#Sherlock Holmes x oc

[star-girl-05]

Paycheck

Sherlock Holmes x Reader

~★~❤︎~✦~

There's a little pep in your step as you make your way to your apartment. You're hoping that he’s at home. It would be such a waste, if you came all this way for him to be absent.

Your happily surprised when you see your boyfriend sprawled on the couch. “I’m glad your here, come on” you shake his foot earning a glare from him. “Were going out, on me” 

He looks you up and down, observing all your tells to see what’s put you in this mood. Though he’s only a little frustrated when he can’t put together what's brought on this sudden declaration. He knows all he has to do is ask and you’ll tell him but he doesn’t bother. Instead waiting till you eventually tell him. 

“Well not on me but your brother who just gave me a shit load of money to give him a weekly report on you”, now that had his full attention. He’s fully sat up observing you with a new interest. 

“My brother offered you money to spy on me again?” It's true Mycroft has offered you money before the first time was the day after you met sherlock. The other was when he found out the two of you were dating both times you declined. So why did you agree this time?

“Well not exactly I called him to see if the offer was still available” you chuckled remembering the conversation, he was so confused. “He was desperate he tripled the offer from last time”

Sherlock can see that his brother is always looking for ways to invade his life. Though he’s curious why you would agree, not that he objected. All he had to do was scrunch his eyebrows and your explaining your impromptu call to Mycroft. 

“Well i was a little strapped for cash so I decided to take him up on his offer but don't worry i won’t change just because I’ve got money.” He gave you a genuine smile, chuckling at your joke. 

“I could go for a bite” 

“Perfect” you grab his coat tossing it to him.

[hey-its-roseaurum]

Guilty until Proven Innocent-Part I

A/N: Hey everyone. Thank you for taking the time to look at this story. This is for a collaboration with @lainiespicewrites. She is an excellent writer and I figured it was my turn to stretch my writing muscles and put something out into the world. This is my first Henry Cavill fic, so please don't be too harsh. Anyways, enjoy!

Synopsis: After recent murders in town, You (Olivia) decide to train with Edith in the art of self-defense. In the middle of training, you got a mysterious knock on the door. Sherlock walks in, looking for assistance with his latest case. He offers you to partake in a partnership to help him in his latest case? Do you take it?

Warnings: mentions of death

“You’re progressing nicely Olivia.”  Edith smiled from above me, her elbow pinning me to the floor mat.  There wasn’t a hint of sweat along her forehead.  She had taken me down in less than a minute. The worst part was I thought I was going to land a hit on her this time.

”I’m beginning to think that you’re just saying that to soothe my pride”. I rasped out.  She had eased her hold on me and stood up, extending a hand.

”Nonsense.  Look how far you’ve come since you first stepped in these doors.  Pretty soon you’ll be able to hold your ground with me.”  She exclaimed as I grabbed her hand and hoisted myself up.  My back had long since started throbbing.

For the past few weeks, I have been meeting Edith at her office to train and learn self-defense.  Ever since the first girl went missing and was later found dead in the street I hadn’t been able to sleep soundly.  There were constant, nagging thoughts that made me question if I was going to be the next victim.  It had only gotten worse when they found the next girl a week later in the middle of an alleyway that I frequently visited.  Her throat had been cut. 

In London, it was ill-advised for a woman, especially of noble birth, to consider something as trivial as self-defense.  Women are supposed to be soft, elegant, and passive. All of the trouble and responsibility in making decisions was for the men. 

 Being passive and soft didn’t save those girls from their cruel end.

And I wasn’t going to let myself become like them.  I refuse to be the next girl that falls victim to this.  So I went to my dear friend Enola at her detective agency and inquired about a solution to my predicament.  She sent me over to Edith and had me start training the next day.  I’ve been training every day since then.

I’m still not really good at it.

”Did you say the same thing when you were teaching Enola?”  I inquired as I dusted myself off.  Edith only shook her head.

”Not exactly.  Her response was more witty, thanks to her mother.”  Eudoria Holmes, the mother, the fire starter as people liked to call her.  I’ve seen her wanted poster splayed all across London.  But I didn’t see her as a criminal.  I saw her as the woman who saved my life six months ago.

That morning had been cold and bitter.  I remember feeling my fingers grow numb while I huddled against a mailbox.  Its red paint had chipped away at its base, leaving rust behind.

Which was ironic and poetic now that I think back on it.  And let me explain why.

It all started when my father had recently passed from a sickness that left my mother and me penniless.  With no man in the house and no money to our name, we were cast out of society.  My mother and I were thrown out and the estate that I called my home.   It was sold to another noble family in the south.

We lived off the street after that.  My mother, using what knowledge she had of needlework, had acquired a job as an assisted seamstress.  I was left to salvage whatever pity people gave me and half-rotten food from dumpsters.

Eventually, we were able to afford a small cottage on the outskirts of town.  It was small, run-down, and often had a damp smell to it.  Mother didn’t like to be there for a long period.  She claimed it was because she was so busy with her duties to the seamstress that she didn’t have time to spend there.  I think it was because she missed her life at the estate and living in this small broken cottage was too much for her to bear.

That morning six months ago I decided to go into town to fill my water bucket and get bread before it got too crowded.  When I got there, I sat down by the mailbox to wait for the bakery to open.  I was particularly annoyed when I saw a lot of people around this early in the morning.

