#Sherlock Holmes imagines

[married-to-google-translater]

So if this don't bother you, you would write about William and Sherlock with a y/n as smart as them but incredible lazy

You don't bother me <3

Sherlock Holmes

You really intrigued Sherlock.

You two met each other at some fancy party.

Sherlock recognized your intelligence right away, but not you as a person.

He would think that with those intellectual gifts you would have recognition.

However, Sherlock was wrong.

Probably the first time in years.

Sherlock would spend almost all of his time with you.

You would talk about a lot of things and have a good time.

When Sherlock got back home he would start investigating you more.

Watson might think you're some level of criminal...

Sherlock was so passionate about his research.

The first meeting will definitely not be the only one.

Eventually, friendship would lead to dating.

Good luck with Sherlock, you're going to need it.

You two would have intelligent conversations every now and then.

Sherlock might try to bribe you to help him with his detective work.

The success rate of this would be variable lol

William James Moriarty

William met you on the first day at the flower shop.

At first he was just going to get some seeds for Fred's garden.

However, things had not gone as he had planned.

You two would get into a really interesting conversation.

William noticed right away that you are smarter than you look.

However, this could cause problems for him.

At first this was William's explanation for observing you.

However, soon you two would start dating.

William would probably never directly reveal his plans to you.

He would quietly ask you about it.

If you show the same spirit, William could reveal his plans at some point.

This would also provide an interesting challenge.

William would try his best to be as unsuspicious as possible.

Every day he would be grateful for your laziness.

One Sherlock is a solid opposition, but two Sherlocks would really be too much.

[fandom-imagines]

Awkward Confessions

Fandom: Sherlock

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader

Warnings: Awkward Sherlock

Sherlock was many things. Some were good, some were bad, some were… interesting, but if there was one thing that Sherlock was absolutely terrible at, it would be admitting feelings. That much became obvious as he stood in front of Y/N, the object of his affection, attempting to express his feelings for her.

“Sherlock?” She asked. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, just be quiet for a minute.” Came his response.

“All right?” She was confused, it was pretty obvious to anyone. Sherlock never looked this awkward.”

“There’s something I need to say, something I should say…” He began, unsure where he was going with this. He lost his trail of thought the moment she looked at him with her wide and worried eyes; they were beautiful. “I know I’m… me, and I’m not exactly the most likeable person in the entire world. I’m rude, blunt, and a smartass, but…”

“There’s no need to put yourself down so much, Sher,” she sighed, shaking her head at his insulting words.

“I thought I told you to be quiet!” He rolled his eyes, shaking his head as she laughed and apologised.

“What I’m trying to say is… I like you. Don’t ask me why because I have no idea why, you’re a moron.”

Y/N burst into giggles at the final sentence. “That was so cute, at least until you called me a moron.” She smiled, stepping towards the, now blushing, man. Lifting herself onto her toes, Y/N placed a gentle kiss on his cheek.

“Don’t worry, I like you too, even if I am a moron.”

[imeternallylove]

Cloud Covered - S.Holmes

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader

Warning: Graphics of violence, torture of dead and plenty of more brutality

Word: 4.6k 🥹

main mastetlist  | request & ask | prompts | theme song

Chapters index

Bloodbath | Marionette | Invisible Strings (you are reading this)

Crown Prosecution Service

"Ladies and gentlemen, the accused, Simon Finn, is guilty."

You and your fiancé sat in the prosecutor's corner, as the blonde CPS officer in a lovely pinkish blazer and skirt spoke from the record of the detective's report. The snort from your lips when the following line came from her over there.

"Jersey wasn't even his true name. And his merciless murder spree has terrorised our community. Many innocent people, including some of our brave officers from New Scotland Yard, were all targeted for no other reason than to play Simon Finn's sadistic game."

Your eyes is locked on the other building, your countenance blank. Sherlock observes you, wonders what is going on in your thoughts, but refrains from asking questions; the man who murdered people close to them has finally been imprisoned, so he assumed it is only natural for you to have a lot on your mind at the moment.

“Simon Finn has confessed to every single one of these crimes. I ask that the court consider Simon Finn’s voluntary confession for his crimes. He has spared the victims families a prolonged trial, and in doing so has demonstrated a glimmer of remorse. Therefore it is my recommendation that Simon Finn be spared the death penalty, and instead sentenced to life in prison with no possibility to parole. Thank you.”

But at last, you could find rest now.

"It's over," Sherlock mutters as the judge sentences Simon to death by lethal injection, his eyes finally locking on yours, a little smile curving on his lips. "We did it." You notice one of his steadfast hand strokes on yours, where the sparkling shine of the diamond engagement band illuminates through into your eyes.

And an outpouring of pride washes over your soon-to-be lifeline, he finally bringing you serenity; which you truly not believe in this Simon Finn’ confess at all. "We did."

Your drifting sensation and eye contact unintentionally collided with Simon's in the relieving slumber, his look strained but with a smirk as opposed of a grimace; terrified to be execution, manifesting your chest to swell. It echoed in your head, ‘he’s not the real murderer.’

The silence is thick and oppressive, vibrating within the catastrophic white walls of Simon Finn's residence. No one dares to speak, no one dares to move a finger. 

Sherlock leaned over his brother's body, his hands grasping each side of the steel surface where he lied, pallid and lifeless after being discovered with a hole in his nape, spineless. A horrific method of murder, slow and certain to be agonising.

His gaze stayed fixated on the J engraved directly beneath Mycroft's collarbone.

When Sherlock is permitted into Simon's cell, the first thing he does is tie his fist to the prisoner's jaw.

"Oh my," you hissed behind him, but it didn't stop him from throwing another punch at the man. Sherlock was furious beyond comprehension, having left the mortuary without saying anything and going directly for prison to confront Simon - Jersey - himself.

"Why?" Sherlock asks, his voice trembling and his breathing irregular. "Why was Mycroft killed? How?"

In response, Simon gives him a nasty grin, prompting Sherlock to hurl him against the wall while seizing the taller's collar. There's no way Finn could have killed Mycroft while he's only been in this prison for over two weeks, waiting to pay for all the crimes he committed here and everybody knows. "Are you the only Jersey? Is there any more? Do you have people working for you?"

"Sherlock," you call from behind them. "I'm all for you beating the crap out of him, but let's not get into trouble here, okay?"

He heard you, acknowledged your remarks, but his gaze didn't stray away from Simon, retaining a firm grip on him. Simon, on the other hand, had his gaze fixated on you, the sick grin staying on his lips, and Sherlock shook his head fiercely. "Listen to me when I'm talking to you!" He insists, but Simon's eyes is fixed on you.

"London bridge is falling down," Simon singsongs softly, prolonging the syllables, his grin becoming broader. "My lovely lady."

Sherlock lets go of his hands, gazing at you, who are looking back at him, bewilderment evident in your stare, and Sherlock makes an impatience sounds before slamming Simon to the floor.

He rushes out of the a jail cell, leaving you with Simon's distant laughter ringing in the recesses of his eardrums. You perceive Sherlock needs alone time, which is why you hold your ready-to-wreck-down body to sit facing Simon, and remaining silent for a couple minutes rendered him stand up by himself and fling his ass onto the seat. You can bet he noticed you sweating, but it wasn't because you were scared or worried, rather because you always trust what your gut tells you. 

"I can feel you’re not the real Jersey." Before he could say anything, you began with your hoarse speaking; a slight smile formed as his grin rose while his hands with handcuffs grabbed his wounded bruise that your fiancée had made. “Well, I’m gonna die a liar anyway. The dirty liars.”

You lean back and nod with caution your head dipping slightly as you murmur, an enticing grin on the bridge of your mouth as you cross the spaces between your legs. "Then who did?"

"I've got a place; it's your job to find out." Simon claims it all in one breath, which leads to your brows with a furrow significantly. “Where?”

"-It's not, uh, better if I draw you a map." He ignores what you have to say and proceeds. He looks at your notebook with a treacherous smile on his lips. "You going to draw me a treasure map?" You pat the desk twice and stifle a giggle. "No, you've got word, just say it."

Simon's gulp drops, followed by a loud whistle from the prisoner. "I just want to show myself to you, lady."

You only nod contentedly. "So, let's say you're telling the truth, I assumed it’s seems like the real Jersey promising to get you out but he left you high and dry-" your cheshire cat-like sneer on Simon's hiss voice that is so audible it pierces right through your attention span, and that's saying something.

“My dear Marney, you seems don’t know a thing.”

"And I might bring you out in the next half hour to reenact the murder scene." You say this as you stand back up, pick up your notepad and tape player, and gesture to the cops to wait for you. You pause before answering the door, shifting back to meet Simon's satirising smile. "Does that sound like a fun way to celebrate your final 20 hours before the execution?"

"Do me a favour, Y/N. And just make sure he doesn't try anything." 

"Oh, he can certainly try."

Simon overheard Greg and you conversing, but paid scant close attention to you two, not bothering to digest your words as his thoughts focused on taking a deep inhalation in with a broad smile on his face, standing in front of his own residence. He was handcuffed, where he is accompanied by the two policeman officers behind him.

It wasn't difficult; it shouldn't have been difficult, but some pieces didn't quite fit in, and Sherlock lightning-fast assumed Simon Finn was the Jersey, and if he thrust them harder than necessary, you were able to predict Sherlock might break and ruin the entire puzzle, just like he only discovered 'who did' as opposed to 'why did that.'

"Don't get any ideas." You attained for Finn's handcuffs, and he takes his attention in unambiguously, almost latching on you for a moment. He gave you the typical greeting green signal and your petite smile spread with your dead outstares. "Good to see you again, cunning."

There was nothing to toy with, because the only thing written on your serene face was the phrase 'do not try me.'

