#Sherlock Holmes imagine

[artyandink]

𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐮𝐬 | 𝟏

𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐲

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: You were the only one Sherlock ever truly loved, and it was true. No lady ever caught his eye, no woman stole his attention the way your wit and charm did. He supposed it was his own fault for losing you, his own fault that you walked out his door, leaving a young child with him that was now old enough. Old enough to want to find her mother. He wanted to find you. But he also didn’t want to. It meant to face his own truth.

𝐓𝐖: angst, set after Enola Holmes 2, bad father-daughter relationships, child abandonment, heartbreak, stubborn Sherlock, oc!daughter, stubborn daughter so the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, identity concealment

𝐀/𝐍: surprise! Decided to post early ;)

𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓/𝐑𝐄𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐆

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆: I MISS YOU, I’M SORRY BY GRACIE ABRAMS

𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐢𝐧

𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐋𝐘, 𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐇𝐀𝐃 no one learnt their lesson yet?

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He groaned, stepping past the burly police guards to get into the scene of the bank robbery— oh, now they’re stopping Watson, what was it with these blasted, bloody policemen? Guess nobody had bothered to even instate smarter policemen after Grail and his cronies got fired (in Grail’s case, a very broken neck). “Didn’t I tell you not to be ridiculous? He’s with me. Holmes and Watson.”

“Sorry, Mr Holmes, sir.” One of the policemen muttered, gesturing for Watson to pass through, the man looking a little bemused and unfamiliar with his surroundings. Ah. Right, Watson wasn’t acquainted with the life of a detective.

He stepped up beside Sherlock, looking around at the bustling room of policemen who were trampling all over the crime scene, which made his job that much more frustrating. “What are we looking for, exactly?”

“Clues.” Sherlock replied, rubbing his chin for a moment then spotting an approaching Lestrade from across the room. Oh, bother. Lestrade. “Act busy, Watson.”

The question seemed to baffle Watson, as he raised his eyebrows in confusion and bewilderment. “What? Why—”

An obnoxious laugh, followed by— “Mr Holmes? Or is there still an invitation for Sherlock?” The lack of laughter clearly told him no. “Ah. Well, apologies for the bother,” yes, you are a bother, Lestrade, “but we have someone claiming to be your daughter.”

Oh, bother. Again.

“I’ll handle it.” Sherlock muttered, knowing exactly who Lestrade was talking about. With heavy footsteps — and heart — he made his way across the room, seeing a girl who looked startlingly like her mother, something which tugged at her heartstrings. She had a scrutinising look that mirrored his often as she looked at the crime scene, but she was not meant to be here. Not at all, not now, not any day. “Clara.”

She turned around, huffing slightly at the stern tone, an eyebrow raising in response to his short and sweet sentence. “You could sound happier, you know.”

“I’ll sound happy when you’re not trodding on my crime scene.” He grimaced, gesturing around at the marbled bank. Really, what was it with people making his day more difficult? Even if Clara was his daughter, yes, he could give her more favour, but he wasn’t in the mood today.

That was the excuse he’d given for the past sixteen years of your life.

The deceivingly polite hum she gave in return mocked him, he knew it, he’d been hearing it more times than now. “I don’t see your name on it.”

“You don’t need to.” He took her arm, giving her a stern look once more, because why on this green Earth does his daughter have to trouble him so? “Clara, I highly advise that you return home. It isn’t safe to do my job.”

“And yet you let Enola do it.” Ah, that was true, but Enola was a rather frustratingly free spirit and he had less control and watch over her than he did you. So he could make that odd excuse for himself.

Couldn’t he?

Watson approached the two, which gave him the chance to divert from the rather valid point, gesturing between the two. “Ah, Watson. This is my daughter, Clara.”

“Dr John Watson.” Watson offered a friendly smile, to which Clara did too and shook his hand— this man seemed amicable, to say the least.

“Pleasure.” She replied warmly, feeling rather friendly towards this man. The firm handshake ended as Clara turned her attention back to Sherlock, a smirk playing at her lips. “Alright, Sherlock,” she began, voice laced with a playful defiance. “If it’s so unsafe, why don’t you show me? Let me see what you’re so keen on keeping me away from.” She glanced at the scattered, chaotic scene. “Maybe you need a fresher pair of eyes on this anyway.”

Sherlock’s expression tightened. He’d managed to avoid bringing her into his world all these years, and now, in the middle of a chaotic crime scene, she was pushing him to let her in. “This isn’t the time or place for amateur eyes, Clara,” he said in a low tone, already feeling the familiar pulse of frustration beginning to rise. “And I would advise you to stop before you make a fool of yourself.”

Clara shrugged, undeterred. “Just thought I’d offer. You never know, I might surprise you.”

Holmes bit back a retort as Watson watched the exchange with bemused curiosity, clearly amused by the sight of someone matching Sherlock’s intensity without a hint of deference. “I see stubbornness is a family trait,” he muttered, folding his arms as he leaned in beside Sherlock.

Lestrade, who had been standing off to the side and soaking in the drama, took the opportunity to interject. “Mr. Holmes,” he drawled, crossing his arms as he looked between father and daughter with raised eyebrows, “are we here to solve the crime or conduct a family reunion?”

Holmes’s mouth twitched in irritation, but he let it pass. “Right. Watson, you’re with me. Clara—” he pointedly ignored her expectant expression— “you’re waiting here with Lestrade.”

Clara rolled her eyes. “Oh, wonderful. I’ll stay here and learn all about the art of loitering from Inspector Lestrade.”

Lestrade opened his mouth, but Sherlock cut him off, heading toward the center of the room with Watson in tow. “Now,” he murmured as they stopped beside the broken bank vault, “let’s have a look.”

Watson peered inside the gaping vault door. “They took quite a haul, didn’t they?”

“Not just any haul,” Holmes murmured, narrowing his eyes as he took in the disturbed items, the displaced dust, the carelessly strewn stacks of paper. “This was messy—too messy.” He crouched down, scrutinizing a particular set of footprints in the dust. “It’s almost as if they wanted us to believe they were inexperienced.”

Watson frowned. “But why would they do that?”

Holmes traced a hand over the edge of the vault’s interior. “The more time we spend looking for amateurs, the less time we spend looking for professionals.”

Watson nodded thoughtfully. “So they’ve planted a false trail, hoping to throw us off their scent.”

“Precisely.” Sherlock straightened, his mind churning through the details. His gaze flicked back toward the corner of the room, where Clara stood. Against his better judgment, he motioned her over. “Alright, Clara. Since you insist on staying, why don’t you tell me what you see?”

Clara’s eyebrows shot up, surprise flashing across her face before she schooled it into an air of composed observation. She glanced around the vault, taking in the state of the room as her father had done moments before. After a few seconds, she looked back at Sherlock with a wry smile. “They’re trying to lead you down the wrong path, aren’t they?”

Holmes’s eyes widened, just slightly. “And what makes you say that?”

Clara pointed at the shoeprints left in the vault. “The prints are too heavy-handed, too deliberate. Someone’s been stomping around as if they wanted to make sure every detail would be noticed.” Her gaze shifted to the scattered papers on the floor, arranged just a bit too carelessly. “Almost as if they’d never done this before—and wanted to make sure we knew it.”

A proud smile tugged at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth despite himself. “Not bad, Clara. Not bad at all.”

Lestrade, who had wandered over to listen, snorted. “A chip off the old block, eh, Holmes?”

Holmes ignored him. Instead, he glanced at Clara, a faint glint of approval in his eyes. “Very well. Since you’ve already inserted yourself into this, let’s see how much you can keep up.”

“Gladly,” Clara replied with a smirk, her tone far more confident now that she’d received a sliver of approval.

Watson chuckled, nudging Holmes with his elbow. “Looks like you’ve got yourself a new apprentice, Holmes.”

Sherlock groaned, but there was a resigned acceptance in his expression. “Don’t remind me.” He turned, leading the trio out of the vault. “Lestrade, call in the forensics team, and see if they can track down anything unusual with those footprints. Watson, Clara—let’s move.”

As they began to exit the bank, Watson glanced sideways at Clara. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen him that rattled,” he whispered, grinning. “You’ve a knack for keeping him on his toes.”

Clara shrugged, the glimmer of pride unmistakable in her eyes. “Someone’s got to.”

Clara adjusted her bonnet in the small, gilded mirror in the parlor, smiling at her reflection with a touch of nerves. She rarely dressed up, but today was different. She was meeting Enola—her aunt, yes, but more than that, her friend, her confidante. Enola understood Clara like no one else in her family, and Clara had looked forward to this afternoon, knowing it would be a rare moment of laughter, freedom, and truth. Besides, she had an idea that her sharp-eyed aunt wouldn’t mind a bit of teasing about her newest friendship with the charming Lord Tewkesbury.

Peeking out the window, she saw Enola striding down the street with a familiar energy, her chin tilted high and her gaze direct. Enola moved as if she belonged to no one and nothing, and watching her always made Clara feel a thrill of admiration. Moments later, her aunt burst through the parlor door, her face lighting up when she saw Clara.

“Clara, darling, you look radiant! Has something thrilling happened?” Enola asked, her tone teasing, but her gaze keen.

“Oh, nothing terribly exciting,” Clara replied, unable to keep the grin from spreading across her face. “But I could say the same for you, couldn’t I? You’ve that certain glow… perhaps from all the secret meetings with Lord Tewkesbury?”

The smile flickered from Enola’s face for just a heartbeat before she laughed it off with a wave of her hand. “Honestly, you’re incorrigible.”

They settled into the cushioned armchairs around the tea service, with the delicate china cups and a plate of scones, but Clara could see that her words had struck something in Enola. As her aunt poured tea, her movements were brisk and efficient, but Clara noticed the faintest blush on her cheeks, a telltale sign she was rarely allowed to show.

Clara let the silence linger for a beat, sipping her tea with a knowing look, until Enola finally laughed, giving in. “I ought to know better than to try hiding anything from you. Sherlock may be the great detective, but you’re the most observant one in this family, Clara.”

“Guilty as charged,” Clara replied, grinning. “And it’s hardly my fault—you’ve hardly hidden the signs. I’ve noticed that particular look in your eyes each time someone mentions his name.”

Enola’s fingers tightened slightly on her teacup, her lips pressing together for a moment as if unsure of how much to say. “Oh, it’s nothing, really. He’s just… interesting. He treats me like a person, you know? Not like I’m some delicate flower to be admired from afar.”

Clara raised her eyebrow, refusing to let her aunt off so easily. “Interesting, hmm? That’s an understatement if I’ve ever heard one. He’s called on you half a dozen times in the last fortnight. Are you certain it’s ‘nothing’?”

A faint, wistful smile touched Enola’s lips, though she tried to disguise it with a sip of tea. “Fine, if you must know—he has expressed a certain… interest. He asked if he might call on me more formally, in fact.” Her voice softened, and Clara could see a flicker of uncertainty there that she’d rarely seen before.

Clara bit back a smile, hiding her excitement behind her teacup. “Oh, Enola! And what did you say?”

“I told him I’d… consider it,” Enola admitted, looking away for a moment, clearly conflicted. “But, Clara, it feels so dreadfully conventional, doesn’t it? I’ve never wanted to be one of those women, sitting pretty at someone’s side and pretending I’m satisfied with needlework and society visits. But… there’s something about him that feels different.”

Clara’s smile softened, and she reached out, placing a reassuring hand on Enola’s. “You’re not one of those women, Enola. You’re extraordinary. And if he’s calling on you, knowing exactly who you are, then maybe he sees that too. I don’t think you’d have to change a thing.”

Enola looked down at Clara’s hand on hers, her expression thoughtful. “You really think so? I’ve always told myself there was no room in my life for courtships, for the expectations that come with it all. But with him… I feel as though I could just be myself.”

“Exactly,” Clara said softly. “Maybe he’s more than just ‘interesting,’ after all.”

They fell into a comfortable silence, both of them lost in their thoughts. Clara watched her aunt carefully, seeing the subtle changes in her face as she considered her words. She’d never seen Enola uncertain about anything before; her aunt had always been fiercely independent, but there was a tenderness in her expression that was new.

After a moment, Enola broke the silence, smiling at Clara with a touch of mischief. “But enough about me. What about you, Clara? Surely there must be some gentleman interested in the great Sherlock Holmes’s daughter?”

Clara nearly choked on her tea, laughing. “Oh, absolutely not. For one, I doubt any man in his right mind would willingly subject himself to Father’s scrutiny. He’d investigate everything about him before we’d even finished tea.”

Enola chuckled, nodding. “I can only imagine. Sherlock would be positively unbearable if he suspected someone was pursuing his daughter. But you mustn’t let that stop you from living, Clara. I can tell he’s proud of you, even if he doesn’t say it outright.”

Clara’s gaze softened, and she let out a small sigh. “I know he is, in his way. But sometimes I feel like he’s more protective than proud, almost possessive. As if he’s afraid I’ll leave him somehow.”

Enola’s face softened, and she reached out, squeezing Clara’s hand gently. “I understand. Sherlock has always struggled with connecting to people, even family. But you’ve done more than anyone to draw him out of himself. Even if it is merely an inch.”

Clara looked down, trying to hide the sudden rush of emotion. “It’s comforting to hear that. And it’s a relief to talk to you about these things, Enola. I can’t say them to anyone else.”

For a moment, they sat in quiet understanding, sipping their tea and watching the afternoon light filter through the lace curtains. Finally, Enola’s voice broke the silence, her tone soft.

“You know, I’ve often wondered what it must have been like, growing up as Sherlock’s daughter,” she said gently. “Did you ever feel lonely?”

Clara hesitated, letting the question settle around her. “Sometimes, yes,” she admitted. “Sherlock’s mind is always working, and it was hard to reach him. I grew up thinking that was normal, that fathers were supposed to be distant and distracted. But it wasn’t until I grew older that I realized how unique he is—and how much I love him for it, even if it’s difficult at times.”

Enola smiled, understanding. “You’re right to love him. He’s a complicated man, but I think he knows he has something precious in you.”

Clara returned the smile, feeling a warmth in her chest. She leaned back, looking at her aunt with a thoughtful expression. “Sometimes I wonder if we women of the Holmes family are destined to lead lives more complicated than most.”

Enola chuckled, raising her teacup in a playful toast. “Perhaps so. But we’re Holmes women—we’ve always known how to rise to a challenge.”

“To the Holmes women,” Clara echoed, tapping her cup against Enola’s. They drank, sharing a smile that held years of understanding and unspoken support.

The dim, late-afternoon light was fading through the frosted windows of Clara’s modest flat as she unlocked the door and stepped inside, letting out a long sigh. Her day had gone from thrilling to exhausting in a matter of hours, thanks to her father’s stubbornness and the chaotic mess at the bank. She barely had time to set down her bag when she heard a faint knock at her door. Opening it, she found the postman standing there with a single letter in hand.

“Afternoon, Miss Holmes,” he said, tipping his cap.

She accepted the letter, thanking him politely, and shut the door, examining the envelope in her hand. It was thicker than usual, her name written in swirling emerald ink. Something about it felt… unusual. She moved to her small kitchen table, where she gently broke the seal and unfolded the letter.

My dearest Clara,

You must be wondering who I am. I am your mother, and this letter is long overdue. I left when you were only a year old—not out of a lack of love, but out of circumstances I could not control. It has been one of the deepest regrets of my life, and not a day has passed without thoughts of you.

I am certain you have many questions, perhaps even anger, and I will understand if you do. But know this, Clara: I loved you then, and I love you now. Your father and I… well, things grew complicated, but I miss him as well, even though I know his heart is not easily won back.

With all my love,

Your mother.

Clara read the letter twice, her hands still. She was unsure how to process the surge of emotions. Her mother… a woman she had no memory of, yet had spent years wondering about, had suddenly reappeared in her life with only this brief, tantalizing message.

Her mother was alive. And she missed her.

Her fingers traced the elegant, swirling letters as her mind raced. She felt a strange mix of excitement, anger, and wariness that left her stomach knotted. She’d spent her entire life wondering about this mysterious figure, and here was the chance to finally know more. But, at the same time, there was a gnawing sense of resentment—the feeling of abandonment, the ache of growing up without even the smallest memory of her mother.

But this was not a decision she could make lightly. Sherlock had always been tight-lipped on the subject, dismissing questions or deflecting with wit or cold silence. Now, she’d received more about her mother in a few sentences than her father had given in sixteen years.

Clara’s thoughts were interrupted as she realized she hadn’t moved in nearly ten minutes, still clutching the letter as if it might vanish. She quickly slid it back into the envelope, setting it down on the table. Then she paced back and forth in her cramped flat, glancing every so often at the envelope as though it might hold all the answers she needed.