I was watching a man get onto a carriage when something shifted from the corner of my eye.  It had been a man, or what I thought was a man walking towards me with a package in their hand.  When we made eye contact I didn’t think anything of it.  I just watched them and noted how stiff they walked. They placed the package in the slot of the mailbox.  Before I knew it, I was grabbed by the elbow, hoisted upright, and pulled away from the mailbox.  

That mailbox exploded, releasing a whirlwind of fliers into the air.

The two of us had run from the police.  I was forced to since they refused to let go of my hand.  We ran until this stranger knew that they weren't being followed.  

When things settled down, the man revealed that they were a woman in disguise.  She introduced herself as Eudoria Holmes and then proceeded to lecture me about being near explosives as if she were my own mother.  All I had wanted to do was bite back, to lecture her on how she shouldn’t be putting explosives where there were people.

Instead, I broke down, not from her lecturing but because of something I couldn’t quite place. All I knew was that I was waiting for a soggy piece of bread and nearly got blown up.

In the end, I told her everything.  I told her my past, my current situation, and why I was even in town in the first place.  One thing kind of led to another.  The next thing I knew I was sitting in Eudoria’s house with a cup of tea in my hand.

I stayed in that damp cottage less and less as time passed and more at Eudoria’s warm, often chaotic home.  That’s where I became friends with Enola, had briefly met her two brothers Sherlock and Mycroft, and felt somewhat happy.  

I don’t know why she pulled me away from that mailbox.  The one time I asked her she said she saw something in me, some sort of fire in my eye.  She didn’t want it to go out along with the mailbox.

I didn’t believe her, but I couldn’t tell that to her.

“So what you’re trying to say is that I still have a long way to go,” I asked as my brain jumped back to the present.  I stepped away from the mat and made my way into her office.

”What I’m saying is you’re doing better than you think you are.  You just began learning.  Give yourself a little credit.”  Following me, she made her way to the table by the window.  A stack of teacups were messily stacked up to one side.  She grabbed two, placed them on saucers, and poured liquid into both.  

“I know.  I’m just…worried.  It’s been a week since the last victim was found and the police still haven’t found the suspect.”  I let out a sigh and sipped some of my tea.  I needed a moment to choose my words carefully.  “I just want to be…prepared.”

A heavy pause filled the air before either of us spoke.  

”Olivia…there’s more to that, isn’t there?” Edith’s words were soft and gentle.

“I mean I-“. My response was sharply cut short.

A knock pulled our attention away from our conversation and to the door.  A tall man entered from the training room and to Edith’s office.  I couldn’t place if he looked tall because of his size, or because of the giant top hat sitting snugly on top of his head.  Dark wavy strands of hair peaked through from under his hat. 

”Have you any sense what time it is?”  Edith interrogated, crossing her arms.  The man took off his hat, revealing thick brown locks.  His sculpted jawline and nose complimented the hair.  Blue, mesmerizing eyes glanced around, investigating.

But the feature that I recognized right away from him was his shoulders.  I knew those shoulders.

”Hello, Edith” His attention briefly shot to me “Olivia”  I curtly nodded, averting my eyes.

”Good evening Mr. Holmes.”  I responded softly.  “With what do we owe the pleasure of your company?” Holmes.  Sherlock Holmes.  One of Enola’s older brothers. One of the greatest detectives I’ve ever seen.

”There’s no need for formalities Olivia.”  I felt something warm begin to grow on my cheeks at his response.  He’s only being polite Olivia.  We are only acquaintances because of Enola and Eudoria.  He doesn’t like you like that.

Or does he?  

I’m not sure.

Sherlock Holmes is a difficult man to understand.

“What are you here for Sherlock?”  Edith asked again, harsher this time.  Her tone quickly pulled me back to the present and away from my thoughts.  

Sherlock cleared his throat, his blue eyes revealing some sort of inner turmoil within himself.  It was an unusual amount of emotion that I was not used to seeing.  I expected it with Mycroft, he practically wore his emotions on his face at all times.  Sherlock never did.  He’s always been composed, and proper.  Before me now he still was, but a layer of some sort had been chipped away.

”I….need your help.”  He struggled to say the words like it was almost painful to him.  A moment of silence clung in the air.  

”Is it about Enola?   Did she get herself into trouble?”  There was a hint of concern in Edith’s voice when she begged the questions.  The only response he gave was a small shake of his head. I watched as realization flashed on her face. 

”There’s something about this case-“. 

”That deduction cannot solve?”  Edith finished his thought.  He slightly nodded, setting his hat down on her desk.  That was my cue. I softly placed my teacup down and made my way to the table by the window.  I began making some tea for Sherlock while listening to the conversation.

”I may need your…skills to get information from a place I cannot enter.”

“What kind of place?”  He listed off a name that I didn’t recognize.  Edith’s face slightly reddened.

”A showgirl theatre?! You cannot ask me such a thing Sherlock, no matter how close we are.”  My eyebrows raised as I grabbed a cup and saucer and poured some tea into the cup.

“I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t have another option.  A woman’s life is at stake.” His tone was calm, but there was something else there.

”But going into this with the possibility of getting murdered is not something I’m comfortable with.  Woman’s freedom and rights is one thing, going after a serial killer is a whole other matter entirely”

”Edith, I-“. I cut them off.

