and Enola got into trouble and he had to hide you in a hidden compartment behind his wall map. But this was much, much worse.

You and Sherlock have been busy multitasking as you work on cases and fix up the property. There’s much work to be done both inside the house and the garden surrounding it outside, though you’d keep some things the same for sentimental reasons, like the chalk tally marks on the wall and the noseless bust statue of your grandfather. But this man, much older than you, a man you don’t even know, has the nerve, the gall, and the audacity to come knocking on Sherlock’s door and bring the day to a screeching halt when he asks - no, - demands your hand in marriage. As if you’re property and not a person. The man belonging to this new face stepped forward with an air of forced dignity and honor about him as your brother begrudgingly let him inside the house. Your mother, Edith, Mrs. Lane, and Mrs. Hudson are all protective of you too, of course. Their protectiveness is fierce and completely, totally built on deep love for you, just like his. Doubtless, they would not agree with what this man has come to ask of him, but they don’t need to be here to add their input. They knew what the outcome would be.

“What’s your name?” A small smile accompanies Sherlock’s seemingly innocent and innocuous inquiry as he looks up at the man in question and moves to lean his chin on his palm as he smokes his pipe, tapping the tip of it on his chin. The man gives Sherlock his name, to which the detective nods. “Funny,” he says, “I’ve never heard my sister mention that name before.”

If you hadn’t told him about this man, the logical conclusion to make would undoubtedly be that there’s more people you hadn’t mentioned to him. But if that were truly the case, that would only lead to endless trouble from him on your side. But Sherlock knows you know that, and he also knows you don’t want that. So, really, there’s only one other explanation. He waits for the wisp of smoke to waft out of his mouth before he lifts his head a little more to gaze up at the man in front of him. “Are you sure you have the right person? Are you sure you know my sister and aren’t confusing her with someone who maybe looks like her?”

The man seems to stumble for a brief moment before settling on an answer. “Yes. I’m sure. I know her.”

“Right. How?”

This garners an even longer hesitation. “I’ve seen her around town.”

Sherlock can’t help but let out a short but sharp, “HA!” in disbelief. The man stands silent, yet Sherlock can see his face growing red – not with embarrassment, but irritation, anger. His eyes dim slightly, and his fists are clenched so tight his knuckles are almost white. Temper. This man has a temper, and if something as simple as another man laughing at his expense brings out that temper, Sherlock doubts he’d ever get himself a woman that escaped the occasional abuse. Despite this, Sherlock can’t help the small smile that appears on his lips before he brings his pipe up yet again to puff. “That so? You seen her around town, yes?”

The man’s face hardens and he glares at the wall for a brief moment before turning it on Sherlock. “Yes.”

“You can hardly count that as knowing someone, Mister...” He isn’t even looking at the man as he says his name, and yet he can tell that the man opposite him probably looks like a raging bull at this moment, smoke coming out his ears and nostrils. Sure enough, when he lifts his head just enough to lay eyes on him, red is practically all he sees.

“Mr. Holmes,” the man says, clearly still attempting to cover his angered tone with a calmer one, “I am a respectable man—”

“Respectable!” Sherlock laughs. He snuffs out his pipe and throws it across the table before crossing one leg over the other, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands in his lap. “How old are you?”

“Thirty-one,” the man seethes out through gritted teeth.

Sherlock nods. He’d thought as much. “You’re practically twice her age, and yet you want to marry my little sister.”

He fidgets, though Sherlock can see it isn’t out of awkwardness. His lip keeps twitching, and his balled fists look as though they’re ready to swing and hit someone at any time. If the man is foolish enough to resort to violence and try to hit him, Sherlock is prepared. He’s an accomplished swordsman, singlestick fighter, and pugilist, after all.

“Do you even know how old she is?” Sherlock asks, voice still calm yet still extremely unforgiving. “Answer the question, Mister…” Sherlock demands with a faint nod.

The man has the decency to look frightened for just a second before he schools his features and lifts his chin defiantly. “No. But I do know that she’s a young lady that needs to be married—”

“Needs to be married?” Sherlock’s voice rises a notch. There’s a deep frown on his face as he uncrosses his legs and stands to his feet, moving closer to the man stood in front of him. Sherlock’s height is greater than the man’s. “Needs to be married, you say? My sister is seventeen, and only just turned. She’s not even of age yet, so don’t you dare tell me what she needs. I haven’t thought about her marriage once. To society, she may no longer be a child and is now a young woman and therefore entitled to the rights and freedoms that come with it and with that I can agree but, until the day she turns eighteen, she’s still my ward. And even after she turns eighteen, she’ll still be my sister. And it is my duty as her legal guardian and older brother to protect her.”

The poor bloke soon finds himself face to face with none other than the Sherlock Holmes, his nose mere inches from his own. Now he’s closer, he can clearly see the anger swimming in those blue - like hard, cold ice - eyes, and the way his jaw is firmly clenched. No doubt he’s trying desperately to maintain his composure and control the emotions that are so obviously struggling to take over.

“Marriage isn’t something she needs protection from. Women get married to older men all the time, Mr. Holmes.”

“Not in this house and not to men like you.”

He stiffens. “Men like me? What are you insinuating? As I said, I am respectable—”

“There’s nothing respectable about coming into someone’s house and asking to marry their seventeen-year-old sister, a girl you’ve never even met before!” Sherlock hisses. “Do you seriously believe she’d want to marry you?”

“She doesn’t have to want it,” The man says, moving his face closer to Sherlock’s. His voice is challenging, steady, and yet nothing but poison. “As you said, you’re her older brother. She’s your ward. Make her!”

The man can’t contain a gasp as he’s punched hard in the face. The sting and burn that accompanies the greatest detective’s fist connecting with his cheek only grows worse with each passing second, even after Sherlock withdraws, and he hastily reaches up to grasp at his aching skin, afraid that he’s possibly bleeding. He isn’t, but it’ll definitely leave him with a purple eye. He turns accusing eyes on the offender not a second later, yet makes no move to speak. All signs of confidence have drained from his face, leaving nothing but fear and shock. He turns his attention back on Sherlock as the man moves to speak.

“I would never make her marry a man like you,” he grinds out through gritted teeth. “In fact, I would never make her do anything. She can decide what it is she wants to do for herself. I’m her brother, her legal guardian, but not her owner. All you want from her is the money she has, and the family name and body she possesses. You want to marry her just so you can further yourself and reap whatever benefits you can sow from such a match. Having the world’s greatest detective as your brother-in-law would put quite a feather in your cap. Give you grounds to boast at parties. But I doubt you even know her first name.”

The man has the good sense not to answer. Each word Sherlock utters seems as though it’s dripping with venom, and it’s all aimed at him. If he’d ever doubted the famous Sherlock Holmes before, he doesn’t now.

“You are mad,” he says quietly, though it’s loud enough for Sherlock to hear. “Why you wouldn’t want someone like me as your brother-in-law I have no—” He steps back as another punch is aimed at his still-burning skin in warning. His purple eye will become black if he isn’t careful. He clings to his cheek yet again and glares at Sherlock, who stands rooted to the spot, feet apart, arms crossed over his muscled chest, and an emotionless expression on his face as he arches an eyebrow.

“No idea? I have plenty. See, I know all about you. Beyond the fact that you’re entitled and suffer from an inflated ego and delusions of grandeur and self-importance, I know about your past marriage and divorce, and the mistresses you got pregnant. See, men like you like to get young girls like my sister pregnant to prove to their fellow financial-types that their pecker still works. Set the mistresses up in an apartment with fancy clothes and such. I know how you arranged to have your bastard babies taken away and then sterilized and abandoned the mothers after they gave birth. Only, one of the girls bled too much, so she was kept intact.”

“She worked in service. She was impressed by fine clothes, a dinner out. Perhaps I persuaded her to think that my intentions were…”

“Honorable?”

“She was hot-blooded. Feisty. Like a mare that needs breaking in.”

“So you broke her in?”

“She didn’t understand the rules.”

“What are the rules? You take her innocence, her youth, her prospects in respectable society, and then you have her child taken off her and sent God knows where?”

“I thought her child had died.”

“Indeed he did. Her baby boy was stillborn. As for the others, they’re scattered about. I can only pray those bastards take after their mothers and not you. Do you want to say anything else, sir, or can we bring this madness to an end?” Sherlock asks, calm and smooth.

He breathes in deep and has the decency to look slightly shameful. But only slightly. “No, Mr. Holmes. I don’t.”

Sherlock nods, the corners of his mouth turning upwards. He steps forward. “I can’t believe you had the nerve to come here and ask that of me. You’re a brave one, I’ll admit, or a stupid one. But if you actually walked through that door with the idea you’d walk out engaged to my sister then your skull is thicker than it looks. When she marries, and it won’t be for a few years yet, if ever, it’ll be for love or for business. But not convenience. I’m not handing her over to the first man that walks through my house.”

The man scoffs and opens his mouth to speak again, but Sherlock holds up his hand and tilts his head slightly to the side. “You’ve had your say, Mister, so don’t speak another word. You came here with a question, and my answer is no. Now, get out before I hit you again or call the police.”

He has just enough time to insult Sherlock under his breath before turning and hurrying out the door Mrs. Lane opens for him. The door shuts loudly, almost shaking the building, and Sherlock sighs before reaching down for his pipe. “He won’t be coming back. He better not,” he says to himself, smoothing back his curly, dark hair that somehow became even more messy and disheveled than normal in just a few minutes. That man really made his blood boil.

He walks upstairs to your room and sits next to you, listening intently as you show him all you’ve done so far and what’s left to do. All the while, he can’t help but let his eyes linger on your guileless, youthful face, and his attention strays entirely to the way you’re rapidly talking about what you’ve found so far on your current case, and getting increasingly frustrated simply at the prospect of reaching a dead end. He shakes his head the slightest bit, wondering to himself how anyone could take one look at you and think it all right to have you as their wife. You’re a woman in many ways, but still a child in other ways, the baby of the family, and he isn’t just saying that.

Giving you a husband would take away your freedom and your innocence, something he adores in you, but, more importantly, giving you a husband would take you away from him. No matter what anyone says about the Holmes family, the one thing that will always remain true is the fact that you and Enola come before anything else, even his detective work. He’ll be damned if he hands you over to a man – any man – and only sees you a few times a month, or even possibly a year. You and Enola keep the family together; you’re the light, the hope, and the future of the Holmes legacy, and without you he’d probably spend most of his days at a pub, chasing away his problems with drink and/or drugs or living in his mess of an apartment, vexed by his cases instead of sitting with you, listening to you simply speak and feeling those worries and fears drift away into nothing. You keep him sane. You keep him whole. You’re more than his sister, you’re his friend, something he never thought you or Enola could be considering your age gap, and his tendency to be a workaholic and antisocial. He needs to hang onto you just a little longer before he lets you go. Just a little longer. When you ask, he tells you what transpired.

“No one’s going to be marrying my sister anytime soon, least of all someone like that. You and Enola are the youngest of the Holmes children. You’ll make your own choices when you’re older and I’ll know better than to speak for my sisters. But, for now, I’ll look out for you, as I’ve done, and keep those leeches and predators off your tail. No one’ll get near you if I have anything to say about it, which I will. But the next time some stranger comes in here asking for your hand in marriage, I’ll step back and I’ll give you permission to punch him in the face before we kick him out onto the streets together. You can always say it was me who gave him that purple or black eye.” He smiles at you, and you return it immediately, before pulling him into a quick hug. “No one’s taking my sisters away from me just yet. This isn't about you being my sister or my ward," he says, his voice softening further as he leans in closer. "This is about you simply being you and a force to be reckoned with in my life. I do everything I can to not overwhelm you, to not stifle you. Your independence and your drive to push further and discover new things are just some of the many, many things I absolutely adore about you, even if you frighten me sometimes. I don't want to ever be the cause of those beautiful qualities being taken from you.”

"I..." you begin, your eyes wide and glossy with unshed tears. You hold his gaze for a moment before looking down at your joined hands. "I've been told many times in my life that I shouldn't or couldn't do something. And as much as I hate to admit it, I wasn't deaf to it." You shrug, your gaze unfocused, and continue, "And you know perhaps better than anybody…the treatment of others can linger, no matter how far removed we may be from it. And then an innocent party such as my brother, who I love immensely is willing to take the blame." You take a breath and meet his gaze, a sad smile on your lips. "I'm better than that, and I'm sorry.”

"Old habits," he conceded, smiling faintly.

"Indeed."

Being alone doesn't mean you have to be lonely. Mother never wanted that. She wanted you to find your freedom, your future, your purpose. Sherlock wants the same for you too. You are a detective, you are a decipherer, and you are a finder of lost souls. Your life is your own. And the future is up to you.

2. You’re Sherlock’s younger sister and Enola’s twin. Like her, you believe yourself quite capable of something more than just becoming a wife and a mother, spending days on end with needlepoint and tea. But you’re still a teenager and you begin to feel…things. Strange urges in your mind and body that you’ve never felt before and can’t explain, especially when you think of men. Either you’re in Miss Harrison’s Finishing School with Enola against your will and she catches you in the act, or your brother, Sherlock, catches you in the act at home (luckily you’re covered by your blankets and bedsheets, but your sounds you try to muffle and movements still make it obvious to him or to Miss Harrison what you were doing). Eudoria was not an ordinary mother. She didn't teach you and Enola to string seashells or practice your embroidery. You did different things: Reading, science, sports, all sorts of exercise, both physical and mental. She said you were free to do anything at Ferndell and be anyone. She was your and Enola’s whole world. But she didn't share everything with you. Eudoria believed privacy was the highest virtue, and the one most frequently violated. And though she prepared you and Enola for many things... The outside world was not one of them.

“Every night, Mr. Holmes, every night, she touches. The priest says she needs ice baths and leeches.”

“Leeches?”

“The priest says the devil is in her mind, tempting her. Mycroft is her legal guardian, but he’s unavailable. That's why I’ve called you here and brought her to you. To decide what is to be done.”

“Miss Harrison, there is nothing wrong with my sister’s mind.” He turns to you. “You're becoming a young woman. And there's not a thing Miss Harrison nor any priest can do about it.”

“The body's the temple of the Holy Spirit. It is a blessed gift not to be defiled by lust.”

“Yes, I, too, learned scripture when I was young. But instead of answers, I found only questions. Why does God allow us to feel both pleasure and pain? Why has he given a young girl like my sister impulses and desires she cannot begin to fathom or control? Is this the God of who we speak?”

“Mr. Holmes, my point is that her body is not her own. It is meant for her husband and her husband only. And until she has a husband, she must keep herself intact if she’s to ever have any hope of having future prospects.”

“Miss Harrison, that’s quite enough. I will not tolerate my sister being spoken about as if she isn’t in the room with us. And I especially won’t tolerate her being talked about as if she is nothing more than an object or vehicle to be controlled and used by men to satisfy their desires. I won’t hear of it. Not by man, nor by God. She’s female, but she’s still a person, with her own thoughts, imagination, hopes, dreams, ambitions, needs, and desires. Her mind and body is her own, not some hypothetical man’s. Now, please, remove yourself from this room and I will remove my sisters from these premises. I see keeping them here is leading nowhere. This curriculum of yours isn’t benefiting them in any substantial way, so I withdraw both of my sisters from your school. Their time here is officially over. She and Enola will be coming home with me.”

“But Mr. Holmes, you can’t just— your brother said—”

“Leave Mycroft to me. I’ll deal with him. If you’d get her and Enola’s things, Ms. Harrison, we’ll leave at once.”

Or, if Sherlock catches you at home, maybe you believe yourself to be terribly sick with fever, shortness of breath, etc. Your body and/or head hurts, especially when you have your monthly courses, and doing this brings you immense relief but you’re not sure why. Since your father is dead and your mother is on the run and never bothered to give you any sort of guidance on this matter, it’s up to your older brother, Sherlock, as your legal guardian while your mother is gone, to sit down with you and give you “the talk” that she neglected to give you. Just another thing about the outside world that she didn’t teach you.

“What I mean is there are other things…physical…or perhaps intangible…that bring a couple together. Well, yes, of course there’s more to a marriage, physical and intangible. Both.”

“Both? But how can something be both physical and intangible when they are quite the opposite? You are beastly! Never mind.”

“No. I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing at the absurdity of how little mothers tell their daughters, including our own.”

“They tell us nothing. Mother told Enola and I nothing. ‘Oh, you've time enough for the world. Let it do its damage later,’ she said. No one else will tell me anything. So, how am I to find a proper husband if I do not even know what I am to be searching for?”

“You will know when you know.”

“What does that even mean?”

“I cannot tell you.”

“I thought we were family. Tell me. Tell me!”

“All right! All right! What happens between a husband and a wife… Well, it is a natural continuation of what happens at night.”

“At night? What happens at night?”

“When you are alone.”

“When I am sleeping?”

“Not when you are sleeping. When you touch yourself. You do touch yourself? When you are alone, you can touch yourself…anywhere on your body, anywhere that gives you pleasure, but especially…between your legs. And when you find a feeling you particularly enjoy…you can carry on with that…until the feeling grows, and eventually you reach…a pinnacle, a release. And that should help you…come. You don’t need a husband to perform the act you’ve been performing, or to achieve an…orgasm. But you know that already.”