Finally, she sank into a chair, the letter held in both hands as she tried to calm her mind. She recalled moments over the years—questions she’d asked Sherlock, the clipped answers, the discomfort that shadowed his otherwise composed demeanor whenever the subject of her mother arose. A part of her wanted to storm back to Baker Street and demand answers, but she knew he’d only retreat behind a wall of indifference.

For now, she’d have to rely on the letter itself, on the words her mother had chosen so carefully.

The hours slipped by as Clara turned the letter over in her mind, running her fingers over the rich green ink and wondering if the faint scent of lavender clinging to the page was intentional or a mere coincidence. When she finally managed to pull herself away from the letter, it was nearly dusk, and the world outside her window was settling into the quiet hum of evening.

There was something raw and earnest there, a vulnerability that felt deeply out of place in her life—something almost… foreign.

She was almost startled when the knock at the door echoed again. Her mind raced, wondering if somehow her mother was on the other side. Heart pounding, she went to open it, but it was only Mrs. Donahue, the elderly woman from down the hall, who’d come to check in on her, as she often did.

Clara managed a smile, exchanging small talk and listening patiently to the latest updates on Mrs. Donahue’s collection of pet cats. All the while, though, her mind drifted back to the letter. Once her neighbor had left, she sat down with her notebook and pen, beginning to draft a response.

Dear Mother,

Thank you for reaching out to me. I must admit, receiving your letter has been… unexpected. I have questions, certainly, and perhaps even some anger that I cannot yet name. I grew up knowing only my father, and while he was… well, Sherlock, he raised me alone, and I had few memories or even stories of you.

I don’t know what to think about your leaving or how I’m supposed to feel now that you want to see me. You’ve said you miss me, but I need to know more—about you, about the circumstances that led to your departure.

I really do want to meet you again.

Yours sincerely,

Clara.

As she finished, Clara took a deep breath, sealing the letter and addressing it to the return address her mother had provided in the countryside. It felt surreal, sending a reply out into the unknown, as though reaching through a foggy past. She didn’t know what would come of it, or even if she wanted a relationship with this woman who had so suddenly re-entered her life. But she did want answers—and she knew she couldn’t ignore this chance, however strange it felt.

With her reply tucked away, Clara took one last glance at her mother’s letter before extinguishing the light and preparing for bed. She lay awake, the darkness only sharpening the conflicted feelings swirling within her. It was a strange mixture of curiosity and trepidation, mingled with the faintest glimmer of hope she was almost afraid to acknowledge.

The morning was cold and gray as Sherlock stepped out into the brisk London air, tugging the collar of his coat up against the biting wind. He’d been summoned by Mycroft, and, though he didn’t care much for such meetings, he’d decided it was best to comply this time. The man never summoned anyone without purpose—especially not his own brother.

Arriving at Whitehall, he was ushered through the labyrinthine halls with all the formalities expected of government offices. The building loomed around him, its thick stone walls and tall, narrow windows giving the place a sense of unyielding authority. Everything here was impeccably neat, everything in its place—a stark contrast to the chaos of Baker Street, with its cluttered stacks of books, scattered notes, and curious relics from cases past.

Sherlock reached the last corridor, a long, dimly lit stretch of polished wood and brass fixtures. Mycroft’s office lay at the end, an austere and intimidating corner of the building, its large oak door carved with intricate designs. Sherlock paused, his hand on the brass doorknob, glancing at his own reflection in the polished surface. His face was calm, but there was a hint of weariness around his eyes—a faint remnant of the sleepless nights spent on the latest string of cases. But here, he needed to wear the veneer of composure. Mycroft would tolerate nothing less.

He opened the door, stepping into his brother’s domain. The office was vast, with tall ceilings and large windows draped in heavy burgundy curtains that framed the muted gray light outside. Shelves lined the walls, filled with meticulously ordered files and ledgers, the dark wood glistening from years of polish. A massive mahogany desk dominated the room, its surface immaculate, save for a single crystal inkpot, a brass letter opener, and several neatly stacked documents.

Behind the desk sat Mycroft, every inch the imposing government official. His perfectly tailored suit, his carefully manicured hands folded on the desktop, and his steely, inscrutable gaze all contributed to an air of detached authority. He watched as Sherlock entered, his expression giving nothing away.

“Sherlock,” he greeted, his tone cool and measured.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock replied with a slight nod, crossing the room to stand before the desk.

For a moment, neither spoke, each studying the other. There was an old, familiar tension between them, a silent rivalry that had never quite faded. Though Sherlock prided himself on his ability to remain unfazed by most things, Mycroft’s scrutiny always had a peculiar effect on him, as if he were a schoolboy called to account.

“Sit,” Mycroft finally said, gesturing to the leather armchair opposite him.

Sherlock lowered himself into the chair, crossing his legs and lacing his fingers together. He kept his gaze steady, waiting for Mycroft to state his purpose.

“I trust you know why you’re here,” Mycroft began, his voice carrying the quiet authority of a man used to being obeyed.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “An assumption, Mycroft. I would have thought you’d know better.”

A flicker of annoyance passed over Mycroft’s face before he leaned forward, clasping his hands on the desk. “I called you here because of Clara.”

The mention of his daughter’s name caused a subtle shift in Sherlock’s expression, though he quickly masked it. He inclined his head slightly, waiting for Mycroft to continue.

“I received reports that she recently received a… peculiar letter,” Mycroft said, his tone carefully neutral. “From her mother.”

The words struck Sherlock like a physical blow, though he refused to let it show. He had spent years building walls around that part of his life, shutting away the memories of his former wife with a determination that bordered on ruthless. Yet, here they were, dragged back into the light, as if the mere mention of her name could summon a past he had tried so diligently to bury.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, his voice cool, almost detached. “A letter arrived for Clara recently. Written in emerald ink, her mother’s handwriting unmistakable.” He paused, the memory of the letter fresh in his mind. The flowing, ornate script, the words carefully chosen yet laced with sentiments he had long since ceased to indulge. “It seems she wishes to reconnect.”

Mycroft leaned back in his chair, his gaze never wavering. “And what are you planning to do about it?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock replied. “The matter is for Clara to decide. She’s old enough to form her own judgments.”

A slight frown creased Mycroft’s brow, his expression hardening. “Sherlock, we both know that allowing Clara to engage with such… sentimentality would be unwise. You cannot afford to be swayed by remnants of a life you abandoned long ago. I need you to remember the person you are now, the clarity you’ve achieved. Falling back into old patterns would be… detrimental.”

Sherlock held his brother’s gaze, his own expression growing colder. “I’m not a fool, Mycroft. I’m aware of what’s at stake. I haven’t forgotten the reasons for that chapter’s closure.”

Mycroft studied him in silence, and in that silence, Sherlock could feel the weight of his brother’s unspoken expectations. He knew that Mycroft regarded sentiment as a weakness—a flaw that had no place in their carefully constructed lives. And Sherlock had once shared that view, perhaps even more fiercely than Mycroft himself. But Clara had changed things. Clara, with her sharp mind and fierce independence, was a constant reminder of the life he had built after severing ties with his past.

“My point,” Mycroft continued, his tone colder, “is that you have responsibilities—both to Clara and to yourself. Indulging her curiosity could lead to complications that neither of you are equipped to handle. And as for… her mother…” He paused, his face hardening, as if even the mention of the woman was distasteful. “Reopening that door would only invite chaos. I trust you haven’t forgotten that.”

Sherlock’s jaw tightened, a flicker of defiance in his eyes. “I am perfectly aware of the risks, Mycroft. But I won’t dictate Clara’s choices. She is her own person.”

“Her autonomy is not the issue here,” Mycroft countered sharply. “The issue is that she is a Holmes, and that comes with expectations. Emotions and nostalgia have no place in this family. We were raised to understand that.”

For a moment, a surge of resentment flared within Sherlock, memories of his own emotionally barren upbringing surfacing unbidden. He had learned early on that sentiment was something to be kept under lock and key, that any display of vulnerability was a liability. Yet he had fought against that conditioning for Clara’s sake, wanting to shield her from the colder aspects of the Holmes legacy.

But now, sitting across from Mycroft in this austere office, he felt the weight of that legacy press down on him once more, suffocating and inescapable.

“I understand your concerns,” Sherlock said finally, his tone measured, carefully devoid of emotion. “But I will handle this situation in my own way. Clara is not a child, and I refuse to impose limitations on her merely because they suit your sensibilities.”

Mycroft’s gaze grew colder still, but he remained silent, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the surface of the desk. The room felt heavy, the air thick with unspoken tensions that seemed to settle over them like a shroud.

“Very well,” Mycroft said at last, his tone clipped. “But consider this your only warning, Sherlock. I won’t tolerate any lapses in judgment where she is concerned. Sentiment is a distraction, and distractions lead to vulnerabilities. And vulnerabilities, in our line of work, can be fatal.”

Sherlock held his gaze, feeling a pang of resentment at the admonishment. He knew Mycroft’s words were rooted in a twisted sense of duty, but they grated against the part of him that wanted, however reluctantly, to trust Clara’s ability to navigate her own path.

“Understood,” he replied curtly, rising from the chair. He cast a final, lingering glance around the office—the shelves stacked with secrets, the air thick with the scent of leather and ink, the oppressive quiet that seemed to permeate every corner of this place. It was a stark reminder of the life he had chosen, of the sacrifices he had made, and of the distance that now separated him from the man he had once been.

As he turned to leave, Mycroft’s voice stopped him.

“Sherlock.” The tone was softer this time, almost a warning. “Don’t let sentiment blind you. You know what it cost you the last time.”

Sherlock paused, the words hanging heavily in the air. He knew, all too well, the price he had paid. And yet, for all his resolve, he felt a flicker of doubt—a faint, nagging whisper that refused to be silenced. But he crushed it down, turning his gaze to the door.

“Yes, Mycroft,” he said quietly, his voice a cold, measured echo in the stillness. “I remember.”

“Father.” It was one word which caught Sherlock’s attention as his daughter simply burst into his flat as he was working the details of the bank robbery with Watson the next day.

Oh, go ahead, just sweep into his apartment like a small tornado right when he’s busy. His daughter summarised in just one sentence. “Clara.”

“Clara.” Watson piped up, probably to not feel left out of the cold exchange and to make it a little more friendly.

Clara smiled at Watson, clearly more accustomed to him than Sherlock. “John.” That raised Sherlock’s brow, as what just happened? That wasn’t normal, that wasn’t ever normal.

“John?” He repeated incredulously, glancing between the two of them to try and fathom the use of first names. “Since when was it John, pray tell?”

Clara rolled her eyes; trust her father to be a nosy busybody about all her business. She looked pointedly to Watson, who got the hint, gathering up his things. “I’ll have a cuppa with Mrs Hudson.” He muttered as he hurried.

“No, Watson, ask her to make me…” The door slammed shut, a heavy sigh from Sherlock fading into a pensive expression that spoke many volumes, his hand dropping to his side. “Mrs Hudson makes… wonderful tea.”

“I’m sure she does.” She replied dryly, inviting a glare of incredulity from Sherlock— Mrs Hudson deserved the world, she was an exemplary landlady, why the tone which sounded like it had been through a substantial drought. “Now, we have to talk.”

He frowned slightly, taking a puff from his pipe and setting it aside. What could you possibly want from him? “Yes? What about?”

“Mother.” The word stiffened him up, everything rushing back. He never thought he’d find the day, but he supposed you were inevitable.

You. It was always you, it always came back to you.

You were Sherlock’s one exception, his only mistake, but it was a mistake that he’d most likely make a million times over. It had felt like his vision was in dull noir before it burst into glorious colour the moment he laid eyes on you, the witty, oh-so-charming woman who’d stolen his heart so effortlessly. You were beauty in its finest form and good Lord, you had a brilliant mind that rivalled his own.

In truth, you were the enigma he took true pleasure in decoding.

He had been young, foolish, and he’d fallen for you, courted you, and you’d done the same. It had come to the point where even a few hours spent away from one another made your hearts ache and experience pain greater than the most devastating blow. So he’d married you, loved you, cherished you, and it felt like a whirlwind. His mind, his cases had become nothing more than a speck of dust and you had consumed him— mind, body and soul.

It wasn’t extensive to say that no matter who he saw or who attempted to have him, he’d always be yours.

Barely a few months after the marriage, you had turned out to be with child, and he had never been happier, never been more elated, more protective of you, abandoning all cases that came his way to keep you safe, to focus on you. And what’s more is that he became a new man once Clara was born. The second light of his life, and everything seemed so vibrant, so surreal, sublime, and he knew that he’d never find a love like this. A love that made him feel alive.

Good things were never meant to last, however, for a month after Clara’s first birthday, things had seemingly got too dangerous for you once you and Sherlock had resumed taking cases while Mrs Hudson cared for Clara. You’d left with only one conversation, not allowing room for him to plead with you, to tell you to stay, that you were his driving force.

To no avail, for you left, and you left him a broken man, unable to look at his child — your child — without seeing you. It hardened him, forced tunnel vision in front of his eyes as he no longer saw Clara, just the woman he’d loved and lost because he hadn’t fought hard enough. He couldn’t bear to see you in his daughter. Mycroft called it sentimentality.

Sentimentality was his sin.

He muttered your name, his thumb moving to rub over his wedding band, every small memory you both shared seared into his vision and into his being. Sometimes he wished he had a lesser mind, at least then he could forget you. Or stop loving you.

He couldn’t let Clara suffer the same.

“What about her?” His voice had gotten sharper, he noticed, almost like the dagger that had twisted in his heart the day you left. To this day, his heart still bled, like a dead man walking.

Clara showed him the letter, and yes, he immediately knew it was you. Your handwriting was unforgettable, the way you wrote the letter ‘S’, the small teardrop next to his name and the emerald green ink that had always stained your pointer finger on the page in beautiful lettering. “She wrote to me. I want to find her, Sherlock.”

Oh, dear Lord. No, he couldn’t. He couldn’t have his heart broken again.

“No.” He shook his head.

The air in Sherlock’s flat felt thick, and every nerve in his body tensed as he faced his daughter, the letter clutched in her hand like a weapon ready to break open old wounds. Sherlock's fingers gripped the edge of his chair until his knuckles turned white, as if holding on for balance against an emotional tide that threatened to pull him under.

"No," he repeated, his tone colder than he intended. "I won’t allow it."

Clara’s eyes narrowed, and her face twisted in a mixture of disbelief and anger. "What do you mean, 'won’t allow it'? I’m not a child, Sherlock. I can make my own choices."

Sherlock felt the familiar pang of guilt gnawing at him. His gaze flickered to the letter, the one written in that all-too-familiar handwriting. It was as if just seeing her words, her distinctive, elegant hand, brought every memory flooding back, each one pressing down on him until he could hardly breathe. But he forced himself to maintain composure, his voice sharp and unwavering. “You don’t understand the implications, Clara. She left for a reason. Digging into that past—” He stopped himself, taking a steadying breath. “It’s not wise.”

Clara stared at him, eyes wide with anger and hurt. “Not wise?” she echoed, her voice thick with emotion. “What isn’t wise, Sherlock, is to keep avoiding this. She’s my mother, and you can’t just erase her from my life because you’re afraid of facing whatever it is that happened between you two.”

“Afraid?” Sherlock’s lips curled in an incredulous sneer, but it was a mask, thin and brittle. “You think this is fear? I am protecting you.”

“Protecting me?” Clara repeated, her tone scathing. “No, you’re protecting yourself. This has nothing to do with me, or what’s good for me. You’ve never even told me anything about her, Sherlock—not one detail. I know more about John and Mrs. Hudson than I do about my own mother, and that’s because of you. You never gave me the chance to know her.”

Sherlock’s jaw clenched as Clara’s words hit him like a series of blows, each one harder than the last. He knew she was right—she deserved to know about her mother, about the woman who had left them both behind. But every time he’d considered it, his heart had balked, resisting the idea of opening himself to the pain he had buried so deeply. To speak of her was to relive the joy and the anguish, and it felt like reopening a wound that had never fully healed.

“This isn’t about denying you knowledge,” he said, but his voice sounded hollow, even to his own ears. “Some things are better left in the past.”

“Because you say so?” Clara shot back, her hands shaking slightly. “I have the right to find her, Sherlock. She’s the one who reached out to me, not you, and I’m not going to let you stand in my way.”

He rose from his chair, the motion sudden and forceful. “Clara, you don’t know what you’re dealing with. Your mother isn’t the person you imagine her to be. You were a baby when she left. You don’t understand the complexity, the danger—”

“The danger?” Clara’s voice trembled, and she laughed bitterly. “There you go again, always shrouding everything in mystery and secrets. Do you ever think that maybe I’d be better equipped to handle things if you’d just told me the truth from the beginning?”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The silence between them was filled with unspoken words, regrets, and the weight of years spent in avoidance. Sherlock’s eyes softened for a fraction of a second, and he considered, for the briefest of moments, telling her everything. But the years of habit, of training himself to keep his heart locked away, proved stronger.