"How's it going with your bracelets?"

"Well, I can't feel my fingers if that's what you're asking." Repiled you with a voice lower, like he attempt to convinced for some of your less generous tolerance. "You gonna help me out or what?" Now he asks in a more hushed but inquiring tone, to which you merely shrug and tighten his cuffs even more. "How's that?"

"Thats so kind of you."

Simon, move away with your arms folded behind you. "So, is this where you confessed that this was your treasure map?" You grumbled, with your eyebrows barely wrinkled. He simply sends you nods, and you bring him on the inside with Greg.

As soon as you notice the stairs, which must lead to the second and third floors, an officer approaches to report you. "All things is fine. There are actually two squatter nests, but they appear to be split." You drew your lips down to him, still not sure. “Alright. Just give us five."

It was Simon's turn to stare out at the view of his own house, which was visibly tense. You gave him a quick glance before poking his leg with your foot and angling your head. "Start the tour, boss."

"Here's Jersey, using my house as a treasure trove after running." The three of you subsequently followed Simon, who was waiting for Greg to unlock the door room on the second floor, but he was handcuffed. 

"It appears that nobody has been here in years, Finn." Greg makes a remark while pacing back and forth in Simon's sitting room, his brow furrowed in concentration. Confusion can be heard in Simon's speech. "I didn't say he'd be here to greet us either."

"There are still traces of footsteps." You shrugged, swinging your hands a little as you maintained your constantly wandering. Cast your torch towards a heap of papers. "That's all the newspaper has to say about 'J,'...I'm sure he's impressed by his reputation."

“He is.”

"Well," you breathe in, stating your thoughts and ignoring - or rather, hardly hearing - Simon's inputs. "In my little hope, I didn't plan to investigate any of the evidences for the aleatory case that simply does not make sense for months, Finn."

Simon is looking at you with furrowed brows and a thoughtful, perplexed gaze. "...You want me to tell you who's Jersey?"

"That was before we ever met, actually." You explain quickly, your face screwed somewhat in irritation. "If you're just trying to fool us, I'd say your death is impending." You breathe out eventually coming to a halt.

"From what I can tell, the killer was murdering for fun, for his own amusement, carving J's and dropping clues just to form tight headache knots in detectives' skulls." 

"That's the cost of doing business; I'd make a provision." You responded, then turned your focus towards Greg. You did this for a long, pacing around Simon's room, fingertips pushing together as you leaned your face against your hands, as if it would help you think better.

Greg's phone started ringing at that point. Reminding you that you squandered those five minutes looking for your restricted blocked hints. "For God's sake. I needs take this. Y/N, are you going to-"

"We're good." You notice Greg's worried eyes, despite your assurance and a little faith in Simon, making him goes away.

"Do you still think I'm making this stuff up?" Simon questions, almost cautiously.

"Less or less, if you don't play a game on me; the real Jersey is still running around the playground..." You state, emphasising your words as irritation rises once more. "And you can't offer me any proof that you're not Jersey anyway." 

"I can get you proof," Simon grunts as he approaches you. "No. You can't." You murmur, knowing your body despised practically instantly as he began confronting you. "You are correct. Not like this, I can't."

Your sternum is flailing in wrath, and when he speaks to you in that gentle voice of his, it almost feels as if you are bound by the lies. "You're nuts. I'll remind you that you just have a few hours to be executed." 

His frowns and glances elsewhere, a pout forming in his lips as you continue to hold your gaze up to his. "Look, you're correct. He left me high and dry, dying with the accusations I didn't do. I’m sure he won't feel like his ass has caught fire if I'm still in jail, as a soon-to-be executed criminal." 

You creak in response, feeling a sense that you shouldn't be wasting time like this when you should be working on the case, but when Simon continues, your intestinal tract seems to come back to live. "But now that I'm on my own, I can entice him and serve him up on a silver platter."

"Even if you are right, I have no right in offering what you need, Finn. Didn't you forget you're on death row?"

"For crimes that I didn't commit. Did you forget?" You slumped and went silent, not realising Simon was moving approaching. "Look at me. I could knock you out in an instant. The police would buy it, and we could make it look real, but I assure you that you and your tiny Marney would be perfectly unharmed."

Your lung is shrieking incoherently, -how could Finn be cognizant of this? You know how Sherlock always noticed an insignificant illness that affected you for months and you gave him your positive pregnancy results from the test, but soon you two were busy and forgot to mention it.

The stronger the air you breathe, the sharper your intuitive sense contrasts with the beams of light from the retreating obscurity you generate...

Simon Finn has had more contact with Sherlock than anybody else. Perhaps more than you realise.

“Prisoner 75427 is requested to be returned to custody immediately.”

“This is officer 926 receiving request . Please stand by for confirmation.”

The rejection of your attempt to ignore the reality blasted forth and back over your head. You cast one final glance at Simon and decide to believe in Simon Finn. You close your eyes after unlocking Simon's shackles and grasp the handcuffs key in your palm. Simon is already liberated as a result of your decision. 

He waited for your signal in quiet and reserved until you finally looked up at him. Your answer reinforces what he already knows.

“Do it.”

You awoke at Sherlock's flat with an aching neck. Mrs Hudson stated that he has been out with Greg since the officer brought you here an hour ago while arranging for you to change clothes and be ready for teatime with her.

Teatime and the wedding plan that the elderly woman advised were both superb, although your hand couldn't remain still as you discovered Finn's literally unreliable signal on your phone.  

Don’t bother catching a cab despite the fact that it began to rain meanwhile, feeling that walking your path back home would be calming to your nerves at least slightly so. You walk out the Baker street fast, hands stuck in your coat pockets, hair starting to stick to your forehead from the small but persistent raindrops. You bumps into one or two persons on your way, all of them attempting to escape the rain or fighting against the wind that attempted to take their umbrellas, but there's not a single worry on your mind despite the fact that this case was, after all, unsolved still.

You were already more than halfway to your destination when your phone buzzed in your pocket and you clicked your tongue, thinking it was Sherlock since you had just realised he had left you in his flat and you had always failed to follow following.

Nothing could possibly have prepared you for the text. Not even from Finn, as the red dot continued to run, heading and pausing at St. Bartholomew's Hospital for several minutes.

from: unknown

let's meet up? just us two…

— J

Never did you reply to a text so fast. And then, unexpectedly, a harder grip grabs your limb and takes you across into the area between blocks around the corner of the street. You could be recognised by the scent of nicotine mingling with body odour that you've been living with for years of age; it’s Sherlock.

“What the hell are you think?” He goldsmiths his quivering hands passionately, prompting your hold to tighten even more, disregarding your broken appearance further. “I know you let Jersey go.” 

In a rage of fury, you poured your scorn and suspicion on Sherlock back to Him, struggling to breathe. "Can you just listen to me?"

"Listen to you?" His inhales are sharp, and he counterfeits a witty smile that persists on his entire face. “I did- listen to you. And that's exactly how this happened!”  

You let yourself to get carried away in an ocean of rage, not his, but yours. There's no need for you to talk to Sherlock at this point if you want to break free from his clutches and walk away with no apology for whatever you've done.

The chosen location wasn't thought to be the most strategic on Jersey's part, being one of the few open fields on the outer edges of the city where buildings had yet to be built, but it wasn't a bad option either. Although there were houses nearby, there was no one on the streets; the mild rain became heavier, and the sand and dirt beneath your shoes turned to mud as you approached closer to the centre, a careful gaze observing the surroundings.

There wasn't a single person or sound but the static sounds of the pouring rain — Until, at last, someone turned around the corner of a werehouse, feet going to the wide field where you stood.

You blinked, wondering whether the poor weather was distorting your eyesight; nevertheless, at least for today, nothing could be worse than the battle with Sherlock. But no one was deceived by the guy approaching, and your expression was filled with perplexity.

"Sherlock?" You call, unclear how he could have followed you there, and afraid of why he would.

"Hello again, love." He welcomes you quietly as always, pausing solely a few metres away, a smile forming on his lips as his head tilts. "Did you miss me?"

You are certain that you have forgotten how to breathe.

The enormous sighs, as if the sudden revelation had sapped all vitality from your body, depriving you of your confidence and left you fatigued, bewildered, conjectured, and all that you had been sleeping with and stuck lingering inside you from the beginning of this case. You're still floating in a mass of haze and don't want to accept it, although his sharp glance aren't going to allow you to do so. You fail to locate your own voice though the question you pose to him. "Why?" 

"Why not?" Sherlock hums back, lifting his arms slightly to emphasise your query and taking tiny steps closer. "I thought it would be fun. Such a young man, Sherlock who inspired by detective novels and films, was duped by his own thinking but he always solved it all. Everyone is proud of whoever is in existence and has written history; they have faith in that. Am I horribly adorable, darling?"

You shake your head in bewilderment, your throat aching near to explode. "Finn—"

"That complete moron. As screwed up as we both are." Sherlock whistled as if he were telling you an intriguing tale. "Simon did whatever I ordered him to do like a puppy eager to impress. Still extremely efficient. I basically needed to give him a name and my favourite method of murder. Isn't he a fantastic actor? Even the murderer, who actually me, and his manipulation all of you as the true murderer, he should feel honoured."

He flicked on the lighting, enabling you to spot Simon's corpse on ground covered in bloodstream, and you were certain he was murdered before you came. Sherlock tosses the body away with one of his foot as he begins to approach you. "Now I sent him back to where he belonged... quicker than on death row."

"So all this time-"

"Of course, baby." Sherlock squeaks. "It's always been me. It was me long before I produced Jersey." He continues, his smile widening as he notices the way you express yourself. "I've wanted to play a game with you ever since we met. I mean, young detective Marney, who believes 'Me' can figure out a person's history just by looking at their clothes- you're quite naïve to the actual world. You believed you had matured, but wasn't it all a façade?"