”I’ll do it.  I’ll go instead of you.”  In their arguing, I had made my way back to the two of them, Sherlock's tea in hand.  I had left mine behind.

”Olivia, do you know what kind of place that is, what situations you can get into.  You’re nowhere near ready to hold your ground”. What she said was like a punch to the gut.  

I knew I wasn’t ready, we had that same conversation not thirty minutes ago.  But I knew that if Edith went and something bad had happened to her Enola and Eudoria would be devastated.  I was different.  If I went and something happened to me, Edith would still be here training more girls like me.

”Who else is going to do it?  Enola?  She’s not expendable. I am.  And Edith, what about the other girls you train?” I took a breath, the stubbornness in me growing. “Besides, I know these streets better than anyone.  I’ve lived in them.  I know where to go in case I’m being followed.   And because of the way I look,”. I paused briefly looking down at myself, at my curvy, plump figure.  “No one would suspect me.  They would just see me as a showgirl trying to make ends meet.  I can blend in, go undercover, and get the information that he needs in order to catch this murderer.”

A heavy pause hung between the three of us.

I let what I said sink into the two of them.  I know that Edith is fighting with herself on whether she can let me go.  She believes that I am her responsibility, and I kind of was while Eudoria was undercover.  But since starting to learn to defend myself I told myself that I couldn’t sit and wait.  Sitting and worrying about who the next victim is going to drive me crazy.  If I can help and make a difference, then maybe the suspect will be caught before there’s more tragedy.  

”I promise I won’t let anything bad happen to her.”  Sherlock’s voice broke the silence and my inner thoughts.  “You have my word.”  His eyes met mine at his.  I felt something else there besides the promise.   Edith sighed,  rubbing her temples with both her index fingers.

“Okay, Sherlock.  Just…make sure she comes back in one piece.”   Edith finally concurred.  “You’re going to have to speak to your mother if you don’t.”

A smile tugged at my lips at the agreement.  I finally raised the cup of tea, offering it to him.    

”When do we start?”

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A/N: Thank you so much for reading. If you want to read @lainiespicewrites story about Paul Atreides from the Dune Sage, here is her link: https://www.tumblr.com/lainiespicewrites/747032352877903872/the-atreides-era?source=share

[unusuallysubtext]

If you're still doing the Sherlock life thing, I'd love it if you could sort me :D

I'd prefer to be in a romantic relationship with a man

My love language is mainly physical touch and words of affirmation. I usually wear comfy clothes that have a funky pattern or something I just find cool (kinda like street style). I have short brown hair that I usually just leave messy because I can't be bothered to sort it out lmao.

I spend my days usually just hanging out with people I care about, or playing games on my phone. I enjoy logic puzzles and I'm good with numbers (I have a streak of over 1200 on sudoku). I study History and Philosophy because I've always been interested in those sorts of topics and I love discussing these things with people and seeing their different points of views and opinions on topics.

I love doing crafts in my spare time as well, I crochet, I draw, I can paint decently well, and I love sewing. I usually make little trinkets, sew clothes or draw bugs or skeletons or smth, anything I like the look of tbh.

I hope this is enough information, thank you do much :D

Sherlock Holmes

Sherlock first saw you when you were being escorted far away from the scene of a presumed murder

You protested and explained that you were simply trying to draw a replica of the skeleton found seatbelted inside a Prius, but to no avail

On his way out of the crime scene, Sherlock approached you as you sat on the curb kicking rocks, drawing what you could from memory

It was at that point that you accompanied Sherlock Holmes and John Watson to every single case, working on sketches

Your eye could capture details that a camera couldn't, defining characteristics that Sherlock could later read on

One night, late after a case, you sat on the sofa of 221b with a progressing crochet project when Sherlock flopped down next to you, legs outstretched over your lap

Although you were caught by surprise, the two of you spent the next few hours simply hanging out

You spoke of various philosophers and history, knowledge of which Sherlock possessed none

He listened intently to you, understanding why your sketches were so much more lively and telling than a clean shot of photography

Together, you made a great team, seeing things from one another's logic

You were chill, automatically rubbing off on Sherlock and keeping him in check, and soon enough, simply chatting on the sofa late at night turned to laying next to each other and even falling asleep

The first time John came down and saw Sherlock asleep at nine-thirty in the morning, he was jumping with joy (silently), ever grateful the detective had found someone willing to match his freak, as the young people say

He secretly enjoys your comfortable, baggy street-style clothing, a fresh change in his everyday dark block colour polyester/cotton blend button-ups that hug his figure, whether it's (trying to) try it on or simply keeping it with him

And if you're with him, there is no doubt he will hold you close, arms wrapped around you at night, or simply sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on the sofa ❤️

-

hope you liked it, anon! tagging @anonymoussherlockandmarvelgeek @that-ace-idiot @the-girl-who-simps-too-much

Your Sherlock Life asks are still open!

[starssaroundmyscarssblog]

Can you write for reader x Sherlock where reader is a little like Elizabeth Bennet, likes to read and paint etc. Singing and all the cultural stuffs and Sherlock has fallen for her too hard?