“This discussion is over,” he said finally, the words cutting like ice. “I won’t permit it.”

Clara stared at him, disbelief and hurt flashing across her face. “You really are heartless, aren’t you?” she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath. “All that intelligence, all those brilliant deductions, and yet you can’t see what’s right in front of you.” She took a step back, shaking her head. “I thought, maybe, there was a part of you that could care… that there was some semblance of family left between us. But I was wrong.”

Without another word, Clara turned on her heel and stormed out of the flat, the door slamming behind her with a force that rattled the windows. Sherlock flinched, a rare, unguarded reaction breaking through his normally stoic expression.

For a moment, he stood there, the silence of the flat pressing in on him like a weight. The letter sat on the table, the emerald ink glistening faintly in the dim light, taunting him. He resisted the urge to reach for it, to read the words he knew would cut deeper than any blade.

“Sherlock?” The soft voice broke the silence, and he looked up to see Mrs. Hudson standing hesitantly in the doorway, having been drawn by the commotion. She took one look at his face, and her expression softened with concern.

“Oh, dear,” she murmured, her eyes drifting toward the letter on the table. “Would you like some tea?”

Sherlock took a deep, steadying breath, forcing his composure back into place. He nodded, though his voice sounded distant, as if it belonged to someone else. “Yes, Mrs. Hudson… I think I would.”

𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐥𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @goldngguk @sweetpeachbombshell @slut-for-stiles @staple-your-mouth @daddyscrimsstuff

@dob-4-life @marcis-mixtapez @nonoreas0n @gabrielasilva1510

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@cheynovak @d3ndroslim3s @phantomtea19 @homewreckingwreck @annoyance-for-u

@i-have-no-life-charlie

[milfloveer]

Proof of love ♡

Sherlock Holmes x fem!reader

Prompt: After y/n gets a little stressed about her and Sherlock's relation and— Well, Sherlock shows her how he really loves her ;)

Warnings: smut 18+ minors DNI, age gap (reader is in their 20s and Sherlock in his 30s), p in v, unprotected sex, fluff, creampie

A/n: I need Sherlock in my life so badly 😩

‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚ ⊹ ‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹

Sherlock and I just arrived home after attending a high society party so we could unfold more information about this recent case. Enola and Tewkesbury were there too, the first working on her case as well and the later was there on work behalf as he is a Lord and has his duties as one.

Enola was clearly bothered with all the feminine attention Lord Tewkesbury was given. I couldn't censure her as I was feeling the same towards Sherlock and all those ladies around him asking for a dance, their hands all over my man. Enola and I just rolled our eyes and focused on our cases ignoring each woman who approached the men.

•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•

Sherlock opened the door to his apartment and we walked in, I was clearly frustrated and it didn't slip Sherlock's gaze "You alright, darling?" he asks tenderly and cautiously.

I turn to him and see his concern "Yes, love, everything's alright." I say, even though I was lying. Those interactions all night long made me feel easily discarded and replaced.

Sherlock and I relationship was somewhat recent, we were only together for half a year and yet none of us dared to say those three simple words.

I can say that I care for him deeply, I got really attached to his personality, behaviour, the manner he works and thinks, his papers all around his apartment in a perfectly messy way, the way he played the violin when wanted to relax and get lost for a moment.

I truly fell for this exquisite detective, but I didn't dare to say those words to his face as I was afraid he wasn't feeling what I was. So I kept it to myself until now.

Sherlock frowns and follows me to our shared room "Darling, I know you and I can tell something is up." he says with concern in his voice as I try to unzip my dress, ending to ask him for help on it. He gladly does "Please talk to me." his voice wavering a bit making me look at him worriedly.

I sigh seeing his saddened face as I've never seen him like this. Getting closer to him I lay my hands, one on each side of his face and look deep into his eyes with tenderness "It is nothing important of concern, honey." I say softly, trying to brush it off.

But then again, Sherlock Holmes wouldn't be Sherlock Holmes without discovering the truth "It is concerning you and if it is concerning you, it is concerning me." he says pointing between us as he talks "Please, don't leave me in the dark, dove." he says while holding my gaze and I gave in and told him everything I was feeling at the party and when all the female attention is on him, how replaceable I feel, how dischargeable, how ridiculous.

I was now sitting at the end of our bed with my head hanging as my eyes freely released tears while looking at our hands interlocked on my lap "Oh, dear, why haven't you talked about this with me?" he asks caringly, I sniff and he brings his index finger and thumb to my chin, lifting it so I could look into those blue pools "I didn't want to overreact." I say barely above a whisper, he smiles softly "It's not overreacting dear and I assure you here that I have only eyes for you, my beautiful girl." he says as he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, caressing my cheek afterwards and cleaning the remaining of my tears with his thumb.

"Prove it then." I blurt out shocking myself with my boldness, but nonetheless Sherlock chuckles darkly making me shiver "With pleasure, darling." he says as he leans over me making me lay down on the mattress behind me.

Now hovering over me he caresses my sides teasingly as his lips brush mine. No words were said as he connects strongly and lovingly his lips to mine eliciting a moan from me. He starts lowering his hands as his lips move to my neck and collarbone, teasing and marking all the soft spots.

I was already on my undergarments making me start to take off his clothes as he's still fully clothed, first his jacket, then his tie and vest, his shirt and belt were now off and he pulled down his pants discharging them somewhere in the room.

"Please, I need you." I say tugging at the waistband of his underwear, he chuckles "Eager are we?" he asks making me flush as I nod. He frees himself as I take off of me the remains of my underwear.

Now both fully naked we scan each others body "You're so beautiful." he growls caressing my side with his fingertips before capturing my lips while aligning himself with my entrance. As he enters me my mouth falls open and a moan echoes through the room "Oh dear." he says against my ear, his arms each on either side of my body, his hands behind my back, flat on my shoulder blades as he moves lovingly in and out of me.

My legs wrap around his waist pulling him closer as my nails dig into his back certainly leaving some scratches over it. Both breathing heavily and moaning into each other's ears; I love this man so much.

Sherlock speeds up his pace hitting a wonderful spot inside me over and over "Yes, honey, don't stop!" I say gasping sensing the tension building up each time he pounds into me. He then gets on his knees bringing my legs up to rest on his shoulders, I cry out in pleasure as he groans pounding strongly "I'm so close, Sherlock." I say, my legs start to tremble with the feeling.

With a few more pushes and I'm taken over the edge, Sherlock following, spilling his seed into me "Ah, Sherlock!" I say pushing him down and kissing his lips eagerly and then softly. As he pulls away he brushes against my lips, whispering "I love you." I froze and look up at him "What?" I breathe out starstruck about his confession, his eyes widen as he realized he just confessed his feelings for me out loud.

I bring my hand to his cheek and caress it, I smile before letting out a soft chuckle as my eyes fill with happy tears. I lift my head so I could reach his slightly trembling lips and close the gap, the kiss is slow, tender and filled with love, as we were telling without words 'I love you'.

Slightly I pull away and whisper against his lips "I love you too." his eyes widen slightly hearing the words slip like honey from my mouth making me smile lovingly at the man still above me.

[fandom-oneshots-etc]

✨ Dropping by to request literally anything sherlock x reader - would love something with awkward idiots in love ✨

🍄 Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader

🍄 Genre: Fluff

🍄 Summary: When Sherlock goes off on a frantic tangent, John knows exactly who to call, the idiot in love with him...

🍄 Word Count: 2084

🍄 Abbreviations: N/A

🍄 Warnings: N/A

🍄 Note: I hope this is what you were looking for Anon! :)

“What’s he doing this time?” you answered the phone as John’s name appeared. You had become so accustomed to the calls at all odd hours of the day, usually all pertaining to your high-functioning sociopath of a friend, Sherlock. Odd hours like the one now.

You had just sat down in your cloud chair, kindle in hand ready to read the next chapter of your gripping (b/g) when the phone had pinged, angrily vibrating against the coffee table-top. A puff of air had moved the stray hairs touching your face as you instantly recognized the personalized ring tone you had installed. You knew that John wouldn’t call you unless it was at least a code blue, blue-in-the-face blue. A colour code the two of you had created to describe the different moods of Sherlock Holmes.

“I’m so sorry-” You rolled your eyes with a little smile. “He’s just off on one. He solved the case, you know the one with the woman and the suitcases? He’s been off the walls since then. Can’t get him to settle, he’s talking about renovating the flat, knocking walls down for more ‘thinking space’. I think Mrs Hudson’s threatened to evict him already,” You couldn’t stop the giggle that escaped your lips at the thought of the sweet old woman threatening your tall friend, knowing very well that she’d mean every word. You could already picture the offended horror on Sherlock’s face at her threats.

“I’m on my way,” you reassured before hanging up the phone and pushing yourself out of the comfortable chair. Slipping your kindle into your bag, you grabbed your keys from the hook and turned off the lights. You didn’t bother changing out of your night clothes,, instead your threw a long coat over your pajamas and slipped on your trainers before heading out of the flat. You weren’t exactly keen on the idea of getting a cab this late at night, but you preferred that over walking the streets alone in the dark.

Thankfully, Baker Street was only a few roads away and the journey was nice and short with the lack of traffic at this time of night. Looking up at 221B you could see tat it was one of the only lights on in the street. You slipped the spare key out of your bag and unlocked the door to 221B.

Mrs Hudson reached the bottom of the stairs in an angry flurry huffing as she passed, a few rushed ‘oh dear’s escaping her lips as she passed you, only briefly making eye contact as she scurried back into her flat, red-faced. Taking that as your cue, you started up the stairs to the flat, fully expecting to see the flat in complete disarray, and you weren’t disappointed.

The papers from the now-closed case were still strewn across the flat, stuck to the walls, laid out on the desk, tucked under the tea cups on the small side table. The tea cups, several sat on the desk untouched and probably growing a few types of fungus that Sherlock could happily describe for you. The pillows from the sofa were thrown about the flat as Sherlock stood on the sofa, feet buried in the sofa cushions and tape measure I hand as he stretched it across the wall in front of him, a HB pencil clenched between his teeth.

“Thank God you’re here!” John poked his head out of the kitchen as if weary of the man in the living room. He gestured for you to step into the kitchen, with a final glance at the tall consulting detective, you slipped into the kitchen.

“How long has he been like this?” you asked, setting your bag down on the cluttered kitchen table. Piles and piles of old experiments were stacked tall, filling up almost the entire surface of the table and from the darkening black patch by one of the chairs you had no doubt that Sherlock had blown something up today, yet another thing to add to the list of problems for you and John.

“A couple of hours now, I stupidly thought that solving the case would change his mood, but it only seemed to make him more antsy for another one-” He sighed. “Sorry it’s so late, I know you usually sit down and read about now. I didn’t want to bother you but with Mrs Hudson threatening eviction I thought it best not to wait.” You smiled at your friend and shook your head.

“Don’t worry about it, it’s been a while since he’s been like this so it was expected sooner or later. Better sort him out before Mrs Hudson really does chuck him out.” The two of you chuckle at the thought of a homeless Sherlock, it’s not really a sight either of you can imagine fully. But you had no doubt that his homeless network would really find him the best spots in London to squat.

“You don’t mind if I take a quick walk do you? I’ve been cooped up in here for a few hours trying to sort him out, just need bit of fresh air.” You shook your head and hurried John out of the kitchen door and down the stairwell. You knew it would be easier to deal with Sherlock without John around anyway. Not that John was a problem, but with Sherlock like this and his habit of making unsavory comments without fully thinking of the consequences, it would be easier than having a row start between the two flat mates.

You paused for a moment and brushed your finger against the black mark on the table top and inspected the pad of your finger. That’ll come off with some polish, you decided. Stepping back out of the kitchen and into the living room, your eyes zeroed in on the consulting detective who had now abandoned the tape measure and was gently knocking against the wall looking for a hollow sounding area.

“No.” You spoke clearly, catching the attention of the detective who had yet to notice you. Spinning on his heels, his eyes flashed at you wide and adorable. It kind of reminded you of a child who had been caught with their hand in the cookie jar. His mouth started to open but you shut him down quickly. “No,” You gave him a stern look. “That wall has all of the major electricity lines and one of the main water pipes. No.”

“There’s no way you could possibly know that just from looking at the wall-” Sherlock argued.

“No I couldn’t. I know because I had to get the schematics for the flat after you started shooting the walls because you were banned from in-person cases and blew the power out in this side of London,” You reminded. “An event that Mycroft still calls ‘The Great COVID Blackout’.” Sherlock’s nose scrunched at the mention of his brother. “Now, are you going to sit down or am I going to have to use that self-defense training program you insisted I go on to incapacitate you?” You could almost see the cogs turning in his head as his eyes narrowed at you, trying to deduce if you were serious or not. Your unwavering stance must have given him his answer as he slowly stepped down from the sofa and settled his feet back on the floor calmly.

“Why are you here?” You were very rarely offended by Sherlock’s blunt words, it just wasn’t worth the energy when you also knew that he rarely meant it to come across in that way. “No, don’t answer that. You’re here in your night clothes, your kindle is tucked in your bag and your hair is done up which means it’s late- John called you. Why?”

“Probably because his roommate was threatened with eviction after planning to renovate their rented flat and set the landlady off.” “Mrs Hudson wouldn’t evict me. She still owes me for getting her husband executed.”

“Favours do expire Sherlock. They have their limits.” His eyebrows furrowed.

“Really?” You nod. “Oh. Well John wouldn’t let her evict me.” “Have you been experimenting today?” You think back to the two mugs settled on the kitchen counter, one sporting a brownish green sludge at the bottom.

“Yes, why- Oh.”

“Right come on,” You clapped your hands, moving towards him and grabbing one of his hands to pull him over to his chair. You ignored the sounds of protest from Sherlock as you settled on the chair and tugged on his arm. “Sit down,” you instructed. Sherlock sighed and complied, dropping onto the floor and crossing his legs underneath him. You grabbed the TV remote and switched it on. “What should we watch? Bones or Criminal Minds?” you pondered.

“Why do we have to watch a crime show? They’re always so inaccurate-” You flick the TV onto an episode of Criminal Minds. “Look, the killer’s using tape- what about finger prints? They don’t need to study his behaviour, just find the prints-” You smiled softly, fiddling with a few strands of Sherlock’s curly hair in your lap as he rattled on about the mistakes of the Unsub and the BAU team.

It was around an hour later that John returned to the flat. Pushing open the front door of 221, he was relieved to hear nothing. The light under Mrs Hudson’s door was now off, meaning she had slipped into bed, no longer tormented by her tenant’s renovation plans. The light on the landing let off a soft glow as John started up to the flat. A heavy wave of relief swept through him as he noticed the lack of banging, drilling, sawing or any construction noises at all. You had managed to talk him out of it for now. He reached the top of the stairs and could hear the muffled sounds of the TV in the flat. Stepping into the kitchen he could see that the place was still a pig sty but at least there wasn’t any knocked down walls or partially constructed extensions. The mess could be dealt with in the morning.

As he turned the corner and peeked - still a little cautiously into the living room - a soft smile graced his face. Your back was pressed against one of the arms of Sherlock’s chair, your legs swung over the opposite side. Sherlock’s was still perched on the floor with his legs crossed, his head dropped back against your stomach, with your right hand resting on top. Your fingers rhythmically threading through his curly brown locks, soothingly. John flicked his eyes up to the TV screen to see an episode of Criminal Minds playing, Sherlock’s face scrunched in distaste as he watched the team profile the murderer. Your other hand held your kindle tightly, your fingers set comfortably around the flower pop socket on the back as you occasionally flicked the pages with your thumb.

John couldn’t help but watch in awe for a moment. No one he knew had ever been able to soothe Sherlock in the way that you could. Not him, not Mrs Hudson and certainly not his brother, not even his parents had this calming effect that you had. He wondered if Sherlock would ever confess to the effect you had on him, or explain why you had such an effect on him. John knew the reason, Mrs Hudson knew the reason… did Sherlock? Did you?

You were always just as oblivious as Sherlock. John had mentioned to you once or twice about how you effected the consulting detective, but you couldn’t see it. You wouldn’t admit to the effect you so clearly had on him nor would you confess to the butterflies that whirled in your stomach whenever you were this close to him.