The lips of yours emerges then shuts, and you're not quivering from the thunderous downpour.

"Who do you suppose left the clues in all those murder cases we solved, love? Who do you think led us to success, to solving it so effortlessly?"

Hanging your head down, his words are like razor-sharp knife cuts, slicing your assaulted edge into parts, and you have no voice appealed to him to stop.

"It was me. I killed them and then watching you be so appreciative of me, of your incredible talents when you were, in fact, just a child fitting jigsaw pieces together." He amusement. "I must admit that I became fond of you at some point, which is why I thought it was about time I put up an encore monumental game for you. Feelings mess you up, darling. I won't be the one to fall."

"You slaughtered your friends and mine," you exhale, unsteady, your thoughts far too rapid and far too loud for someone who has just been locked in time, tossing one great fist slamming over his face. "And I broke down for months over them!"

"Of course we did," He say. Sherlock responds casually, his brows rising high in his forehead as he attracts you away. You're standing staggeringly, like if he's left a gigantic hole inside you, and you cannot stabilise yourself from being off-balance. "How could you have trusted me otherwise? You figured me out several times back there, Y/N, but you're too far away to prove it. I needed to make sure you wasn't believe that it was me till now."

Dazedly looking at the muddy ground, rendered speechless. After a little while, your body yields and you collapse to your knees, shed tears streaming down your cheeks. For so long, you let your people down since the invisible strings veiled themselves by your neglect; it was all right in front of you.

"It's going to be okay, baby." Sherlock coos once again, and despite the fact that you're no longer gazing at him, you heard the cocking of a pistol. Sherlock kneels in front of you, his free hand caressing your cheek, and his lips press against your soaked forehead. "I truly cherish you; nobody ever loves me as you do, I vow. I'll do it without making you feel anything."

Sherlock stands up again, and you still don't move, not even a twitch of a muscle.

Reality settles in, leaving you devoid of responses and options; instead, you accept it.

You lost by your trust.

The cold metal of the gun's mouth presses on the top of your head, and you sense a smirk on Sherlock's lips. "Any last words, my love?"

The tiniest shudder travels down your spine, and your eyes close.

You smile. Because he was correct; this is for the record. The victor writes history. History is littered with liars. If he lives and you die, his words is written into stone and yours is lost.

Sherlock notices the wry grin on your sorrowful face. "I wasn't pregnant; there was no trace of it. It's only my amazing talents to falsify my pregnancy test- and you're trapped-" His pistol mouths thrashed on the skin of your cheek, and you could feel lifeblood running through your pearly whites. 

"And I spent my spare for engagement to little brat for GPS monitoring." You push yourself to crack a smile only to see Sherlock's grin widen. "Indeed, she's still wearing that stupid ring. She's even come here by herself to seek out her own tomb." 

Sherlock's about to complete the greatest trick a liar ever played on history. His truth will be the truth. But that’s only if he lives, and you die.

Sherlock was incorrect in the meantime of the twinkling of an eye. And your hoarse voice demonstrates that. "You think it's just us here?"

“What?”

The death Finn then stands up and pulls the rope from the ceiling down, falling over Sherlock's. You observe his centre body becoming intertwined and these ropes hanging him up there with his scream; as soon as his pistol drops, you rise up and move away from where you entered this warehouse.

Greg and the other cops make goosesteps from everywhere, and you notice his exhausted and grateful gaze from his restless eyes, so you stroke his shoulder before disappearing into the stillness of the night.

Simon approached Greg with his stump feet by the sticky fake blood, thrilled by the sight he seen. “You talked too much Mr detective.”

closure

Strange wind blowing throughout the empty place it may be gliding to. You're standing in front of a black marble headstone, surrounded by greenery and the chirping of songbirds. The flowers are now at the foot of the monument. You stare at the beautiful black stone that just says SHERLOCK HOLMES.

Sigh, drop your head, and stand there but you moved to another black stone. You figure looks to have the name of Molly and Mycroft etched straight across your chest, as reflected in the polished marble of the headstone. You lower your head even lower and cover your eyes with one hand. Knowing that all of the corpses doesn't appear to underneath here, rather in the mortuary. Then your phone vibrates with an incoming call.

"They say he murdered himself by drowning himself with hydrochloric liquids," Greg slows down with his own gasp. "Only hydrogen chloride vapours create considerable difficulty breathing when- you know, just cleaning the restroom." 

You're now in the car, patiently absorbing his words through the phone conversation before signal the light to turning the car into Smithfield Street, and Greg continues to explain what he knows. "In his instance, continuing to breathe at such high rates may be fatal, but he had absorbed it into his body... in his own way, for several weeks in after bang up there, not just by breathing it in."

You two leave a little time of stillness, holding the call and sinking into contemplation of the whole situation that happened until you are the one who smashes it. "I'm in the mortuary now. Which room?"

Greg opens the door behind you, his strained voice in the queue just acting as if you could see his burning face, which was only fighting not to sob in front of you. You drew him into your shattered hug, and it seemed that for all the secrets of the Sherlock Holmes's, he left you two to feel grief like dying while remaining alive

“You may need some alone time here.”

Every step you take to get closer to the lifeless corpse is precisely the same as when you first met, but there is no longer any of Sherlock's façade lies.

You leaned down and pulled aside the sheet, uncovering Sherlock lying beneath it, pallid and bare, his eyes closed. Tenderly strokes his curling bangs hairline, long lashes and nose bridge, which once it always necked at your cheeks, yours.

'S.Holmes' possessions' package captures your glance from the corner of your field of vision.  You snatched it and saw your golden pen, the long-awaited souvenir for you and his first anniversary. It's been roughly four years since then. And while you were putting it back, you saw a torn paper on it, and there was Sherlock's handwriting; uncleared but still could recognizable text.

‘May we meet again, Y/N’

a/t: well me too ;_; sorry guys if the ending wasn’t what you thought 🥺🥹 murderer sherlock smell so nice to me oi and for this story ive my lovely bestie to help me created murderer stage name! its @lady-harvey ♥️ my gurl, tysm again ♥️❣️❣️now i think i need to take a little break from writing 😭 but im still here just back to manage my undone work and ill brb asap but for sure ill still online here huhu, not gonna mia in this soon hue hue

[dear-mono]

okay but i love the way this is written. ITS SO PERFECT FOR THE TIME PERIOD BUT ITS NOT LIKE SUPER DEEP TO THE POINT THAT YOU DONT UNDERSTAND IT ANYMORE YOU GET??

The Experiment

Sherlock Holmes x reader

Masterlist

Summary: When you married Sherlock, you discovered a side to him that you would never have expected. A side that was only for you.

Author's notes: See if you can spot the line I included from a Sherlock Holmes story as a nod to Victorian Sherlock… I used a few Victorian terms in this to make it authentic, so on the off chance that you're an historian specialising in Victorian dirty talk, please be kind 😉. This is written with any Victorian Sherlock in mind, but leaning toward Henry.

Warnings/content: nsfw, shameless smut, 18+, f!reader, reader has a vagina, dirty talk (but make it Victorian), first time, marriage, breeding kink, fingering, cream pie, cunnilingus, overstimulation, discussion of safe word, mentions of blow jobs, dom Sherlock if you squint, mentioned aftercare

Marrying a gentleman like Sherlock, there was no surprise that when it came to matters of the marital bed, he was technically as inexperienced as you.

You had been delighted to learn that he had a tendency to live slobbishly from time to time despite scrubbing up exceptionally well; neglecting his hair, sleeping in, wearing his dressing gown all day, not bothering with trifles like what time you ate dinner or who was calling in when his organised chaos took over your home (especially if it was his brother Mycroft).

You were also pleased that he wasn’t a prude — in his line of work you supposed it would be difficult to be completely prudish — because you felt you could comfortably be yourself around him, which seemed such a rare treat for a woman living in these days.

But the one thing you were utterly surprised by, was the way he spoke to you about sex. And even more surprising; how completely crazed he seemed for you. It went against everything you expected of him while courting, and definitely against everything that the general public would ever imagine of him.

Always treating you entirely properly, you’d expected an awkward and perhaps uncomfortable encounter upon consummating your marriage, sure that he would not have time or care for physical affection, especially since he usually displayed such an obvious aversion to the touch of others.

On the contrary, he seemed to have a great deal of confidence as well as an intricate insight into the topic, even upon your first time together. His approach set every nerve in your body aflame before sating you completely and providing a generous offering of his pearly seed to establish itself in your belly.

When you found yourself atop your newly shared bed, at first you worried your ankles may be revealed as your dress lifted above your boots, but he didn’t seem at all phased. You supposed people did see one another in the nude once they were married, and although the thought had been eating away at your nerves, but Sherlock didn’t seem nearly as on edge, which went a long way to soothing your worries.

You’d seen this look of his before. His sparkling eyes devoured you as though you were a new and exciting mystery to be solved, and knowing him as you did, he would no doubt be filled with drive fit for a thorough investigation.

‘Do not worry, darling, I shan’t strip you of your beautiful dress just yet,’ he soothed, caressing your cheek before shedding himself of his jacket and loosening his ascot. ‘Let us start slow, we do have all night after all.’

He moved down to sit beside where you laid upon the bed, and his fingers worked to remove your boots, sending shivers tingling up your legs as his flesh eventually brushed against yours.

You watched him carefully as he rolled his sleeves up, wondering what on earth he was preparing for. You began to feel entirely like one of his experiments, and you supposed that in a way, since this was his first time too, you were. The thought made your lips curl in amusement and your heart race.