“But, if I don’t need a husband to do…this… How does a lady come to be with child?”

“Sister, what a question!”

“I thought one needed to be married.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Apparently, it’s not even a requirement.”

“Sister, that is enough.”

“I take it you know?”

“Do not look at me. I’ve said too much already.”

“I must know, Brother. Or else how can I be sure it won’t happen to me? I’m not pregnant now, am I?”

“Have you ever…shared your bed with a boy? Have you ever let a boy touch you the way you touch yourself? Or in…other ways?”

“No. It was an all girl’s school, Sherlock.” You look at him like ‘Duh’.

He clears his throat awkwardly. “Right. Then.:. Then no. No, you’re not pregnant. For that to happen you’d need to…it takes more… Have you ever visited a farm?”

“Sherlock Holmes, I hope you are not encouraging improper topics of conversation.”

“Not at all, Edith. In fact, I was just heading off to…take my stick out.”

“Sherlock Holmes!”

“A round of fencing.”

“Oh, but… Sherlock, you were playing so lovely on your violin. Don’t go just yet. Please, do go on. I want to hear some more.”

At night, You sit outside in a tree, looking up at the moon from your vantage point on the tree branch as you smoke a cigarette, only for your brother, Sherlock, to catch you.

“Y/N Holmes.”

“Go on, then. Chastise me.”

“Spare one for me?” He sits below you by the base of the tree. You reach down and hand him a light as he takes a smoke from his pipe.

“Suppose I desire something different.”

“How do you mean?”

“Just…different. At the finishing school, I watched all those other girls with their needlepoint and table manners… I watch women prepare for these balls with all of those dresses and secret language of their fans and the many suitors, and I am…exhausted. Suppose I want a different life, Sherlock, that I truly believe I am quite capable of something more…even when I am not allowed to have anything else.”

“Then I would say…that you’re not the only one.”

3. You’re Sherlock Holmes’ wife (and possibly Laszlo Kreizler’s sister, if you want an Alienist crossover). You’re pregnant with your first child. Despite that, you still insist on helping with cases. Obviously you can’t and won’t go out into the field directly because that’s too dangerous, but sometimes you still sit up in bed and write away in your notebook or sketch away in your sketchbook until your hands are sore. Ever since you told Sherlock of your pregnancy, he’s been even more protective and hovering than he was before, even when you’re not showing yet. No matter how much Sherlock tries to get you to stop thinking about any cases, to rest, to relax, to focus on growing your child, you’re stubborn and refuse. You’re pregnant, but not a complete invalid. You can still help and be useful. And besides, staying active during pregnancy is important.

When your sister-in-law, Enola, brings home your husband after he’s had far too much to drink, you let her stay overnight. You’re no stranger to your husband’s habits. Sherlock occasionally used addictive drugs, especially in the absence of stimulating cases. He sometimes used morphine and cocaine, the latter of which he injected in a seven-per cent solution; both drugs being legal in 19th-century England. You strongly disapproved of your husband’s cocaine habit, describing it as his only vice, and concerned about its effect on his mental health and intellect. Although you have "weaned" Sherlock from drugs, the detective remains an addict whose habit is "not dead, but merely sleeping". Your compromise is that he can still use tobacco, smoking cigarettes, cigars, and pipes, so long as he does so outside or away from you (the smell is too much now and you don’t want to inhale secondhand smoke) and go out for a drink now and again. He almost never imbibes, especially not while you’re pregnant, but his current case is vexing him. There’s a lot of question marks on that case board. The only other time you saw him like this was after his bachelor party. He called your name from the coach, his voice threatening to wake the whole neighborhood before you opened your window.

~

“Keep your voice down!”

“Please come and join us.”

“I’m not going to your bachelor party, Sherlock Holmes.”

“This part of the evening is over. It’ll be a more intimate gathering of only our closest friends.”

“It’s far too late and entirely inappropriate.”

“It’s now the very witching time of night, when churchyards yawn and Hell itself breathes out contagion to this world.”

“Are you intoxicated, Sherlock? Is he, John?”

“Lingonberry schnapps, and perhaps one or two glasses of champagne,” Sherlock slurs.

“Or three.”

“I still have my wits about me, though.”

“Really I don’t…”

“Please, Y/N. I know many of our good friends would be sorely disappointed by your absence.”

~

Your pregnancy was making it difficult to get comfortable in bed and sleep, anyway. Lucky for the both of you is that Sherlock falls asleep almost immediately as soon as he takes off his scarf and coat and collapses onto the couch. You apologize to Enola for the mess. Your flat isn’t usually like this, in such a state of disarray. You would’ve cleaned, but you’ve been so tired or nauseous and mobility may or may not be limited depending on how far along you are. Her questions about the case from the night before turn into questions about you and Sherlock in the morning, more specifically, what it is to be in love. Enola asks you about love because she’s still unsure of her feelings for Tewkesbury.

“Do you regret not visiting your ex-fiancé?”

“We hardly had time.”

“One makes time when one wants to.”

“Then there's your answer. May I ask, why are you so interested?”

“Bessie is counting on me to find Sarah.”

“I meant in my seeing my ex-fiancé.”

“I remember when you first met him. Your company was rather dull because you could think of nothing else. You’re like that with Sherlock too. What does it feel like when you're in the first throes?”

“Well, you and I are already well aware that neither your brother nor the young Lord Tewkesbury are ordinary men. To be in love and to know you’re in love is different for everyone, I’d imagine. For your brother and I, it is…restlessness, above all. Our minds are never still. He waits at a street corner in case I happen to pass by... I attend a party that I’d otherwise dread in hopes he’s been invited or found a way to sneak in. And we usually end up bringing almost every conversation back to love in some way. Love, passion… They can be powerful motives. It has been in many of our past cases.”

You would’ve continued your conversation the following morning, but Sherlock woke up before you and Enola. While he purposefully startled Enola awake, he wanted to let you sleep. But you woke up anyway to them bickering back and forth.

“And why, pray, have you moved everything?”

You and Enola both look around. “Nothing looks different to us.”

“Nothing looks different? Ev— ohhhh…” And there’s the hangover headache kicking in.

“Your head is sore? I can’t think why.”

“This is why I don’t have people in our rooms, my love,” he says to you. “Look what Enola has done. My papers are entirely out of order.” He says, kneeling down to ‘rearrange’ them.

“Your case, it’s vexing you. Seems to be an awful lot of question marks on that map of yours.”

Sherlock’s patience has run out. “Dundee cake. Door. I will see you again.”

“Maybe I can help.”

“You can help by leaving.”

After a few more minutes of sibling bickering, Enola takes the Dundee cake and leaves. Sherlock turns his focus to you, asking you tons of questions about last night and if Enola bothered you too much, etc.

You settle back into your shared bed. “I’m all right,” you reassure him, bringing your hand up to comb through his hair and settle along his jaw. “I promise I’ll tell you if I’m ever not.”

He lets out a shaky breath, closes his eyes, and nods. Turning his head, he covers your hand with his own and places a light kiss along the edge of your palm. He settles both of your hands in your covered lap.   

“Can I get you anything, darling?”

Your eyes lighting up, you smile and squeeze his hand tightly before releasing it and sliding down further into your sheets. “Actually, do you mind handing me my sketchpad and charcoal? It’s just there,” you say, pointing toward your vanity in the corner.

When he returns with it safely in hand, his eyes questioning, you motion for him to join you in the bed with a reassuring smile. After removing his robe and his slippers, Sherlock slides under the covers next to you and adjusts you gently. You grimace and yelp softly as his leg grazes your hip, and he whispers calming apologies into your hair as you settle into his side with your sketchpad in hand.  

“All right?”

You nod soundlessly, steady yourself with a soothing breath, and begin to sketch and make notes. “Enola and I were discussing the case last night. Going over what we’ve found so far, possible theories… Something she said last night got me thinking…”

“What did you have in mind?”     

“What if…” you begin, your voice growing stronger as you speak.

He marvels at you silently and smiles into your hair. His genius wife.

4. Sherlock invites you out to dinner because, though he’s hesitant to admit it, he needs help on this case. He’s found himself stuck at an impasse or what’s almost a dead end, frustrated at having only one lead, and that one lead only leading him in circles like some intricate dance. He thinks maybe having you, a woman, to consult with will help him to see from a different perspective and help him find something he was missing or overlooking before. Maybe you’re Laszlo Kreizler’s sister and your reputation as an Alienist and/or experience in detective work encourages him to seek you out.

“It is very intimate.”

“I gather you mean it’s not Delmonico’s and I entirely know your point, but you see, I quite like to dine alone on occasion.”

“As do I. To what shall we drink?”

“Let us drink to getting drunk.”

“I’m not entirely sure that’s possible. I do not like to…”

“To lose control?”

“Behave indelicately.”

“Your message sounded urgent.”

“Yes. Truth be told, I’ve reached an impasse and I thought you might shake some of the rocks free with…a criminal investigation, actually. In truth… There are facets of the female mind I find very difficult to grasp.”

“Am I to be your subject or your sounding board?”

“The latter, of course. But I’m puzzled to no end by the actions of this woman. Once I think I’ve gotten a handle of her motivations, she…”

“She surprises you?”

“Yes. Exactly. Yes. That is why I thought it would be invigorating to engage on this…with a colleague.”

“A colleague.”

“Another toast. What shall we drink to this time, Miss Kreizler?”

“To collaboration.”

“It is a fascinating case.”

“What disturbs you about this one?”

“Well, it’s an unexpected fetish for a woman who uses her breasts as deliverers of death.”

“A dramatic turn of phrase for something I might argue might not be a fetish at all.”

“You wouldn’t consider this behavior a deviation? I am surprised to hear such an argument.”

“From a woman?”

“The most recent studies suggest a fetish is a means by which a man reduces a woman to a fraction of herself, experiencing sexual gratification. The fetish is pleasurable because it partializes a woman and thereby renders her non-threatening.”

“Has that been your experience?”

“Sorry?”

“If your gaze were attracted by a shapely bosom, do you forget about the woman to whom these parts belong? Have you forgotten all of me when you see my ankle?”

“I don’t categorize myself among the sufferers of this pathology.”

“Perhaps this type of attraction is not the pathology at all, and perhaps a woman might enjoy her part in such a ritual. With adult males, a woman’s breasts are life-affirming. She doesn’t use them in this context; she puts them in a position to respond to pleasure. Breasts are erogenous zones.”

“I’m aware of that, of course. But the public nature of it?”

“It’s interesting, I agree.”

Your discussion over drinks leads you and Sherlock back to his flat where you, whether you’re both a little (or very) drunk or not, engage in such a sexual activity. You let Sherlock help you undress and when you finally undo your corset and free your breasts, you have him stay seated while you stand, guiding his head, more specifically his mouth, to your breasts to suck on your nipple. You both found the feeding ritual strangely arousing. Of course, Sherlock had seen women’s bare breasts before, but he hadn’t made such avid mouth contact as he had with you - the greed, the need, the furious dependence he had for the flesh and the milk made you lightheaded, in a good way. When no one was looking, you would take Sherlock and put him in contact with your skin and rejoice in the moaning and the coughing of the avid detective as you show him how pleasure can be derived from such an act, how you, as a woman, enjoy your part in such a ritual as he “feeds” from you. Performing these sex acts helps Sherlock get into the mind of the person he’s after. This was just what he needed to get unstuck and have a breakthrough in his case.

~

“Crazy idea. Have you ever considered a flatmate?”

“For what purpose?”

“To stop you descending into this! You should not have to shoulder this burden alone.”

“I haven’t. I didn’t. There is someone who has been a consolation to me.”

“Someone?”

“A woman.”

“Oh.”

“Not quite like that. She’s a formidable woman, a detective in her own right. Y/N Kreizler. She’s given me great counsel.”

“A kindred spirit.”

“Perhaps. Yes, I think she is.”

“I’m happy for you, Sherlock, that you found such an agreeable companion.”

~

One afternoon, Sherlock spots you in the market doing some shopping. With a baby on your hip. He sees you, you see him, and he sees you see him, but instead of walking up to you or greeting you, he turns the other way and leaves. He needs to think about what it might mean if the child is indeed yours. He finds himself confiding in his sister.

“You know, why should I care if that's Y/N’s baby? You don't believe me, do you?”

“Believe what?” Enola asks.

“That I don't have feelings for her.”

“I came into this world many years after you did, but I’m not an idiot, Brother. I know you better than anyone. I know you better than you know yourself. You're in love with her.”

~

“Enola. I applogize. It was not my intention to intrude upon you.” You say apologetically from your spot on the couch in her office.

“Didn’t want to wake you. Sleep is a rare commodity for us both these days. I phoned Sherlock to let him know where you were. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course not. That was very courteous of you. Did he say anything?”

“Only mumbled about extremes you’re willing to go to avoid either confrontation or conversation. I forget which.”

“Both apply.”

“If you’d like to talk about it…”

“I would not.”

“Would it help if I already knew what it was concerning?”

“No.”

~

“Hello?” You ask as you pick up the phone while Enola steps out for a minute. You don’t think much about who could be on the other line. Until you hear his voice.

“Oh, thank God. I’m so relieved to hear your voice. I’ve been expecting you. Enola said you left her detective agency hours ago.”

“I’m sorry. I was supposed to, but right as I was about to leave, there was more work to be done at the office.”

“Have you uncovered a new lead? Y/N, if you refuse to speak to me, I—”

“I’ve not refused.”

“You have. And it’s unbearable.”

“I think you know by now that I find it particularly difficult and I have trouble…”

“Expressing?”

“Yes. Expressing. But I thought what we did was rather wonderful. However ill-conceived it may have been.”

“Are you saying you regret it?”

“No. That’s not what I meant. But we did not think it through. What it was.”

“The question is not what was, it…it’s what is and…what will be. I’m asking what you want. Damn it, Y/N. I can’t do this anymore. This talking in circles, it’s maddening.”

“Sherlock. I didn't sleep with you to try and trick you or force you to look after my child. You know, I can earn my own living. But what I don't want is to be alone for the rest of my life because a man I was foolish enough to marry was too cowardly to face up to his duties.”

“I'm sorry for what happened to you, truly. But, if you’ll have me, I'm ready to take care of you and your child. Bloody hell, I love you. And I will make a decision for the both of us if I must. Goodnight Y/N.”

~

“I meant what I said before.”

“No, you didn't. You're in love with what you don't have. You're in love with your dreams.”

“Aren't you?”

“Yes. I suppose I am.”

“Very well, then. I shall wait very patiently until you become the first female Chief of Detectives. In the meantime, let me accompany you to a carriage.”

“I'm perfectly safe, thank you. Cab!”

“I won't wait all night. The 20th century is almost upon us, and with it, a bright new future with bright new ideas. Why, women might even get the right to vote. Washington Square, please.”

“Sherlock Holmes, you just took my cab!”

~

“You play chess so romantically, Sherlock, with such daring, gallantly accepting my gambits, and yet, still mercilessly ruining me. Perhaps you play with such reckless abandon because there's little at stake. There's no risk. Knight to king's knight seven, knight takes pawn. Check.”

“King to queen one. Are you offering a wager?”

“Queen to bishop's knight six. Check. Indeed. Should you lose, then you're mine to do with as I so wish.”

“I fear at this moment, I would have an unfair advantage. What you suggest sounds positively Faustian. You mean to take my immortal soul. Yet hardly likely, Y/N, when my knight takes your queen.”

“Perhaps merely your mortal body, then? Checkmate. I do believe I did say to do with you as I so pleased.”

“Are you sure I can't tempt you to stay in England with me?”

“I'm sure Laszlo and the institute would thrive or even prosper without me. He’s realized he’s not some omniscient god.”

“That's quite the breakthrough, to know one is not divine.”

“A breakthrough you made for yourself?”

“Yes, I'm simply a man, quite an imperfect creature. But your arrival in my life has precipitated a desire to change. I must…”

You kiss him. “Don't change too much. I like the man you are.” You pause, as if considering. “Tell me… How is the weather in England during the Spring?”

~

“Laszlo, Sherlock has asked me to stay with him in England, as his wife.”

“Are you thinking of accepting him? Whatever it is you decide, you must place your own happiness first.”

“Sherlock means the world to me. And yet, I fear we desire different things.”

“But there’s more?”

“I feel pulled every which way.”

“You should abide by your own advice.”

“What of you?“

“Despite all my knowledge of life and my own advice to patients, I hesitate. I tread gingerly when I should step purposefully.”

“I should step purposefully, then.”

“Yes.”

“I shall miss you, Laszlo.”

“And I, you, but this isn’t the time for melancholia. Even so, as we find ourselves oceans apart.”

“I hope there will still be occasion for us to dine together when I return.”

“If you return. So how long will you be in England for?”

“I'm not sure. Six months, perhaps longer.”

“And you'll have Mr. Holmes to share the adventure with.”

“Will you come over for the wedding?”

“We’ll see. We’ll talk about that later. But for now, why don’t you and Sherlock go out and drink to your engagement?”

“American bourbon, straight up. Well, I better go and tell Sherlock my answer. I can’t keep him waiting forever, poor thing. The anticipation must be killing him. I love you, Laszlo. Goodbye.”

“I love you too, little sister. Bye.”

~

Unbeknownst to you, your brother, Laszlo, mails Sherlock the ring that was meant for Mary. Enclosed with the ring is a note:

Sherlock,

This was for Mary. I hope you’ll find someone you can give it to.