𝐋𝐄𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐈𝐍

pairing: sherlock holmes (bbc) x fem!oc

summary: in which sherlock holmes doesn’t catch himself from falling quick enough for jane burbank

word count: 3.04k

warnings: none

a/n: this was my first time writing for a request so i really hope you like it <3 i also made it [x/oc] as i'm more comfortable doing it that way but i tried to stay away from descriptions as much as possible to make this little fic as inclusive as possible too <3

he wanted nothing more than to talk to her, even if it was only a meagre apology for accidentally brushing against her in the library isle. she enamoured him and he hated it, even years later as he held the heavy velvet curtains between two fingers and watched her cross over the road and unlock the door to her flat. john smirked behind his newspaper, "you're doing it again."

"doing what?" sherlock huffed, letting the curtains drape back into place over the window. "saying i'm doing something again would mean i'm repeating the action. what's special about me standing by the window." he stalked through the flat and flung himself into an old wooden chair by the kitchen table, seething over his frustration.

he hated it when john was right. nothing frustrated him more than his closest friend seeing right through him as if he were a spirit. more often than not, when he was sulking about not having cases or waiting for results from his less-than-ethical experiments, sherlock would find himself rooted to the floor by the window. sometimes he would play his violin slow and mournful, sometimes he would stand in plain sight.

it would stun him when the sunlight bounced off the wire frame of her glasses, the reflection shooting through her window and right back to his. sherlock found it hard to concentrate on anything else when she would sit in her arm chair with a cardigan that on anyone else would have looked ugly but on her the bright colours did nothing but compliment her. she always had a pen or pencil or paint brush hidden away in her hair, and occasionally she would reach up and fiddle with it as she thumbed delicately through the pages of her book.

sherlock looked up from concentrating hard on the surface of the table when his phone buzzed him his pocket, and he pulled it out. his smile became visible against his will.

you're doing it again, if you want to come over you only have to ask

within minutes he was at the door, ripping off his burgundy dressing gown and trading it out for his thick and heavy belstaff. at john's call of "where're you off to all eager?" he simply shouted "out" as he clattered down the thin staircase. sherlock was out of the door and crossing the road faster than he was able to think, knocking sharply on the blurred stained glass window set into her front door.

there was a crash from inside, a mutter of swearing as she pulled back the door to reveal her haphazard state. sherlock stared dumbly at her, trying to ignore the red splatter of paint on her neck dripping onto her chest, searching for words as when he opened his mouth it turned dry. "you didn't ask," she said, but stood back to let him into her house anyway.

sherlock walked in through the hall, catching himself casting his gaze over the walls like he did every singe time. the university diploma sat pride of place over the mantlepiece of the fireplace in the living room reading 'ba joint honours in history and history of art awarded to jane burbank, graduating with a first from the university of edinburgh'

next to it was a framed photo of the pair of them stood together at a mutual friend's wedding the previous year. sherlock had gone along begrudgingly when he'd found out that jane was attending the party after the ceremony because her cousin was the maid of honour for the bride. they were both standing outside of the venue side by side, smiling into the lens as one of the flower girls was messing with the petal confetti in her small wicker basket in the background.

jane brushed her bangs off her eyes as she moved around the airy living room, shoving wooden crates of paint back into place on the shelf and moving her latest canvas out into the garden to dry completely. sherlock stood awkwardly in his coat and ran his finger under the collar of his shirt sitting tightly against his neck. she stared at him as she returned, wiping a paint stain off the hem of her white dress as she did so.

"sherlock, i don't know why you insist on dressing like a child from the past in the middle of summer." london had been blanketed in a sticky, heavy heat as they hit the peak of august, making being indoors impossible but being outside worse. jane was only glad of her broken window to allow a constant breeze to pass through the ground floor of her house but knew the relief wouldn't last long. it was only a matter of time before the rain came in thick drops and plunged them into everlasting autumn.

he shrugged awkwardly and peeled the coat from his body, and when jane looked at him from behind her easel tucked away in a corner by the bay window he removed his blazer from his shoulders too. sherlock felt too free when he was with her, it scared him, but she made him feel to exhilarated to even care sometimes.

once, when they'd met at a summer research project collating students from different courses at the russel group unis, jane had cleared her throat to catch his attention in the library. at the noise he turned around, still holding the heavy volume, and saw her looking at him through a gap in the shelves perching her chin on the heel of her hands. "hey," jane whispered at him, "d'you want to do something fun?"

sherlock couldn't find his voice to tell her that what he was doing was fun and that he didn't really want to leave the safety of the library that late at night, but her bright eyes sparkling in the fluorescent lights hanging from the high ceiling from exposed wires made him throw caution to the wind and join her on their escapade. jane dragged him to a concert and to this day not one of them could remember who it was they'd seen only that they were rubbish and the cone of chips they'd picked at while walking through a grassy park was much more enjoyable.

he'd been dressed for winter then too, despite the thin linen of his shirt trying to cool him down in the muggy night air. but he couldn't care less about the heat invading his skin or the salt from the chips that caught on his finger tips because he was talking to jane burbank, and it had been all he'd wanted to do since she came bursting into the lecture hall for the summer programme two minutes late in a haze of frazzledness as she pulled down the hem of her summer dress where it had ridden up from her haste.

if he had been a better man he wouldn't have looked down past her neck but he couldn't help himself.

perched on the end of the emerald green sofa shoved against a bright white wall covered in artwork and cheap antique picture frames, sherlock fumed silently like the kettle he wished jane was setting over the stove because he could see john giving him his worst 'i told you so' look from the front window of his flat over the road. jane returned with a silver tray laden with small plates holding biscuits, two empty glasses holding ice and a large pitcher of sparkling orange juice.