‘Have you researched sex, Sherlock?’ you asked bashfully as he lifted your skirts further and ran his fingertips, featherlight and only slightly shaky, up along the contours of your inner thighs.

Gently, he pushed your legs apart, fingers hooking under the soft fabric of your bloomers as that gorgeous curl loosened to fall over his forehead.

‘Of course I have,’ he said simply, still entirely focussed on contributing to your growing arousal. ‘One cannot possibly get something of such delicate balance down to an exact science without sufficient data… just like one cannot perform an exact art without practise. And practice, we shall…’

Your cheeks flushed a deep shade of crimson at the imagery of him studying indecent books with your pleasure in mind. You were overcome with an unusual desire to squeeze your thighs together, but ignored it in favour of feeling entirely safe in his apparently capable hands. Hands that were slipping your bloomers down past your knees and dropping them unceremoniously to the floor.

His fingers began to explore your slick folds, not at all helping to cool the red hot blush that powdered your cheeks.

‘Oh, how I’ve dreamed of bedding you, my darling,’ he breathed, settling properly beside you on the bed. ‘I’m going to satisfy you in ways you cannot fathom. Don’t be shy, you’re doing so well for me.’

Your unexpected cry of pleasure tore through the otherwise silent room, his finger now slowly pumping in and out of your heat. You gripped his arm as if holding on for dear life, fearful that you might otherwise float away in this unexpected haze of bliss.

‘You feel like silk,’ he praised, voice weakening slightly. ‘That’s it, hold on to me, you’re safe. You’re going to come on my fingers first, my needy little minx. Focus on how they fill you, how they caress your inner walls. Does it excite you as it excites me?’

You nodded. Your mind was fuzzy with pleasure like you’d never known, so much so that answering verbally seemed a certain impossibility.

‘I have fantasised about taking you on my fingers,’ he whispered, low and deep into your ear, ‘how divine you would sound as you give in to your pleasure, my name slipping hungrily from between those pretty lips.’

He removed his finger then, and a whine of protest erupted from somewhere within you. You just felt so empty without his elegant digit sliding in and out of your swollen entrance, dragging against something inside that made you absolutely ravenous for more — but a new sensation soon took over and you felt disappointed no longer.

His slick coated fingers dragged up through your folds and you shuddered, all the nerve endings in your body, it seemed, set alight at once. But when he reached the throbbing nub at the apex of your sex, there was suddenly ten times the bliss you’d felt before and your body jolted upward as your scream pierced the room.

‘Ah, it seems it’s not so hard to find after all,’ he said casually, ‘I summised that most men were simply to lazy to bother with this little trick, and perhaps I was onto something. But look at you darling, how you tremble for me while I massage your pretty, soaked flower. What man wouldn’t want to witness their love so utterly wanton for their touch? To feel her blatant arousal at his very fingertips?’

Your mind had turned all but blank, the sensations shooting through your body overwhelming you as his fingers danced with perfect pressure against your clitoris.

‘Sh-Sherlock- I- oh!’

‘I know, darling, I know, you need to come for me, don’t you?’

Swiftly, he pressed his thumb to your clit and slipped a finger easily back inside, fucking you harder and faster than before, watching with delight as you unravelled beneath him.

As the lewd slapping of his fingers fucking into your sopping sex filled the room he, quite pragmatically albeit with a much darker voice than that which he uses during his usual experiments, talked you through your release.

‘This pleasure will soon overwhelm you, culminating in your orgasm. If all goes to plan, your quim will rapidly clench around my finger and there’ll be something like sparks at your clitoris, then you’ll feel a few moments of indescribable ecstasy...’

Your own fingers snapped around his wrist, feeling his steady yet vigorous movements, and you wondered how on earth anything could feel better than this, right now.

And then it hit.

‘Ah, yes, there it is. That’s it! Yes, come for me! Come for me!’

His name did indeed tear from your parted lips, shaky and breathy and desperate, and then his fingers began to slow, easing you down from your high until he gently withdrew them.

Your eyes closed as you relaxed back against the pillows, your legs shaking. You heard a humming sound that pulled you back to the present, though, and glanced across at your husband to see him gleefully sucking your slick from his fingers.

‘It is frankly a disservice to the entire human race to consider that act depraved. Mmh. And you taste like the sweetest nectar, darling... tell me, did it feel good?’

You nodded, biting your lips together.

‘There’s no shame in it, my love. Especially if it feels good.’

‘It felt exquisite,’ you breathed, punctuated with a blissful sigh, and Sherlock smiled broadly. A rare sight. ‘But what about you?’

‘I do not wish to rush you. I will be truthful, however — after watching that beautiful display, my root is as solid as a rock. Whilst I've no intention of pressuring you, I will not turn you down if you’re sure you feel sufficiently ready for me.’

‘I… I think I do,’ you whispered, and you loosened your grip from the layers of your skirt to rest a hand delicately on the broad expanse of his chest.

He gasped at the simple affection, and the reaction caused your lower lips, still throbbing with the after effects of your climax, to quiver.

‘May I?’ you asked carefully, and he nodded. Your hand trailed down gradually, until it reached his lower stomach.

Sherlock’s breath quickened, and you pushed lower still, cupping his erection.

‘Ah- ohhh-’

His eyebrows raised and his eyes fell closed as you stroked his length softly and slowly, but before you could find a proper rhythm, he quickly snapped his hips away, grabbing your hand firmly in his as he leant in to kiss you with fierce passion.

As he pulled away from your lips, he muttered, ‘I hoped to inject you with my seed, but I fear that if you continue touching me for a moment longer, the only thing filled with it will be my undergarments.’

‘Then please, Sherlock, take me-’

And take you, he did. Within a second you were pushed onto your back, and he was settling between your legs, hurriedly unfastening his trousers to release his steadily leaking arousal.

As he carefully pushed himself into you, your warmth enveloping his length, an expression of sheer bliss relaxed his handsome features.

‘Am I too big, darling?’ he panted. ‘Does it hurt?’

‘No- please, don’t stop, Sherlock, I want to be filled with your cock- filled to the brim with your blow-’

He smirked at your words. You mustn't be quite so innocent if you were using words like that.

Sherlock began to steadily roll his hips. Your core burned with an unusual pain, a pain that made you crave more.

His forehead pressed to yours, your hot breath mingling with his each time he thrust gently into you and let out a sweet little whimper.

‘I told you I’d- fantasised about- pleasuring you- ha- ahhh- I can’t deny- I’ve thought of many acts, some of which you might consider- mmh- indecent- but each flood of bliss I give to you is- ha- simply the perfect result of an experiment I’ve been dying to carry out since I met you, and- ohhh-’

His voice was so breathy and shaky now, you knew that he wouldn’t last much longer, but you wanted to give him a taste of how he’d made you feel. You wrapped your legs around his waist and dug your heels into his back, pulling him closer and signalling for him to go harder.

‘Do you- ohh- do you w-want my children, darling? Do you want me to- ah!- unleash my potent seed within these t-tender walls and- give you a child?’

‘I want nothing less,’ you breathed, thrilled at his words, and at that he snapped his hips unrelentingly, snaking a hand between your writhing bodies to massage your sensitive clit once again, and Sherlock relished in the moan his touch elicited.

‘Clever little- ohh- trick, isn’t it?’ he just about managed, and less than a second later, came with force inside you.

Your walls tightened, contracting around his thick cock to milk him of every last drop, your tightening walls taking him to a plane of existence he’d never before explored.

This orgasm felt different for you, you noted, and if either of you had been coherent enough to discuss the matter you were sure he would ask you to write it down and keep a record detailing those differences.

Nevertheless, your second peak was just as strong, and you fell weak once again as Sherlock’s seed dribbled onto your thighs and he rolled off you, panting.

‘Darling- that was- oh, it was-’ he muttered, half delirious. ‘You feel- good god, you feel-’

‘I came again,’ you admitted, proud this time, knowing it would please him.

‘I know. I felt it,’ he smirked, and then, almost as if he read your mind, ‘did it feel different?’

‘Yes,’ you chuckled.

‘Oh how wonderful! I should write a monograph on the matter. Only for your eyes of course — although it could benefit at least half of the population if there were more literature on women’s pleasure.’

‘So, a filthy love letter just for me, with a touch of the scientific?’

‘You understand me so well,’ he cooed, stroking your cheek. ‘This is precisely why I adore you.’ And suddenly, there was a sparkle in his eyes that you’d seen when he reached a breakthrough. ‘Tell me, have you ever heard of cunnilingus?’

You shook your head. ‘Not… really. I may have gleaned a… basic understanding-’

‘It’s precisely the act I mentioned may be considered indecent, but I would very much like the opportunity to try it with you.’

‘Tell me about it?’ you breathed excitedly.

‘Perhaps it would be easier to show you. Do you trust me?’

‘Yes. Do it,’ you said eagerly, hungry for as much as he was willing to give you.

‘Consider this another experiment… if you dislike it, you must tell me and I shall end it, however my understanding is that if it works, you will not be entirely in your right mind so we must set a code in place.’

‘How about a word that we don’t associate with sexual activities?’ you suggested.

‘Precisely. “Mycroft” it is.’

You burst into a simultaneous fit of laughter, until he silenced you with another, fervent kiss.

‘You might need to loosen your corset for this one. Providing three orgasms in restrictive clothing is no way to treat one’s wife. And what if there are four, or five? I would never forgive myself.’

Taking his advice, you began to strip, soon revealing your breasts to him.

‘Oh, darling, what a perfect start...’ He wrapped his lips around a nipple and sucked lightly, his fingers toying with the other. He was pleased to feel you squirm beneath him and jolts of pleasure shot from your chest to your core and back again.