“Thank you, Laszlo.” Sherlock says to himself from under his breath, his voice no less sincere despite the lower volume.

~

“I want it noted I was right. About our news. It is not the appropriate time to tell the family. Not with the ongoing case and Enola’s courtship with Lord Tewkesbury. Not to mention your mother has her hands full. We can keep our secret a little longer.”

“Is this the only reason you wish to delay our news? You are happy, I hope?” Sherlock asks.

“Oh...very happy. And very busy.”

“We should tell them tonight.”

“I thought you wanted to wait.”

“You and I... we are at our happiest in this moment. And if I am honest, I have wished for it to just be the three of us a little longer. It is a great change, but you and I will make our way with our child the way we have always done with each other.”

~

“Enola, I - we have some news.”

“Sherlock, nothing is so bad that you cannot tell me. Grasp the nettle, and it hardly stings.”

“Y/N is in a delicate condition.”

“Dare I ask?”

“I'm the father.”

“What he means to say, is that we are expecting.” You interject, helping your husband find his words.

“I know. I was just waiting for you to say it.”

“What do you mean, ‘you know’?”

“The signs were obvious, Brother. For a genius, did you really think I hadn’t noticed her symptoms? I guess us women see things men don’t. This is the best news! I am happy for you, Sherlock. Because now, you get what your heart desires and that is to be a father. Of course, you love your eldest child just as much, but deep down, you wanted a child of your blood. You said that it didn't matter, but...I suspect that it did. Desiring a child of your own is nothing to be ashamed of. It's a new life, a new Holmes. Let us tell the family. They will be so delighted.”

~

“I am so envious. You cannot imagine how charming our town in America is. It has been so long since I have ridden there.”

“What about Hungary? Don’t you miss it too?”

“It has its attractions, to be sure. That being said, I attended school in America. I’ve lived there longer than I did in Hungary. My parents immigrated and moved us there when Laszlo and I were children.”

“Well, I should like to see America. In fact, I should like to see it soon. Before our child comes.”

“Now?”

“Mm.”

“Of course I want to go over with you, one day. But the journey takes months.”

“Yeah, and if we go now, we will have time to prepare for the birth there. Look, I know how much you love our life here. You have made yourself completely a part of our family. But I cannot help but feel that something is missing.”

“What about your mother? She would be missing the birth of her first grandchild. And your sister and your brother, they would be missing the birth of their first niece or nephew.”

“Our child…will always be a Holmes. But I should like them to know that they are a Kreizler as well, know their history. And it is important for me to know it so we can share that history with our child, together. Mother, Enola, and Mycroft will understand that. And we will return.”

“Please do not make me love you more. I do not think I can bear it.” You say with a smile as you kiss him, excited at your future trip.

5. A widowed man of wealth, status and power sold his only daughter in marriage to another man to better the business relationship between them, but after ten years of marriage, the daughter dies under mysterious circumstances. The regretful father hires you, A 19th century detective, to investigate the dark truth. Since 19th century society is harsh and dismissive to women with “unconventional” careers, you utilize men’s clothing, wigs, and makeup to assume a false male identity. You effectively disguise yourself as male while acting as detective. Your current client, like many clients before him, assumed he hired a man for the task.

Everyone knows of the Gentleman Thief: He was never caught, his crimes are executed with style, and he’s always quick with a clever quip with a constant smile on his face. While you’re investigating, you can’t rule out the possibility that this Gentleman Thief is just a red herring and that this might be the doing of the grieving father. He’s still a suspect of the recent death even though he hired you. Could it have been murder? Or was it an accident? Or did the daughter fake her death? To follow a lead, you disguise yourself as a mysterious noblewoman in order to be invited to a ball held by another suspect, who may or may not be engaging in suspicious or illicit activity. At this ball, you cross paths with Sherlock Holmes, who just so happens to be investigating the same case, or a case that’s connected or overlapping with yours. Nobody, except Sherlock, realizes that the detective sticking his nose in places where it doesn’t belong and the alluring noblewoman he’s met at this ball are one and the same. He knows who you really are (maybe you’re Laszlo Kreizler’s younger sister.) He doesn’t blow your cover, however. You end up in the refreshment room or a random closet together. No matter how many times you smack each other with a fan or rolled up paper and stomp on each other’s feet, declaring how much you loathe each other, you always end up kissing in the midst of arguing or discussing what you’ve found.

That very evening, The Gentleman Thief suddenly shows up at the ball, sword in hand. There’s no sign of humor about him this time. When attacking the ball, the Thief hired infiltrators to counter the guards. Which is why everyone except you and Sherlock are very surprised when it’s not the gentlemen, but instead every lady in the ball who draws swords and other weapons from their gowns. While the case isn’t yet solved, a part of you is sad that the ball had to come to an end.

“It's really over now, isn't it?”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I've never had an experience like this, and I wonder how many more I'll be allowed.”

“Somehow, I get the feeling you're done with people allowing you to do things.”

You meet again and again through your thrilling, dangerous adventure, befriending each other and falling in love. He’s always worked alone, but his sister, Enola, has shown him that perhaps you could work together.

“You're not asking Y/N to join this mad escapade of yours, are you? It will put her in a most compromised position. Look at the beasts that surround her on a daily basis.”

“I believe she's up to the task.” Enola says with confidence.

“She's not as strong as she'd like you to believe.”

“Sherlock, please. Do not let your affection for Miss L/N/Kreizler get in the way of logic.”

“My affection?! My God. Do you never tire of the sound of your own voice? Miss L/N/Kreizler is resourceful. And because she's a woman, she's unlikely to arouse suspicion. That is quite sufficient for my purposes.”

They had to stop their bickering because they could hear you approaching, conversing with others.

“…It's something new. Forensic science married with human psychology. One might easily imagine the ramifications if we are successful.” An associate says.

“I rather like it.” You then turn to Enola and Sherlock. “Pardon my candidness, but I feel I must ask. Did you have this evening entirely planned?”

“What exactly do you mean by ‘entirely’?”

“That we...I...would agree to assist you.”

“Aside from the job of scrubbing floors, you're the first woman in New York to become a successful detective. That shows initiative and a desire to advance your place in society. Am I mistaken?”

“No.”

“I've asked the commissioner for you to be the liaison between us. Your task will be to keep me informed of developments within the department and keep Inspector Lestrade abreast of our actions outside.”

“And he agreed?”

“Perhaps not in so many words. May I assume you have an interest?”

“It wouldn't be fair to assume anything about me, Mr. Holmes.”

“You look lovely this evening, Miss. May I offer you a ride?”

“No, thank you. I'd prefer to walk. Please go on without me.”

“At this hour? It’s not safe. There are scary people about.”

“Yes, let me know when you find one. I'm not a child.”

“I may not be an expert marksman, swordsman, singlestick fighter, and pugilist like you, Mr. Holmes, but I assure you I can handle myself.”

“Very well. Enola, are you coming with me?”

In the carriage, Enola can’t help the expression on her face. It’s a mix between smug and disappointed.

“She was offered a ride.”

“Though perhaps you might have insisted.”

“A little resentment and introspection will do us both some good. She’s not as strong as she’d like to think, and neither am I.”

Enola snorts at that. She can’t help it.

“You find that amusing?”

“Our weaknesses sometimes serve us better than our strengths. I'm just surprised to hear you admit you have a weakness.”

“I was speaking metaphorically.”

6. Bridgerton Crossover AU: You’re a descendant of the Bridgerton family (maybe a paternal descendant from one of the four sons, so you still carry the Bridgerton surname, or you go by Bridgerton as your professional name even if your mother took your father’s name.) You're much like your great grandmother or great aunt, Eloise, an independent and free spirit, unafraid to speak your mind or challenge societal norms to pave your own path. You meet and befriend Enola, only to fall in love with her older brother, Sherlock, as you become involved in her and/or his cases. This of course creates gossip and there's talk wherever you go, especially if/when you agree to marry him, but you don't care. Enola approves of you not for the benefits she and her brother could reap from a union with a woman from the Bridgerton bloodline, considering your social standing and wealthy inheritance, but because you make Sherlock so happy and like a better, happier version of himself. She likes this new version of her brother, a man who isn’t lonely but able to share his life with another. And it doesn’t hurt that your family is no stranger to being the subject of a scandal or gossip sheet back in the day, so you’re thick skinned and can steel yourself against any unflattering newspaper headline if you do do something wild, risky, or crazy while helping Sherlock and/or Enola on a case.

7. Something like the dinner scene from The Little Mermaid, where you perk up at seeing Sherlock’s smoking pipe and take an interest in it. Maybe you’re at a ball or some other party or social gathering to assist Sherlock with one of his cases, or Enola has invited you to come over to her family home for dinner because you’re her friend, but also as part of her plan to subtly try to set you up with Sherlock.

“Ha Ha. Come on, honey. Don't be shy.”

You enter in a beautiful dress that Enola helped you pick out. You think you look so unlike yourself you feel naked in the dress. It’s the finest dress you’ve ever worn. Enola said you could keep it, and when you tried to decline, she insisted until you gave in. It suited you.

“Oh, Sherlock, isn't she a vision?”

“You look…wonderful.”

“Come, come, come, you must be famished. Let me help you, my dear friend. There we go. Ah, quite comfy? Uh… It's… It's not ofen that we have such a lovely dinner guest, eh, Sherlock?”

Like Enola, your upbringing was rather unconventional and your table manners are…lacking, to say the least. You’re a bit of an oddball, just like her. Maybe you’re selectively mute. Everyone around you save Enola looks dumbfounded at your somewhat weird and childlike behavior and you’re embarrassed, trying to shrink back into your seat, wishing the ground would swallow you. Until you see Sherlock’s pipe when he lights it and you brighten. He notices you looking at it with awe.

“Uh, do you like it? It is rather…fine.” He hands it to you so you can admire it up close.

You turn it every which way in your hands before you bring it to your lips and blow its contents into Mycroft’s face. Sherlock laughs.

“Oh, my!” Mrs. Lane exclaims.

Sherlock clears his throat to cover up his laugh. “Ahem, so sorry, Mycroft.”

“Why, Sherlock, that's the first time I've seen you smile in weeks.”

You smile at hearing that.

Mycroft is wiping his face. “Oh, very amusing. Mrs. Lane, what's for dinner?”

“Oooh, you're gonna love it. Chef's been fixing his specialty.”

8. You’re Laszlo Kreizler’s sister and have moved from New York to England. Like your friend and colleague, John Moore, you have experience working as an illustrator who examined crime scenes closely and recreated the victims’ bodies through artwork for your brother’s investigations. You see Enola’s advertisement for her detective agency in the newspaper and become interested, so you pay her a visit. Maybe you and she could work together. You’re something of a detective yourself. When you come in and introduce yourself, Enola recognizes your name immediately and is starstruck. Not only is she excited about meeting an American woman, (Hungarian-American, you correct her slightly, but she can tell it was all in good teasing fun to get her to relax) and one with a career similar to hers to boot, she’s read about your work and that of your brother’s while studying every book in the library and reading American papers.

“And who are you, and what do you do, and how do you come to be here?” you ask.

“I’m a detective.”

“As am I.”

“You’re teasing me.”

“Yes, I’m teasing you. But it’s also true. I was an Alienist, alongside my brother. Y/N Kreizler.”

You don’t elaborate on what an Alienist is. You don’t have to. Enola already knows. Her books have told her that, in the 19th century, persons suffering from mental illness were thought to be alienated from their true natures. Experts who studied them were therefore known as alienists.

“I’ve read all your work. I’m Enola…”

“Of course I know you’re Enola Holmes. Who in New York hasn’t heard of you? The young girl detective across the pond who was responsible in cracking the Tewkesbury case. The one and only sister to the famous Sherlock Holmes.”

“It was said that you and your brother treat adults, too.”

“That is correct. But Laszlo always found children’s minds to be more interesting. As Alienists, we treated mental and emotional disorders in our patients, and we tried to alleviate their condition. We do not presume to cure them.”

You can tell Enola is a bright and very intelligent and intuitive girl, just like her older brother, but she seems down in the mouth, and you know exactly why even without asking. People haven’t been taking her seriously, have they? They all believe her to be the secretary or Sherlock’s assistant. You’ve been there. When she flips the sign to closed and prepares for the night in, she lets you stay with her. Though she knows you can handle yourself if you were to walk home or fetch a carriage at such a late hour, she’d like your company. She enjoys talking to you a great deal. You encourage her, tell her to not give up hope of building her own career, independent of her brother’s legacy. You form a bond as you tell her you’re in a similar situation. Like her, you love your brother, but didn’t want to be stuck in his shadow, so you moved to England to find your own path.

“What’s on your mind, Enola?”

“The detective agency. You know, during my time at Miss Harrison’s reform school, I never felt like I was being myself.”

“But you do here.”

“Oh, yeah. This is my own place, but I feel at times that I've been hiding behind its walls, and yet, it's my life's work, and it has given me great joy. But now I feel like a failure. Everyone is asking after Sherlock, thinking I’m his secretary or his assistant. The Tewkesbury case was mine, yet public perception is accrediting it to him. I feel I’ll never escape his shadow.”

“You will. If there is no struggle, there is no progress. Sometimes, Enola, you just have to decide what it is you want and then fight for it. You will not see a lot of photographs of detectives that look like us in the ‘Police Gazette’. Not yet, anyways. But I think of it like this: Your office here is lit by electricity, and before electricity, people used kerosene lamps, and before that, they used candles made from whale oil, and the man with the whale oil candle could never have envisioned all of this. We may be judged as women, but we must remember that we are detectives, and whether we wear skirts or trousers is immaterial to what we do. It's human nature to make mistakes, Enola. We sometimes might fail, but we should not be defined by our failures.“

You tell her of your own struggles and experiences of having to prove yourself, dealing with men underestimating you simply because you’re a woman, calling you the weaker sex, wanting your brother’s services instead just because he’s a man, etc.

~

“This is why we called upon you, Y/N.”

“I’m grateful for that trust. I can assure you I will do my utmost to help you find your daughter.”

“Well, yes, Y/N. Isobel and I hoped, we wondered if we could use your good graces to call your brother, Laszlo? Dr. Kreizler had some success, did he not, with that dreadful monster who was murdering young boy prostitutes?”

“Indeed, he did.”

“And do you not think his assistance in this case would be invaluable?“

“Should I have need for my brother, I would not hesitate to ask Laszlo for his help and insight. But what Isobel requires now, is an expert in the procedural method of criminal detection, because there is always a trail, no matter the criminal’s stealth or genius. And if you still hesitate to consider me professionally, I will remind you of the prejudice against our sex that could impede this investigation. Does it not take a woman to know that a woman who has lost a child is neither hysterical nor irrational, and that she has cause to be as she is? That she must be heard? You need a detective, and a woman such as I with the resources and the experience. I see your pain. I see your suffering. And I care. I care, deeply.”

“I want you to help me.” The woman, Isobel, finally relented, moved by your passionate words laced with such deep sincerity. And you did end up finding her infant daughter, but the case didn’t end there. There was another infant kidnapping, the grandson of a Vanderbilt.

“What do you know about her?”

“I’m not sure you want another party on this search, sir. It will dilute our efforts and perhaps bring unwanted notoriety to the case. She’s a renegade, a man in a corset. She’s a bored society girl who dabbles.”

“Well, I want to find out for myself. Miss Kreizler and Miss Howard are on their way here.”

“A slip of a girl can’t roam those streets, or these. You wouldn’t let your own daughter go anywhere near that place, would you?”

“Funny, we’ve just come from those streets. Assuming we’re the ‘slip of a girl’ you’re referring to, Mr. Byrnes? Y/N Kreizler and Sara Moore, Mr. Vanderbilt.”

You found both infants, alive and unharmed, and returned them home to their families and brought the culprit to justice.

“It is curious, is it not, at the time Mary Shelley was writing her book, there was a belief in galvanism, that man could reanimate the body through the use of electric impulses? And that day… That day they used the same potent force to take the life of an innocent woman. Underneath our skin, bone, and sinew, which of us are not monsters?” You ask Enola, not really expecting an answer.

“It was indeed monstrous what happened that day.” She quietly agrees, thinking back to what she read about that particular case. It was dreadful to read about, so she couldn’t comprehend how horrific it must’ve been for you to experience.

“I promised I would look for her missing child. My good friend, Sara Howard and her detective agency were at my disposal. She helped me in any way she could. We did have to bring in Laszlo once we realized that case was bigger than originally thought, but together, we cracked it. We were splashed on the front page of the paper, this time heralded as heroes instead of slandered as incompetent. From then on, people started to take Sara Howard and her detective agency, as well as myself and my work, seriously. But it was a long road. It still is. There’s always possibilities for change, for improvement. So while it’s normal and understandable in times like these to feel down in the dumps, you can’t let it get to you and stop you from doing what you love to do, what you were born to do. I could always use a little pick-me-up. That made me feel better. The key is to never overindulge to the point of inebriation. What would you drink, Enola?”

“I would have a glass of burgundy.”

“I have American bourbon. Straight up or watered down?”

“I will have that.”

“How goes it with your brave new adventure, detective?”