You caught John’s eye and must’ve made an educated guess of what he was thinking as you rolled your eyes and shook your heads. Deciding that now was probably not the time to bring up the obvious pink elephant that shared the living room with the three of you, John mouthed a ‘thank you’ to you and you nodded, letting out a quiet yawn. He bidded a quick farewell to the pair of you before shuffling out of the kitchen and upstairs to his room. On his way up the stairs, he couldn’t help but wonder how long the two of you would remain oblivious.

As he reached the top of the staircase he paused and chuckled. Lovesick idiots.

[saraakpotter]

She is my girlfriend(BBC Sherlock x reader)

summery: 3 times Sherlock lied about being your boyfriend and the time he made it real warnings: i think none but there are spoilers on the show if you haven't watched it yet genre: fluff p.s: i added some scenes and changed some dialogues in some parts.

number one: during 'the blind banker'

you were a detective. you went on cases with Sherlock and John. now you had to go into Eddie Van Coon's apartment.

"they are new to the apartment aren't they?" you said.

Sherlock smirked: "yes, they are"

"how are you so sure?" John asked

Sherlock points at the name on the doorbell.

"maybe they changed it." John said.

"no one would do that" you said and Sherlock rang.

"hello?" a woman's voice said some moments later

"ummm, hello miss, we are your downstairs neighbors. i don't know if you know us." Sherlock said

"uh, umm, no. we are new" the woman said.

"well, me and my girlfriend forgot our key's in our apartment" Sherlock said wrapping one arm around you and you rose an eyebrow but quickly played along.

"oh, do you want me to open the door for you?" the woman asked

"yeah, ummm, could we come from your balcony?" Sherlock asked.

"the balcony?!" the woman said surprised and Sherlock nodded.

after she left you came out of his arms.

"your girlfriend?" you asked with a raised eyebrow and John chuckled.

"oh, please. it had to be believable." he said.

"uh-huh" you said

number 2: during 'a scandal in Belgravia'

"punch me in the face" Sherlock said

"punch you?" John said

"yes, punch me in the face. didn't you hear me?"

"i always hear 'punch me in the face' when you talk but it's usually subtext" John says

"yeah" you agreed and then, without another word you punched Sherlock in the face.

"i always wanted to do that" you joke

"ouch" Sherlock says "ok..." he starts but gets cut of by another punch by John.

"you are right! i think i did too" John says chuckling making Sherlock roll his eyes.

after forcing Kate, Irene's assistant to open the door you entered the house.

"who is the beautiful lady?" Kate asked with a fake smile

"oh, i..." you started but Sherlock cut you off

"she is my girlfriend" he says

"oh" Kate's fake smile fades and she walks to the room asking you to follow.

"i literally just punched you in the face" you whispered

"i asked you to" he says and you tried to hide your smile

number three: during 'the hounds of Baskerville'(i added this scene)

"hi" Sherlock says sitting next to a random costumer at the bar.

"hello, what's the problem?" the man said

"well, me and my girlfriend are here for vacation and we heard whispers about a huge dog in this town. in the woods." he says

"we made a bet. i said there is no such a thing and he disagrees" you played along

"so, you are here more often right? we wanted to know which one of us will win" Sherlock said placing a hand around your shoulders to make it look more realistic.

"oh, oh, this is way more than a dog. it's a monster. you should believe in it." the man says and then he turns to look at you "of course i don't want to scare a pretty woman like you"

you rolled your eyes and Sherlock glared at him and left before he could finish.

"ok, thank you for your help." he says trying to act unbothered.

"wow, you don't have to be so overprotective" the man say making you smirk and Sherlock roll his eyes.

number four: the real confession

"y\n?" Sherlock says walking to the room.

"yes?"

"i wanted to ask you something" he takes a deep breath.

"ok, what is it?"

"will you....can you....oh god!"

"Sher, just say it. its okay."

"ummm.....willyoubemygirlfriend"

"i'm sorry?" you raise an eyebrow

"oh god" he takes another deep breath "look, i'm not usually this nervous about anything but this really means to me and it has been on my mind for months....will you, be my girlfriend?" he finally says

"what?" you chuckle making him look more worried than he already is "you were nervous to ask me to act like your girlfriend? i have done that a lot of time. i'm actually starting to think it is real" you joke.

"what is it this time? a serial killer or another guy with mental health issues? maybe another naked woman?" you continue

"no....i....i mean be my actual girlfriend" he corrects

"what?" now you were really confused

"you see, all this time, when i acted like you were my girlfriend or acted jealous, it was because i liked the thought of that."

he waited for you to answer but when you didn't he continued.

"will you?" he said "be my girlfriend"

"this isn't a test to see how sentimental i am?" you asked half-jokingly

Sherlock chuckled "no" he said.

"then yes, Sherlock Holmes. yes, i will be your girlfriend"

[theladyofmanyfandomsfanfiction]

Imagine Sherlock constantly barging into your apartment…

The key turned in the door as the locked clicked to allow you passage into your apartment. Pulling the groceries into the room, you were busy thinking of which bags held the frozen items when you looked up and saw the calamity being conducted inside by the detective downstairs.

You had told him repeatedly not to enter your home without your consent and most certainly, not to touch anything!

“It’s like you get a kick out of pressing my buttons.” You asked, setting the bags down at your feet.

Your favourite clock had been taken off the wall and dismantled. The books were scattered along the tables and floors and Sherlock appeared to have taken creative liberty with your mantelpiece decor.

Shaking your head, you had had enough. “I can’t do it anymore - you win. I’m moving out.”

Sherlock, not expecting that to be the response, frowned. “What?”

“Moving out.” You repeated. “It’s clear that you hate having me around. I thought that staying here would be nice - that it would be easier to consult with you on cases but obviously not.”

You grabbed your coat from the back of the chair and moved in the direction of the door.

“I don’t come here because I don’t like you. In fact, it’s quite the opposite.” Sherlock said.

Stopping what you were doing, you turned around. Sherlock was now looking at you. His face harbouring a light smile.

“I enjoy spending time with you and yes, sometimes I irritate you and disrupt your life but it’s because I don’t know how to ask for your company.”

~ More imagines here ~

[imyourbratzdoll]

Hi Cheleah😌❤️

drunk sex with Sherlock(Henry) pls👀👀

hi baby! another request done, hehe. I hope you like it even with how short it is.

summary - your husband fucks you after a few drinks.

warning - smut, intoxication, swearing, creampie.

18+ only please, the gif I use isn't mine, divider by @newlips

You moan, feeling his slow but rough movements against you. Sherlock moves inside of you, whispering slurred drunken words into your ear. “So fucking tight and warm, my best darling.” He groans, gripping your hips roughly, thrusting harder and deeper. Your mind is fuzzy from the intense pleasure mixed with the alcohol. The feeling of his thick member sliding in and out of you feels excellent. Everything felt so electrifying, so raw and passionate. Your husband looks deep into your eyes, smirking as he notices your glazed-over look matches his. “My precious little darling, letting me have you even while intoxicated.” The scent of whiskey on his breath causes your eyes to roll to the back of your head and your walls to clench around his throbbing member. 

Sherlock cups your cheek, instructing you to wrap your legs around him as he picks up the pace, slamming into your sweet spot deep inside. You cling to him, not daring to let go of the man you love, the man currently splitting you open over and over again. You feel shivers roll through your body, a bliss washing over you as your back arches and your juices flow out of you. Sherlock snaps, becoming feral in his drunken state, pinning you down into the mattress and pounding you into it. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream. 

He buries his face into your neck, grunting when his balls tighten and his cock throbs wildly, thrusting as deep as he can before he lets go. Thick spurts of cum fill you to the brim, leaking from your full cunt. You whimper, trembling underneath him as his cum continues to shoot out of his mushroom tip. “Good girl, such a good girl.” 

thank you for reading!

feedback and reblogs are greatly appreciated.

[strangesthirdeye]

Being Sherlock's wife and going through the pregnancy would include:

Warning: It's Sherlock, he's a great man. fluff, aftermath of The Final Problem, sweet, baby, Sherlock is a great husband, pregnancy, Baby William creation.

As usual, I'm sorry if there are any wrong sentences or typos or grammatical mistakes, please forgive me and again English is not my first language, so I try to improve my language and writing in this way.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

• Him, dumbfounded and stunned when you told the news that you are pregnant which causes you to be concerned with the lack of response from him.

"I think you broke him" John.

•But later Sherlock recovers from the state of loading his information by hugging you tightly and repeatedly saying you two have become parents.

• Since you are still in the early stages of pregnancy, Sherlock will monitor your diet and recommend routines that should be followed by pregnant women. That's after he did research for pregnant women on Google.

• Concerned with the safety of you and the baby when you insist on joining him and John to solve cases. Even if you are still early in your pregnancy and capable of doing your work, saying that you don't need to tire yourself, but later let you join him and John.

• Morning sickness? don't worry Sherlock is always alert to your situation so don't be surprised if he suddenly appears behind you just to hold your hair as you vomit all the contents of your stomach into the toilet.

• Headaches? Sherlock can give you paracetamol and massage your head. Body aches? automatically, Sherlock is good at massage

• When it comes to the middle of pregnancy, the majority of pregnant women will have cravings with weird combinations of food. So you are no exception.

• Lemon and Honey? Sherlock can take the pickle and peanut butter boots? Sherlock doesn't know if the one he married all this time is human or not.

• wake up late at night just to eat something spicy? Sherlock automatically got up and left the flat for the sake's of you.

• you are also no exception to mood swings and your victim is Sherlock. Obviously.

• from sad to angry to happy and Sherlock handles your mood easily because he really expects you to be like that. He will be the place where you release your mood swings as long as you don't kill him.

• John being an expert about pregnancy (Mary preggo tadaa) gave him advice to handle pregnant women.

"and don't stress her out, Sherlock" John obviously.

• And now the awaited time has arrived. As your stomach is getting bigger and rounder, Sherlock can't keep his hands on his side because he always puts his big hands on your stomach just to feel the baby in that stomach.

• he will kneel and talk to the baby in the stomach which becomes a daily routine in these few months. He excitedly talked about his cases. Obviously.

• Him, excited when he gets a response from the baby in the stomach like a baby kicking your stomach because the baby is excited with his father. Often leaving you gasping for breath due to indigestion being kicked by the baby in the stomach.

• rub your belly every night and hug you from the back every time you sleep.

• when it comes to last month of pregnancy, your body aches and back pain are getting worse and Sherlock always helps you.

• he will whisper words of comfort in your ear as he hugs you from behind and strokes your hair to convince you that you are a strong person as you are having a mental breakdown.

• But overall, everything turns out fine and you don't have a mental breakdown anymore. Thanks to your loving husband.

• Excited because there are only a few weeks left before he will meet his baby and always finding some good names for his baby.

• Gender? nahh he doesn't care about that as long as the baby comes out well.

"Tina?" Sherlock.

"sounds like somebody's aunt" You.

•talking with baby has become traditions now. And he cannot wait to hold his baby.

• last week of pregnancy, he already took you to the hospital in case you give birth early. Bags and all facilities such as baby clothes and diapers have been packed by Sherlock. So no need to worry.

• John gave him a word of advice about the newborn. Such as what he should do and what he shouldn't do so that he won't panic.

• Rosie is excited to meet her new friend and always stuck with you while talking to the baby in your belly. She already sees you as a mother figure as hers has passed away. So no wonder she always stuck with you.

• When it's time for you to give birth, Sherlock will be where you endure the pain when you push the baby out of your vagina. He doesn't care if his hand is broken because you grabbed it or you swear at him. He's always there.

• Him, saying that you are strong and encouraging you to push the baby.

• panic when everything was quiet for a moment but sighed in relief when he heard the sound of his baby crying for the first time. He rubbed your head happily.

• Him, support his bundle of joy in both hands and smile genuinely as he found out that he got a boy.

• William Scott Hamish Holmes. That's your baby's name and his.

• Kiss William's forehead tenderly and whisper some words like welcome him to the family of Holmes.

• He is always there when you need him. What a great husband.

[moonyswritinq]

conflicted bodies — sherlock holmes x male reader

❝ CONFLICTED BODIES ❞ — PART ⅠⅠ

PART Ⅰ — ❝ conflicted feelings ❞

SYNOPSIS ➢ After a drunken night of revealing one's feelings, Sherlock cannot go back on his words however much he'd like to. When you turn up to his flat, in need of his help, Sherlock is forced to face the consequences. However, the consequences aren't all that bad when it might lead to another night spent together.

PAIRING ➢ top!sherlock holmes x bottom!male reader

CONTENT WARNING ➢ 18+ SMUT, switch/dom!Sherlock, switch/sub!reader, edging, teasing, restraints, orgasm denial, fingering, p in a, handjob, rivals to lovers, mentions of alcohol & drinking, physical affection, romantic affection, cursing, slight gore and blood, mentions of needles and stitches, slight fluff at the end

WORD COUNT ➢ 5.3 k

AUTHORS NOTE ➢ this is my first and last time writing smut, cause i hate writing it. i’m sorry if it sucks, but at least it’s something? enjoy, you horny Sherlock whores! this is the last part.

MASTERLIST

non-male and minors DO NOT INTERACT !

Sherlock was pacing again.

He walked back and forth. Thinking. Contemplating. Deducing.

His eyes jumped between the clues hung up on his wall to the papers scattered across the floors. He tried to piece it together, to connect the dots. But… It just didn’t make sense. None of it made sense. Who could be behind it all? Who could continue to effortlessly outwit him like this? He was convinced there were a simple answer to it all; an answer that laid right beneath his nose. 

A forgotten cup of tea stood on a table close to him, its steam already gone cold. Beside it, was the sofa. His eyes jumped to it, immediately averting when his thoughts rushed to you. To the way you had felt in his arms. To the way you had kissed him. You were so soft and so warm against his skin. Warmth had pooled in the pit of his stomach.

He ignored the way his heart seemed to skip a beat, instead returning his focus to the case at hand. It had plagued him for quite some time, and he was no closer to solving it than before. It was the whole reason he had gone out to drink last night, at all. He just wanted one night of not having to think constantly. And ironically, it was what caused his thoughts to now be messier than ever before.

The memory of you was so fresh in his mind, still; he had to shut his eyes and rubbed them with the soles of his hands. No matter how hard he tried, he could not get you out of his thoughts. And it wasn’t exactly pure thoughts, per se, either. Every time he remembered how your hands had felt against his skin, he felt warmth pool in the bottom of his stomach and cheeks began to burn. 

Why?

That was the big question, wasn’t it? 

Why?

He had loathed you for all of his career. It wasn’t exactly because he disliked you as a person, no. You were clever, funny, and, he could admit it, handsome. You were also very skilled at your job, something he often admired. It was just…

Sherlock sighed at the thought.

You were too good. Too clever, at times. You were a competitor to him. A rival. He saw you as someone he had to be better than, someone to beat.

Sherlock stopped his pacing, gazing out the window, the low afternoon sun shining in.

However, he supposed that his competitiveness stemmed from that he admired some part of you. Your cleverness. Your humour. Your handsomeness.

His drunken self maybe hadn’t been so far off from the truth, after all.

“Fuck.”

The second the word was uttered a noise rang throughout the flat, haunting his ears with it’s sound. The ring clock. Sherlock’s eyes turned to the direction of the door, waving it off without a second thought. Probably Lestrade or Mrs Hudson waiting to disturb him with something useless.

He didn’t have time for this!

Whoever it was had now turned to knocking on the door, forceful enough to make it rattle in its hinges. The sound made Sherlock stop in his tracks. Whoever stood on the other side of the door was adamant on disturbing him, and therefore, annoying him. With a defeated sigh he walked over to it and threw it open, fully prepared to berate whoever stood before him. What he wasn’t prepared for, however, was the sight of you.

Your tired form rested against the doorframe, barely being able to hold it up. Dark splattering of blood spread across your face, as well as reaching from your hands up to your arms. Sherlock’s gaze raked over your body, noticing the dark pool on your abdomen, to where your hand was pressed in a futile attempt to stop the flow. You could feel the stabbing pain of your wound slowly fading into a faint throb. The lids of your eyes threatened to droop closed from exhaustion and you had to force your gaze into meeting Sherlock’s.

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

Sherlock considered you, mind still occupied of the night before. Ultimately, he stepped aside to let you in, his gaze softening. At your wavering step he instinctively reached out, hands steadying you against him. It was his turn to support you into his flat, mindful of not putting pressure on your injury. The flat was as messy as you had left it that morning, if not more so. Sherlock helped you lower into the same sofa you had spent the night on, and you couldn’t keep the thoughts of the feel of him against you from invading your mind.

You groaned, leaning back against the soft cushions, still keeping pressure against your wound. Sherlock dared lift your shirt, peering at the dark red glistening in the golden candlelight.

“What happened?” he asked.

“What does it look like, detective?” You sucked in a breath.