‘Oh- I never knew they could- mmh- feel like that…’ you groaned, but once again he left you cold to move onto something new, shimmying lower to settle his face at the apex of your thighs.

His tongue lashed warm and wet against your sex, circling your nub, exploring your folds and lapping at your entrance to collect your combined juices.

The way you shuddered had him fighting off a second erection. Not now — he needed to concentrate, and was hoping that with this new method he could give you multiple orgasms in one sitting. His own pleasure could wait.

He hummed into your quim as though he were enjoying a long awaited meal, and you quickly fell apart once again as his hums of delight vibrated through your core.

‘Sherlock,’ you whined, ‘Oh, Sherlock…’

‘One more?’ Came his muffled response, his deep growl reverberating through your weakened body. It didn’t take long for another peak to take over, your mind completely clouded in a haze of overstimulation.

‘I think it’s time for a break now, my love,’ he muttered softly, coming up to hold you, his pretty lips coated in your juices. ‘I rather think that this has been an experiment I would take pleasure in repeating regularly, if you’ll allow me.’

‘I’d be delighted,’ you sighed dreamily, already feeling the pull of sleep.

‘I will also mention that, as soon as you’re comfortable enough, I would rather like to experiment with my own orgasms. See how they feel inside your hand… or your mouth…’

‘Yes, yes I would… I would like…’

‘Shh… for now, it’s time to sleep. Rest, my darling wife you’ve done so well for me.’

You nodded, and that was the last you remembered of the evening.

A thin blade of warm sunlight woke you in the morning. You found yourself comfortably wrapped inside his shirt. He’d cleaned you up after you drifted off to sleep, and you rose feeling refreshed and relaxed.

Creaking open the bedroom door, you heard his handsome voice floating through. He had a client, and when you peeked through the gap you could see that your husband looked impeccably well put together. Unlike you; if anyone saw you like this… you dreaded to think. You smiled to yourself, though, wondering what his stoic looking client would think if he knew what Sherlock had spent all night doing before meeting with him. You bet Sherlock could teach him a thing or two.

You could only hope this case would be too boring for him so he would return to your bed, for you entirely planned to take Sherlock into your mouth the moment you were able. To taste him. To give him as many releases as he had given you. To see him entirely, blissfully weakened by pleasure…

[flowersandfashion]

the fact that Jeremy Brett played both Dorian Gray and Basil Hallward AND both John Watson and Sherlock Holmes throughout his career. he has the range.

[penofsteele]

BBC sherlock fans: scooping up every single crumb they get from various side characters making random comments about holmes and watson being boyfriends they can get

me, a granada holmes fan: well-fed on hand holding, "if you love me, Watson," quotes, funny moments, longing gazes, no john marriage, needing each other, living together, and having a healthy non toxic relationship

[dear-mono]

I LOVE THIS SO DAMN MUCH????

on the subject of hearts

pairing ~ sherlock holmes x f!reader

summary ~ sherlock has a good head on his shoulders, he’s straightforward, critical, and almost painfully logical, so why have you had his mind swimming with thoughts that are anything but?

word count ~ 4.4k

warnings ~ fluff!! a bit of possessive sherlock behavior, jealousy, mycroft being annoying, mention of catcalling, old fashioned views of women in general, westminster slander (apologies!), sherlock is an emotional himbo, mention of stabbing, mention of a height difference, italicized ‘oh’, minor angst with the happiest ending!

a/n ~ alright i know i pretty much only write for marvel (+ one obi wan drabble) but i watched enola holmes and it’s safe to say i’m yearning. this one is very much for @uncle-kenobi and very much based off of our ramblings about this man, you are a wonderful human and mwauh, so i hope you enjoy this!! you deserve all the Broad Man™️ hugs and also the entire earth and i love you mwauh!! also side-note, another loki peice is almost almost finished! i just had all these very inspirational thoughts (thank you again may mwauh) and wrote this, so without further ado, i hope you all enjoy!!

Sherlock let out a soft, contemplative hum as he watched you from his armchair, slowly raising his eyes above the paper he had been reading before you so hastily scuttered into the library.

You sighed contently to yourself, almost dreamily as you carefully opened the golden-spined book he had so often seen you pull time and time again from the shelf, only to carefully place the small flower between the pages. You hadn’t been reading it recently, what was the need for a bookmark?

The thick pages then collided with a loud ‘thump’, and the sound tore him from his thoughts, while also managing to earn a hushed, frightened murmur from him. It was in that moment when you had finally turned to see him, and Sherlock briskly adjusted himself behind his paper once again as to not divulge his examination of your peculiar routine, before you made a sort of low, anxious, mumbling sound, only to rush from the room almost as quickly as you had first entered.

Every Tuesday you went out, every week without fail, at precisely 11 o’clock in the morning. All groceries usually had been bought by then, all chores usually mostly taken care of at that time, so there was never an understandable reason for why you would venture out every week. Sure, you would go out with Sherlock or John if they found themselves in need of any of your expertise on a case, maybe occasionally with Enola if she so wished to explore the city, or even on the off chance you would visit the book store in town, it would never be on a Tuesday, for some reason, Tuesday’s were special. And just as assuredly, every time you’d return, you would come back with a flower or two, quickly enclosing them between the pages of your favorite book, before running off to continue your day.

“Bellis perennis” Sherlock mumbled under his breath as he rolled the stem of the daisy between his thumb and forefinger.

“Have you ever thought that maybe she only wants to escape your insufferable droning for a few hours?” Mycroft spat, rolling his eyes as he continued his attempt to focus on the same sentence he had read at least three times now while trying to entertain his brother’s ramblings.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him as he meticulously placed the flower back in its original place, just as gently placing the book back on the shelf exactly where you had left it. “She’s stayed for this long, I doubt she’s trying to make a getaway now…” He replied, a trace of vague annoyance tangled within his humor.

“Maybe she’s visiting family? Friends? People do that, you know.” Mycroft added dryly, finally closing his book in frustration.

Sherlock tossed around the idea, you were incredibly friendly, almost to a fault on occasion. It wouldn’t surprise him if you had struck a companionship with someone during your weekly outings. But Sherlock and you were close, right? You would tell him about such things, wouldn’t you?

“Or maybe she’s met someone?” He inquired further, Mycroft’s impish, teasing grin was evident in his voice alone.

“Someone?” Sherlock replied, his voice sounding much more unsteady than he had intended.

“You know, a beau, a suitor? With all these flowers…” Mycroft mindlessly drummed his fingers on the cover of his now long-forgotten reading material, this had become much more entertaining for him. “It seems she may have found her very own paramore!” He added enthusiastically, watching Sherlock’s expression with earnest.

The sound that escaped Sherlock’s lips in response could only be labeled as something between an annoyed grumble and a sigh. “Wouldn’t she have told us of this?”

“Why would she?” His brother replied, much too smug for Sherlock’s liking. “We aren’t her family, why would she care to tell us?”

“Because we’re…” Sherlock found himself lost for words, a shocking occurrence indeed, but what was even more stupefying was the slight pang of disappointment that settled in his chest at the thought. “We’re her friends.”

“And what do you suppose that means? We’re family, and I’m sure we’ve a life of secrets kept from each other.”

Sherlock huffed in annoyance, talking with Mycroft could often be compared to holding conversation with a stone wall, though Sherlock was sure that may make for better company. “But, she lives with us.” He added sternly, though he wasn’t quite sure what he was attempting to prove to his brother.

“So do the maids.” Mycroft replied harshly, his eyes squinted, observing Sherlock’s every mannerism, waiting for even the smallest crack in his facade.

Though Sherlock never gave him the satisfaction, opting to stomp off into his room before he allowed another second to pass with Mycrofts’s incessant badgering.

Sherlock supposed it was a bit selfish of him to assume you didn’t lead a life beyond the house, beyond Mycroft and Enola and himself. It wasn’t like you had kept many secrets from him, if you even had any. You were usually so open with him, even without any deduction, it was like you would make it a point to recount your day to him, all while he silently listened. You made even the most mundane tasks about the city seem so lively, you were truly an open book, so why hadn’t you told him about this… Someone?

He settled himself with a huff in a chair situated right by his bedroom window, slowly retrieving his bow from the smooth leather casings. Just as he was about to play though, he found himself interrupted by the faint, muffled sound of your laughter. A soft smile crept onto his lips, and he called your name through the house inquisitively, you had run off so abruptly before and Sherlock found he had felt the slightest bit saddened when you hadn’t stopped to tell him about your day out. The shrill ring of a bicycle bell had him turning once again towards the window, seeing Enola ride off past you as you waved her off. You called something out to her, and though he was no expert lip reader, he was sure it was most likely something along the lines of ‘be safe’ or some other sort of good wishes. You had a way of caring so much that never ceased to astound Sherlock, because truly, what was to happen? Enola was almost too clever for her own good, proving time after time that she was much more than capable on her own, you’ve seen her fight, and win even, yet you still always wished for her safety. Sherlock thought himself competent on his own as well, you were no stranger to his skills, yet every time he found himself venturing out for a case, or even just a night out with John, you still told him, almost requesting of him, ‘be safe.’

Sherlock let out a soft hum, and began to play.

“Must you always be here?” Sherlock grumbled as he spotted Mycroft in the parlor. After a sleepless night, he was in no mood for his teasing.

“Unfortunately, yes.” Mycroft replied, finally tearing his eyes from the paper he had been reading, “You look tired.” He added, a knowing smirk making its way onto his features.

“Couldn’t sleep” Sherlock replied under his breath, grabbing a paper from the coffee table as he sat across from his brother, doing his best to ignore the not-so-quiet snicker that his response had earned.

“Good Morning,” You timidly interrupted, “Tea?”