“Seems that most of my clients are rich, old dowagers who think their servants are stealing from them.���

“The curse of the greenback. The more money they make during the day, the more they worry at night over losing it. The room is unquestionably yours, Enola.” You say, looking around at the books and papers and other miscellaneous objects that decorate the living space.

“Well, the rent’s not unreasonable, and we are on a good street.”

“What I meant was…”

“I know what you meant.”

“You’ve surrounded yourself with your most valued possessions. And if I were of a mind, I would tell you much about who you are by observing the ephemera you’ve chosen to display here.”

“It’s late, Miss Kreizler. If you would kindly refrain from making a psychological profile of who I am based on the furnishings of my office.”

“Your brother is proud of you, seeing what you have accomplished.”

“I like to think so. Thank you for the bourbon, Y/N. It was restorative. And rest assured, I will call on you should I need your assistance.”

You meet Enola again at the ball, either through coincidence or careful planning.

“Miss Holmes. Fancy meeting you here.“ you whisper so only she can hear.

“Enola.”

“Very well. Then I’m Y/N to you. But for now… Let’s keep to our fake names…Tabitha. Getting any good gossip yet? Any promising leads?”

She nods.

“Good. Keep your eyes and ears open and I shall do the same.”

But unbeknownst to her, her brother is also there, and just so happens to be investigating his own case which overlaps with hers. You literally run into him.

“And in fact, it seems as if all of the most important people in England are here. Even still, I didn’t for the life of me imagine I’d meet you, Sherlock Holmes. It’s quite the honor.”

“The honor is all mine. Indeed. I would very much like to… Perhaps we could discuss…”

“My card. Do call on me, Mr. Holmes, and I’d love to be of assistance to you in your case, should you need it. I’m already assisting your sister in hers.”

While facing off with the corrupt police and the culprit behind everything on Sherlock’s current case, he gets shot in the shoulder, scaring you nearly to death. There’s so much blood staining his sleeve, you can’t tell if it’s a flesh wound or something more. You’re too occupied fighting off a bad guy of your own. You manage to kill your adversary, but also suffer an injury that requires hospitalization. During your stay, you receive visits from Sherlock. So many visits in fact that it’s like he never leaves the hospital.

“I found bits of your sketchbook in the fireplace.”

“Are you spying on me now?”

“You’d actually have to be interesting for me to bother spying on you.”

“The drawings in that sketchbook were abominable. I could not stand to look at them.”

“I believe that is why they call it a sketchbook. I write in my journal, which is not the same as writing a novel. It must be very difficult to want something and not be able to get it.”

“Sherlock…”

“If you enjoy drawing but need practice, then practice. Hire a drawing master. Find a young man to act impressed.”

“Easy for you to talk. You’re a man. If you desire the sun and the moon, all you have to do is go out and shoot at the sky. Some of us cannot. Look no further than the Brontë sisters. They all possessed a huge talent for writing, and yet they all had to hide away and publish under a false male name.”

“Yes, because if anyone knew who they truly were, they’d surely be strung up for what they wrote.”

“That is not my point. The Brontës were all talented writers, but women, therefore they had nothing, and still they wrote. You’re a man, therefore you have everything. You are able to do whatever you want. So do it. Be bold. At least that way I can live vicariously through you.”

“Are you writing under a male pseudonym? You’re an accomplished writer, always scribbling in that diary of yours. You certainly know everyone else’s business. You have more opinions than anyone else I know in London. You would have my full support and admiration either way. So… are you?”

“No. Though if I were…do you honestly think that I’d admit it?”

9. Illusionist inspired: Sherlock is hired to investigate your murder, but it turns out to be a scheme you and he concocted to successfully run away together to be married.

“Love. What it does to people.”

Inspector Lestrade tells the story of a man who claimed to be a clairvoyant and the noblewoman he fell in love with to Sherlock.

The clairvoyant was born the son of a carpenter, and became interested in magic. He fell in love with you, a woman of German or Austro-Hungarian nobility, but you were forbidden to see each other as he wasn’t of noble birth. You kept meeting secretly but, in 1889, you were caught and separated by force after your lover was arrested in Austria-Hungary by a German Chief Inspector during a magic show involving necromancy. Years later, the clairvoyant returned to Vienna to perform. During one performance, he encountered you again and learned that you were expected to marry a nobleman, who, it was rumored, was brutal towards women and even murdered one but used his power and connections to have it covered up. Your betrothed invited your clairvoyant lover to give a private performance at his home, which was an opulent palace. During the performance, he humiliated the nobleman in front of the royal guests; in response, he was banned from performing again. When you came to offer your lover help, you made love instead. Your lover asked you to flee with him, but you were afraid you would be caught and executed. You revealed that the nobleman was planning a coup against his elderly father. You tried to end your engagement with him, and your body was discovered the next morning in the Vienna Woods, an unknown man blamed. This threw your lover into depression. He bought a theatre and began a new series of shows focusing on the summoning of dead spirits.

Your betrothed secretly attended one, during which the clairvoyant summoned your spirit, who said that someone in the theatre was your murderer. Your betrothed, unnerved, ordered the police to arrest the clairvoyant for fraud, but he avoided jail by confessing to the public that his show was an illusion. He was threatened that if he summoned you in his next performance, he would be imprisoned. The police attended the performance, and in spite of the warnings, the clairvoyant summoned you again. Police stormed the stage, but to the shock of the audience, the clairvoyant himself was revealed to be a spirit when the police officers’ hands passed through him. The German Inspector revealed to your betrothed that he had found evidence—your locket—which could implicate him in your murder, and that he knew about the plan all along but chose to support it since he thought the nobleman was better and more competent than his elderly father and he could get a promotion to Chief of Police by supporting him. However, your death made him realize your fiancé was also unfit so he changed his mind and informed your fiancé’s father and the Austro-Hungarian General Staff of his conspiracy to seize his father’s position and power. As officers arrived, feeling cornered, your unwanted fiancé shot himself in the head. The Inspector left and placed your locket in his pocket. He was now no longer Chief Inspector of Police.

As a boy approached him, he was jostled by a man in a long coat. The boy gave him a package containing the clairvoyant’s notebook about the Orange Tree trick, which the German inspector had been unable to figure out. He shouted to the boy asking who gave him the notebook, and when the boy replied, "Herr Sigerson," he realized the person who jostled him stole the locket. He chased the man, but he boarded a train and escaped. The inspector realized the jostling and the notebook were a message from the illusionist, and he began to rethink recent events. He concluded that you and your lover staged your death so that you could be free of your betrothed, with your ghostly apparitions being nothing more than illusions, smoke and mirrors. The inspector laughed delightedly at the brilliance of their plan. As Lestrade concludes his tale, Sherlock asks if they ever discovered where you and your lover went. Lestrade answers in the negative, but hypothesizes that they ran away somewhere to start a new life. Sherlock excuses himself and leaves Lestrade’s office, claiming he must get home to his wife. The German or Austro-Hungarian noblewoman is you, the clairvoyant is Sherlock, and together you pulled off the greatest trick the world will never know, a mystery that will boggle future generations long after you’re both dead. Far away from your hometown, you and your husband, Sherlock, have started a new life together in England. Every morning, Sherlock places your locket around your neck for you, kissing up and down your neck and shoulders while doing so. Here, you’re not a noblewoman. You’re simply Mrs. Holmes and you get on with your lives like thousands of others.

10. A Little Princess-esque AU: You’re short on money, and decide to get a job as a scullery maid at Miss Harrison’s Finishing School for Girls. The school is often a mess because of the many students, and you work yourself to exhaustion cleaning up after them. You’re instructed by Miss Harrison to give the newest student, Enola Holmes, a tour of the facilities.

“The exercise room is over here. The music room is down the hall. The dormitories are upstairs, and you may have seen the playground. Or the ground where the playing would be if it was permitted. You look as if you like playing outdoors.”

You befriend Miss Holmes, who insists you call her by her first name, Enola. You take time out of your busy days to visit with her in private and give her words of encouragement, and make fun of Miss Harrison for her unrequited love for Mycroft, among other things. You’re a spot of hope or sunshine for her in this drab and miserable place.

“Do you know why I am an educator? It's because I want to make people happy. I want you to live a full and vibrant life. Not with anger and endless questions, but with answers. I prepare my girls for the world, for the real world. I would never abandon you and leave you to fend for yourself. Yes. Mycroft told me.”

“My mother had her reasons.”

“I'm sure she did. I knew your mother. We were friends for a while. At school. She was a peculiar little thing. Was always unpredictable, always challenging. She never truly cared for anything except her own...unusual ideas.”

“She cared for me.”

“Then why did she leave you? Prefects will accompany you to and from lessons. This door will always be kept locked. You'll thank me...one day, when you're happily married with a pair of strapping boys. Sleep well, Enola.”

After Miss Harrison leaves, you sneak in. You’re an expert lock-picker. There isn’t a lock you can’t pick. You sit next to Enola and wrap your arm around her, comforting her. “Don’t pay any mind to Miss Harrison. She’s so desperate to mold and shove girls into these tight little boxes of conformity. She wants people like us to fit into society’s strict definition of what makes a woman, even if it means breaking our bones and contorting our bodies to get us to fit in that tiny box. She holds institutions like marriage and motherhood on a pedestal, yet she herself is neither a wife nor a mother. It’s hypocrisy, Enola. And being a woman is so much more than what society has dictated. Women are capable of so much more than being housewives and mothers. I’m of the opinion that some people shouldn’t have children. They do it because they think they’re supposed to, but it’s not really what they want.”

“Is that the way your mother was?”

“Yes.”

“She didn’t love you? Your father, he…he loved you though, didn’t he?”

“He died when I was eight. He had an…accident with a gun. He was raised in the country. The city made him uncomfortable, and he had a nervous disposition. Perhaps he’d simply had enough. But before that… Yes, he did. I was his whole world, and he was mine. I imagine it was difficult for a man from the country to maintain the lifestyle to which my mother had become accustomed. He did his best for us, but it wasn’t good enough for her. I always felt, as a child…that if he did love me, why did he leave me? My father kept a great deal hidden from me...which is why I'm overly inquisitive, I suppose. As a child, I was unaware of my father's melancholia... It became so overwhelming that he tried to take his own life. I was the one who found him. At the last moment, he'd lost his courage...and tried to pull the gun from his mouth. He was in terrible pain. Half his face... He took my hand, and we held the gun together...”

“I'm sorry, Y/N.”

“I've learnt that we can either let it haunt us for the rest of our lives...or we can accept it...and use the memory of our pain to help others.”

“I'm not sure the choice is entirely in our hands.”

“I disagree. If it weren't, we'd all be murderers. I was happy before Papa died. I was always happy. My father, he… He loved the circus. Would always take me to the country fairs and the traveling circuses when they were in town. I saw these acrobats, and I wanted to do something like that, but Mother would never approve. I had these pretty dresses, taffeta and silk, and I…I did ballet dancing. I knew all the moves: pirouettes and arabesques. It was just mother and I after my father’s accident. I was the perfect child. I never gave my mother any trouble at all. I went to school with children from the finest families in London, as clever as any of them, and I was a beautiful dancer. We lived in Paris for a year. I studied at the school of ballet. But after my father was gone I realized…none of it made me truly happy anymore.”

“What will make you happy?”

“I don’t know. I’d like to find love, like anyone, but I just haven’t yet. But I’d like to have a chance to do what your brother does - what you do. To solve mysteries, uncover secrets, embark on wild adventures, don disguises and different names. You’re a brilliant young lady, Enola. You mustn’t let Mycroft or Miss Harrison beat and smother that out of you. In this place, there’s an expectation of acting, thinking, and being as they tell you. But you mustn’t let them force you to become someone you are not. Especially not for a man’s satisfaction. You’re a person, not property. Your future belongs to you. Remember that.”

“‘My future belongs to me’? Funny. My mother said that.��

“Then she is wise. Goodnight, Enola.”

You meet Enola’s older brother, Sherlock Holmes, when he comes to visit her. You’re such a hot mess that the first impression you make is less-than-ideal. He Instructs the headmistress to leave the room after she fetches Enola, but you’re permitted to stay. Enola is very perceptive and notices the way you’re looking at and speaking to her brother.

Later, Enola tries to recruit you into her escape plans, but at first you say you can’t, that you’re bound here by your job and if the headmistress finds out you abandoned your post, she’ll be furious and dismiss you. But when Enola points out, “would that be so terrible? What do you have here? There comes a time when you have to make a hard choice. And, in that moment, you will discover what mettle you truly have, and what you’re prepared to risk for what matters. Your future belongs to you,” you realize she’s right. You have to go for the adventure. So you scheme with her and Tewkesbury to aid in her escape. The three of you steal Miss Harrison’s automobile and hitch a ride on it. Days later, all the parents and guardians come to see the girls’ progress, but you and Enola are long gone, having already escaped by that point. During the confrontation with the true culprit, you get stabbed or shot, and are recovering in the hospital. Unbeknownst to you since you’re asleep most of the time, Sherlock visits you every day.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says to the hospital staff as he holds up a finger and passes by the front desk, going straight to your room. He stays there until visiting hours are over. Unbeknownst to you and Sherlock, Enola plots and schemes to play matchmaker between you and her older brother.

To be a Holmes, you must find your own path. Her brothers have, her mother has, and she must too. But Enola now sees that being alone doesn't mean she has to be lonely. She believes the same is true for her brother. He’s been so lonely and needs a flatmate and companion or, even better, a wife of his equal intellectual caliber. She sees his match in you. And she wants you as her sister so she can continue to take you with her on detective cases and wild adventures, since you’ve proven yourself capable of quick thinking and holding your own against bad guys and the unexpected. You don’t know why but letters suddenly come for you in the post, all from Sherlock. You’re soon pen pals and writing to him regularly. At first they’re very formal, asking about his sister’s progress and wellbeing, etc. but over time they become much more personal and even intimate. Your first letters tell him of Enola, of how her case is progressing. Formal and impersonal, nothing about you as you commend Enola on her clever mind and intuitiveness. The most recent letters are much more private and could be considered “love letters”.

After Enola solves the case, she talks Sherlock’s ears off about you when he comes to visit her in her detective agency above Edith’s shop, but there’s no sign of you. He excuses himself so he may look for you. When he finally tracks you down to your new place of work or your home, it’s far from innocent as you invite him inside and give into your passions. While you’re laying in the afterglow, he asks you to accompany him to his flat, but you can’t. He corrects himself and takes your hands in his own: He doesn’t want you in his flat for a tryst, he wants you in his apartment for forever. He wants you to move in with him. He wants to court you. Maybe you’d consider a partnership? Holmes & L/N? And maybe someday, that’d become Holmes & Holmes?

11. Loosely A Little Princess/Ever After inspired AU: When an odious woman/man of wealth, position, status, or power (or all of the above) discovers you know about her/his bribery, extortion, or blackmail scheme (or other crime) and possess incriminating evidence against her/him, she/he frames you for theft and/or murder and summons the police. You narrowly escape by running down streets and alleyways, until you jump the large rooftops of an apartment building. You make a perilous climb up the trellis to an open window on the second story, nearly slipping and falling due to rain making everything slick. As the man/woman and police search the apartment building one room at a time, you’re found by Sherlock Holmes, the man who lives in the flat you broke into. You don’t say a word, but your eyes and the evidence you’re clutching protectively in your hands tells enough of the story. When police barge in and try to drag you away, you panic, screaming for your ‘husband’. Sherlock, curious and always loving a good intrigue, plays along.

“What is the meaning of this? What are you doing to my wife!?” He saves you from prison after the police and woman/man become far too sheepish under his piercing gaze and analytical eyes, especially when he calls out the woman/man on her/his lies and exposes her/his misdeeds using the evidence you’ve gathered, effectively destroying whatever flimsy case she/he might’ve had against you. But now it’s awkward because gossip spreads fast and sooner or later society is going to believe Sherlock and you to be married. What do the two of you do now?

12. You came from a family of wealth and extravagant comforts, though your parents are merely a Lord and Lady. The marriage between your mother and father was one derived of convenience. A transaction was struck that included the promise of marriage between your father, the strapping second son of his family, and your mother, the middle daughter of her family—a resentful woman who was considered a spinster at twenty-seven. The groom was several years his bride’s senior and was ill-tempered and the object of much abuse. Nearing thirty, she was considered too old to form a family and thus, a good portion of the land came with her as dowry. Your father utilized the family fortune to expand and build. He threw lavish parties in which he groomed investors. As fertile as the family’s business empire was, your parents led a barren life at home. He mistreated your mother brutally and beat her frequently. One such beating was so violent that he snapped her leg bone cleanly in two, which forced her to walk with a cane from then on and would keep her engaged in regular rehabilitation trips to the London Hospital for the rest of her life. Your parents shared a bed only two times—both brief and brutal and full of resentment and only to fulfill the obligation to lineage. The first instance produced you. In your gender, you carried on your father's disappointment and gave a vessel to your mother's anger. The mansion and its library provided you with a vast empire to rule and a land of magical nooks and crannies in which to hide and to lord over. Your father ignored you and your mother loathed you, for you had inherited your father’s good looks and fine features.