His unamused glare pinned you to the spot. “It looks like you’ve been a fool.”

You rolled your eyes. “I got stabbed, genius. And now I’m bleeding. Need I explain further for you?”

Sherlock stood up without another word and made his way towards the kitchen with hurried steps. You closed your eyes for a moment, letting your head fall back against the cushions. Sherlock was right. You had acted foolishly and irrationally — probably because your mind was still fully occupied by last night’s events — which had led to your injury. And now you had turned up at the last place you wanted to be found at. Despite your better judgment, Sherlock had been the first person to come to mind.

He came back to your spot on the sofa with medical supplies in hand, and a bottle of whiskey. You were mildly surprised he actually possessed those things in his flat, but you guessed looks could be deceiving. With a careful hand, he lifted the ends of your shirt and fully exposed your flush skin to his eyes, and gave him access to the bleeding wound. Sherlock began to wash the area with a clean washcloth and water, and then with rubbing alcohol. You winced at the stinging sensation it caused you, and he poured some whiskey into a glass, handing it over to you with a curt nod.

“Cheers,” you said, downing the thing in one swipe. The alcohol burned in your throat, but numbed the pain a tad.

Sherlock pinned you with his observative gaze, letting the washcloth soak in a bowl of now bloody water.

“Good news, it wasn’t a very deep stab wound and you’ll recover quickly.”

“Reckoned as much,” you nodded.

“You’ll still need stitches.”

“Fine, I’ll do it.”

You glanced at your abdomen, before shifting to the needles beside Sherlock. You cocked your head, extending a hand with the palm up. Sherlock removed them from out of your reach, settling you with a glare. You scoffed, rolling your eyes.

“Can you even stitch wounds back together?” you asked.

Sherlock started prepping the needle, hands as steady as ever. “As a matter of fact, I can. And I reckon I could do a better job than you could ever do in a state such as this.”

You rolled your eyes again, but let him have access to your abdomen. Sherlock leaned closer, needle in hand, and his observative eyes jumped over your face as his fingers danced across the skin of your stomach. It made shivers crawl up your spine and you had to fight against your own mind to not think of how good that felt. You could still feel the remembrance of his touches the previous night and it was strange to now be pinned underneath his gaze in such a vulnerable state.

With a sharp pain that made your face contort into a wince, Sherlock started sewing your wound together. His eyes kept jumping between his work and your face, watchful of every change in your features. When he noticed no danger, his whole focus turned to stitching the wound. You took the opportunity to watch him, eyes glazing over every detail of his face. The nearby candlelight highlighted his sharp features, and maybe it was the loss of blood, but it presented him in an almost ethereal way. His hair was in better kept curls than how he had woken up that morning, and it fell perfectly to frame his face. You could only imagine how you looked in contrast to him: your disheveled hair, the bruises already forming on your skin, the blood splattered across your whole body, and your dirty clothes. Despite yourself, you felt the urge to reach out to him; to caress his chin and jaw; to trace the lines of his mouth and lips, wanting to drag him closer.

“It’s considered rude to stare.”

“A lot of things are considered rude, but that doesn’t stop you from doing them,” you said, but averted your eyes.

Sherlock blew out a breath in answer, choosing not to reply to your bait. His eyes flitted up to your face, before his hands stilled, removing them from you. You glanced at the wound, seeing rows of perfect stitching sitting securely in your skin. He took hold of a bandage and rolled it over your whole abdomen, securing the wound against further strain and harm. You nodded to him as thanks, hoisting yourself further on the cushions. A surge of pain shot from the wound and you winced, feeling the dried blood against your face.

“Are you in danger?” he asked, tilting his head.

“Not anymore.”

Sherlock’s unyielding gaze stayed on yours, trying to coax an explanation out of you. When your eyes strayed across the flat and avoided his glare, he finally cleared his throat.

“Will you tell me what’s going on?” He didn’t quite manage to keep the sharpness out of his voice.

You turned your face to his, letting your gaze meet his. Sherlock’s eyes were hard in their stare, and his mouth set in a straight line. Sherlock’s leg kept jumping up and down, and his hands twisting with anxiety. If you didn’t know any better, you would have thought he was nervous. Why?

You shook off the thought, taking a deep breath.

“You’re the first one I thought of, Sherlock.”

A frown formed on his face. “What?”

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head. Did you really have to spell it out for him? He was a detective, for God’s sake.

“I got injured, and I immediately thought of you.”

You could see the moment he understood. The way his eyes widened, frown fading into raised eyebrows, mouth gaping, and leg stopped jumping. Despite your better judgement, you considered him safe, someone you could trust. And you hated your body for relaxing in his presence, your heart for beating so fast.

This was the moment you had been dreading. He would cast you out, shouting and swear words following your steps. He would never want to see you again, never to be near you again, even if it were only to taunt you. All you had built the previous night would come crashing down in a vicious mess as you desperately tried to crawl your way out of it.

When you realised he still hadn’t uttered a word you dared meet his eye. They were deep pools of emotion, swirling with their usual secrets. There was something else there, too. A softness that had never been there before. It was possible you had just never noticed it before, though.

He closed his eyes as a hand dragged across his face. When he met your gaze he released a breath and said, “Fuck it.”

Before you could gather your bearings, Sherlock’s lips met yours.

In less than twenty-four hours, Sherlock had kissed you twice. In less than twenty-four hours, he had caused you to question everything you knew about yourself and the man across from you. Sherlock brought forth feelings you didn’t know you had, and was an expert in making you show them.

The sudden kiss made a moan escape your lips, muffled by his soft lips. They felt the same as you had remembered them yesterday, but this time you could feel the emotions behind the kiss. It was like Sherlock wanted to convey all he wanted to tell you with a press of his lips. You wouldn’t let him. You demanded more.

You pulled away from him, falling back onto the sofa. His brows furrowed and eyes widened. He began to throw out a desperate explanation, his words a tangled mess. His voice died to nothing when your hand landed against his cheek, bringing his attention to your touch.

“Sherlock.”

His eyes met yours at the sound of his name, almost afraid to do so. “Yes?”

“Are you going to throw me out again?”

Sherlock winced as if the words had physically struck him. The morning was all too fresh in his mind, as hard as he had tried to forget it. All day, he had bargained with himself, trying to justify what he was feeling. However much Sherlock tried to convince himself, it was pointless. He admired all of you. He fancied you.

“I won’t throw you out again.”

“You didn’t show any signs of throwing me out last night, either. And yet…” you trailed off, letting him finish the sentence himself.

He swallowed hard, lowering his gaze. “I’m sorry.”

“What was that?”

He settled you with a hard glare. You could barely take him seriously, though. His chest was rising and falling rapidly with his breaths, and pupils were blown wide. He wasn’t drunk this time, but it might be the next best thing. Drunk off of me, you mused.

Sherlock opened his mouth, but no words came out. Instead he turned to the side, pressing his lips against your palm. You could feel his breath tickle the skin, the sensation sending shivers down your arm, allowing heat to rise to your ears. Such a simple gesture and it still managed to make you flustered.

“I was afraid,” he said.

A laugh almost escaped your lips. “The great Sherlock Holmes, afraid of me?”

His eyes were steady, humour gone from his voice when he spoke, “Yes. Afraid to confront my feelings for you. Feelings,” he rushed out to say, “that I very much have.”

“That’s all I needed to hear.”

You tugged his face forward, crashing your lips together. His tongue danced against your own, fighting for control. Not again, you thought. Carefully, you bit down on his lip, drawing a groan from his chest. He leant closer, encasing you between his arms as he lowered himself.

Sherlock’s hand pressed against your chest, making you sink further into the cushions. He pulled away, ever so slightly, to allow room for breathing. His lips brushed yours, barely touching, and you felt his breath fan across them, prickling your skin. Heat pooled in the pit of your stomach as his hand ventured lower, tugging at the ends of your shirt.

The fingers that had earlier stitched your skin together now danced across it, tentative, and made shivers spread through your spine. With a frustrated sigh, you took ahold of his waist, digging your nails into the skin there. He moaned into your mouth, eyes fluttering closed.

“Wait,” he whispered.

You hesitated, scanning his face for any signs of regret. Instead, his fingers brushed against your bandaged side, his eyes flitting between it and your face.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”

You huffed out a laugh. So that was what all the fuss was about.

“I think that ship has already sailed.”

Sherlock’s gaze stayed on yours, still serious. But you couldn’t ignore the way his eyes kept jumping to your lips, his pupils blown wide, and breath ragged. He looked almost as intoxicated as you felt.

You settled his worries by pushing his hand further down, closer to your abdomen. You could feel the strain of your pants, pressing against a too sensitive area, waiting to be released. Sherlock’s breath hitched as he felt the bulge, before pressing firmer against it. You had to fight a moan.

“I have suffered worse,” you rasped, “Like your attitude.”

Sherlock only huffed a breath before crashing your lips together. It was frustration, a clashing of teeth, and a pulling on lips that made you submit to him with a moan. There was that fiery passion that made you weak in the knees. It was alarming how eager you were for him to take control over you.

“Let’s take this to the bedroom, hm?”

His low murmur reverberated through your joined limbs. You nodded with a jerk of your head. He pulled you to your feet by your hand, pressing you closer by your waist. The journey to Sherlock’s bedroom was a short one, but a difficult one as neither of you could keep your hands to yourself for very long. His tongue pressed against yours, as his hands travelled over your skin.

Sherlock removed your shirt, throwing it on the floor. You huffed, sending him the best glare you could muster at a moment like this.

“What?”

“It’ll get dirty.”

“I don’t have such a dirty floor.”

You meaningfully eyed the shirt laying against the mess of other countless items of clothing. To be truthful, you couldn’t care less about a dirty shirt when Sherlock was looking at you with those eyes. It only managed to rile him up, bring that flare you adored so much. Nonetheless, Sherlock rolled his eyes and brought you closer by your neck, pressing his lips to your jaw. Then to your throat. Then across your collarbone.

Gods knew he felt glorious against you, almost making you delirious with every touch of his lips. You couldn’t admit it to Sherlock, though. His ego would never recover.

He came back up to your face for air, breath fanning over your lips. Carefully, he pushed you against the bed so you laid against it, gazing up at him. His hair was dishevelled, eyes heavy lidded with dark pupils blown wide. He stretched to take off his own shirt and undid his belt, throwing it across the bed. He crawled against you, skin meeting skin. Sherlock’s warm breath prickled yours as he brought his face closers to yours. He looked divine, and felt it, too. His arms held himself up so he hovered over you, his muscles clearly defined in the streetlight coming from the window.

“My Gods,” he rasped.

You let out a chuckle against his lips. “I’m not faithful, but I was thinking the exact same thing.”

Again, Sherlock’s lips closed over yours. You couldn’t notice anything further than the feel of his mouth, his warm skin flush against yours, and the locks of his hair prickling your face. You could only imagine how he looked right now, so you did the next best thing and travelled your hands to his head. Sherlock’s hair was soft against your fingers, grabbing hold of it and eliciting a deep moan from his chest.

You grinned, yanking his head back. Sherlock gasped against your lips, before smiling down at you. Of course the bastard would be into harsher play. And you would be lying if you said you weren't also into it.

He kissed you again, letting his hand trail the side of your stomach, inching closer to the band of your trousers. You felt yourself getting impatient by the featherlight touches, yearning for him to touch you properly. Sherlock knew it, too, by the way his hand hovered over the visible pressure in your trousers. Instead of indulging you, he dropped his hand to let his fingers graze up and down the inside of your leg. It only added to your discomfort and you bucked impatiently.

Immediately, a sharp pain shot through your body, making you wince. The wound was too recent for you to move much. Sherlock noticed, stilling instantly. His eyes jumped between your face and your bandages.

“Are you sure you’re okay for this?” he asked.

You rolled your eyes, drawing his lips to yours again. And again, you tried to move your hips for any sort of friction. Sherlock pulled away, sending you a stern glare.

“You have to keep still or you’ll wound yourself even worse.”

“Then stop being a tease and touch me.”

Sherlock considered you before smirking. “I’m not sure I can refrain from that.”

Without any hesitation, he took hold of your wrists and pinned your hands above you. Your eyes widened, feeling the tight grip of his fingers that wouldn’t allow you to move your arms. He glanced around, before reaching over you and tying something over your wrists. You tilted your head, seeing his belt holding your hands together to the bed frame. Tentatively, you pulled on it, feeling the leather dig into your skin. Sherlock’s hands grazed yours as he met your shocked gaze.

“You’re serious?” you asked.

He cocked his head, giving you a meaningful glare.

“It wont’t keep me from moving my hips, y’know?”

Sherlock smiled. “No, but it might teach you to stay still.”

His hands kept travelling south, making their way to your jaw and lifting it closer to him. You were rendered defenceless, your only option to meet the touch of his lips. You felt the flutter of your stomach, fully realising the control he now had over you. It was incredible.

As if he could read your thoughts, Sherlock’s lips curled into a mischievous smile, and you could feel the warmth of his fingers close over the skin of your throat. There wasn’t any pressure, but just the feel of it brought shivers up your spine and the strain of your trousers became impossibly tighter. You gave Sherlock a meaningful stare, cocking your head.

Sherlock shook his head, chuckling. “Let’s take these off, huh?”

Finally he allowed his hands to fall to your trousers, unbuckling them and dragging them down your legs. You lifted your hips for him, allowing him to take off your underwear, as well. The relief was immediate and you gasped at the colder air around your skin. You were now completely naked, wholly at Sherlock’s mercy, and the thought seemed to thrill him by the way his mouth hung open. His eyes jumped all over you, speechless, not seeming to be able to get enough of the sight. You smiled with smug pleasure.

Quickly, Sherlock removed his own trousers, hurrying to get closer to you again. He was more careful with his touches, allowing the feel of his skin warm yours and send your mind spiralling. Not in a million years could you have predicted to find yourself where you were right now — who you were with, and who was currently grinding his hips against your unclothed ones. The feeling made you see stars, so desperate for release.

Sherlock’s lips met yours, drawing your focus to how you couldn’t bring your hands to draw them through his hair. The thought frustrated you and you groaned into the kiss. Sherlock’s hand lowered, closing over your dick. You let out a gasp, tugging at the restraints. Sherlock’s lips danced against yours as his hand tugged, spreading the precum over your dick.

It was all you could do to not cry out in relief. Finally feeling some friction made you moan, pressing against Sherlock’s lips even harder in appreciation. He smiled into the kiss, allowing his thumb to press against your tip. You could feel the pressure in your stomach building, making you impatient and wanting.

Just then, Sherlock drew away his hand, leaving you wanting for more. You bit his lip in retaliation, letting him feel every part of your frustration. He sighed, lowering his hand to your bottom, the pad of his finger probing at your ass. He entered one finger, carefully feeling you out. He watched your face for any reaction and you closed your eyes, sighing.

Sherlock entered one, and then two, more fingers into. It felt amazing when he started stretching you out, carefully curling his fingers. His lips met yours, swallowing any sounds and moans you let out. It allowed you to just bask in the feeling of him. Every shift of his muscles, breath of his chest, and moving of his hips made you want to embrace the man. But you couldn’t, due to the cursed restraints. Still, that didn’t keep you from trying and from moving your knee to graze his growing arousal.

Sherlock moaned with you, pressing against somewhere sensitive inside you. Again, you could feel your orgasm coming, dick twitching, clenching around his fingers and biting Sherlock’s bottom lip. Your hips lifted against them, shooting pain through your body again. You cringed, but pairing it with the pleasure Sherlock’s fingers were doing made you moan. Soft words of praising or pleading left your tongue, the meaning of them so slurred to the point not even you could make out. You wanted him impossibly closer.

You groaned when Sherlock, once again, drew away. You were getting real tired of his behaviour. The man finally got you into bed, and you were starting to think he wanted to get you out if it. Sherlock was playing a dangerous game with you, and you swore to get him back on it.

“Please,” you whispered.

You didn’t care about your pride at this point, just that you would get what you wanted. The only thing you could think about was the absence of his touch. Sherlock seemed to realise what he was doing, a cheeky smirk forming on his lips.

“Please what?” came his coy reply.

“Please fuck me or I swear I’m going to punch you in your smug face.”

His eyebrows raised. “You can’t punch me.”

You glanced up at your restraints and then down at where his hands rested beside your legs. A smile tugged at your lips. “I could kick you.”

Sherlock breath fanned over your face, his lips grazing yours before pulling into a lazy smile. “Then I better give you what I want.”

He sat up to pull of his underwear, drawing your eyes to every detail of him. He was breathing heavily, his muscles pulled taut and hair in a dishevelled mess. Sherlock sank back close to you, embracing you closely. The warmth of his skin spread to yours, creating a sheen layer of sweat between you. You were way too aware of every part of you touching, every sensation turned tenfold.