Sherlock examined the silver tray that you carried. Three, small, floral teacups stacked on each other, with an accompanying teapot and small pitchers for sugar and cream. They had maids, kitchen staff meant for this very thing, yet you were so insistent on always doing this yourself.

“Yes, please” Sherlock smiled, making haste in clearing the coffee table of any spare papers and books so you could place the tray down, all the while, much too aware of Mycroft’s judgmental gaze that was held on him. “Thank you” He muttered, watching you carefully set the tray on the table.

“Sleep well?” You asked, your soft voice still thick with a touch of sleep.

“Very well, thank you” He replied, quickly shooting a glare at Mycroft.

You smiled in response, before stifling a yawn as you gingerly spooned some sugar into your cup.

“Busy day yesterday?” Sherlock added, his gaze glued to your features, waiting for any sign of deceit from you. Instead, he was only met with a wide-eyed, shocked expression, a slight look of panic as you tried to think of a response, you were clearly caught off guard.

You quickly nodded your head as you sipped your tea, “Not very…” You replied, your eyes now fixated on the cup you held in front of you.

Sherlock casually leaned in closer, still studying your face. “You sped off so quickly yesterday, I would’ve thought you were being followed” He chuckled, only earning a hushed ‘hmm’ in amusement from you.

The rest of the morning was spent like that, silently sipping tea surrounded by a comfortable quietness. How Sherlock longed for you to say something, to break him out of his spiraling thoughts, you had a way of calming him that even he was unable to comprehend, but this morning, he found there was no solace in your words, or lack thereof, and your short reply to his question only raised his suspicions.

After a few more moments of silence, you gently set your cup down on the tray once again. “Well, I promised I would help Enola bake today, and I’d rather her not destroy the kitchen before I get there.” You beamed, your tone had returned to normal now, the anxious expression that was written on your face before had now dissipated.

Both brothers nodded in response, Sherlock standing to follow you to the door. You turned to give him a quick smile of farewell as you left, and just as your heels left the foyer, he promptly sealed the double doors behind you.

“Well” Mycroft breathed, casually taking another sip of his tea, “She’s definitely hiding something,”

“I know” Sherlock grumbled in return, he was suddenly filled with a storm of emotions at the notion. Sure, Sherlock had kept his fair share of things from you, but it was never to hurt you, you would always find a way to discover whatever harebrained plot he had concocted in the long run anyhow. You knew him so well, and he thought he knew you just as well, apparently not.

“There’s nothing you can do, Sherlock. She has a life you know? Maybe just leave this one be?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in a silent challenge, “You know I can’t do that.”

Mycroft sighed, “I know.”

“Besides, if she truly has found… Someone,” bitterness saturated his tone as he spoke, deriving a self-assured grin from Mycroft. “And since she is my friend,” He emphasized as much as possible, “I wouldn’t want her parading around with some… Idiot.” Sherlock sneered at the very thought. He knew you were quite capable on your own, that he had never doubted, but still in many ways, you were naive. You were no stranger to the occasionally horrid ways of men, you had accompanied him and Mycroft around the city on more than one occasion, and even in the most disreputable parts of town, you still smiled softly at all the passing residents, no matter how battered or grimy, or how any of the men whistled and yelled your way, you would only let out a quiet scoff, turning to Sherlock to roll your eyes before continuing to smile. You really were too precious, and Sherlock would be damned if he allowed for anyone to take advantage of your kindness.

It was Tuesday.

One entire, torturous week had gone by with you still behaving maddeningly normal. Sherlock was almost surprised with his own ability to fight back the urge to just outright question you for seven days, though he still observed you in other ways.

You suppressed what had to be the third yawn in a row as you put away the last of the dishes into the cupboard.

“Still heading out?” Sherlock questioned, scribbling down a quick note in his journal.

You nodded your head eagerly, “Always” You smiled.

Sherlock only responded with a soft ‘hmph’. He found himself again at a loss for words as he watched your kind grin drop into a look of concentration, the sunlight streaming in from the window causing a halo of light to frame your silhouette as you slowly packed a small basket for your trip, were your hands shaking?

Scissors, a book, a sandwich, something wrapped in a small, cotton cloth, your journal. He noted, attempting to not make his snooping at your basket so obvious.

Before you would close the hinged, wicker lid though, he spotted something that glinted in the sunshine. A small, round silver thing with some sort of chain connected to its top. The shutting of the lid startled him, but he was quick to adjust his gaze on you once again, offering a faint, parting smile as you slipped on your gloves before heading out the back door.

Gloves. So clearly, they were of either an upper-middle or higher class upbringing to care for such things as a lady wearing gloves. Sherlock let out a sigh of relief, at least they weren’t one of those brutes in lower Westminster.

He checked again the tallies he had made in his notebook. Six times. Six times you had yawned in a span of what? Thirty minutes? He had known you had been lacking sleep recently from how he heard your soft footsteps around the hallways at odd hours of the night, always coming to an almost-stop once you reached his doorway, only to creep past as slowly as possible. He assumed you were making an attempt as to not wake him, and always, he would use whatever energy he could muster at three in the morning to chuckle softly at your attempts that would very much prove to be useless if you found out he was also just as conscious as you at whatever ungodly hour it happened to be.

Sherlock huffed in frustration, quickly shutting his journal as his brother drifted into the kitchen.

“Anything?” Mycroft questioned.

“Nothing particularly unusual” Sherlock responded, “She has been sleeping less though, but that could be easily explainable.” He added.

“Hmm”

Sherlock didn’t miss the smirk on Mycroft's lips as he thoughtlessly drummed his fingers on the counter top.

“What?” Sherlock was almost afraid to push his brother to speak further, but as of that moment, he hadn’t had any clear ideas as to what, or rather who had been affecting you so much.

“She must be rather infatuated with this individual”

“And why would you think so?”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him, his tone almost mocking, as if he was shocked that Sherlock hadn’t picked up on the fact sooner. “I refuse to believe that in all of your years, you haven’t had at least some sort of feelings other than disdain for another person?”

Sherlock had experienced fleeting desires before, yes, but they were just that, fleeting. A passing of two ships in the night, a wave hello only to be followed moments later by a farewell. As he thought back on it, other than Mycroft, Enola and John, you were really the only other person that had stuck with him so willingly. “Well, yes” He finally acknowledged.

“Certainly you must know then...”

Sherlock stayed silent.

“The panic when you confronted her about her little rendezvous, the barely sleeping, her excitability... She’s clearly in love!” Mycroft finished, much too enthusiastically for Sherlock’s liking.

Sherlock didn’t know how to feel, you were his friend, absolutely nothing more, he should be excited for you, glad even, once you settled down with this mystery man, he’d maybe finally be able to turn over the spare bedroom you had claimed when you first arrived into another study. The thought should have thrilled him, more space to think, to be alone, but he found he was only met with tangled thoughts of dread and displeasure at the notion. He wasn’t sure that he would even have the heart to alter your room at all if you really did leave. You had taken the banal space and filled it with so much life, piling every corner with small trinkets Enola would bring home for you, some you had even collected on your own, accented by the rapidly deteriorating wooden stool in the corner that threatened to collapse at any moment under the weight of your ever-growing stack of books you continuously claimed you would eventually get around to reading. Sherlock was shocked that such chaos could feel like such a comfort to him, sometimes he would even simply sit on the corner of your bed to think when he found himself commissioned for a particularly difficult case. Was it the room? Sherlock thought, placing oneself in an environment different from one’s usual accommodations has occasionally been found to be very mentally stimulating, he reasoned, or was it just you?

“Perhaps she is…” Sherlock thought out loud, a shadow of melancholy washed over him. If you truly were courting someone, he supposed it wouldn’t be long until you had moved out of the house, it would be most improper of you to be living with other men while you entertained whatever man had had the fortune of attaining your affections.

Sherlock was sure Mycroft had continued to speak, though he found no more importance in anything else he would have to say. As if in a trance, he found himself pulled to the library, thoughtlessly pulling the shimmering cover of the book you treasured so much, only to open it and find the first few pages devoid of your precious flowers. He felt his shoulders slump a little as he continued to flip through the pages, no flowers.

He slipped the novel back into its place, his fingers lingering over the spine that you had touched so many times. It was your favorite. The golden foil that was speckled across the cover and spine had grown just the slightest bit duller from use, the pages worn and slightly stained from countless days of you skimming the pages with messy hands as you cooked.

He wondered if you would take the book once you left, a selfish part of him hoped that you would leave it behind, though you were so fond of it, he doubted you would ever forget it. Maybe, if he hid it away in one of the top cabinets, behind the various flours and sugars in the kitchen, you’d be unable to find it. Sherlock let out a hushed chuckle, he was sure you’d turn the entire house over searching for it, he could imagine your lips drawn into a thin line, hands placed firmly on your hips as you meticulously scanned through the bookshelves. Maybe you’d even call on him for help, asking for him to reach the higher shelves to see if it had somehow miraculously traveled on its own, but all the while, he’d know it was tucked away, safe and sound for him to keep as a reminder of your presence.

“If I didn’t know you any better, I’d say you were as well” Mycroft interrupted

Sherlock responded with a confused ‘Hmm?’ before understanding.

Oh.

But he refused to give his brother the satisfaction of a witty reply, he wasn’t even sure he could come up with one at the moment. Instead, he stormed off into his room, and annoyingly, his brother’s presence followed him, his footsteps almost directly behind his own. Sherlock groaned as he attempted to close his door behind him, only to be stopped as Mycroft’s hand paused it from slamming. Sherlock still continued to ignore him though as he retrieved his violin with stumbling hands, he closed his eyes as he began to play, doing his best to block out Mycroft’s existence entirely.

“How many times must you play that same song?”