It was your destiny in life to be bred as a nurse/companion to your mother. From an early age, you were made aware of the many liniments and chemicals that your mother required in the maintenance of her many ailments. The only physical contact you ever had with your mother was the long and extended sessions of therapeutic massage that you would provide for the ailing woman. You would rub liniments on your mother's skin and over the scarred flesh of her leg. You would derive great pleasure from these services and in a thankless, acrid way, your mother came to depend on you greatly when you were at home. You were forbidden from engaging in friendship with the children of servants or workers, but your natural curiosity led you to discover the rewards of your family’s extensive property- a veritable garden of Eden for butterflies in Spring and Summer and a home for shiny, multicolored beetles in the Fall and Winter. As a girl, you were not expected to be educated in anything but music, cooking, and embroidering, but in your father's vast library you discovered books on entomology, biology, and chemistry, and you grew dexterous with your mother's medications and often prepared difficult concoctions containing poisonous elements.

The day your brother was born, you thought you had never seen anything more beautiful than that baby. The adoration provided to him astonished you: He could do no wrong—he was the heir, the blessing, the bearer of the family crest. You helped the maids tend to him and learned a single lullaby that his wet nurse sang to him. His skin smelled like cookies and his little hands were made of rosebuds and silk. The wet nurse, a gentle, decent woman was full of stories and sayings and songs. She took to you like a mother and told you stories of her vast family—she had nursed 8 babies in her 10 years of marriage and was bound to go back to her tiny household at the end of her tenure at your house. A tenure that would last three years as was customary in those days. But then your brother died in an accident when he was still a child.

~

“I've noticed she wears a man's signet ring.” Sherlock noted aloud to a gentleman who was also acquainted with your family. Just an observation.

“It was passed down to her after her father’s death. The ring was supposed to have been her brother’s when he came of age. It was meant for him. A rather sad situation. An accident. Some kind of terrible fall. Or at least that was the official story. The rumors were that he died by his father’s hand.”

“How old was she?”

“Fourteen. At the time, she was sent to a sanitarium. She'd lost her brother when she was still quite young herself. Perhaps you should measure her skull to see how it affected her. Have you interest in her?”

“Good God, man. I've known her since she was a child.”

“She's no longer a child.”

“I've not thought of her in that way.”

“Certainly you have.”

And so your mother was left with you after your father and brother’s untimely deaths. The useless daughter. She had designed plans for you to be married off to the highest bidder, but when she later discovered you were with child after you missed your courses, she disowned you and sent you away to live off scraps, not caring to ask who the father is.

~

You’re living on your own, surrounded by and befriending hard-working people who weren't born as well as others. You’re often in the street, carrying a basket of beautiful flowers or laces and ribbons to sell. Or you’re sewing “piecework”. Nobody recognizes you underneath all the raggedy clothes or dirt and grime covering your face and hair. When your secret lover, Sherlock Holmes, England’s finest detective and a highly sought after man both for cases and courtship, calls on you, your mother evades the truth of your predicament. She makes up a bogus cover story of you either being very ill with Typhus and are quarantining elsewhere and not taking visitors, or, not thinking that far ahead, she panics and claims you’ve been kidnapped or gone missing. Having not much of a choice at the risk of looking suspicious, she allows Sherlock to investigate the house, including your bedroom. There, he finds clues you left for him and only him to find you. They’re imperceptible to every human eye except his. While he’s questioning her, your mother tries to set him up with one of your cousins, after which he becomes even more suspicious and skeptical than he already is. It’s been so many months that your mother feigns grief and pretends to go into mourning after you’re presumed dead, and it doesn’t take long for the newspapers to report on your “death”. Sherlock grieves, but not because he believes you dead. He believes attending your funeral or putting on an act will get him closer to finding you. You’re out there somewhere, alive. He knows it. You’ve been out there somewhere all these months. He sets off across the country, searching for you. When Sherlock finally finds you, you’re either heavily pregnant and ready to pop at any moment, or have had his and your child already.

Either way, he takes you back to his childhood home to care for you and the baby. His flat at 221 Baker Street would also do, but the house is bigger.

~

“I know about your parents. What they did to you. The favoritism they showed your brother and his premature death.,. What your mother did to you when you didn’t bleed… Forgive me, if I pried into matters that were not my concern. I only did it out of regard for you.”

“She lied, you know? My mother. When I missed my courses. She didn’t want a baby. A bastard. She and Father didn’t want me. My younger brother was my parents’ favorite and after he died… I’m of the opinion that some people shouldn’t have children. They do it because they think they’re supposed to, but it’s not really what they want. But being courted by you, held by you, even in secret… and having our baby… That made me happy. To feel loved. When the baby was born, they were covered in blood, and the nurses wiped them down, and they laid my baby on me, and from that moment, I loved them. And all this time, there's been an ache in my heart, an emptiness ever since my brother died, and it may sound foolish, but I hope, perhaps, that if a small part of him were to be born again, that I would see it in my own child, or my own child in him.”

“That doesn't sound foolish.”

“It doesn't?”

“No. Sounds beautiful.”

“While I was pregnant, I had my heart set on naming our child after my brother if I had a boy. I hope that’s all right. But they’re your child too and if you had a different name in mind, I’d be okay with having my brother’s name be their middle name instead.”

“Of course. It’s a wonderful idea.”

“Now I've something to show you. I was thinking about your current case and your current client’s father, which got me to thinking about your theory about fathers, which got me to thinking about my own father.”

“That's a lot of thinking.”

“Look at this.”

“Ah, it's an old society column.”

“I didn't know what I was looking for at first, but when I saw this, it struck me.”

“You were looking for something on your father?”

“Yes. For something that could tell us more about our culprit.”

“You seem to be obsessed with the man.”

“Perhaps I am. Hmm. Go on, read it. My father... My father had two sides — one loving and the other brutal, the two often coexisting. It was something as trivial as putting me to bed, I recall. A game of tug of war. We were laughing... I don't remember if he was drunk or if I said something that offended him. He must have pulled my arm behind my back. In small children, fractures often affect...” you trailed off.

“I’m sorry, Y/N.”

~

“Here’s to your engagement, Sherlock. Long time coming.”

“Cheers.”

“I hope she’s makes you happy.”

“Thank you, Enola. She does.”

“Proud of you, Brother.”

“Sherlock Holmes is getting married. I had prepared notes, whimsical thoughts on the nature of love. Practical counsel in what it means to be united in body and soul with another being. All that I had wanted to say, but now I realize I cannot offer you any of these thoughts as I’m somewhat tipsy. And it seems I have left my notes in our previous establishment. Sherlock… It is my greatest privilege to be your friend. And as Voltaire said, ‘virtuous men alone possess friends.’ You are indeed a virtuous man, a free spirit, restless soul, blessed with kindness, bravery, and passion. You are sometimes reckless, certainly careless, and occasionally hopeless. But… It is my sincerest hope, wish, that your new bride sees you as we do, cares for you like we do, will know you as we have known you, and will love you like we do. Should she dare. To Sherlock.” John says as he raises his glass.

After you marry, you go on honeymoon, where you spend your days sightseeing and being as close to a normal couple as you can be, and your nights and early mornings in bed together.

“I believe I now know the reason why every mama of high English society keeps her daughter in total darkness about certain…diversions.”

“Mm. Do you?” Sherlock asks, as he busies himself by kissing every inch of skin on your body that he can.

“Should they have told us what it was truly like, however would we get anything else done at all? I must go.”

“Mm.”

“If I am to be Mrs. Holmes and mistress of all of this, I must start learning the lay of the land.”

“You are already mistress of all this.”

“And I look forward to exploring that particular land further… Later.” Your husband grabs you and turns you over so you’re laying underneath him again, effectively holding you in place. “Sherlock!”

“You said that detective work was most intimidating. That illustrating crime scenes was most daunting, not always easy to stomach. Why not stay and look the case over this room? You may find it a bit more titillating.”

“I do not doubt it. But I suspect Mrs. Hudson shall always resent me if I do not meet her for breakfast.“

“Then let her resent.”

“I shall do nothing of the sort. Her cuisine is a little limited, but she has as good an idea of breakfast as a Scotswoman. Besides, my friends told me a lady is nothing without her housekeeper. I imagine a landlady is cut from the same cloth and I must make a good impression, or nothing in this flat shall run smoothly. Besides, I should check on the baby.”

Sherlock finally relinquishes his hold on you, laying on his back in bed while he holds up an arm to wave you goodbye. “Then I wish you well.”

“Mr. Holmes.” You curtsy.

“Mrs. Holmes.”

You laugh as you exit your bedroom.

The phone rings. Sherlock answers it.

“Sherlock, I have prepared the study for you to work—.”

“Watson, I am on my honeymoon.”

“You’ve left the records of your latest case in some disarray. I cannot make head nor tail of your trains of thought, and there are several letters from people begging an audience with you, so that you may hear their case.”

“Very well! If I must.”

~

“Teething. I'm sure that's what it is. Your baby is at that age.”

“Well, is there anything I can do?”

“Clove oil. Dab a bit on your finger and rub it into your baby's gums. It acts as a mild analgesic.”

“How much?”

“Don't worry. It's only a bit of clove oil.”

“I want to pay for it, Mr. Freewater. I can take care of my child alone while my husband is away. Here.”

When your mother hears the news of your marriage and who the father of your baby is, she tries to come crawling to his flat at 221B Baker Street or his countryside family house, acting the part of loving mother and being sickeningly sweet to him, throwing herself at his mercy to try to extort him or something. She may even bring your aunts or uncles to back her up. But Sherlock isn’t having any of her manipulative groveling and vulture-like behavior. Sherlock doesn't even let your mother or anyone she’s brought with her step across the threshold. That’s when she looks over Sherlock’s shoulder and sees you in the background, either in a chair and rocking your baby to sleep or holding your baby in your arms while pacing back and forth to soothe them. A wedding ring on your finger. A wedding ring on Sherlock’s. Upon realizing that you’re married, she’s about to say something, but Sherlock shuts down whatever ideas she had swimming in her head before she gets a chance to even form, telling her in no uncertain terms that since she disowned you, she has no legal ties to you, him, nor your child. He’s not her son-in-law and owes her nothing. She‘ll never again lay eyes on your child, for he/she is not her grandchild. She doesn't have a claim to anything, and can either leave quietly or he’ll have the police escort her and whoever she’s brought with her off his property. Is it any surprise your mother (and possibly your aunts and uncles) leave town so soon after the newspaper prints the latest issue, her face splattered on the front page detailing the case of the previously thought to be kidnapped, sick, or missing daughter who, turns out, was none of those things at all. What your mother had done created a scandal of such public attention, she’d never hope to recover or show her face in London again. She’s gone and you hope she stays gone. You swear that the only news you want to hear regarding her is the obituary announcing her death and the date of her funeral, if she has one, so you can visit her grave once and only once, much like you did sometime after your father died. You visited your father’s grave once and only once and swore to never return.

“I don't really know why I came. Maybe because now I'm free to speak my mind. I've always blamed my failings as an adult on what you did to me as a child. Those failings...were my own. I remember something you once said to me. ‘Nature never allows a man to be more than he is. Only less.’ For years, I believed those words reflected your own bitterness and failure. But now I understand there were for my benefit. You were simply preparing me for what you knew would be a life of disappointment and pain. But you were wrong. I know that now. I still believe we can be better than nature intended, even if you can't. You did the best you could. Goodbye, Papa.”

However, you visit your brother often, at least twice a month, always leaving a fresh bouquet of flowers and other small gifts for him.

[six-demon-bag]

looking very small

Pairing: Laszlo Kreizler/John Schuyler Moore

Fandom: The Alienist

Summary: Laszlo gets called out by Mrs. Williams about his deep desire to be manhandled by someone much larger than him. Someone much like his dear friend John, maybe.

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Self-Denial, Size Difference, First Time, Virgin Laszlo Kreizler, john has Big Hands, and big everything, Tender Sex

Word count: 4173

Link: looking very small

Excerpt:

“Laszlo, what is the matter?” John asks, moving closer. Laszlo tenses. He tries to look up, at the table, but all he can see is John’s leg so close to him. John has always been so tall and so strong compared to Laszlo’s smaller, weaker stature. He’s never made Laszlo feel less, but Laszlo is forced to acknowledge Mrs. William’s words of how Laszlo would like to be small. “It is nothing, John,” Laszlo lies, badly. “Simply the case getting to me, I fear.” “That’s not all,” John says. “Something else is the matter.” This is the downside of having old friends who know him, Laszlo laments weakly.

dedicated to this picture and also this anon who loves it so much

[the-ravening]

Fic: A Suitable Course of Treatment (Laszlo Kreizler/Bucky Barnes)

Wrote a little Laszky PWP for @tales-from-a-maphia-don. Happy birthday!! 🥳❤️

Fandoms: The Alienist/TFATWS crossover

Pairing: Laszlo Kreizler/Bucky Barnes

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 2k

Tags: Teen Bucky, age difference, dubcon, doctor/patient, period typical homophobia, conversion therapy but in a gay porn way, handjobs, PWP, glasses kink

Summary:

Young Bucky is sent to Dr. Kreizler to be treated for his unnatural urges. As it turns out, the doctor has some unconventional methods.

Read on AO3!

[queenlyfae]

Guys

I accidentally

✨fucked around and found out✨

But in all seriousness what do y’all think of a fic starring this idiot

And also this one?

And possibly a guest appearance from this idiot as well?

The first chapter is on AO3 right now has been for months I’m not joking

[lettalady]

Made up fic title: The Sandcastle of Sorrow

The year is 1896. Dr Laszlo Kreizler ventures to the shore because one old friend gets engaged, one turns his attention from the city's problem of crime and corruption to the plagues of a nation – leaving the third to do what can only logically follow after getting a taste of what can happen if curiosity and the proper investigative methods are put to use.

So, yes, he leaves the city behind, hoping those haunted corridors of his mind might be soothed by a change of residence and the sounds of the sea. To escape the ghosts that walk the hallways of his home, that taunt and hunt him at every turn, that torment him with a possibility lost….

[blurhawaii]

yuletide 2022

honestly thought i was done writing for this show--cue me writing a 6.5k fic for it. had a blast and it’s actually 1 of 4 (!) things i ended up writing this year. big improvement from the last couple of years.

title: scraping the floor in mortar torture

fandom: the alienist (tv)

pairing: laszlo kreizler/john moore

tags: hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, blood and injury, implied/referenced homophobia, beating, wound tending, unresolved sexual tension

summary:

The mocking brand of laughter that John so often carries with him everywhere--clinging to the hem of his coat, always trailing several steps behind him--it's still ringing clear out into the night when the world sees fit to echo his torment with one final refrain of the punchline.

It comes louder and with significantly more feeling this time around, for the dwindling number of gentlemen at the back of the room who might not yet be aware of all his failures. Come tomorrow they'll know for sure, as failure will be written across every inch of John’s body, in a rainbow of different colours. Weakness on stark display for all to see and laugh at.

---

i even found time to write an extra treat this year, for the incredibly niche fandom of the spoon song -- the two sides of monsieur valentine. if that at all sounds interesting to anyone besides my recipient, as i have no idea how to tag this.

title: the stranger dance

fandom: the two sides of monsieur valentine - spoon (song)

pairing: monsieur valentine/the duke

characters: eddie, the duke, monsieur valentine, the queen, the narrator

summary:

Act I, EDDIE exits stage right, a swordsman of great skill. He ran a blade through THE DUKE, legend tells, on his way to kidnap THE QUEEN. Who else in the world can claim these two feats simultaneously? EDDIE asks the crowd, only to be met with chorus groans from the ones in the audience who read THE STRANGER DANCE in school.

[blackleatherjacketz]

This was so hot! Bless you for this!

A Sensual Education - Laszlo Kreizler

I learned a lot about clits for this fic, didn't realize how much people (mostly men) hated them. Everyone, go touch your clits, treasure them, they deserve it after people like Freud wanted to get rid of them cause they were too insecure of themselves and scared of women🙃

Warnings: SMUT (MINORS DNI), typical 19th century ideology, misogyny, religious guilt, pining, innocence kink, fingering, virginity loss, soft dom!Laszlo, consent is sexy, flufffff

3.4K Words🤙🏻

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From an early age, you were always taught that anything do to with sex was a sin. You weren’t really told why but it was an unspoken moral rule. 

Women weren’t allowed to have sex until after marriage and if the man wants it. Women were for men’s pleasure and to make babies; that was it. From an early age, you were always doubtful of this but you were always too scared to make your concerns known.

You had asked your mother about it after you started your courses, but you were immediately shut down and scolded for even thinking such a thing. So every time you had a question or concern, you always had to push it down and you never spoke about it.

Once, you had heard, in the middle of the night, your mother with your father in their bedroom, it sounded like they were both in pain. You peaked inside their room and what you saw shocked you to your core. It was not in fact your mother, but it was your father with another woman. It looked painful. Why would someone engage in such acts if it was painful? It didn’t make sense.

From an early age, you were already seeing contradictions from everyone and you didn’t know what to believe.

One night, you tried touching yourself, just out of curiosity. It felt…different, but good. Though you were too scared and embarrassed to continue. Surely, you were going to hell for what you did. You prayed for forgiveness, and you never touched yourself again.

You knew it would probably bring shame upon you and your family, but you had always wanted to pursue a career in psychology. The mind was fascinating, and you had always wanted to figure out what causes people to do what they do; why they lie, why they hurt others, why they are so insistent on following old rules. Doctor Laszlo Kreizler had been looking for someone to intern for him. Despite being a woman, the doctor seemed happy to welcome you to his team.