Carefully, Sherlock hovered over you, his elbows holding himself up as he guided his hips to yours. You could feel the long awaited moment of his cock probing at your entrance, careful as he watched your face. You nodded, smiling.

Sherlock sighed as he sunk into you, letting his head fall into the crook of your neck. You moaned at the feel of stretching you out, trying to move him closer. Your hands were still restrained, but you could roll your hips into some resemblance of friction. Sherlock kissed your jaw, trailing his lips across your neck. It was messy but so full of passion you couldn’t seem to care.

“Please,” you muttered again.

Sherlock’s head lifted from your neck, tilting to look you in the eye. “You’re already getting what you want, what is it now?”

You tugged at the restrains, yearning to be able to run your hands over his back. “Just let me touch you.”

“You gonna stay still?”

“Can’t promise anything,” you smiled.

He glanced up at your wrists, before leaning over to set them free. The second you could move, your hands shot to take hold of his jaw, drawing his face to meet yours. The warmth of his skin was finally under your touch. You couldn’t help but to pull him closer, settling him even deeper inside you, and drawing a moan out of his chest. The sound made you crazy, bringing your arms around his shoulders, the defined muscles feeling glorious beneath your fingers.

As Sherlock continuously pulled in and out of you, hitting that sensitive spot deep inside you, your nails raked over his warm skin. You were sure deep marks were left behind, but you weren’t sure if Sherlock was just ignoring the pain, or enjoying it. By the way his face turned to mark your neck with moans leaving his tongue in mutterings, you suspected the latter was true.

You would be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy it either, the mixing of pain and pleasure. Your wound was still sore, and every grind of Sherlock’s hips reminded you of some sort of phantom of that pain. It left your mouth agape, left to just keep still underneath Sherlock, every touch of his lips sending goosebumps over your skin, and every sting of your wound adding to the surreal feeling.

For a third time this night, you felt yourself getting close, clinging to every movement of his hips, feeling the shift of his muscles as he held himself up. You muttered so, kissing the shell of his ear. Sherlock sped up, hitting your prostate even harder and faster, chasing his own release to match yours. The pain and pleasure became too much for you and your dick twitched in anticipation.

He dipped down to connect your lips, before drawing a deep moan from your chest as you climaxed, clenching his dick in the process. Sherlock almost fell against you in the relief of the feeling but caught himself as to not burden your wound, and stayed still as his own orgasm powered through.

Only when both your heartbeats had slowed and your breathing returned to normal did Sherlock meet your eye, kissing you slowly as he pulled out, the sensation feeling like too much for your oversensitive body. Every little movement was too much, and now that the pleasure had begun to subside the pain in your stomach was more prominent than ever.

Sherlock’s fingers trailed along your body, carefully bringing your mind back to him, to your body, and all the places you were touching. It was grounding your mind, allowing you to fully relax. He touched your bandages with a tender hand, trying to feel for any faults.

“You’re still good.”

“No thanks to you,” came your witty answer.

Sherlock sent you a deadened glare, trying not to quick back a no-doubt clever reply. Instead, he moved away, making you shiver in the cold air, and returned with a fresh rag to wipe down the sweat and fluids between the both of you. You accepted it gratefully, sitting up against the bedpost when finished. Sherlock’s hands surrounded your shoulders to steady you, still a careful air around him.

You brought his lips to yours in a sudden kiss, allowing him to relax. “I’m good, Sherlock. Don’t worry.”

He forced himself to take a deep breath and to sit down beside you, pulling the covers over your shoulders. You watched him with an amused glint.

“What?” he asked.

You shrugged your shoulders before smiling. “Nothing. Just not used to seeing you this nervous.”

“I’m always nervous around you.”

Sherlock met your eye with the most sincere expression you’ve seen on him. An eyebrow raised in his direction.

“You sure have a peculiar way of showing it. Throwing me out and tying me up—”

Sherlock huffed and scooted down to lay down against the bed, avoiding your amused gaze. “Will you ever let that go?”

You bent down to lay against him, your head by his shoulder, your breath fanning against his ear. “I don’t think so.”

Sherlock turned his head so that his lips grazed yours. “Careful, or I’ll have to tie you up again.”

“I wouldn’t be opposed to that,” you whispered, pressing your mouth to his in a deep kiss. “Maybe next time you’ll be the one tied up.”

Fuck, Sherlock thought. There was no way in bloody hell he could ever go back to being just colleagues again, not after having known you so close to him. It was done. He was falling for you, and you both knew it.

© 2023 all rights reserved to ❝ moonyswritinq ❞. do not plagiarize, steal, repost w/o credit or use for your own gain.

[specialagentlokitty]

Sherlock x reader - my type

Hello, how are you mate, could you do a fic where reader is a pretty young lady with lots of male admirers and Sherlock thinks she’s out of his league. But he didn’t knew she was actually into him. Thanks! - Anon💜

Walking into flat with you looked around for your older brother but you couldn’t find him anywhere, but you did find his flatmate.

“Hey Sherlock, have you seen my brother?”

Sherlock looked up from the laptop.

“John isn’t here?”

You smiled a little, shaking your head at him and you walked over to him, leaning over the back of Sherlocks chair, you looked at what he was doing.

Sherlock glanced at your arm next to him but he said nothing about it.

“Why are you looking for John?” He asked.

“He was supposed to come to the shopping centre with me.”

Sherlock nodded his head and carried on scrolling through whatever webpage he was looking through.

It was silent for a moment.

“Come with me.” You said.

“Why?”

You smiled a little and walked back around the chair, placing your hands on your hips as you looked at him.

“Because I want you to come, it’ll be fun!”

“I’m busy.”

“No you’re not don’t lie to me Sherlock Holmes. Come on! Do you really want to leave a lady walking around the city alone?”

Sherlock went back to looking at the laptop and you huffed a little.

“Please Sherlock? I don’t wanna go alone.”

Sherlock sighed, closing the laptop.

He stood up and grabbed his coat and you beamed brightly at him as your an down the stairs.

“Thank you Sherlock!”

He complained the whole way to the shopping centre, but he went wherever you went even if he didn’t want to.

You were in a store looking for new tops and jackets, and Sherlock stood looking around.

He noticed how a lot of men would stop and look at you and he furrowed his brows slightly.

Sherlock looked at you.

You didn’t even seem to pay the other men any attention, you simply went about your business shopping for what you wanted.

“Hey beautiful, wanna grab a drink later?”

You looked up at the unknown man and blinked.

“Not interested.”

You walked away, grabbing Sherlocks arm so he would follow you.

“This is why you didn’t want to come alone.” He said.

“Yeah, John usually scares them away.”

Sherlock nodded his head and looked at the red shirt you were looking at.

“That’s not your colour. Here.”

He reached out and handed you a light blue version of the top and you smiled slightly.

“Thanks.”

You happily went to pay for everything, and started wondering again.

Sherlock noticed more and more men trying to hit on you, some offering to get you lunch, pay for your things, take you out.

You declined them all, but it didn’t mean it didn’t hurt him slightly.

Sherlock wasn’t one for human emotions.

But you were beautiful, even he had to admit that. You seemed to have a sort of glow about you thay no matter where you were he could easily pick you out in a crowd.

You were absolutely stunning, he was sure if you wanted too you could’ve been a model.

And even though you declined the advances of other men it hurt him they had the courage to hit on you when he didn’t.

He didn’t know how.

But not just that, he was certain that there was no way you would date someone like him. He was sure of that.

He sighed softly, and glanced at you, seeing you stopping by a small bakery.

“Are you hungry?” He asked.

“A little. I just want to look.”

Sherlock nodded and gestured for you to go in, and he followed you, watching as you showed interest in different things.

“I’ll be out in a moment.”

“Okay!” You beamed.

Sherlock went back around and gathered a few of each thing you seemed to like or he knew you liked and brought them.

Walking outside, Sherlock held the bag out to you.

“Sherlock?”

“Well take it then, it’s for you.”

You took the bag and looked inside.

“Aw Sherlock you didn’t have to!”

“You wanted them and couldn’t make up your mind, so I got them all. Are we done shopping?”

You looked up at him and you smiled softly, nodding your head.

“Yeah, we can go home now.”

You got a cab back to the flat with him and happily skipped up the stairs, and you sat on the arm of his chair.

Sherlock walked over and sat next to you, and you held out the bag of baked goods.

He looked up.

“They’re yours.”

“And I want to share with you.”

“Thank you.”

Sherlock took one and you smiled, leaning against him and he couldn’t help the fact his heart skipped a beat a little.

“So, why did you turn down all of those men?”

You hummed a little.

“They’re not my type.”

“You have a type?”

You nodded.

“Oh yeah. Tall, brown messy hair, blue eyes, really smart but kinda oblivious to normal emotions, lives with my older brother and he buys me food from the bakery.”

You jumped up and beamed brightly at him, giving him a wink you grabbed your stuff and ran away while he sat there processing what you said

[thebadboyfanclub]

Master list

I want to preface this by saying I’m sorry for forcing y’all to having to scroll to find my imagines this took like two days to make, also I hope you were not expecting some fancy and beautiful list I am not that talented but this will do the trick.

Also everybody needs to thank @pearlstiare cause she quite literally took me by the hand and walked me through the entire process out of the goodness of their heart, so thank you for being such a wonderful person. Without further or due, enjoy!

Part two of the masterlist

Full list of the characters I write for

Aemond Targaryen

You Are No Dragon

All For The Motherland

My Little Sea Snake

The Apple Of His Eye

Do You Love Me?

‘Till The Seven Rings Of Hell

Take Care Of Me, My Love

I Would Be Honored

Grow Forever, Never Yield

I Will Do It

Lead The Way

Lady Wife Falling Asleep Headcanon

Aegon Targaryen

The Man You Deserve

I Spill My Blood For You

What’s Your Name?

I Want To Try

After You Little Pet

Queen Of My Life

Lady Wife Falling Asleep Headcanon

Jacaerys Velaryon

Do You Want this?

Part One

Part Two

Lady Wife Falling Asleep Headcanon

Cregan Stark

My hearts soldier

My Beloved Wife

Daemon Targaryen

My Moonlight

You Bled For Them, You Decide

Part One

Part Two

An Eye For An Eye

Your Sweet Princess

Are You Mad?

The Death Of Me

She Has Your Eyes

Left Or Right?

It Is Time

What Are You Waiting For Then?

My Turn

We’ll Finish This Later

The Sunflower Of Highgarden

A Risk Taker

Gods Have Mercy

My Dragon

Lady Wife Falling Asleep Headcanon

Tywin Lannister

I Got You, Little Wolf

The Bloody Princess

Massimo Torricelli

Fire And Flame

Part one

Part two

Part three

Part four

Part five

Sherlock Holmes

It’s Alright Darling

You Are Family Now

Napoleon Solo

I Got You

Henry Cavill

The Lady Of The House

Part one

Part two

Let Me Have This

Geralt Of Rivia

Protect The Queen

Part one

Part two

There’s Nothing Wrong With Submission

The Dream

Part one

Part two

You Are My Home

Rio

You Can Do Better

A Boy, A Girl And A Game

You Are My Light

She Will Learn

Pete Davidson

The Sun And Moon

Dating Pete Davidson (Spiritual Edition)

Cedric Diggory

You Sneaky Little Fox

Draco Malfoy

We’ll Get Caught

Carlisle Cullen

What’s For Dinner?

Do I Have To?

One Way To Find Out

Just Like You

Of Course Precious

What’s Your Biggest Fear?

Off To Bed For You

Aro Volturi

Lamb For Slaughter

Emmett Cullen

Sir, This Is McDonald’s

That’s My Girl

Edward Cullen

Let Me Do Better

Jasper Hale

Pleasure Is All Mine

Niklaus Mikaelson

You Started This?

Part One

Part Two

My Little Cub

Our Love Is Eternal

Mess Is Mine

Sounds Like Heaven

Maybe It’s Better This Way

Elijah Mikaelson

I Quite Enjoyed It

We’ll See About That

Kai Parker

You’ll Be Fine

See You Around Honey

Excuse Me?

Ivar The Boneless

She Is A Lady

Harwin Strong

I Promise

Look At Me, Princess

I Would Like That

Khal Drogo

Stay With Me

[espinosaurusrexex]

If Only You Would Know

HenryCavill!Sherlock x Female!Reader

summary: You and Sherlock are in love, Enola is sure of it. But she is forced to watch you tiptoe around the topic for an eternity. So when the opportunity arises, and Sherlock is forced to confront his feelings towards you, she does not hesitate.

a/n: we're diggin' out old old drafts for this one, but I needed a little Sherlock again :)

word count: 4k

warnings: a little arguing, pining, someone gets injured, idiots in love™️ (it's a new genre of mine)

･ﾟ✫* 𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ｡✭･ﾟ

You sighed as Sherlock moved about his office with hasty determination. He was a strange man. Oblivious, too, time and time again. But that did not matter for you loved him. You loved him and every strange habit he harbored. Whether it was the way in which he arranged his coats on the brass hanger by the door or that godawful pipe he seemed to always have hanging from his lips. He did not even like it - he had told you one time. “’tis just a habit, dear,” it would muffle past the brown bit in his mouth before he would clip it back between his teeth. 

But you did not care. And that must have been the very fact telling you just how deeply your heart had already fallen for the famous detective. Not a care in the world, especially not for what other people thought to say the least. Because all you ever thought about upon seeing him was love, warmth, and endearment. Nothing less. Not even a wretched criminal could ever shoot these feelings out of your heart. 

Oh well, it did not matter, anyhow. For there was one issue keeping this fairytale from becoming reality. And this issue was that Sherlock Holmes, the brightest man you knew, was blatantly oblivious to the feelings you had harbored in your chest. To be fair, you had never mentioned it to him before. For you were simply terrified of the consequences such a confession would hold. It was one thing to pine over a man who you were lucky enough to be in the same room with, but it would be undeniably humiliating to be rejected by said man as well. So you had chosen not to act on the fiery desire burning within your veins whenever your eyes hushed a glance at him. 

As much as that decision was made to protect your heart, it had turned out the circumstances provided the opposite of the desired effect. You were hurting more and more with every day you had to live with the realization that Sherlock Holmes did not love you back. In fact, he loved other women - many of them. And every single one more beautiful than the other. Sometimes you found yourself wondering if they were human at all. Never before had you seen such luscious hair as that of Sibyl or such a beautiful smile as that of Amelia. It was difficult to settle with these gorgeous women having a place in his bed and possibly his heart, but soon, you realized the importance of seeing him happy trumped your own desires. If he was happy, so were you. And if you weren’t the one making him happy, so be it. 

You had just come here to see Enola from her home to the city. Stopping by her brother’s apartment had not been on the agenda, at least not yours. But Enola was adamant to have you come when she raced up the stairs to his door. You had gasped when Sherlock had opened, his hair slightly disheveled and the shirt loosely tugged in his trousers. Your heart was pounding - it always happened when you saw him, and you swiftly averted your eyes to hide the flustered look on your face from him. 

Now you were standing in his messy home as you listened to Enola convince him to let her help him on a particular case of his - one she had a personal attachment to. Mixed emotions crawled up your spine at the sight of this professional yet intimate space. Not only one room over, Sherlock's bed was mockingly standing beyond the door, messy sheets indicating his prior endeavors, but there was no Sibyl or Amelia in sight. Still, your hands clamped around the silky material of your skirt, wrinkling the fabric harsher with every minute you spend in the deep-colored room. It smelled of musk and tobacco. Two things you had grown to miss whenever they were not surrounding you, but now, it was a shiver too much. 

Sherlock stood before you and Enola with his hands on his hips, a look of annoyance and disapproval etched on his features, but nonetheless, a sense of amusement in the edges of his frown. You knew him too well not to notice the slight pride swelling from his chest at his little sister’s determination. 

“I believe it is too dangerous for a girl like you to wander the streets, chasing criminals through London, Enola.”

“And I believe that you are an idiot, brother.”

“Perhaps,” your finger lifted in suggestion, stopping Sherlock’s head from tilting in disapproval at his sister’s array just in time. “She can be accompanied in her wandering?”

“And who would this accompany be?”

You knew it was not your place to negotiate, but you cared for Enola too much not to. And even though Sherlock’s stern eyes bore into your frame, you began to talk again: “I could-“

“Oh, dear lord. That is out of question.”

“Why brother? Do you not think Ms. Y/N and I can defend ourselves?”

A short silence lay upon the siblings as you watched the man’s shoulders draw up with a tense jaw. “I said no.”

“You are being irrational.” Enola cried. She was not one to accept defiance easily, you were well aware of it.