"d'you want to go out and do something fun tonight?" jane found herself repeating the words every time she saw sherlock, which wasn't as often as she would have hoped considering she bought her house opposite his flat with his proximity in mind. he was always out sleuthing with john, who she'd seen more, and got on well with.

so was it really any surprise that jane took any chance she could get with sherlock, to make the most of the time they had together. he'd intrigued her all those years ago (it hadn't in-fact been too many years ago since they'd graduated with first honours, but life in the wake of sherlock holmes was long and weary) and still continued to do so now. she was pleased she knew him before he made it big as a 'boffin' in the national press and was even more pleased that he still kept up with her completely opposing lifestyle despite his cold-heartedness and want of plain fact.

with a gleeful grin and a shake of his shoulders as she squealed at his minute nod, jane was away to pack her bag and to grab her sandals before rejoining him at the front door. much to her excitement, sherlock had decided to brave the outside world without the protection of his belstaff, the top two buttons of his shirt were undone and his blazer was tucked neatly under his arm as he waited patiently for her. "ever practical," she muttered and locked the door behind her. the heat of the day beat down on her exposed shoulders from where she'd pinned her hair up at the back of her head and she pulled her sunglasses over her nose.

they set off and june looked at her watch, "quarter to three, fancy going out for something to eat first?"

"whatever you want to do," sherlock agreed, and sure enough half an hour later they were sat on outside tables for a cafe overlooking westminster watching the people go by. well, sherlock was watching the people go by and jane was peeling away the pastry of a croissant she'd ordered while taking occasional sips of her glass of diet coke. he tapped his fingers against the saucer for his coffee patiently waiting for her to finish so they could leave.

jane wanted to look through the markets in camden for old records before they tried to find a pub for dinner and finished off the day at st james' park to listen to the music drift over them from the live festival happening in hyde park that she didn't get tickets to. she was always asking him if he wanted to do something fun even when she'd planned the day to some kind of degree of legible and sherlock just agreed.

but he did so because jane had asked him to, and anything that was fun to her would be fun for him.

after their intermission at the cafe, where jane had stopped to take some candid photos of some couples she'd seen over the green before turning the lens on an unsuspecting sherlock, they suffered the stuffy carriage of the underground before emerging at camden. jane beelined for stalls selling records and cassette tapes she didn't need because her selection was already overflowing. she picked up a sleeve and turned it to sherlock, grinning, "don't you just love them?"

he smirked before saying, "i prefer blur" only to receive a smack on the shoulder for his admission. by the time they'd left jane had bought enough to put a sizeable dent into her savings account made for paying off her student debt and she was dragging sherlock to an art gallery she noticed was free to the public before they sat down to eat again.

there was something about her wide eyes as they walked around the gallery that sherlock couldn't tear his eyes away from. it might have been the sun shining down on her cheekbones from the glass ceiling or the way she looked like one of the twisted statues in her white dress and delicate sandals or her screwed up face as she focused on something in the background through the lens of her camera. being with jane was a break from the world he'd plugged himself into and he loved every second of it.

sherlock didn't love it as much, however, when they were sat outside (again) at a pub jane liked sharing a bowl of chips while she told him about the awful date she'd had with an awful guy who had an awful name two days prior. his back straightened and something curled in the pit of his stomach as jane told him about the bloke's lacklustre effort of wooing her, especially when he lumped her with paying for dinner and their tube fares back because he'd 'conveniently' left his wallet in a different jacket.

"he wasn't even wearing a jacket, sherlock, i mean can you believe it? i go on one date for the first time in months and he's a total prick!" she picked at a chip and dunked it angrily into the splodge of tomato sauce she'd poured onto the plate before soaking up any vinegar that had been left behind, "is chivalry really dead? i refuse to believe it is."

sherlock made a hoarse noise in the back of his throat before leaving for the bar and returning with a drink to replace jane's third glass of diet coke since they'd sat down. he placed down the cocktail in front of her and felt a flush of pride creep down his back as jane placed her hand over his to thank him earnestly. she took a sip, then another until the entire thing slid down her throat with a sigh of relief.

"i really needed that," she said and giggled to herself. sherlock forgot every time he was with her when she drank that jane was the lightest of lightweights, but when she'd had one she was happy and when jane was happy sherlock was well on the way to being happy too.

another cocktail later and jane had reached her happy medium for alcohol intake - she was blissfully unaware of anything happening outside of the six foot boundary around her but could still hold herself upright and kissed sherlock enthusiastically on the cheek when he caught the bill as a waiter was passing by their table. she laughed all along the path and the whole time the two of them were walking to st james' park.

sherlock didn't make it a habit to carry people around on his back, but when jane looked up at him with a pout and wide glassy eyes he acquiesced and hoisted her onto his back with her ankles locked together just below his navel.

she insisted on getting a cone of chips for old times sake even though they'd eaten enough to fuel an army back at the pub, and jane happily handed over five pounds in cash for a cone and a pot of curry sauce to the woman behind the till. "thank you!" she called out from over her shoulders and sherlock walked through the gates to the park and let her down gently onto the grass where they usually sat.

jane fell forwards and caught herself from landing on her face by her knees, laughing as she slumped forwards onto her chest and propped her chin up into her hands. sherlock sat beside her on his jacket and brushed her bangs out of her eyes, and she felt her skin flush where his fingers had touched. the music from the concert in hyde park eventually reached them just as jane thought it would and she began to hum the tune under her breath as she picked at the chips sherlock was holding out for her.

jane rolled onto her back and felt the blades of grass tickle her shoulders and she moved to make herself comfortable. "we never talk anymore sherlock." she huffed, and tried to reach out and run her fingers over his cheek but stopped when she realised her hands were moving in the completely wrong direction.