Sherlock finally stopped, the bow smacking the side of his thigh as he took a deep breath to steady himself before replying. “Play what, Mycroft?” His voice was strained, clearly holding himself back from saying anything more.

“Beethoven, Sherlock! You’ve been playing that same, lovesick ballad for weeks on end!”

“What do you mean.” Sherlock almost growled.

“Romance Number Two? Sherlock? I mean-”

“I like it”

The soft, enthusiastic chirp had both brother’s whipping their necks to face you.

“It’s my favorite, actually” You smiled, basket still in hand.

“You’re back early” Mycroft added harshly.

“I finished up much quicker than I had imagined” Your eyes were now trained on a particular wooden board in the flooring, shifting your weight back and forth in the doorway.

Why did you seem so nervous?

“Sherlock?”

He finally flicked his eyes up to look at you.

“Could I speak with you for a moment?”

Sherlock felt his throat go dry, a choked “Of course” was all he could manage to say to you, his thoughts too cluttered for any other response.

“I’ll leave you to it, then” Mycroft spat, closing the door swiftly behind him as he left.

Your soft smile faded, and Sherlock’s stomach dropped, no, he refused to let his emotions get the better of him. “You’ve met someone?” He muttered offhand, trying to look as casual as possible as he did.

The same panicked expression from when he had first interrogated you crept on your features again. You furrowed your brows, “What?”

“You’ve met someone.” He repeated, the statement now laced with venom and frustration

“Sherlock, I’ve-”

"The sleeplessness, your anxieties, your leaving every week, I believed we were friends, but it's apparent now you've taken me for a fool."

You inhaled a sharp gasp, your mouth opening in closing as you attempted to conjure a response.

Sherlock watched you with a self-assured smirk, he'd most certainly caught you off guard. “We should have a few boxes for you to put your things in, it would be quite improp-”

“I don’t know wh-”

“It would be best for you to leave as soon as possible." He paused, your chest rose and fell rapidly, the basket handle almost creaking at the force at which you gripped it with, but you didn't look angry with him, you looked in pain, a heartbroken expression written over your features. Sherlock was sure you would look in less agony if someone had stabbed you directly in your chest. He took a deep breath before continuing. "I’m sure Enola would be happy to assist you.” He finally finished, reluctantly raising his gaze to your own. You blinked your eyes furiously, your lip quivered as a single tear left a trail down your cheek.

“Okay.” You whispered

Sherlock had at least thought you would put up more of a fight, some sort of argument, he certainly did not expect you to fold so easily at his words.

“I, uh...” You breathed, shakily retrieving something from your basket, “I came to give this to you.” You slowly shuffled over to him, your fingertips quickly ghosting over his own as he took the cloth from you.

He gently uncovered the object, a pocket watch, the silver thing he had seen hidden away in your basket before you had left. He examined the engraved metal in his hand with a soft smile, he was filled with a burgeoning feeling of guilt at his previous words. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so harsh with you, it was your life after all? Who was he to tell you how to live it and who you lived it with?

“It- It opens...” You stammered, gesturing to his hand.

Sherlock carefully unclasped the pendant, and his eyes grew wide, it wasn’t a pocket watch at all, he met your eyes again, alternating his gaze between you and your gift as he processed it. A locket, just as shimmering on the inside as it was on the outside. The soft petals of the preserved daisy flowers embedded behind a thin pane of glass.

“I understand if it’s a bit too-”

“No, I-” Sherlock cut himself off, “It’s wonderful, thank you.”

You smiled sadly in response, “I’ve been collecting them for a while, thought I’d finally make something of them…” You added quietly

The despair was evident in your voice, it was now clear to Sherlock how much he had hurt you. “I’m sorry” He stoically replied, “But, um… Thank you” Slipping the gift into his suit pocket.

“I guess I’d better be going then.” You spoke after a beat of silence, quickly turning to leave. Though before you opened the door, you paused, your hand trembling as you grasped the doorknob. “I haven’t though, just so you know.”

“I’m sorry?” Sherlock seemed to be frozen in place, his mind raced as he tried to comprehend what you could be referring to.

“Met anyone. I haven’t.”

Sherlock had to stifle the gasp that threatened to spill from his lips, how could he have been so wrong about this? Mycroft was right, all signs pointed to some new infatuation, but you couldn’t possibly be lying, could you? You were always a terrible liar, it was one of the many things Sherlock had come to adore about you. So what had had you so flustered recently? “Ah…” Was all he could reply with.

“I just wanted you to know.” You sighed, “There’s no one else.”

No one else. The words rang in Sherlock’s ears as he stood dumbfounded behind you. No one else. You weren’t seeing anyone on your weekly escapes, you were only innocently collecting flowers for him.

The realization hit him so powerfully that it threatened to knock him off balance.

You had done it for him.

The sleeplessness, the anxiety, was it all for him as well? There was really only one way to find out.

Before he could give his body permission, he found himself gliding over to you, softly grasping your wrist before you could turn the doorknob. You quickly turned your head to face him, and it seemed you had stopped fighting back the tears that were on the verge of falling moments ago. Sherlock sighed your name, his hand coming up to wipe your cheek, his heart hammering in his chest as you leaned into his touch. “I’m so sorry… I just thought…” He trailed off, he wasn’t even entirely certain what he was thinking, and he scowled himself for being so reckless. Sherlock slowly inched his face closer to your own, giving you time to turn him away if you so pleased.

But you didn’t.

You only stared right back at him, the shadow of a smile gracing your lips.

So he kissed you, his lips gently molding into your own as he did. His other hand made its way around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer against his chest. He held you as if you were the most fragile thing in this world, his lids fluttering closed as you now gripped onto the collar of his jacket.

Sherlock reluctantly pulled away from you, humming softly in amusement as he watched you chase his lips before opening your eyes again.

“Just so you know,” He spoke breathlessly, “There’s never been anyone else either.”

oh goodness, i am yeARNING!!!!! i am absolutely pining for this man right now, very much thanks to my lovely may, and thank you so much for enabling (and beginning) my love for this man with our many Thoughts, you are lovely human and mwauh!!!

i hope you all enjoyed this!! i'm planning on getting back to regularly scheduled loki content very soon!!

check out my masterlist for more!!

[not-equippedforthis]

forever mourning how granada holmes never adapted the three garridebs. diabolical. unbelievable, even. 'if you had killed watson you would not have made it out of this room alive' but in brett's frightfully intense and low, biting, hissing voice. the violent, wild stare versus the gentle hand on watson's knee. all of that precarious control getting flung out the window. the humanity of it. gritting my teeth can you fucking imagine.

[tremendously-crazy]

Sherlock Holmes fans don't want much. They just want to see a universe where Holmes and Watson actually get to be together.

[imeternallylove]

for our benny bd this yr what do you want to read? stephenie or sherly ?

[dear-mono]

i love this series 😭

Mrs. Sherlock Holmes masterlist

Summary: Your marriage starts rocky.

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Wife!Reader

Warnings: angst, implied innocent reader, smut in future chapters, innocent reader, shy/insecure reader

A/N: A collection of drabbles on how you became Mrs. Sherlock Holmes.

Mrs. Sherlock Holmes (1)

Mrs. Sherlock Holmes (2)

Mrs. Sherlock Holmes (3)

Mrs. Sherlock Holmes (4)

Mrs. Sherlock Holmes (5)

Mrs. Sherlock Holmes (6) FIN

[gilgamushroom]

VICTORIANS WHEN BLORBO FROM THEIR COMMUTER'S MAGAZINE COMES BACK FROM THE DEATH AFTER A DECADE LONG HIATUS THEY THOUGHT WOULD BE PERMANENT

[i-dont-talk-for-days-on-end]

Do you ever think of Holmes alone at Baker Street after Watson's marriage and. And. And Watson's things are gone. Watson is gone, and there is just this aching gap around Holmes in the flat. The dust has not yet covered the space on the shelf where Watson's books used to be. Half of Holmes's home is gone, and he cannot even run his finger along the edge of the pain because there will only be one plate on the breakfast table tomorrow (and tomorrow and tomorrow), but you can't cut yourself on empty space.

[strangesthirdeye]

Y/n: *groans in frustration* Fuck me

Sherlock: *lowers his pants*

Y/n: *looks at Sherlock with wide eyes* wow

[dear-mono]

UGH I LOVE THIS

Needing some attention

Hello all! Just a little sherlock one shot that was cooking up in my head! God I love that man!! I promise We'll get back to the regularly scheduled program soon! I PROMISE!!!

Summary: Sherlock is busy with work, and you try your best to stay out of his way but you can be quite fussy when you want his attention.

Warnings: Cursing. Sex MDNI, P in V sex. Fingering, Multiple Orgasms. Creampie. Unprotected sex. dirty talk. Sherlock being painfully handsome! Soft Dom sherlock

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Entranced, yes that was the word. I was fully entranced just watching from the doorway. The bright morning sun streams through the window of the study, casting a warm glow around him as he works. His features are almost angelic, of course; truly, he was anything but. The thought causes a soft giggle to escape my lips.

“If you were trying to be discreet, you’ve blown your cover,” he says, his voice low, smooth, and calm. There’s an ever-present smirk on his face. Throughout the whole interaction, he never once looks up from his desk. Another giggle escaped me, and I took a few steps into the study. 

“Not sneaking, simply admiring.” I smile. “You’ve been working at this one for quite some time,” I tell him. I walk over to his desk, standing behind him, my hands gently resting on his large shoulders. His smirk grows wider, and he hums softly. I feel myself gasp as the detective captures one of my hands from his shoulders and brings it to his lips, pressing a kiss to my palm.