“No, you are being irrational. I will not vouch for having two women hurt on a mission to gather intel for my cases.”

“You cannot stop me.”

There was something itching in the glimmer of his eyes when the words left his lips, though you weren’t quite sure what to make of it.

“Enola!” Almost fearfully, Sherlock turned to you, his eyes wandering and desperation conveyed in his stare when you heard the young girl open the door.

“I am sure we can negotiate a way to have both parties satisfied.” Enola halted as you spoke. “I am certain your bother has other tasks that need fulfilling and are less prone to danger. Isn’t that right, Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock was not entirely satisfied with this turn of events, but his sagging shoulders told you that he accepted the compromise. A sigh eluded from his lungs and Enola turned to the dark-haired man with excited eyes. “I presume, there would be things you could do.”

“Thank you–“

“But,” his eyes turned stern again, “In the office only. No more wandering, is that clear?”

Enola beamed. “Yes.”

❁ ❁ ❁

It was not long after the discussion when you and Enola went about home from the city. Still, however, despite the seemingly fair compromise negotiated just minutes prior, the younger woman sloppily trudged next to you.

“He is an idiot, that is what he is.” Enola stomped past you with a pouty face. It was not ladylike, but luckily, she knew that you were not one to care about that. 

You understood Enola’s frustrations, but simultaneously, your heart were to break if anything ever happened to her. So you understood the settled worry in her brother’s words as well. He was a good man. “He is just worried. It means he cares.”

“Well, he could care a little less and let me do my job.” You hid a smirk. Only Enola would be as adamant about saving a boy she had only met days ago. She was just as goodhearted and justice-seeking as Sherlock, and your heart warmed at the similarities the siblings shared.

“It is not your job, Enola.” Sometimes you genuinely admired her fixation, though it mostly converted into trouble, still. Enola had a lot more freedom than you did when you were her age, and you too would have sprung at any chance to go and wander about, seeking adventures and perhaps a little more than that. Which was in turn, why your heart felt torn between the fulfillment of having her seek childhood dreams, and the subtle but strong tug Sherlock Holmes held you with. 

“Did you forget what we just found out yesterday? It seems no one cares about him. And if nobody else will do it, I consider it my duty to help.”

“Enola, dear.” You held her shoulders gently. “I understand your worries, but I understand your brother’s as well. I would be just as worried about you if something were to happen, and I do not want to see you hurt, either.”

“But we have to do something!” This was true. It would not be right to leave the boy framed with false accusations when you had the power to change his fate. There was something you could gather - information that may help him be acquitted.

“How about I go?” You silently cursed your good intentions as Enola’s eyes lit up. It was a blessing and a curse. But other than Enola, there would be nobody worrying for you, and in turn a lot less hearts broken if something were to happen - which it surely would not. “You can stay in the study and I will see to it that we may gather more information.”

“Alright, but be careful. And make sure to come back by five. Otherwise, someone will get suspicious.” The girl smiled, but her shoulders shook with excitement.

“What? Do you think I’m stupid?” You teased, awaiting a sassy ‘of course not’ which you returned with a wink.

❁ ❁ ❁

Enola watched the clock next to the window. Seconds, ticking by too fast for her liking. She needed more time - you needed more time. Her brother had given her files to sort and he would be coming back soon. Upon your agreement yesterday, you had gone out to gather information on the woman who accused the boy. But you would be back soon, she told herself.

“Is Ms. Y/N not here with you?” Sherlock’s voice called through the room and his steps approached her steadily. 

Enola was stiff. “She is out,” she told him while her fingers counted the pile of files on the desk.

“Out? With who?” He stepped around the polished mahogany, settling in front of her with his hands behind his back. “I didn’t realize she was being courted.” 

Oh. Enola’s eyes sparkled with amusement when she obtained a glimmer of jealousy in her brother’s. She had always had her suspicions. And she knew of your being madly in love with her brother, but Sherlock had always been secretive regarding the topic of love.

“She went to shop,” she smiled, averting her eyes. Waiting - no, anticipating a response from him.

“So she is not with anyone.” Sherlock leaned forward with squinted eyes. For a man as good at solving puzzles as he was, he did need an awful lot of confirmation.

Enola finally looked up. “Ugh, you really are an idiot.” 

“Would you quit calling me an idiot?” Disapproval swept his features and made a frown settle instead. 

“I would, but you won’t quit being an idiot.”

“Whatever do you mean?” It was quite amusing to see him clueless for once. And even though you tried to hide your feelings or the way you responded whenever he was as much as in the same room as you, it did not go past Enola how long your eyes lingered on his frame or the way the sadness overtook your features at the mention of another woman.

“Ms. Y/N is head over heels in love with you. And I do not understand why you refuse to see it, she is not hiding it very well, you see?”

Sherlock stumbled back, his hands seemingly finding their pace over his heart when he repeated her words. “Ms. Y/N? In love with me?”

“And you really call yourself the greatest detective of our time.” Enola shook her head. Still, the thought of the two of you together was one she liked to entertain. And she asked herself just how much you could talk Sherlock into once you were together. He was already caving when you suggested things - the possibilities of Enola getting her way when the both of you finally gave into the pining were endless!

“Oh, hush. I just never thought she would...” Sherlock trailed off, and if Enola was not mistaken, she caught a whisper of pink settle over his cheeks. Could it really be? The great Sherlock Holmes in love? Even better with a woman Enola adored as well?

“This is exactly the problem, brother. You don’t think when it comes to women.” Her mind wandered back to the women you had seen leave his chambers by the break of dawn. And just like then, Enola noticed a familiar sense of sadness wash over her brother’s eyes - the same one you hid from her in these moments.

“Enola...” But his words died on his tongue and Enola thought it wiser to resume her task. Sherlock was aware of his idiocy. For Enola knew just how insignificant all the other women were to him. And she hoped he had realized this fact.

A moment or two passed in which Sherlock paced the room mindlessly. His hands disappeared behind curtains and in bookshelves, until they reached for the pocket watch in his coat and a subtle grumbling eluded his lungs. “She should be back soon, anyhow. Should she not?”

“I suppose, yes.” 

“Well, it is quarter past five already. The shop is closed well over an hour now.” Sherlock did not hide the impatience in his tone, now. And Enola felt a wave of success wash over her.

It was difficult to hide her nervousness, though, for she now worried about you as well. But you were fine - she consoled herself. You were tough and intelligent, simply a little late - that was surely it. “She will come soon.”

An unusual tension fell over the room and Enola was certain, her brother had already dismissed her little story. But she would not falter. Her fingers kept cramming through the papers, counting pages she had analyzed and sorted two times by now. Her movements, however, became more frantic, and soon, her heart was pounding in her wrists.

“Enola, what in heavens did you do?” Sherlock urged impatiently, a look cold as a stone set on his face. 

“Nothing.” She did not look at him, then he would know instantly - the little lie she told.

“You sent her out to spy didn’t you?”

Why did he keep asking if he already knew the answer? Enola did not speak. She was fairly ashamed, though. She wanted to show her brother just how capable she and you both were. But having you not come back made for a serious difficulty to her plan.

She looked up at him now, just in time to see his shoulders sag and his head tilted up in frustration. “After I told you not to?”

“You only ever forbid me from going!” She cried, suddenly feeling attacked by his irrational outburst.

“I did not want Ms. Y/N out in the streets alone, either.” Sherlock was pacing again, his shoes clicked on the polished wooden floor until the reached the coat hanger by the door, only to gruffly rip the dark cloak from its place.

An accusing finger reached in his direction and a small smirk appeared on his sister’s lips. “So you are in love with her.”

The man frowned and his chestnut locks shook with annoyance. “That is not important right now. We need to find her.”

He did not deny it and Enola Holmes viewed it as a success.

❁ ❁ ❁

Sherlock swept through the streets as fast as his feet could carry him. Never had he thought that he would need to worry about your well-being. Enola’s? Yes, constantly. She did dangerous things all the time. But you were the one with the rational mind, the trait he adored most above all, for it eased his own every so often. It was enough to look out for Enola as much. He loved her and that was what love did: It made for weaknesses. Though Sherlock never wished to not adore you as much as he did, at this moment, it would have spared him trouble. 

He passed another alley filled with dubious fellows and willed his thoughts not to stray to dark paces. Normally, he could stay focused. Normally, he was able to separate his feelings from his tasks very well. Normally, he needn’t worry about you, however. 

Enola was many steps behind, he could hear her heels clicking in haste in her catching up, but Sherlock would not budge. He would keep on searching, keep on going straight until his sister gave him another direction to follow. She knew where you were after all, and he could not even begin to indulge in the worry-consumed anger this fact fueled him with. 

It did not take long for the detective to reach the house of the last suspect he had abandoned in his search for answers. You must have gone there. Enola had been especially furious about his dropping the woman upon questioning, urging her brother to stay on the lead. But Sherlock had already gotten enough information to place her in the entire scheme. Enola did not know this of course - he had never told her. So it was only plausible to send you to spy on said woman. What you had not known, however, was the dangerous affiliates this woman had, and the little to no hesitance of hers to pursue them.

The house lay empty on the street once the siblings reached its steps, no light shining through the glass windows, not the smell of dinner lingering in the air. It was odd, though nothing to be upset over. You had been here, Sherlock knew it. He was disappointed to find out, however, that you were not anymore. Of course, you had realized the danger of the situation and left, but where to? 

His head jerked to the left once Enola caught up to him, following the rattling of bins coming from the alley close by, where a faint trail of blood droplets mixed with the rain. 

“Bloody hell,” the detective mumbled with every inch it lead him further to your location. And sure enough, beyond the shielding confines of a wooden palette, he spotted your coat pressed into the wall. 

A small hiss, and then: nothing when he called your name.

“Ms. Y/N, heavens!” He rushed over once his eyes caught your distraught face behind the wood, your entire hand covered in blood, pressed to your head, where more seemed to have already dried on your scalp. 

“Mr. Holmes?” Your voice was weak, your eyes hazy - growing in the confusion the head injury most likely brought to you. 

Sherlock's arms reached out to engulf you, a handkerchief quick to be pressed on your head as he knelt beside you and let your body rest against his torso. “Enola, go and get help, immediately!” He commanded with urgency, having the young girl run off with a shocked nod.

His attention traced back to your body, where his eyes focused on your heavy lids and his heart clenched at the sight. You were hurt - seriously hurt - and Sherlock could not shake the feeling of it being his fault. Had he only consulted you in his case, had he talked to Enola, had he been less cowardly and finally admitted to his feelings. This all might have never happened.

“You should not have gone out alone!” He cried as he rocked you back and forth, his arms held you a little tighter, and he was certain that his heart beat through the several layers of clothing separating you.

“You have no right to rule over me.” Your hands pressed against his chest, forcing him to let you pull away from his embrace, and Sherlock instantly missed the warmth holding you had given him. He needed it back - confirming you were fine.

“But I told you not to go!” Big eyes stared up at him, but there was disappointment simmering beneath the sheer gleam of anger.

“Why are you upset? I can do whatever I desire!” It was meant to come out strong, but not even a woman as tough as you were able to hide the weakness taking over your body.

“But you got hurt!” Sherlock was juggling with empty arguments, he knew this much. But there was no right way to express what he wished to pursue with his words. It was all too much and not enough, all the same.

“Mr. Holmes, I can take good care of myself. I have done it my whole life.”

“And you shouldn’t have.” This seemed to have caught you by surprise. For you stopped in your shuffling away and held his gaze equal in confusion and intrigue. 

“Whatever do you mean?” You shrieked softly, your breath staggering when he came closer to you.

Sherlock found it incredibly difficult to talk, suddenly. His hands were clammy and that stupid tie around his neck seemed just a tad too tight. Christ, he could not even look at you. He was left staring towards the wet grounds with his hands wringing beneath him.“I- it has come to my attention that I lack perception in some categories.” He hushed a look at you and was not surprised to see utter confusion seeping through your stare. 

Sherlock sighed and his shoulders jumped heavily once he mustered up the courage to explain: “I do not wish to see you hurt.”

“Why?” Your eyes were big and wondrous, much like a curious child prying up in awe over what it was to become privy of.

Sherlock tried, he really did, to be steady and informative, but there was no use, for his heart had decided otherwise. “Because... because, I- my heart hurts when I imagine something happening to you.”

“But what about Sybil or Amelia… or Babette?” Every name stung another hole in his heart as your eyes saddened naming the woman he had spent previous nights with in order to get over you. He never loved them, never adored them the way he did you. They were simply a distraction. A petty compromise for the actual being he was sure would never return his affection. Now that he found out the opposite, Sherlock was uncertain about how to act. 

“These women... they were just compensation for the one I couldn’t have.” He confessed slowly, his hand reaching for you and finally getting ahold of your chin. “I did not think you would be interested in me.”

“Oh but I am, Sherlock.” Your fingers came to cover his. “I am.” And an unbelievable force of warmth and calmness washed over him. Despite the blood, despite the worry. Despite everything being wrong at this very moment, he was calm. You had this effect on him.

“I know that now. My sister told me.” Sherlock sent a silent prayer to the stars. Had his sister not been as persistent he would have never gotten the opportunity to hold you close - feel you the way he desired. 

“She is quite a smart lady isn’t she?” A low chuckle echoed through the darkening alley, though a shy blush crept upon the detective’s cheeks. 

“As much as I hate to admit it, she is a good detective.” His thumbs stroked gentle swipes over your skin, a sliver of warmth tasting your body with every movement, and it felt good to have you indulge in his touch. He would have never dreamt of having you this close, having you feel the same feelings he did. And to be perfectly honest, experiencing it, in reality, was a hundred times better than anything he had ever imagined. “God, Y/N. If only I had known earlier.”

“Let us not grieve what is already done. Embrace the possibilities of the future with me.” Your eyes locked with his once again and your aura seemed to pull him even deeper into a trance. Sherlock could not look away. He was captured by every loving emotion radiating off of you. It was unlike anything he had ever felt before. But he would keep it guarded in his chest for eternity, even if nobody were to ever ask him about it. It was precious - this moment was worth hundred terrible ones. 

“You are right,” he agreed, and then, beyond his control almost, Sherlock pulled you into a warm kiss. 

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[milfloveer]

Sherlock Holmes x fem!reader

Prompt: Y/n gives Sherlock a time out of the work

Warnings: smut 18+ minors DNI, age gap (reader is in their 20s and Sherlock in his 30s), p in v, unprotected sex, creampie

A/n: Hey! It's my first work here on Tumblr! So please be nice, thank you <3 Also I'm open to requests! (Character or not, male or female x femreader :3)

‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚ ⊹ ‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹

The smell of tobacco coming from the smoking pipe invaded my nostrils, which made me look over towards the man sitting on his chair while concentrating on the papers scattered all over the desk in front of him. A frown on his face and the smoking pipe dangling from his lips, his hair a little ruffled from the many times he passed his hands over it.

My face softens and a smile forms on my lips, it is amazing how this man can be even more handsome when he doesn't care, but what is truly remarkable is how the so famous detective, Sherlock Holmes, can't figure out the feelings I nurture for him, for I don't even try to hide them.

Realizing that I am staring I shake my head and look back at the tangling lines on the map securing some clues in certain places.

Nonetheless, I can't take the man present in the same room out of my head. How we both need some rest, so I decide to take matters into my hands.

With my heart hammering into my ribcage I approach Sherlock from the side "Any luck?" I ask, trying to gain more time so my restless heart wouldn't jump out through my mouth. The man closes his eyes while sighing "None. This man is playing with us, he's always a step ahead." he says now looking directly at me.

Taking a deep breath I approached him more "Maybe we need some rest, so we could think straight. In the early morning is better than the late night, Sherlock." I say trying to convince him, but he doesn't listen to me "No, I need to solve this. You go rest, y/n. You deserve it." he says getting back to his papers.

I roll my eyes annoyed and turn his chair towards me so he could be face to face with me "You deserve to rest as well." I say firmly while staring at his blue eyes.

Sherlock seems surprised by my behavior "Y/n, I-" he tries to say but I stop him by putting my index finger in front of his lips "No 'but', no nothing. Rest." I demand. He opens his mouth again to talk so I straddle him, our faces now centimeters away "No 'but's." I say seductively, his body tenses under mine "Y/n-" he gulps, my heart roaring on my chest, my nerves are above the scale, but I keep my composure, firm, sexy and confident.

A wave of pure confidence floods over me and in a second I close the gap between us, my mind racing with a million thoughts all at once, my heart ripping out of my chest and the air on my lungs no longer existing. Until I felt Sherlock hands grabbing firmly my waist, pulling me closer and his lips moving hungrily against mine.