It was very early on when you started to see Doctor Kreizler in a different light, one that you had not seen anyone before. He was very handsome, even your mother had confessed that to you privately. But it felt different this time. You had crushes before, but you never thought to act on them. You just figured that your parents would find you a man to marry and that would be that, but thankfully they weren’t that old fashioned. You were allowed to choose someone for yourself if you wanted, and you found that Laszlo was someone you wanted very badly. Just one small problem: he was your boss and you had no idea if he’d ever feel the same way.

You’d feel embarrassed every time you interacted with him, which was a lot. You would have to really concentrate whenever he was teaching you what to do with certain patients, and you managed well enough. Sometimes you’d sit in on one of his counseling sessions to see what he does and how he goes about it, but his voice was so mesmerizing that you’d forget exactly what he had been saying. It was debilitating, your crush, always feeling such yearning whenever he caught your gaze; but you had to move on. It definitely would not be professional if you acted on your sinful feelings to him. 

Your lust got even worse when Laszlo started to get more touchy feely with you. He wasn’t inappropriate of course, just lingering touches here and there whenever you did a good job with the patients; but that was more than enough for your fantasies to run wild with false hope that he might’ve liked you back. He even insisted you call him by his first name, before you always addressed him as Doctor Kreizler. He unknowingly was only fanning the flames of your infatuation.

Your crush just kept growing stronger and stronger.

Finally, one day, one of the doctor’s other employee’s told you that he needed to see you in his office later that day. You were instantly worried, thinking you may have done a bad job or worse, he had found out about your crush on him. But the employee said you had nothing to worry about, telling you that you were the fastest learner they had ever seen. It lessened your nerves…only slightly. You’d just have to find out for yourself.

You decided to go to his office early, otherwise you’d be worrying yourself to death and you didn’t care much for that. But when you arrived, the doctor wasn’t there. Serves you right for being impatient, you supposed.

You waited in Doctor Kreizler’s office, twiddling your thumbs and failing to calm your nerves. So instead, you decided to look around, despite knowing you shouldn’t, but you didn’t know what else to do. 

Scanning his bookshelves absentmindedly, you came across a particularly eye-catching name. Kama Sutra? You let out an audible gasp as you saw the cover on the front of the book. It was a man and a woman being…intimate with each other. You tried not to judge, but what kind of deviant would keep a book like this? Despite your initial horror, you couldn’t help but skim through the pages, feeling yourself growing uncomfortably hot at the words and illustrations. There were words on those pages that you didn’t even have a clue what they meant, but they felt dirty regardless.

You were so enraptured by all this new information that you didn’t notice Doctor Kreizler walk in. You all but jumped out of your skin as you heard him clear his throat, looking at you expectantly. “Oh, Lord, I am so sorry, Doctor. I was just waiting for you to get back but this caught my eye, I didn’t mean to pry, I promise.” You rambled with a slight stutter, your heart threatening to beat out of your chest when Laszlo took the book from you with a ghost of a smile. “Please, sir, don’t tell anyone I was looking at this, if my parents found out, they’d throw me on the streets! I’ll pray for forgiveness!”

Laszlo gently shook his head, patting your shoulder reassuringly. “It’s quite alright, it’ll stay between us. Please, you don’t have to put on the pious act for me.”

You furrowed your brow, tilting your head slightly in confusion. “An act, sir? What do you mean?”

“The whole pretending that you think every single thing pertaining to sex is sinful and immoral.” He said with a brittle chuckle.

“It…it’s not?”

Laszlo froze, his eyes scanning your face for any indication that you were playing up the innocent act, but he didn’t find anything about your expression that would lead him to believe that you were lying. Were you actually this innocent? “You’ve never been taught about sex before? Anything about it?”

Your cheeks felt like they had been lit aflame, you looked down, your hair hiding your face slightly. “It’s a sin, especially before marriage. The only reason to do it is if you want to have a child.” You recited from what you learned from your parents and pastor.

“God, is that what your parents taught you? Hypocrites. It’s ridiculous. Of course sex isn’t sinful.”

“But…what about touching oneself? Surely that’s a sin, right?”

“It’s a natural part of growing up. Everyone has done it, there’s nothing to be ashamed about.” Laszlo noticed your nervousness, the fiddling with your hands and your eyes anywhere but his. “Have you never touched yourself before? Never even tried?”

You bit your lip, rubbing your hand up your arm as you felt goosebumps start to rise. “Once, but it didn’t feel right…at all. I never tried again. I never should have done it in the first place.” You felt ashamed talking about this with someone as professional as Laszlo. He must’ve been so ashamed of you as well, you wished you never even set foot in his office. But what you didn’t know was Laszlo was feeling ashamed of himself for how lustful he felt all of a sudden. The thought that you had never experienced sexual pleasure made his pants feel way too tight in that moment, and he felt sorry for you, but not in a condescending way. It would be a risk for your professional relationship, but it was one he was willing to take.

You didn’t notice Laszlo walking closer to you until you felt his hand gently graze your hand that was nervously holding your other arm. You felt your heart skip a beat as you finally looked up at him, finding his eyes to be searching yours. His tantalizing stare felt like it was penetrating your soul, him being so close to you that you could see your own startled expression in his dilated pupils. “Do you want me to show you how it’s done?” Laszlo asked in a low tone, his voice almost gravelly, causing a shiver to run down your spine in anticipation.

You didn’t know why, but you suddenly felt a burning hot desire in your lower stomach, a slick wetness pooling at the apex of your thighs. Your expression reflected in his eyes turned from being startled to almost dazed. Out of anything he could’ve said, Laszlo surprised you with that. You wanted to say yes, so badly. But… “What will happen to me if I say yes?” You asked timidly, glancing down at his hand on yours.

“Nothing that you don’t consent to.” He smiled softly, but with your fearful expression, he realized what you actually were asking. “I promise, you’re not going to hell if you allow me to do this.”

You exhaled shakily. “Okay.”

Laszlo smiled, running his hand up to your shoulder and moving a piece of hair out of your face. “Sit on my desk and lift up your skirts for me please.” He instructed, and you obeyed nervously, feeling your whole body heat up as he watched intently as you exposed most of your legs to him. “Good girl.” You try not to squirm as Laszlo stood right next to you, feeling his breath on your neck as he lightly held you in place with his right arm and using his left hand to gently trail up your inner thigh, eliciting another shiver from you. “If I do anything that you don’t like or want to stop for any reason, just tell me and I’ll stop. Okay?”

You nodded. “Okay.”

You took a deep breath as Laszlo finally reached your aching cunt, exhaling sharply when his fingers made contact with your sex. “Spread your legs for me, my dear.” You gasped as he touched a spot that was particularly sensitive. “Is that painful?” He asked, but you quickly shook your head no. “This spot is called the clitoris, it’s the only human organ where its sole purpose is to provide pleasure. Isn’t that extraordinary?” He spoke huskily into your ear, causing goosebumps to rise all over your body, all while you were still struggling to keep still as he kept slowly rubbing circles on your clit. You wanted him to go faster, but all you could do was whimper pitifully as Laszlo started to kiss and nip at your neck. “How does that feel, Schatz?”

“G-Good…” You whimpered, “so good but…”

“What is it?”

“Can you…move a bit faster, please?” Laszlo smirked at your stuttering voice, finding your shyness adorable. Instead of giving you what you craved, he did the opposite, removing his hand from you and moving to stand in between your legs, spreading your legs even further. “What are you-? Oh!” You gasped as Laszlo slowly pushed one of his fingers inside you, the intrusion foreign but not entirely unwelcome…

“And how does this feel? Still good?” He asked, adding a second finger and gently thrusting into you, the stretch causing you to wince slightly but you didn’t want him to stop. You let out your first moan as he rubbed your clit with his thumb in tandem with his thrusts. “I assume that was a yes, hm?”

“Y-Yeah…” You moaned, your hips moving against his hand mindlessly, starting to feel pleasure building and building inside you. “Feels so good, Laszlo…” 

Laszlo lifted your chin with his other hand, forcing you to make eye contact with him. He wanted to see your face. He finally kissed you as he sped up his hand movements, swallowing your loud moans, a deep guttural groan escaping him as he felt your walls clench around his fingers. “You feel that pressure building in your body?” You nodded quickly, panting and moaning but you still tried to pay attention to what he was saying. “You’re getting close to what’s called an orgasm. It’s a feeling of euphoria when you reach the peak of sexual pleasure.”

“Are…are you getting close?” You stuttered.

Laszlo smiled, hiding a wince when his cock jumped in his pants. “I’m not the one getting pleasured, you are.” And as if right on cue, you felt yourself reach that peak and it was indescribable. Your body burned all over, but in a good way. You moaned loudly as you rode out that wave, gripping onto the doctor’s waistcoat for purchase. Your corset felt almost painful as your nipples hardened as you came, it felt all too restrictive. But you came down from that high, and you already wanted to feel it again. “Are you okay?” Laszlo’s soft deep voice brought you back to reality.

“Can…can you make me do that again?” You asked shyly, causing Laszlo to chuckle.

You winced as Laszlo lightly tapped your clit, the feeling almost too much to handle. “You’re too sensitive. Some people can’t come again right after because of the oversensitivity. But you might be ready to go again after several minutes.”

“But I want you to feel good too. I want you to…come.” You spoke timidly, looking up at him with puppy dog eyes. He almost melted on the spot.

Laszlo frowned, shaking his head, trying to ignore his aching cock that was just crying out for stimulation. “I don’t want to hurt you. It might be too much, especially right now.”

“But I want you, Laszlo. I really do.” Laszlo didn’t say anything as you reached for the buttons on his pants, feeling guilty as he let you nervously palm his member through his trousers. “Please, I want you to be my first…”

Laszlo exhaled a shaky breath, grabbing your face and kissing you lightly with a frustrated growl. “First times for women can be painful…”

“I don’t care. I want you to show me what it’s like.” You begged, gently biting his bottom lip, doing everything in your power to let him know that you’d be okay.

Laszlo finally gave in, kissing you again with much more fervor, allowing himself to crave your touch. Your hands were all over him, messing up his perfectly styled hair and undoing the buttons of his waistcoat so you could feel more of him. You moaned as he squeezed your breasts through your dress, running his hands up and down your torso as you pulled his cock out of the confines of his pants. But he suddenly stopped, taking your hand away before speaking. “We’re going to take this slow, okay? If I hurt you, tell me and I’ll stop, okay?” He said seriously.

“Okay.”

Laszlo slowly rubbed the head of his cock in between your folds, you letting out small whines as he rubbed himself on your still overly sensitive clit. He looked into your eyes when he lined himself up with your entrance, silently asking for your approval. You nodded, holding onto his hand that was gripping your thigh.

His cock was much bigger than his fingers, that’s for sure. You let out a silent cry when he entered you, just his tip stretching you far more than his fingers. It was a burning pressure, but you still didn’t want him to stop. Despite the initial pain, it felt so natural for him to be inside you. You accepted him as best you could, him stilling inside you when he bottomed out. “Are you okay?” He asked, already panting from holding himself back.

“Yes, Laszlo, please. Keep going.” You and Laszlo both let out deep guttural groans as he started to thrust into you slowly, him keeping a firm grip on your thigh as he rocked his hips back and forth. Soon, you started to feel a new type of pleasure. It didn’t feel the same as when he was rubbing your clit, but whatever it was, it felt amazing. Every time Laszlo thrusted, the tip of his cock would hit that spot, making your eyes roll to the back of your skull. His slow thrusts weren’t enough now. You wanted more. You needed more. “Faster…please.” You whined, moving your own hips up to meet his.

“You sure?” It was sweet that he was always checking in, you appreciated it, but sweet wasn’t what you needed at that moment. You nodded vigorously, grabbing the collar of his shirt roughly and bringing him down to kiss you.

“Oh, my God-!” You gasped, moaning in his ear as he sped up his thrusts, his skin slapping against yours echoing around his office. “You feel so good.” You smiled tremulously, tears of overwhelming pleasure brimming your eyes. Laszlo’s grunting and soft moaning had to have been the prettiest sound you had ever heard, each others’ moans mixing together like a symphony. 

“You’re exquisite, my dear.” Laszlo breathed out, moaning every time he felt you clench around him, your velvety walls taking him in deep and holding on with a vice grip. “You’re doing so well…fuck.” He cursed, his cock twitching as he sped up even more, chasing his own release desperately, your pretty moans spurring him on. “I’m so close.” He voiced, his words coming out strangled, his hand tightening around yours, bringing it up and placing a light kiss on your knuckles.

“Do it, come. Please, come.” You whimpered, crossing your legs behind his back, not allowing him to remove himself from you, pulling him as close as possible. His heavy breaths and soft moans fanned across your skin as he neared his climax, placing sloppy kisses on your cheek and down your neck, his neatly trimmed beard scratching at your skin. You cried out as Laszlo started to rub your clit once more, desperate to feel you come around his cock. “Please, please…” You whined, not even sure what you were asking for. His circular motions on your clit paired with his cock roughly splitting you open over and over again was almost too much, but you fully relinquished yourself to him, happy to be used by someone you admired so much.

“Come for me again, Schatz. I want to feel you, please.” Laszlo moaned, speeding up his ministrations on your clit.

“Laszlo!” You squealed, your legs shaking uncontrollably as you reached that peak once more, falling limp in his arms as you rode out your second orgasm.

“Oh, Scheiße!” Laszlo stilled as you clenched around him, letting out a loud strained grunt as he finally released inside of you, coating your walls with his cum. He buried his head in your shoulder, panting heavily along with you, trying to steady his heartbeat. “Are…are you okay?” He asked nervously as he pulled out of you and stuffed himself back into his trousers, looking into your eyes with concern. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No, no. You didn’t.” You shook your head, wearing a tired satisfied smile. “I really liked it.”

Laszlo let out a relieved sigh. “Good.” He said, wearing a lopsided grin, placing a short light kiss on the tip of your nose. He chuckled breathlessly, running a hand through his hair. “I wasn’t expecting the day to turn out like this…but I’m glad it did.”

“Me too.” You smiled timidly, but then you remembered something. “So, um, why did you want to see me in the first place?” You asked.

Laszlo chuckled nervously, gently caressing your cheek while a slight blush. “Oh, I was, uh.” He cleared his throat, “With how well you’re doing, I was going to ask you to work for the Institute officially. Paid and everything. But now…I want to take you out on a date too, if you’d allow me.”

“Really?” You beamed.

“Really.”

“I’d love that. Both. Both of those things. To work here and go on a date with you.” You rambled with a giggle, making Laszlo smile.

“Great…I suppose we should get back to work now.” He said reluctantly, holding onto your hips like he never wanted to let you go.

“I promise, I won’t let you regret hiring me.”