"you've been talking all day."

"but i mean you and me. we never talk, i talk at you and you listen."

"i like listening."

"no you don't, you'll out live god trying to get the last word in."

he laughed behind his smile, "i like listening to you."

jane pushed herself onto her feet and sank down again so she was eye to eye with sherlock. he could still see the red splatter of paint along her neck and upon closer inspection he found that the drips had dried throughout the day past the neckline of her already low summer dress. "i wish you would do more than watch and listen to me." she whispered, still tapping out the rhythm of the new song against her knee.

"but i like listening to you and i can't help but watch you. it irritates me." lies.

"no it doesn't."

damn.

before sherlock even had a chance to refute or say anything in his defence, jane's hands were placed gently on either side of his neck and she pulled him forwards to join their lips. jane held him so close that their noses bumped together repeatedly and she had to lean forwards to follow him when he pulled away. "jane!"

"what?" she questioned, finding that she'd sobered up at a startling rate when the gravity of what she'd done had truly set in. "oh, sherlock i'm so sorry i didn't mean to-" her words were cut off as he kissed her again, again and again to pepper kisses all over her cheeks and along her forehead where her bangs had fallen over her eyes again.

jane was a breath of fresh air, the calm in the middle of the storm he lived his life by. in the moment with her, sitting on the grass in a darkened london park he couldn't help but not care about what john would say when he finally got home or if jane would soon realise how dangerous tangling her life with his truly was.

she pushed herself onto him and held onto his arms as she kissed him harder, not caring that sherlock was the right-hand-man of every inspector at scotland yard or that his idea of fun was dissecting human bodies and testing them for bruising. the only thing that mattered to her was the boy she'd liked since she walked in late to the lecture hall was kissing her back after he'd admitted to her, drunkenly at their mutual friend's wedding, that it was all he thought about whenever he saw her

🪩⁺˚⋆｡°✩₊🔎

[ladylaviniya]

𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐞

[clairewritesandrambles]

─── Masterlist ───

❀ Denotes Smut/NSFW Content

↠ Fics

↠ One-Shots

↠ Drabbles

─── WIPs ───

❀ Denotes Smut/NSFW Content

↠ Fics ↞

↠ One-Shots ↞

↠ Drabbles ↞

[darkdevasofdestruction]

Ethereal Limerence - Sherlock Holmes (BBC Sherlock) ~ On Going

Summary:

Pursuing one's dreams is everyone's life goal, even if that means finding a speck of ephemeral bliss in making autopsies. This nefarious enthusiasm combined with a crime-filled capital, like London, makes a certain female feel ineffable. Recently, however, dexterity and wit level of these murders have significantly increased, making the police request the help of a certain Consulting Detective. Are the Angels going to win this war? Or is the Villainous side going to triumph?

Chapter 1 - Blue Effervescent Liquid Bottle Chapter 2 - Ephemeral Aurora Chapter 3 - Shot Through The Heart

[zealouscanonindeer]

Chance Encounter

As I entered the small Strand restaurant where I had asked Watson to meet me, I saw at once that it was unusually crowded for that time of day. As I searched in vain for a table with two empty chairs together, I noticed a young woman sitting by herself at a table for two, reading a recent issue of the Strand. Her molasses-brown hair was up in a loose coif, though a few locks had come free. Her apparel was fashionable, but not extravagant, and her boots were of a style not frequently seen in London.

I stayed where I was, intending to wait until she had left before claiming the table, but presently she glanced up and caught my eye. She indicated that I should approach, though I did not recognise her and she gave no indication of recognising me. Out of curiosity, I walked over to the table.

"I will be leaving shortly," she remarked once I had arrived, "So you needn't worry that you or your friend will be left standing."

"What led you to believe that I was expecting someone?" I asked, my curiosity piqued by her comment.

"If you expected to remain alone," she replied, "you would have simply taken one of the solitary seats in the restaurant. As it was, you hesitated in the doorway and scanned the entire dining area, apparently looking for a table with two or more chairs together. It isn't usually this crowded at this time of day."

"I hadn't noticed you here before," I said as I sat across from her.

"I haven't been here before. You glanced at your pocket-watch as you came in, and you looked annoyed at the crowd. Hence, you were expecting it to be empty enough now for both of you to sit."

Not to be outdone, I observed, "You're very keen, for a left-handed, unmarried, secretary,recently returned from a travel to America who hadn't the foresight to take a cab here on such a windy day."

She arched an eyebrow at me. "How do you know all that?"