I started grinding against him, which made his hands grip my hips. His touch feels electric against my body. A needy moan escapes between my lips and as a result of, Sherlock hands move to my thighs, slowly, painfully, teasingly, moving towards my center.

"Please." I breathe out against his lips, he looks at me, his eyes dark with desire "Please what, darling?" his voice seductively low and raspy "I need you." I say tugging his hair softly while keeping my hip movements. I can feel him hard against my center "Then take me." Sherlock says daringly, that's all I needed to hear.

My hands move to his pants unbuttoning them and releasing him, I can feel myself dripping at his sight. With one hand I grab him and slowly stroke him, teasing him, pulling a guttural groan out of Sherlock, his head falls back against the chair. My other hand is pulling my undergarments off of me and when I'm fully free I stop my movements and look deep into Sherlock eyes "You sure about this?" I ask him "I've dreamed of this moment, darling. I'm truly certain about this." the man says while squeezing my thighs, his eyes darting between my eyes and lips.

I cup his face so I could bring him closer to seal our lips together in a heated kiss. He lets out a groan when one of my hands grabs him while centering with me. Moving my body down slowly I feel his tip entering me, my head falls to his shoulder, my mouth wide as he keeps filling me up, his head back and his eyes shut, while a soft moan escapes his soft lips.

When he's fully inside me I wait a moment so I can adjust to his size, Sherlock on the other hand starts displaying open mouth kisses from my neck to my collarbone, his hand rips the corset buttons open and then pulls my blouse down so my breasts are fully disposed to him. He moans at the sight before attaching his lips to my right nipple, making my head fall back as my hand goes to the back of his head, nuzzling my fingers into his hair, pulling his head even more towards me.

My hips start moving slowly causing Sherlock and I to groan in synchrony "You have no idea how long I've been thinking about this." He says against my breasts looking up at me like a lost puppy, the sight mixed with the words he said brings out a chuckle from me "And here I thought you were the best detective of all time." I say beginning to move up and down, filling me up each time I move down, his tip hitting a wonderful spot every single time.

"Bloody hell, y/n. You feel wonderful." Sherlock says grabbing my hips so he could help me with the movements "Yes, Sherlock, just like that." I say feeling the pressure building up on my lower abdomen.

I start to move sloppily and out of coordination so Sherlock circles my waist with his arms pulling me closer to him, our bodies sticky with sweat, he starts moving his hips up and down with deep and faster trusts which makes me stop my own movements and scream out "Sherlock!" He bites my neck sucking right after, certainly leaving a love mark.

"That's it darling, cum for me." His deep raspy voice demands on my ear and it was all I needed to go over the edge, my body trembles with ecstasy, but nonetheless Sherlock keeps his movements, a little more sloppier than before "Good girl. Now are you going to make daddy cum as well?" He asks making me moan at his words "Yes." I say and he slaps my butt cheek "Yes what?" Sherlock asks with his deep voice "Yes, daddy." I say biting my bottom lip "That's my good girl. I'm gonna fill you up with my seed and you're going to take it all." He says grabbing my chin and forcing me to look right at his blown irises "Yes, daddy, give me everything." I say feeling my second orgasm building up.

All that is heard on the loft is the encounter of our skins, the sounds of my juices dripping all over him "Shit- Sherlock, I'm close!" I say as my walls clench around him and I could tell his near too. A few more deep trust and his hot liquid is filling me up while my body shakes almost violently with my second ecstatic moment.

After coming down from our highs I lay my forehead against his, a smile plastered on my lips, our breaths shaky and heavy. Sherlock chuckles and kisses me softly "What if we take this to the bedroom?" His suggestive tone makes me chuckle "Lead the way." I say before he lifts me up in his arms while getting himself up from his chair, making our way to the bedroom.

[star-girl-05]

Experiment

Sherlock Holmes x Reader

~★~❤︎~✦~

There are many ways to describe THE Sherlock Holmes: Eccentric, Determined, Odd, Genius. Those unfortunate enough to meet him in person would describe him as childish. It’s quite amusing to think that someone as smart as Sherlock would be so childish. He throws tantrums and pouts when he doesn’t get his way. Even when he’s solving a case, he’s giddy like his mommy brought him home a toy. So it should be no surprise he acts childish when he’s in love. 

Of course he doesn’t tell you about his new found feelings for you. No, he performs little experiments on you. Trying to inquire if you could share his feelings. He starts off slowly not wanting to alert you. He begins by increasing his physical contact with you. Just a simple brushing of knuckles when passing each other. Or a gentle hand on your back. Light innocent touches, that's all he dares to do. You don’t seem to mind which gives him confidence to continue testing the relationship between you too. 

He moves on from light touches to soft words. He’s not bold enough to openly flirt with you. That's not his style but he does tease you in his own way. He’ll whisper his explanations in your ear letting his lips graze your ear ever so lightly. Giving him the out if you should bring it up that it was accidental. He’ll give you compliments in the form of observations. ‘That colour blue suits you’, there simple barely there compliments but he still notes the reddish colour to come to your face at them. 

So far it seems you share Sherlock's feelings, but he needs something more concrete if he’s going to confess. So tonight he’s going to be more bold. Johns out with *insert girls name* Sherlock and you will have the flat completely to yourselves. Giving him the perfect atmosphere to collect the last bit of data he needs to know before he reveals his feelings. He needs your pulse, he’s been trying to get it the past week but you always evade him. Moving at just the right moment preventing him from gathering this crucial data. Tonight though he’s determined to get it. 

You have a bright smile on your face when you enter the flat holding a bag of take out. If you're being honest you find yourself nervous to be alone with Sherlock in this manner. Of course you’ve spent time alone with him before, though he was always working on a case. This was different, this time his focus would be on you. It is intimidating to have his undivided attention. Honestly you were so surprised when Sherlock texted you to come over. The simple short text of ‘John’s out come over’ It didn’t leave room for you to say no not that you would have. The thought of declining never even crossed your mind. As soon as you got his message you were responding, at first you thought he had a case. Though with a simple text he refuted the idea texting you that he was just inviting you over. 

After staring at the text for an absorbent amount of time you finally get ready. Picking up takeout on your way and that's where you are now. Sitting next to Sherlock watching some random tv program while eating your takeout. You’re the first to break the silence, “Is everything alright Sherlock?” You're trying not to ruin the evening but you can’t help but be curious as to what brought on this on. He’s been acting differently all week. It was subtle changes at least in the beginning.

Yesterday when the two of you were walking to the lab he grabbed your hand. Fully interlocking his fingers with you. He didn’t even acknowledge it so neither did you just letting him lead you to the lab. 

“Do you think I invited you over because something was wrong?” your face told him his answer. “John was out so I thought we could spend time together” you let out a soft ‘oh’. Not that Sherlock was listening, no he was focusing on your body language. Watching closely at the blush forming on your cheeks. Time to get his last few points of data. 

He feels more confident, especially when he moves closer to you and your pupils enlarge. Your voice is background noise to Sherlock, he focused on your pulse. That's beating rapidly under his finger tips. Experiment complete. 

He cuts you off mid-ramble placing a kiss against your soft lips. He smirks against your lips when he feels your pulse pick up. When he pulls away your eyes are still closed. “What- you just kissed me” your voice is shaky. 

“Yes and I want to do it again, if that’s okay?” While Sherlock was confident in his deducing skills. He was still uneasy about romantical advances.

“Please” you're already tangling your hand in his hair, pulling him back to you. 

Sherlock Holmes can be described as many things: Eccentric, Determined, Odd, Genius, and an amazing Kisser.

[saraakpotter]

imagine: meeting Sherlock for the first time and him not being able to 'read' you

*y\f\c= your favorite country

You were one of Lestrade's close friends. you worked as a detective inspector in another country but you had recently moved here and since you were a highly intelligent person he thought you and Sherlock should meet.

And today he decided to go to 221b and bring you with him so here you are, standing at a strangers door.

"this is absurd, why should i come again?" you asked

"for god's sake y\n can you stop nagging for a minuet and do what you're told to do?" he says tired of you constantly asking the same question.

"if you are asking me, no" you teased

"oh shut it" he says and you smirk.

The door opens.

"DI Lestrade!" the man says and Greg nod's walking in and guiding you in too.

"so, this is my friend y\n y\l\n. she moved here from y\f\c" Lestrade explained.

"oh! John Watson. pleasure to meet you." he introduced and you smiled shaking his hand.

As you entered the flat and sat down you saw a man with curly brown hair and a black coat sitting on an armchair, his eyes closed.

Lestrade pointed at the man.

"he is Sherlock Holmes. the man i was telling you about." he says and you nod obviously bored. with that the man opens his eyes and looks at Greg but then quickly glances at you.

"who is that?" he asks

"Sherlock, this is my friend, y\n y\l\n."

Sherlock remains silence, looking you up and down. after a while he raises an eyebrow.

he quickly looks at John.

new coat is sleepy just talked to an old friend has a date is nervous

He turns and looks at Lestrade.

annoyed same coat stressed has 2 mission reports to read has 6 missed calls

The words and random facts kept coming to his mind, he hadn't lost his observation skills.

He turns his look at you.

????

Was all he could see.

He rose an eyebrow and looked you up and down again.

"interesting" he muttered to himself

"what was that?" you ask

"nothing.....so, y\n, right? what do you do? as a job i mean." he asks making John and Greg smirk.

[cinebration]

Unfailing Confidence (Sherlock Holmes x Reader) [Request]

hi! I just got an idea for a henry!sherlock fic, and your one of my favourite writers, so maybe you could give it a shot the next time you feel like writing? anyway,, the basic premise was that sherlock and fem reader hunt down and catch jack the ripper. maybe reader has to go undercover as a prostitute? since jack the ripper was active in 1888 and Enola Holmes was set in 1884 it could work :) <3—Requested by anon

Warnings: violence, blood

Gif Source: henrycavilledits

“While I’m just as keen as you to catch this monster,” you said, your words clipped, “I’m not as keen about this idea.”

“I would perform it myself,” he answered matter-of-factly, “but I do not have the requisite…proportions.”

You smothered a snicker behind a lace-glove hand. Sherlock, you had learned, was a most peculiar creature, given that he valued reason over emotion to a degree unseen among his fellow man. He could examine a corpse and not bat an eye, but to reference your breasts or your hips was tantamount to sin—or rather, not sin but embarrassment. The man knew enough about social conventions to be exceedingly polite in the presence of a lady, but you were his lady—and married at that.

Your humor flagged, however, as you glimpsed yourself in the mirror. The dress was nothing like the ones hanging in your wardrobe. They revealed more of your breasts than you felt appropriate, reminding you of the night’s intention.

“Sherlock, if I should find myself—”

“I will be nearby all the while,” he assured you as he cinched the last of the lace-up bodice securely. His large hands rested on your shoulders, then slid deliciously down the exposed skin before running over the fabric covering your biceps. The solid presence of him behind you grounded you, allowing you to suck in a breath to calm your stuttering heart.

“And if you should chase off after the man and leave me behind to the whims of the regular gentleman?”

His right hand moved passed your arm and followed the curve of your hip, lingering with firm pressure before reaching the knife secreted inside a hidden pocket you had sewn in for that very purpose. “I know my wife is more than capable of defending herself against the common masses.”

Snorting, you turned in his arms, pressing up against his expansive chest. Your fingers splayed across the torn and soiled shirt he wore—you weren’t the only one masquerading in costume that night.

“That may be, Sherlock, but the streets are different now. There is a…” You searched for the word. “A hedonism fueled by fear. These people think these nights may be their last. It turns them into animals, that fear.”

“So long as the fear does not infect you, I have no cause for worry.”

You sighed through your nose, pressed your forehead against his chest as his hands pressed flat against your shoulder blades, drawing you close. His heart beat steadily beneath your ear, encouraging yours to match it.

“Your confidence in me is unfailing,” you whispered.

“I know you,” he answered simply.

It wasn’t “I love you,” but it did more to warm your heart than the conventional phrase.

~~

Heavy rain poured down in sheets on the cobblestone streets, driving everyone indoors or under the eaves of pubs. The worn and slightly tattered shawl around your shoulders did nothing to stave off the chill of the night. You huddled beneath a broken eave down the alley from a pub one block away from the Ripper’s last kill.

Few men gave you a second glance, preferring the warmth of the pub. You didn’t complain, not wanting their attentions, though you made the requisite pleading noises to induce them to hire your services. All the while, you payed close attention to the shadows along the alley, searching for unusual movement, for a loiterer in the rain.

There was one at the far end of the street, slumped against the steps of a closed door, seemingly sleeping. Seeing him gave you strength, knowing Sherlock was there surveying with as critical an eye as yours, alert for any and all dangers to you.

The hours passed, steadily approaching midnight, than passing it by. The pub closed an hour later, the men shuffling out and dispersing quickly, albeit drunkenly, through the still-sheeting rain. You pressed miserably against the wall, trying to avoid the rain guttering down from the broken eave, and prayed that Sherlock was wrong and the Ripper would not reappear that night—or at least not reappear on your street.

The cold and the lack of patrons forced you to sit on your heels, huddled with your arms wrapped tight around your torso. Sherlock and you had not accounted for the weather. If you contracted a chill or cold, you were in for a miserable few days, assuming it didn’t turn into something more dangerous.

Beneath the incessant drone of the rain against the cobblestones and tiled roofs, you heard a sound. Alarm coursed through you, snapping you alert. Trying not to betray yourself, you glanced around only with your peripherals, searching for movement in the gray darkness.

Your right hand, concealed by your position against the wall, crept down to your pocket.

You heard the sound again, this time unmistakable: Footsteps against the cobblestones. They hesitated, as though searching for witnesses, deciding.

Your fingers fumbled with the rain-soaked fabric, heart thundering in your ears.

The steps approached, quick and confident now. You clawed at the dress, trying to force open the sodden pocket. Your fingers closed around the handle.

Your wrist caught on the pocket, the lace glove hitching on the fabric.

You leapt to your feet, pulling the knife free.

The figure slammed into you from behind, knocking your skull against the wall. Stars flared across your rain-blurred vision. Staggering, you whipped around, brandishing the knife in the man’s direction.

The rainy street was empty.

You spun around a fraction too late. You slammed against the wall again, your vision going black at the edges. The knife clattered to the street, a heavy hand twisting your wrist hard. Stifling a cry, you sucked in a breath to shout for Sherlock.

The hand shifted to your throat. Panic surged through you. You clawed at the hand, trying to see the face of the figure through the sheeting rain. Lashing out, you kicked with your heel, aiming for his thigh, his groin.

He grunted, his grip on your neck slackening. Knocking it away, you stumbled back, sucked in a painful breath. “Sher—”

A dark blur sprinted down the alley. The figure collapsed beneath it, a shout of surprise ripping past his lips. You scrambled for the fallen knife as Sherlock battled the man, the two of them rolling in the street.

The rain had submerged parts of the alley. Shoving your hands into murky water, you frantically scoured the cobblestones for the knife to help Sherlock. He grunted once, then again, stoking more panic within your chest.

Emerging empty-handed, you spun around, shielding your eyes from the rain. The men struggled against the ground, grappling in a flurry of blurred body parts. To your horror, Sherlock was on his back, struggling against the wild strength of the monster.

You raced across the slick stones, rolled your ankle as you reached the two men. Crashing into them, you felt something hard smack against the back of your head. A high-pitched sound rang in your ears as you lay in a daze on the cold stone.

Footsteps slapped through puddles, sprinting away.

You struggled to your elbows, slumped backward as a wave of dizziness and pain stirred up nausea in your stomach. Choking it back, you coughed on the rain trying to flood your nose.

Sherlock softly called your name. Fear drove through you like an ice spike at his tone. Forcing yourself into a sitting position, nausea and pain be damned, you blinked blearily through the sheets of rain until you saw a lump a few feet away. Shuffling on hands and knees, the lump in your throat thickening as nausea pushed insistently upward, you dragged yourself over to him until you could look down into his face.

“See?” he said, smiling weakly. “You are fine.”

You shook your head even as unease coursed through your guts at the sight of the smile. “I have lumps on my skull to say otherwise.”

Placing a hand on his chest, you smiled, then frowned. Lifting your hand away, you glanced down in time to see the rain sluice off a red slick on your palm. Dread raked cold fingers down your spine.

“It appears the Ripper has stabbed me,” Sherlock stated. “He has missed vital organs, but it is growing increasingly difficult to breathe.”

You leaned over him, stared down into his piercing blue eyes. Tamping down on your fear, you said, “Don’t you dare die on me,” pressed a hard kiss to his lips, and leapt to your feet to find a constable.

[livesinfantasyland]

Victorian Era Ball

Pov - You attend a Ball with Sherlock Holmes wearing an embellished golden lehnga instead of a ball gown.

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