“I don’t think you could make me regret anything, my dear.”

~~~~~~~~~~

back on my bullshit (aka, i'm obsessed with Daniel again). nobody talk to me.

[andy-15-07]

The News

Summary:Y/N anxiously prepares for Helmut Zemo’s return, holding a secret—she’s pregnant. When he arrives, they share an emotional reunion, and he’s overjoyed at the news of their growing family.

Paring: Baron Helmut Zemo x reader

Words count: 2594

Daniel Brühl Masterlist | Masterlist

The soft hum of the rain tapping against the windows filled the quiet apartment, adding to the warm, cozy atmosphere Y/N had tried to create all day. She had spent hours preparing for this moment—cleaning, cooking, and nervously adjusting everything in the living room a dozen times.

The smell of dinner—a mix of Zemo's favorite dishes—lingered in the air, and soft music played in the background, trying to mask the excitement and nerves building within her. Y/N checked her phone for what felt like the hundredth time, her eyes darting to the time.

He should have been home by now.

Helmut had been away on a mission for weeks, leaving her with nothing but sporadic, cryptic messages that barely hinted at when he might return. But today was different. Today, she was certain he'd be home. She had received a brief text earlier that morning, "Coming home tonight. Don't wait up."

Of course, she couldn’t just go to bed, not with the news she had been holding close to her heart, a secret she had been dying to share with him. She glanced down at the little box in her hands, flipping it open and shut nervously. Inside was a tiny pair of baby shoes—white and soft, with delicate lace around the edges. She smiled softly to herself, a rush of emotions threatening to spill over.

She had found out a few days after he had left. The initial shock had been overwhelming, but the idea of them starting a family had slowly taken root, filling her with a joy she hadn’t expected. Y/N could already imagine Helmut’s reaction, the way his eyes would light up, the way he’d pull her into his arms, overjoyed at the news.

The rain picked up, drumming harder against the window, and she glanced outside. The city was dark, a few lights flickering through the sheets of rain, but there was no sign of him yet.

Minutes felt like hours, and the worry she had tried to suppress started to creep in. What if something had gone wrong? What if he was hurt? But no, she pushed those thoughts away. Helmut was too skilled, too careful. He always made it back to her, no matter what.

She placed the baby shoes back in the box, setting it on the coffee table and rubbing her hands together nervously. The fire crackled softly in the background, casting a warm glow over the room, but it did little to soothe her nerves.

Then, finally, she heard it. The unmistakable sound of keys jingling at the door, followed by the soft click of the lock turning. Her heart leapt into her throat as the door slowly creaked open, and there he was—Helmut Zemo, soaked from the rain, his hair tousled, but very much alive and home.

“Helmut!” Y/N exclaimed, rushing to him before he could even close the door behind him. She threw her arms around him, ignoring the dampness of his clothes as she buried her face in his chest.

“Schatz…” he murmured, his voice thick with exhaustion, but there was a softness in his tone as he wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, breathing her in, as if grounding himself after weeks away.

“I missed you,” she whispered, her voice cracking with emotion. She had missed him terribly, every moment he was away felt like an eternity.

“And I missed you,” he replied, pulling back slightly to look at her. His dark eyes were tired but filled with love as he cupped her face in his hands, his thumb brushing over her cheek. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, meine Liebe.”

Y/N smiled, her heart swelling with affection for this man she had chosen to spend her life with. But she could see the weariness in his expression, the way his shoulders sagged slightly under the weight of whatever he had gone through. She knew better than to ask about the mission, not right away. There would be time for that later.

“You’re soaked,” she said, her voice tinged with concern. “Come on, let’s get you out of these wet clothes.”

He nodded, allowing her to guide him toward their bedroom. She helped him out of his coat and boots, and then he peeled off his wet shirt, tossing it aside. His body was as strong and lean as ever, though she couldn’t help but notice a few new bruises marring his skin.

Y/N frowned, reaching out to touch one gently, but Helmut caught her hand, bringing it to his lips instead.

“It’s nothing,” he assured her, his voice low. “Just a few scratches.”

She looked up at him, her brow furrowed with worry, but he gave her a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He was trying to protect her, as always, but she could see through the façade. He was tired—emotionally and physically—but he was here, and that was what mattered most.

“Come on,” she whispered, tugging him toward the bathroom. “A hot shower will help.”

Helmut didn’t argue, and soon the sound of water filled the space as steam began to rise around them. Y/N stayed by his side, helping him rinse off the grime of whatever battle he had been through. He closed his eyes, leaning into her touch as she ran her fingers through his wet hair, massaging his scalp gently.

They didn’t speak, the silence between them comfortable and intimate, a reminder of how connected they were, even after all these years.

Once he was clean, she handed him a towel, watching as he dried off and wrapped it around his waist. His gaze softened as he looked at her, his expression unreadable for a moment before he pulled her into his arms once more.

“Thank you,” he murmured into her hair, his voice filled with a deep, unspoken gratitude.

Y/N smiled against his chest, her heart fluttering with love for this man who was always so strong, so capable, and yet so vulnerable in moments like these. She pulled back slightly, looking up at him.

“I made dinner,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “Your favorite.”

His eyes lit up, a genuine smile spreading across his face. “You spoil me, Schatz.”

“Only because you deserve it,” she teased, leading him back into the living room where the food was waiting.

They settled on the couch, plates in hand, and for a while, they just enjoyed the meal in comfortable silence. But Y/N could feel the weight of the secret she was holding, the news she was so eager to share. She glanced at the small box on the coffee table, her heart pounding in her chest.

Helmut noticed the shift in her demeanor, his brow furrowing slightly. “Is something on your mind, Y/N?” he asked, setting his plate aside.

She hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to begin. But then she took a deep breath, reaching for the box and holding it out to him.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” she said softly, her voice trembling slightly.

Helmut’s eyes widened in surprise as he took the box from her hands, his expression curious as he opened it. His gaze softened instantly as he saw the tiny baby shoes nestled inside, his breath catching in his throat.

“Y/N…” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion as he looked up at her, his eyes searching hers for confirmation.

She nodded, tears welling up in her eyes. “I’m pregnant, Helmut. We’re going to have a baby.”

For a moment, he just stared at her, as if trying to process the words. Then, slowly, a smile spread across his face—a smile so full of joy and love that it took her breath away.

“Meine Liebe…” he murmured, setting the box aside and pulling her into his arms. He held her tightly, his hands trembling slightly as he cupped the back of her head, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “You have no idea how happy you’ve made me.”

Tears slipped down her cheeks as she clung to him, feeling his love and warmth enveloping her completely. “I was so nervous,” she admitted, her voice cracking with emotion. “I didn’t know how you’d react.”

He pulled back slightly, cupping her face in his hands and looking into her eyes with a seriousness that made her heart skip a beat. “Y/N, there is nothing in this world that could make me happier than this news,” he said, his voice steady and filled with conviction. “You and our child…you are everything to me.”

She smiled through her tears, overwhelmed by the depth of his love. “I love you, Helmut,” she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion.

“And I love you, more than anything,” he replied, pressing his forehead against hers. “Thank you…thank you for this gift.”

They stayed like that for a long moment, holding each other close, their hearts beating in sync. The rain outside had slowed to a gentle drizzle, the soft patter against the windows a soothing backdrop to the moment they were sharing.

Finally, Helmut pulled back, a playful glint in his eyes. “I suppose I’ll have to be extra careful on my missions from now on,” he said, a hint of humor in his voice. “I have more than just you to come home to now.”

Y/N chuckled, wiping away her tears. “Yes, you do. And you’d better keep that in mind.”

He smiled, leaning in to kiss her softly, his lips lingering against hers as if savoring the moment. When he pulled back, his eyes were filled with a tenderness that made her heart swell.

“We’re going to be a family,” he repeated, his voice filled with awe as if he was still trying to wrap his mind around the idea. His hand moved gently to rest on her stomach, his thumb tracing small, tender circles over the place where their child grew.

Y/N placed her hand over his, the warmth of his touch sending a wave of comfort through her. “Yes, we are,” she whispered, her voice full of love and certainty. “Our little family.”

Helmut’s eyes shone with emotion as he stared down at her, his usually composed demeanor softened by the weight of this new reality. He had faced countless challenges, confronted the most dangerous of foes, and yet, this moment—this simple, beautiful moment—was enough to bring him to his knees.

“Do you know how long I’ve dreamed of this?” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “A family of my own… I never thought it would be possible after everything that’s happened. And now, here we are…”

Y/N smiled, her heart breaking and healing at the same time. She knew his past was riddled with pain and loss, and she understood how much this meant to him. “You deserve this, Helmut. You deserve all the happiness in the world.”

He shook his head slightly, his expression one of disbelief. “I don’t know if I deserve it, but I’m not foolish enough to let it slip away. You and our child…you’re my future now. My purpose.”

She could see the determination in his eyes, the promise that he would do everything in his power to protect them, to give them the life they deserved. It was a vow unspoken, yet she felt it in every fiber of her being.

Helmut gently pulled her closer, his lips brushing against her forehead. “Thank you,” he whispered again, the words heavy with gratitude. “Thank you for giving me this gift, for giving me hope.”

Y/N’s heart swelled with love for him, a love that seemed to grow stronger with each passing second. “You’ve given me so much, Helmut,” she replied softly, her fingers threading through his as they rested on her stomach. “This is our gift to each other.”

They stayed like that for what felt like an eternity, wrapped in each other’s warmth, the reality of their future slowly sinking in. It was a future filled with the unknown, but for the first time, they faced it together, not just as partners, but as a family.

After a while, Y/N broke the comfortable silence, her tone laced with playful curiosity. “So… have you thought of any names yet?”

Helmut chuckled, the sound warm and genuine, breaking through the seriousness of the moment. “Already? You’ve only just told me!”

Y/N laughed, the sound light and full of joy. “Well, we should get a head start, don’t you think? We need to be prepared.”

Helmut’s eyes sparkled with amusement as he considered her words. “True. But I think we should take our time. We have many months ahead of us to decide.” He paused, his gaze turning thoughtful. “But if I had to choose… something traditional, perhaps. Something with meaning.”

Y/N nodded, her mind racing with possibilities. “Something that honors your heritage, maybe? A name that connects our child to their roots.”

Helmut’s expression softened, a deep pride flashing in his eyes. “Yes,” he agreed, his voice low and serious. “Something that carries the weight of history, but also the promise of a new future.”

She could see how much this meant to him, and it warmed her heart to know that he was already thinking of their child’s legacy. “We’ll find the perfect name,” she assured him, leaning into his embrace. “One that represents everything we’ve been through, and everything we’re going to build together.”

Helmut kissed the top of her head, his lips lingering there as if sealing a promise. “We will,” he agreed. “And no matter what name we choose, our child will know they are loved. That is the most important thing.”

Y/N sighed contentedly, feeling a sense of peace settle over her. This was what she had always dreamed of—a life filled with love, a future full of hope. And now, with Helmut by her side, that dream was finally becoming a reality.

As the evening wore on, they talked about their plans for the future—the changes they would need to make, the things they would need to prepare for. They discussed where the nursery should be, what color to paint the walls, and how they would balance their new responsibilities. It was a conversation filled with excitement and a little bit of fear, but most of all, it was filled with love.

Eventually, the exhaustion of the day caught up with them, and they found themselves curled up on the couch together, the warmth of the fire lulling them into a comfortable drowsiness. Helmut held her close, his arms wrapped around her protectively, his hand resting on her stomach as if to keep their child safe even in his sleep.

Y/N looked up at him, her heart swelling with love as she watched him drift off. There was a contentment in his expression that she hadn’t seen in a long time, a peace that came from knowing they were finally moving forward together.

And as she closed her eyes, her head resting against his chest, she knew that no matter what challenges lay ahead, they would face them together—united by the love they had for each other, and for the family they were about to start.

In that moment, Y/N realized that the future was no longer something to be feared. It was something to be embraced, something to be cherished. And with Helmut by her side, she knew they would create a life filled with happiness, love, and endless possibilities.

As sleep finally claimed her, Y/N’s last thought was of the tiny heartbeat growing inside her, a new life born out of the love she shared with Helmut Zemo—a love that would carry them through anything.

The rain outside had stopped, leaving the night quiet and still. And in the warmth of their home, their hearts beat as one, full of love, hope, and the promise of tomorrow.

[six-demon-bag]

keep the truth under lock and key (so no one can see you’re just like me)

Pairing: Laszlo Kreizler/Lutz Heck

Summary: Laszlo finds proof that Dr. Lutz Heck is responsible for the string of rapes and murders across the city, but Lutz is able to avoid any consequences due to his wealth and connections. Laszlo can’t let him get away untouched, won’t let him keep committing his horrible crimes and decides to take things into his own hands.

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Crossover, Revenge, Virgin Laszlo, First Time, Painful Sex, Spit As Lube, Non-Consensual Drug Use, noncon

Word count: 6169

Link: keep the truth under lock and key (so no one can see you’re just like me)

Excerpt:

“The audacity,” Laszlo seethes as soon as Lutz is out of earshot. “You can’t touch him,” John says, still holding Laszlo’s arm. “He knows it. He’s just trying to get to you, you can’t let him do that.” He knows John is right, and he knows Lutz is just taunting him, but it’s working. The coal of anger burns hotter inside him. “I won’t let him get away with this,” he vows. He has to stop Lutz. He can’t let him keep raping and killing simply because he’s too powerful to take on directly. Laszlo will find a way, any way at all to make him stop, once and for all. He’s not untouchable. Laszlo just has to find how.

[mrsmaxwelllord]

INFATURATION - The Reunion

Pairing: Laszlo Kreizler x Fem!Reader

Summary: After years of solitude, protected by the wall of a house you were forced to call your own, you open the doors to welcome your stepdaughter. Only to see her bring in the man who cause all your misfortune.

A/N: There isn't any warnings bc this chapter only introduces the plot and briefly narrates the reunion of Laszlo and his former lover.

But this is a Persuasion-inspired fic — meaning it is a second-change romance.

I think this is all, for now.

Enjoy!

.

 It is unthinkable.

 The grimace on your face was caught by your company when the stranger’s silhouette took shape. But that was no stranger at all, you could tell, even in the distance when his face was yet to be revealed.

 The brown hair, the bright eyes, the cane... 

 This must be a dream, a terrible nightmare — was your first thought when you recognized the figure.

 You gasped for air, tightening your hold on Edwinas arm. You could hear her calling your name, but it was as low as a whisper. Barely there, mixed with the loud waves.

 The silhouette doubled, forming a second figure, one that you couldn’t quite place. It was of no consequence, you were transfixed by the approaching man.

 Step by ungainly step on the sand he shortened the space between the two of you. In no time his features became visible, demanding attention. The bright brown eyes above anything else, but the matching hair still had its charm even now, curling behind his ears.

 When his eyes finally meet yours it is in wonder, but it feels like being punched in the stomach. Hard and painful.  There was a knot in your throat and you couldn't breathe properly. 

 His lips opened to whisper your name.

 It was only with a scream you broke out of the devil’s spell.

 Daniel, the reason for your oh so tard visit to the beach, was the one to scream and so snape you back to reality. Demanding your attention to the funny shell he found by the Ocean.

 You turn around to face him, baffled still.

 “Ma’am, are you well?” questioned the governess at the same time Danny screamed “Mama” at the top of his lungs. Your ears were buzzing and, truth be told, you were definitely not in full control of your mental abilities yet.

 You did not know to whom you should answer first, the maid or the bubbling infant,  but the dripping clothes of the child way too close to the Ocean's waves gave you the directions you needed.

 “That is enough, young man” you said, calling your son closer to you. 

 “Yes, mister,” Edwina agreed upon seeing the deed. “That isn’t proper behaviour.”

 He laughs and doesn't shake at your objection, but runs to you and shows the shell holding out his tiny hands.

“M’Sorry” he murmurs “I wanted you to see this. It’s a present, you see?”

You take the shell and thanks for the gift, another addition to your collection.

“Ma’am, how are you feeling?” 

You face Edwina, still much aware of the strangers, and force a smile.

“I’m much better. Thank you.”

“You looked so sick just now,” she says.

“No need to worry about it, Edwina.” You look at the couple from the corner of your eye, noticing that they have their arms lined.

She hums and Danny rounds circles around you.

“Oh, what a delightful surprise” Professor Stratton greets you.

 You turn around abruptly.

 In your terror, you did not recognize the figure beside Doctor Laszlo Kreizler, but now you could tell who it was. Miss Stratton was correct, what a surprise! — you just couldn’t agree with the delightfulness. Miss Stratton was to arrive the very first thing tomorrow morning, but you guessed the ship did not care for men's assumptions.

 “Karen” you smile, “you arrived early!”

  Her smile was just as bright and contagious as you remember it, and she looked very satisfied. Karen took your hands between hers gently, squeezing it, and, when Daniel very carefully not to be heard whispered a question to Edwina, she gasped.

 “Oh, that can’t be!” she turned to him, then asked. “Is this the tiny baby I held in my arms not five years ago? Is this Danny?”

 Despite being very excited and anxious about the arrival of his half-sister and not being able to stop talking about her to anyone listening in the previous weeks, Daniel fell silent with her attention. Suddenly very shy.

 “Go ahead, Danny” you encouraged him, stretching out your hand so he could hold it and come closer. “Say hello to Karen, she was very excited to see you again.”

 “Were you?” he asked, timid.

 Dr Keizler stood in silence, flabbergasted, watching the scene before him evolve. Both because nobody introduced or talked to him and he simply could not believe his eyes.

 He looked at you and the boy with gushing curiosity, a feeling he couldn't quite describe, but relish. Yearn. He wished you would look him in the eyes, but you were focused on the chatting.

 Professor Stratton chatted to the kid she called Danny for a good pair of minutes before turning back to him. 

 “How can I be so rude?” She faced Laszlo. “Mrs. Stratton,  Mrs. Smith, Danny, this is the friend I talked about. Dr Laszlo Kreizler.”

 “It is a pleasure, sir,” said Edwina.

 Danny promptly, and exaggeratedly, bowed in greeting. Giggling like only a kid could.

 You weren’t sure what to do. You already knew Dr Kreizler so the introduction wasn’t necessary, but you also did not know if you wanted everybody to be aware of it.