"The indentation of a pen is plain upon the second joint of the middle finger of your left hand, though even had I not observed that, one can see that you turn the pages of your magazine with your left hand rather than your right. You also do not wear a wedding band, nor is there the shadow of where one might otherwise be. The skin on both hands is overdry, as might be expected when one handles a lot of paper in their profession.

"Even before you spoke I noticed your boots, which are of a style manufactured chiefly in America, which told me that you had certainly been there when you purchased the boots. I could see you had walked here, as there is road-grime splashed on your boots, and the stiff wind has blown some of your hair free of its pins."

"Hum!" she said when I had finished, and she sat back. A slight smile played at her lips. "Well, even a left-handed, unmarried, secretary - whether or not she has the foresight not to walk in the wind - can easily spot someone who smokes tobacco, favoring the pipe when he is feeling meditative; who is a deep thinker on many puzzling issues and has a very keen eye for the minutest details; who is a lover of classical music and in fact plays the violin himself; who is a bachelor but takes a roommate; who takes a great interest in chemistry; who is a master in the art of theatrical makeup and disguise; who is a pugilist and fencer; who takes little interest in anything which he finds boring or irrelevant or which does not otherwise engage his intellect; and who is quite disinterested in romance or in fact in women as a gender outside of the necessities of his line of work."

She picked up the magazine and continued reading as I sat, slightly stunned. Finally my curiosity overcame my pride, and I said, "That is quite a detailed catalogue. Perhaps you might explain how you came to these conclusions."

"Well, there are two possible answers to that question," she said, "A long answer and a short answer."

"The long answer first, then."

"Certainly," she replied, "The smell of pipe tobacco is dreadfully difficult to get out of one's clothing, particularly if one smokes heavily at a stretch, so it has quite permeated your clothing, defying all efforts to remove it.

"Your powers of observation were quite clear from your own remarks about myself, but as they were quickly deduced it was clear that this process takes very little time at all. Nonetheless, there is a pronounced furrow between your eyebrows which naturally forms when one knits the brow in deep concentration.

"Your choice of musical instrument is evident by the broad callouses on the pads of the fingers on your left hand where they would touch the strings, and the narrower callouses on the fingers of your right hand where they would grasp the bow, and the slight indentation on the underside of your chin where it would rest on the body of the instrument. One who plays the violin could hardly be uninterested in classical music.

"The lack of a wedding band indicates that you are not married, but your clothing is well-worn, indicating that your income has not been substantial enough for you to afford new clothing for some time. The only way a gentleman in such a financial situation might afford reasonable living quarters is by going halves with a roommate.

"Your interest in chemistry is as plain as the chemical-stains and acid- burns on your hands, though I daresay a home laboratory would cause your roommate no little annoyance.

"Your lean frame is not indicative of a sedentary lifestyle. Furthermore, your upper body appears to be well-muscled, as would be necessary in boxing, and your right arm is slightly more developed than the left, which would occur in someone who practiced in fencing or played singlestick.

"Your interest in theater is evident by the slight smell of cold cream, used by professional thespians to clean off their greasepaint. All the same, there is a thin line of greasepaint at your hairline - hardly noticeable, mind you - which might result if you had washed it off your face in poor light.

"Your selective interest in most topics underlies most of these, particularly the fact that you have a keen interest in such diverse topics as chemistry and theater. It would be difficult and frustrating to cultivate such a level of expertise in all topics, so you pick and choose those which are most interesting and useful to you. The fact that this list does not include women was indicated by your bachelorhood, the lack of any indications - such as the use of cologne - that you are courting anyone, and your apparent reluctance to approach this table in the beginning and ask me if the seat you are now occupying is taken."

She thus concluded her explanation, and returned to her magazine. I sat silent for several minutes, digesting her essay on my personal habits, until I could no longer contain my curiosity.

"The long answer covers every detail," I said, "So what could be the short answer?"

She glanced up at me over the edge of her magazine, and silently folded back one half of it to reveal the full-colour title page of "The Adventure of the Speckled Band," which depicted me thrashing away at a rearing adder with my stick

"Occam's Razor," she said quietly, "How quickly you forget your own fame, Mr. Holmes!" With that she got up and left.

I was still laughing when Watson joined me and asked me if I was quite all right.

Head on to my sequel

the adventure of the trading trinkets

To find out more about her.

[sunflower-bardic-inspiration]

Chapter 22 of Uncharted Seaway is available on AO3, in case anyone wants to have a moment of distraction from the news and real life in general🫠

Anyway - people who are still following the updates of my story - thank you so much ❤️ that means a lot 🫂🥹

[rey-jake-therapist]

Sherlock fic: The One That Got Away: chapter 3

Chapter 3: "Splitting Hairs" of my Sherlock fic The One That Got Away is up!

Link AO3 ⬇️

Summary:

While Sherlock's investigation on the suicide case progresses and he acquires the conviction that it may have been assisted, John and Molly spend a lovely afternoon together at the park with Rosie. Too bad they're interrupted by a call from Greg Lestrade, who just made a very unsettling discovery in a hotel room booked by Ema Nymton, the mysterious woman who burglarized Harold Boltroy's house shortly before he died. Mrs Hudson offers John to rent the 221C Baker Street, so he and Rosie can live closer to Sherlock.