“Yes,” He says, his voice steady and strong. “And still much more work to do. I don’t want to keep you cooped up in here watching me go mad. It’s a beautiful day, darling. Why don’t you go take in some of that lovely sunshine we’ve been blessed with, and I’ll work on finishing up here.” I bite my lip, my eyebrow raised in question, but I hold back my protest. Sherlock is a busy man. I’ve always known that. He never blatantly tries to ignore me or keep me otherwise occupied. So I nod, giving him a soft smile. I lean in, pressing a kiss to his cheek. 

“Okay, my love, please try not to go too crazy, will you?” I giggle. The request earns me a chuckle, and he looks up briefly to meet my gaze as I move to leave his study. 

“I shall do my best, my darling.” He says before turning back to his work, leaving me alone again with my thoughts. As much as I hate to admit it, he’s right; as always, I shouldn’t waste away in this flat waiting for him to finish his work. 

So I do head out to town for a while. I walk the streets of downtown London in the warm spring air, breathing life into me. I stop at the market to see what fresh flowers they’ve got. Baker Street could certainly use a touch of color, and I know Sherlock won’t mind. After picking out a few bunches, my basket full of florals, herbs, and a few baked goods, I make my way back to the flat. It’s late afternoon now. I busy myself arranging the flowers in vases and putting away my other goods. 

I still haven’t heard a sound from Sherlock. Peeking my head into his study, I see he’s still right where I left him. I sighed and shook my head. With nothing better to do I join him in his study. I scan his shelves for something to read, it’s been one of our favorite ways to spend quiet time together lately. Lying together in the garden, reading our respective stories. I look over at him again; still lost in his work, he’s probably barely even noticed my presence. Finding a story that is a particular favorite of mine I curl up on the chaise and open the book. 

This may not have been nearly as good an idea as I’d thought. Since I woke this morning, I’ve been craving Sherlock's affections. Sitting so close now, only to be ignored and left unnoticed, has only annoyed me. I let out a huff, sitting up and looking over at his desk… nothing. I sigh and turn back to my book. I lie back, settling in again, struggling to get comfortable. Another hour passes. Or at least it feels like an hour. I suppose I can’t be sure. And I feel as if I’m going to go insane. I let out a groan of frustration.

“Not enjoying the story?” He asked, a smirk on his lips. He’s far too smart to believe that is the source of my plight. I pull back from my book far enough for him to see me roll my eyes, and he chuckles. “I do so love watching you squirm.” He says with a dark glint in his eye. And finally, he lays down his pen and slams his book shut. I raise an eyebrow at him, not daring to speak a word, but my eyes are full of challenge. 

“I was hoping to spend a nice relaxing evening with you, my darling,” he teases. “But seem’s you needs an attitude adjustment.” He’s standing behind me, his breath hot on my ear as he purrs. “Am I going to have to fuck it out of you darling? Or are you going to apologize for being so bratty and impatient?” My mouth goes dry, and my body is suddenly on fire. 

“S-sherlock.” I gasp. “I- my love, I didn’t intend to … I-” I stutter, trying to find the words, but it seems all competent thoughts have left me. This is just how he wants me. This is exactly what I meant, Sherlock is no angel. He likes to play dirty. Make me flustered and shy and needy. He won’t stop until I’m begging. Nothing gives him more pleasure than making me tell him all the dirty things I’d love him to do to me. All it takes is a look, and he has me melting. And as annoyed with him as I am for turning me into a brainless, incompetent, desperate woman. He knows this is exactly what I’ve been needing all day. 

He chuckles and steps around the sofa, standing in front of me. He takes the book from my hands, tossing it to the side. He leans over me, a primal look in his eye as his knee gently parts my thighs and he hovers over me on the sofa. 

“What didn’t you intend to do, my love? Hmm? Did you not intend to huff and pout for my attention? Is that it?” He smirks, nipping playfully at my ear as he chuckles darkly.  “You just forgot your words, didn’t you darling, just forgot how to ask properly. It’s alright, my sweet. I’ll remind you.” He purrs his lips trailing down my jaw and neck as his tongue traces my collar bone. 

“I’m sorry, my love.” I pant, my chest heaving. Instinctively, I tilt my head back to allow him better access. He lets out a feral growl, and his hands squeeze my hips possessively as he starts to explore my body with his touch. 

“Oh, I know you are my sweet. And I’m going to give you the attention you so badly need.” He smirks, his hands slide under my skirt gripping my thighs, a low growl escaping him as he kisses my neck. I let out a soft needy moan my body arching into his my thighs naturally spreading to make room for him. He chuckles his breath tickling my skin where he’s biting at my collarbone. 

“Still so impatient; you haven’t learned your lesson, have you my darling?” he cradles my face in his hands, kissing me passionately. His tongue explored my mouth as we kissed. When he pulls back, he grabs my wrist, nearly dragging me off the chaise. Before I can begin to fall, he catches me, holding me against his chest. “Now what should I do with you?” He purrs. I look up at him, my eyes blown wide with lust and desire. 

“Sherlock, please,” I begged, my voice weak and pathetic. He lets out a low growl that I can feel deep in his chest. He grabs me around the waist, picking me up he holds me tightly with one arm as the other sweeps the papers from his desk.  He sets me down and steps between my parted thighs.

“Please what, my love? Hmm?  Ask for what you want darling.” He teases his hand, slowly creeping up my thigh again. his fingers graze the fabric of my panties, and my breath hitches. 

“I-I can’t.” I blush, biting my lip. Sherlock chuckles his other hand gripping my chin to make me look at him. 

“Yes, you can, sweetheart. You’ve had those filthy little desires playing in your head all day. And I want to hear every detail,” he growls. My breath catches in my throat as I hold his gaze. 

“T-touch me,” I beg and grab his wrist, pressing his fingers more firmly against my core. “Here, please,” I whine. Sherlock lets out another low growl, capturing my lips in a searing kiss as he starts to slowly rub me through my panties. I whimper and arch into his body. 

“So wet already. You’re such a needy little thing, aren’t you?” He smirks, and finally, he slips his fingers beneath the fabric of my panties, pushing two inside me, curling them as he starts to pump them in and out. I let out a desperate mewl, my hips moving, grinding on his hand. He moves his thumb to rub circles on my clit. He smirks as he watches my face contort with pleasure.  “That’s it, my love. So beautiful when you’re like this. So desprate for my affection. He adds a third finger and pumps them faster, curling them just right so I’m seeing starts. My hands come up to clutch his shirt, my thighs shaking and head falling back, letting out a needy moan. My walls clamp around his fingers gushing on his hand. 

“Oh sherlock!” I whimper, panting as I come down from my orgasm. 

“That was beautiful sweetheart,” He smiles, kissing me tenderly. “We’re far from done. You know that, don’t you?” he teases. I giggle, nodding shyly. Without further preamble, he tears open my blouse, his eyes raking over me hungrily. He tears off his own shirt, tossing it aside, and cups my face, kissing me passionately. He gently pushes me back, laying me back on the desk, his lips trailing down my body. He stops when he gets to my breasts squeezing them softly and leaning down to capture my nipple in his mouth sucking and flicking with his tongue. I moan loudly, my back arching, pushing my breast further against his mouth. 

He groans sucking soflty and then swithing to give attention to the other breasts. He shoves up my skirt, bunching it around my waist, and then fumbles with his zipper. 

“I can’t wait be inside you,” He moans. I gasp as I feel the thick head of his cock brush through my folds

“My love, please, I need to feel you filling me. Make me whole.” I beg. With a feral growl, he surges forward, sheathing himself inside my tight heat. He lets out a groan, giving me only a moment to adjust before he sets a punishing pace. 

“Fuck,” He moans. “You’re so tight, so perfect, darling. Is this what you needed, my sweet? To be filled and taken. Reminded who you belong to?” I nod and let out a breathy moan. He pulls my leg up around his hip and drives into me deeper. The angle allows him to hit that perfect spot deep within me. My eyes roll back, and I feel myself climbing to my high. 

“My perfect girl,” sherlock praises his as he brings his thumb between us to rub my clit. My body shakes beneath him as he captures my lips in another searing kiss.” Thats it, my love. Let go,” he coos. “Let me feel all your pent up desire and love as you cum for me.” he encourages. I feel my pussy spasming on his cock and he growls “Good girl,” With those words I tumble over the edge my toes curling my head falling back gushing on his cock as my body trembles with pleasure. 

“Sherlock!” I cry out as my orgasm crashes over me and he fucks me through it. I feel his hips start to falter and he takes my hand pinning my wrists to the desk as he fucks me, his breathing ragged as he lets out a string of incoheart praises. 

“Yes,.. fuck.. You’re perfect, my love. Gonna fill you with my seed… such a good girl for me. Take it all, darling.” He growls in my ear, his body going stiff as he releases inside me. His hips jerk softly as he works himself through his orgasm. 

We stayed like that for a moment, our bodies connected and whole. With a soft groan, Sherlock stands and slowly pulls out of me. He takes my hand, helping me sit up on the desk. He cups my face and peppers it with kisses, pulling back and searching my face for any sign of discomfort. “Are you alright, my love?” He asked, his voice soft and tender. I nod a satisfied smile on my lips.

“Yes darling, I’m perfect.” I giggle. “I am sorry for being such a brat when I’m being needy.” I blush, ducking my head to tuck myself against his chest. Sherlock chuckles. 

“I know you are, my sweet. the truth is.” He says with a slight smirk in his voice. “I quite enjoy it, I was finished with my work hours ago. But I do so enjoy watching you squirm.” He winks.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ let me know what you think! Comments and reblogs are always welcome!! Tag list

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[mouse-of-mischief]

Rereading some of the original stories to try and help my current writer's block, and I rediscover this little gem.

Sherlock Holmes saying, "doggy".