 Before you could do or say anything about it, Karen recalled:

 “She originally is from New York, Laszlo. Perhaps you've even seen each other around the city.”

 “Indeed. We already met” Laszlo answered, without taking his eyes off of you. 

.

So, this is it. The first chapter of the fic I talked about months ago. I haven't finished it as I hoped I'd by now, but I really wanted to post this. The Daniel Brühl's fandom is so quiet lately, I miss the old days.

Oh, yes, I did name the kid Daniel!!!! couldn't help it.

I hope you liked it!!

xoxo

[the-ravening]

20 Questions for Fic Writers

Thank you @zsparz and @six-demon-bag for tagging me! ❤️

1. How many works do you have on ao3? Only 12, because I am a baby writer.

2. What's your total ao3 word count? 86k

3. What fandoms do you write for? Winterbaron, or more accurately, Zemo/everyone

4. Top five fics by kudos: Let's do a top 3, since top 5 would just be like half my fics.

Something Sweet to Eat (142 kudos) Extremely underage Halloween fic, bunny boy Zemo shows up trick or treating at Bucky's house Adopt, Don’t Shop (123 kudos) Omegaverse, bratty teen Zemo is for sale at an Omega kennel and Alpha Bucky goes shopping Gift-Wrapped (113 kudos) This was the first fic I ever posted (just a few years ago) and I'm still pretty proud of it. Just a silly Winterbaron rimming PWP, but it's hot

5. Do you respond to comments? I try to, I always mean to, but I think I'm a bit behind right now. I know there are some amazing comments on Home to Me from last year that I still haven't replied to and I feel bad about it all the time.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? Probably Under Lock and Key (what a mess we’ve made), the Heinrich/Helmut Zemo dadcest fic I wrote for @ex0rin where I followed her hurt/no comfort philosophy of leaving him on the floor crying.

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? I don't know if I really do happy endings? I have PWPs where the happy ending is they both come, if that counts. 😅 Let's say... Ink Kissed (with violent precision) where tattoo artist Bucky gives his client Zemo a dick tattoo, and Zemo ends up quite happy with the tattoo as well as the rest of the service.

8. Do you get hate on fics? I've only gotten one or two of the world's mildest hate comments. I guess my ships are sufficiently niche that no one cares about them.

9. Do you write smut? Yeah! Do I write anything other than smut? No.

10. Craziest crossover: I've only written one crossover, A Suitable Course of Treatment, Bucky Barnes/Laszlo Kreizler from The Alienist, which isn't crazy at all because as we all know, Laszlo has Zemo's face. (If it counts, I once started a Dir en grey x Sailormoon fic where the band members magically turned into Sailor Scouts, but I did not ever get far on it.)

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen? Not to my knowledge.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated? Nope.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before? Yes, the aforementioned Adopt, Don’t Shop was co-written with @violenciorp and @tales-from-a-maphia-don, because Vio lovingly bullied us into it, despite me and Mel ostensibly not being into Omegaverse.

14. All time favorite ship? I've jumped ship a lot over the years, but it's gotta be Winterbaron, since this is the ship that finally got me writing and posting and getting really involved in a fandom.

15. What's a wip you want to finish but doubt you ever will? The first serious attempt I made at writing in this fandom was this teen Zemo necrophilia thing, and I wrote the necro part but none of the plotty stuff leading up to it. I still dream of finishing it, in an abstract way where I have no motivation to ever work on it.

16. What are your writing strengths? I think I'm pretty good at rhythm and flow and making my prose sound musical? That's something I focus a lot on and I tend to read aloud while editing to make sure it sounds good to my ear.

17. What are your writing weaknesses? Probably plot and dialogue, and figuring out how to include technical details of things I know nothing about. But most of all procrastination, my arch-nemesis.

18. Thoughts on dialogue in another language? I personally avoid it, because I find it annoying to have to look up the translations in the middle of reading. I prefer to just say they're speaking in whatever language but write the dialogue in English.

19. First fandom you wrote in? J-rock RPF in the early 2000s, but I mostly just did a bit of RP and never got far with any fics I started.

20. Favorite fic you've written? Sometimes it feels like every new thing I post is my new favourite, haha. But I thiiiink my fave has been Something Sweet to Eat since I wrote it (the Halloween fic mentioned earlier), because it's probably the most self-indulgent thing I've written to date. I am truly the main audience for that fic and I'm very happy with it.

No pressure tagging: @violenciorp, @tales-from-a-maphia-don, @thepiper0fhameln, @ex0rin, @unlikelymilliner, @evenmyhivemindisempty, and anyone else who sees this and wants to join in!

[scuttle-buttle]

I loved your modern Laszlo Kreizler, I just want to yank him out of the fic and into real life and marry him, but since I can’t (haven’t found the right witchcraft for that) I’ll settle for an ai bot for now, I would love to make one based on your take of your modern Laszlo, if you are alright with that

Thank you dear 🩷

Go for it, I'm curious with how it turns out so I'd love to see it 😊

[lorna-d-m]

Chapter Three: Emails

Pairing: Laszlo Kreizler x fem!OC (Alice Greene)

Summary: Professor Laszlo Kreizler is a workaholic. Between teaching university courses, running the Kreizler Institute, and minding Stevie -his ward-, he does not have time for relationships. That is until he meets Ms. Greene, Stevie's English teacher, at open house. Can he open his heart to the possibility of love?

Word Count: 2,831

W: Drinking, language.

A/N: Heyyyyyyyyyyy y'all. Good news, my semester is over! So hopefully I can make steady progress on this fic over the summer.

previous chapter

Alice sat at her desk scrolling through her emails. There were still a few minutes before students would stream through the halls, so she thought she would take advantage of the time while half-heartedly eating a granola bar. Alice skimmed through typical messages pertaining to district news, reminders about school policy, and pleas for club chaperone volunteers or coverage for another class. 

Her heart skipped a beat when she saw an email from Dr. Kreizler though she could not explain why. She ignored the subject line and clicked on the email. His tone was professional and polite, even wishing her a pleasant morning. She could hear his voice through the text, even imagining the soft accented lilt. He requested updates on unit tests and paper due dates so he would be aware of when Stevie should be studying or working. Dr. Kreizler mentioned, as he did at the open house, that Stevie was not a traditional student. This was his first time attending public school in two years, and prior to that, he was not known for his perfect attendance or grades. Stevie has potential, Dr. Kreizler urged her to remember, but he requires structure and support to succeed.

Alice took a sip of her coffee. She was almost out of creamer and rationed, so it did not taste as good. He must have sent a similar email to all of Stevie’s teachers, she thought, until she caught a note at the end clearly meant for her. 

I checked the reading list for this semester, and I am thrilled you chose Lord of the Flies. It was one of my favorites as a student. I remember writing a paper analyzing the novel from a psychological perspective; even then my interest in psychology was strong. Admittedly, I am tempted to re-read it alongside the class’s reading to see what piques my interest now.

A smile flickered across her face, quick and furtive. Alice did not know what to say, and thankfully she did not need to respond immediately. She wanted to talk with him about the book and pick his brain, but a little voice in her head told her not to. Instead, she should grant his request to know summative assignments and leave it at that. But then again, there was nothing wrong with discussing a book. 

Ugh, perhaps she should talk to Bitsy before emailing him back. But then she would ask questions and poke into why Alice felt so uncertain, and she did not want to open that can of worms.

The bell trilled, and Alice snapped out of it. She switched tabs, hit the button for the projector, and pushed the dreamy Dr. Kreizler from her mind. Alice enjoyed this part of the morning before classes began when people could chat and plan, and there was still hope for the day.

***

“Did you see admin’s email about coverage?” Bitsy popped her leftover pasta in the microwave. “I signed up for Smith’s class during my planning.” She leaned against the counter with her arms crossed while she waited.

“I did,” Alice sighed, “and I didn’t sign up for either of them. It’s not worth twenty bucks to me.” She took another bite of her sandwich and wiped the corner of her mouth with a napkin.

Bitsy stirred her pasta, still cold in the center, and stuck it back in the microwave. “Fair, not when you need to lesson plan and prep,” she chided.

“Ain’t that the truth.” Alice punctuated her point with a long sip of her water. She was still sorting out her plans for the end of the week, and Bitsy knew it. 

“Anything else going on?” Bitsy finally sat down across from Alice with her Pasta. 

Well, to be fair, Stevie was also in Bitsy’s class, so she probably received an email as well. It could be a casual conversation regarding an email they both received. There was no reason for it to venture into the uncharted territory of how his comment made her smile and how he held her eyes when they spoke at open house and the soft lilt in his voice. 

“I got an email from Dr. Kreizler, and since you seem to know a bit more about him, I thought I would ask what you thought of it.” Bitsy nodded knowingly. “I can pull it up now-”

“-no bother, I know what you’re talking about. I got the same this morning.”

“Afternoon, ladies,” Coach Connor entered the break room with a small nod, wave, and his lunchbox. They acknowledged him with a polite response and returned to their conversation.

“Honestly, he can sound like a bit of dick over email,” Bitsy shrugged, “but remember that he has good intentions.” Alice was taken aback while Bitsy continued. “He spends all day helping other people, so he doesn’t have time to be polite in his emails.”

Coach Connor hovered on the edge of their conversation, and he took their pause to butt in. “Are you talking about that whack job Doctor Kreizler? Because I got his email this morning, and I don’t like his attitude.” 

“Well, I-”

“-I don’t believe in mollycoddling these students, and he has no right to go sticking his nose into the way I teach. He can have all these fancy ideas about how to teach, but I’ve been in that gym for over twenty years.”

Alice and Bitsy sat in uncomfortable silence while Coach Connor ranted. They didn’t want to interrupt him or defend Dr. Kreizler for fear of receiving Connor’s red faced yelling.  

“-And I talked to my buddy Byrnes the other night, retired from the police station you know, and he sure had a lot to say about that crackpot Kreizler and his delinquent.”

She wanted to tune him out, but she was curious about what he had to say. Clearly, she knew to take what Coach Connor said with a grain of salt — or a handful —, and she did not want to give him the satisfaction of her attention. Alice did her best to seem uninterested though her heart raced. 

“He told me all about “Steve-pipe”, and if it was up to me he wouldn’t be here,“ he gave them a knowing, condescending look. “Theft and assault, of an officer no less, I don’t know how that man weasled him into this school. It’s a disgrace,” he huffed. “I won’t let any of that fly, not in my gym. He’ll learn in my class,” Connor chuckled darkly. 

Alice’s stomach flipped, and she cleared her throat to speak. “From what I’ve seen in my class, he seems to be turning over a new leaf.” Bitsy smiled and nodded in support while Connor crossed his arms in disbelief. “I think we should respect that, and approach him with an open mind. Is that so much to ask for?”

“Well,” Connor scoffed, “if he ever tries to pull anything in your class, give me a call.” He wrote his number on a scrap piece of paper. “You know I’ll handle him,” Connor winked. He left soon after. 

“Ew,” Bitsy laughed, “Did he just hit on you?”

Too stunned to speak, Alice blinked slowly. “Yes, I believe he did. Now excuse me while I throw this away.” She crumpled the scrap paper.

Stretching his back and rolling his neck, Laszlo settled into the plush leather armchair. He thought he would have time to cook dinner for once, but a mild emergency at the Institute prevented him from leaving on time. Stevie said he understood on the phone and didn’t mind, but his tone dropped when Laszlo said he would have to pick something up. Guilt weighed in his chest for canceling, as Stevie would often assist him in the kitchen cutting and dicing whatever he needed, but he knew if he left he would have felt worse. 

And, if Stevie’s disappointment wasn’t enough, the responses from his teachers were less than positive. Some provided vague answers, while others outright dismissed and disrespected him. He scrolled through his inbox, deleting unimportant emails on instinct when he spotted something significant.

Ms. Greene responded to his email in the afternoon. He double-clicked on the email and leaned forward. Her answer was polite, helpful, and genuinely kind. Of course, that was his impression of her at the open house. She seemed the most receptive to him and Stevie as if she was genuinely excited to have him in her class. Laszlo remembered her enthusiasm. 

She said she would be “happy to help” since the parents and the teachers form a team to help the student succeed. Laszlo smiled at that. He remembered saying the same thing to parents at the Institute. It was nice to see someone agree with him. She went on to say she overheard unkind comments regarding Stevie’s background in the teacher’s lounge, and she is sorry if his teachers are holding his past against him. Ms. Greene wanted him to know she understands Stevie is in the process of turning over a new leaf, and he needs all the positive encouragement and support he can get. Laszlo felt relieved that at least one of Stevie’s teachers understood. He spent many late nights worrying about Stevie’s well-being and adapting to high school, and one sympathetic teacher could make all the difference. 

At the end, she left a note for him. 

If you find yourself so tempted to read alongside us, please let me know what you think. I would love to know your insights.

His heart skipped a beat, and if he thought about it for a moment he could rationalize why. But Laszlo did not want to think of that. He did not have time for feelings or doubt. Instead, he started drafting a response so he could call it a night. Laszlo was willing to bet who spoke in the teacher’s lounge, but he was not the gambling type. That was for John, or even Stevie when he didn’t think he would be caught. 

I am disheartened someone would speak of a child that way, but I confess I suspected something like this may occur. I hoped it would be later in the year when his teachers formed impressions and ideas of him without this knowledge, but it seems that is not to be. I can imagine the thoughts that may have run through your head, and I appreciate you for maintaining an open mind. Thank you for letting me know. I truly appreciate it. 

Laszlo stared at the email. Something did not feel right to him, but he did not have the energy to fix it either. Instead, he saved the message as a draft and told himself he would return to it in the morning. Laszlo shut down his laptop and turned out his desk light, leaving his office until tomorrow evening. 

He changed out of his slacks and button-up shirt, telling himself he would do laundry soon. Stevie offered to wash their clothes at the same time, but he did not pay enough attention to the water temperature and settings as Laszlo liked. It was well-intentioned but unpreferred. Perhaps he could make up for the dinner incident with Stevie on the weekend. He could pick something that would take time to cook, such as soup or braised meat, and Stevie could assist him with the prep work.

A cheesy cooking competition show played on the television, but neither woman sitting on the couch paid any attention to it. They scrolled on their phones, sending each other posts, and sipped their wine glasses.

“I’m thinking of doing a face mask,” Alice decided.

Bitsy didn’t bother to look up from her phone. The two friends were comfortable and familiar enough with each other that half their conversations passed without ever making eye contact. “Which one?”

“Maybe the lavender? It’s supposed to reduce stress, and we know I need that,” she laughed. “Plus I love the smell.”

“True true. If you’re getting one out, can you grab me one?” 

“Of course.”

While up, Alicce also refilled their wine glasses and the snack bowl of chips. She knew Bitsy’s apartment like the back of her hand. Alfred, Bitsy’s adorable gray cat, made his presence known, and Bitsy called to him. He was shyer than Georgie but warmed up to Alice after several years of friendship. 

She sat back down on the couch, and her fingers hesitated over her phone. One of the contestants was from Germany, and his accent reminded her of Dr. Kreizler. Alice glanced at Bitsy, and she was distracted by her own phone. Still feeling suspicious, she typed his name into the university staff directory search bar. 

There was a small, professional photo next to his name. Light blue to gray background, and he wore a black suit jacket. He did not smile, and his piercing eyes gave him a hawkish appearance. Alice did not realize how much a smile changed his mien until she noted its absence.

He completed a doctoral degree in psychology at Harvard. Laszlo published numerous academic papers regarding criminal psychology before shifting his focus to child psychology. He taught introductory psychology to undergraduates, and criminal psychology courses to graduate students. 

Bitsy glanced up from her phone to ask about changing the channel and found Alice engrossed in her phone. She was practically hunched over, not quite scrolling, with her thumb hovering over the bottom of her screen. 

“Whatcha doin?” 

Alice was so startled she dropped her phone in her lap. Her phone lay screen up showing Dr. Kreizler’s university picture. Bitsy looked from the phone, to Alice, and back to the phone. 

“Listen, I-” Alice blushed. 

“-I’m not here to judge,” Bitsy assured her. “I’m here to guide you, my padawan.” 

Alice giggled, embarrassed and relieved. She could always count on Bitsy.

Bitsy took another sip of her wine and petted Alfred as he sashayed by the couch. “If you’re going to internet stalk him, you need to do it right. First, if you’re looking at his university bio, then you should also check his Rate My Professor. Get the balance of his professional work and what his students think of him.”

“You’re a genius.” Alice picked up her phone and started typing in the website. “I never would’ve thought of that.”

“Read my ass off, came to all office hours, still barely got a D in his 100 level”

“Horrible with freshmen, amazing with grad students. If you can’t survive his intro, drop the course.”

“He psychoanalyzed me in front of the entire class on the first day. I dropped the course.”

“Helped me with my thesis, but horribly blunt and rude the entire time.”

“Fuck this guy.”

“Great depth of knowledge that he may use against you.”

“Oh.” Alice kept scrolling, but Bitsy held out her hand. Alice surrendered the phone and stretched against the armrest. 

“Ouch,” Bitsy grimaced. “A few positive, some neutral, and a whole lot of negative.”

“But I feel like most people who leave a review are people who had a bad experience.” Bitsy looked at her skeptically, one eyebrow raised in judgment. “Like if you have an okay or even a great time, you don’t think to say anything. At least I never did. But if you hate it, you’re going to shout it from the rooftops.”

Bitsy couldn’t resist teasing her. “Sounds like you’re defending your boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” she protested with a playful kick. “He probably doesn’t like me like that, and if he did, it’s got to be some kind of breach of ethics. I’m teaching his kid.”

“That could be a conflict of interest,” Bitsy admitted, “or it could be a happy coincidence to bring you together.” Alice snorted and rolled her eyes. “Didn’t he bring you coffee this week? What was it, Wednesday afternoon?”

“No, it was Tuesday. He came to pick up Stevie, and he wanted to have a quick conversation with each of Stevie’s teachers regarding his recent emails.”

“Uh huh, I remember. He spoke briefly with me, too, and I certainly didn’t receive coffe.”

“He’s just polite like that, I suppose.” Alice knew it was a feeble defense as soon as she said it. 

“Does this,” Bitsy pointed to his Rate My Professor score, “seem like the kind of guy who commits random acts of kindness?” She waited for Alice’s response with eyebrows raised in certainty. 

“Maybe?”Alice’s voice inflection revealed the truth.

“Yeah, he’s into you, babe. I think you should go for it, and get some of that German sausage while you’re at it.” 

Alice giggle snorted again, shocked but not surprised at Bitsy’s humor. As much as Bitsy insisted, Alice did not believe Dr. Kreizler was interested in her. There could be a dozen reasons for the coffee and smile, reserved for her. A dozen reasons not to get her hopes up. To wear her heart close to her chest. To keep her head screwed on her shoulders. A dozen reasons…

Next chapter

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