Excerpt, inspired by the February prompt 'FEAR' proposed by @sherlockchallenge :

Hearing only silence from his partner, Sherlock repeated John's name, only to be met with an echoing void—John's absence, a persistent reminder. For a time, Sherlock had tried living with Billy Wiggins, a promising young man he had found on the streets, but Billy had disappeared one day and never returned. Sherlock blamed himself for scaring him away, though he knew it was for the best considering that Billy’s interests were limited to drug taking; he had hoped to teach Billy everything he knew and turn him into a good detective, but it hadn't worked out. Now, Sherlock lived alone, and sometimes loneliness crept inside him like a cold wind. It left him feeling helpless against the voices inside his head that whispered for him to end it all. But every time those voices came, he stood up straight and refused to listen.

Someday, death would come for him, whether he wanted it or not. Like the man from Samarra, he had run away from it many times before. One day, however, it would catch up with him. There were people waiting for him behind Death's curtain, eagerly awaiting his explanation for why they suffered and died because of him. Despite knowing this, Sherlock was not afraid to die. He knew his career path would lead him to an early grave, but he didn't fear it.

The only thing that scared him was the thought that maybe the people who believed in an afterlife were right, and the ones who suffered and died because of him were really waiting for him behind Death's curtain, eager to hear his explanation for what happened to them. As Sherlock put on his coat in the lobby downstairs, a sad-looking face appeared before him, staring at him intently. Dazed for a moment, he closed his eyes and shook his head to send the vision back away to the darkest corners of his memory, where it belonged.

Just as he was going to call a cab, determined to visit the late Harold Boltroy's assistant alone, Sherlock's phone rang in his pocket. A light of joy flashed in his eyes as he saw the caller's name on the screen; it was Greg Lestrade, at last!

“Sherlock? I’ve got some news. Is John with you?”

Ships: Sherlock x OFC, John x Molly, Mycroft x OMC

TW for this chapter: brief thoughts of suicide are mentioned.

CW for this chapter: mentions of platonic Adlock and Sherlolly.

[inklores]

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐀𝐆𝐍𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐌𝐒.

pairing: henry!sherlock holmes x fem!oc

summary: sherlock holmes needs to find his intrepid little sister. clara bedi wants to keep his sharp nose off her trail. (word count: 3.1k)

content contains: fluff, sherlock being bad with women, slight strangers to lovers but they're both smart idiots

author's note: made originally for a class assignment but i'm too proud of it to keep it hidden away in my google docs!! enjoy

FUMES OF SMOKE lifting from the corners of his lips, he thumbed the lapis silk tie the pamphlet was bound by. The rhythmic movement was a rehearsed habit of his, charting keen thoughts that were falling into place.

Tea in the Parlor

Magazine of Modern Womanhood

25 April 1884

“A Problem With No Name. I’ve first heard that uttered so solemnly beneath the breath of a mother amid other mothers over the scent of teacakes and the English brew that her hands had surely processed the week before. Another cried. As your humble magazine writer, there have been women beyond our teatime who had answers to my questions. Those who sort matchsticks in factories, who raise children, who nurse other children. Those who live in the fine estates of Westminster, lodging houses along Greater London, and flats bordering Whitechapel, all have the same problem. The groping truths to their lamentations, brought into light when the children were away and their husbands attended to important business over a glass of sherry at their gentleman’s clubs,—”

Something more than a scoff and less than a laugh escaped Holmes.

“—were provoking. Just what was this nameless problem? A whisper that refuses to be said. The bond of pain, of womanhood, of the searing feeling that something great shall arrive to our fair England.”

— C.E. Babbington.

“Mr. Holmes, I hope you’re not mistaking me as someone with whom you are at odds with.”

Clara wore burgundy today.

Or indigo to a sharp eye, moreso if she sat in the dusky shade rather than by the window where sunlight was allowed to stream through the frosted glass tiles. The heat of the afternoon, Clara could tolerate. The brisk cold, the musk of tobacco, pomade, and fine English leather that filled her office—all mingling together to create one scent that floated around the man who stood in front of her— she virtually could not.

Well, “office” may have been a playful nudge to her ego. It was more of a closet with a pen, a hook to hang her coat when there was a chill, a canister of her favorite tea matched with her precious teapot, and a small sideboard that she used to stash her extra paper. Clara had spent enough time in that little closet to learn its quirks and commodities. The shutters would not close in blustery weather unless they were bound by a scarf. The gentleman who would take his Saturday morning coffee and eggs always found something to guffaw about in the newspaper. Clara knew because she could hear the fervor of his chortles from one story up. The fifth floorboard from the door creaked with the slightest movement and she had garnered the will to purchase a rug that softened footsteps over the parquet.

Now if only she could purchase a rug to wrap around the man filling her tiny corner with the fumes of… man.

A tall man. Haughty by the way he stood. He looked strong and sturdy, weaned on the finest food money could buy. Clara wondered if he teethed on crumpets and caviar as a baby. His clothing may have been picked to feign oneness with the people of England, but she noticed a grain on his breasted black coat. His crisp white shirt boasted no wrinkle, cinched around his neck by a silk ascot the color of charcoal. Chestnut curls spilled across his head—sharing no unified form—and fighting to be free of the pomade that gleamed in the dimness of the lamplight. She imagined an artless tumble of locks when he was nose-deep in a case. An errant strand fell over his brow, softening his countenance where his tone failed to.

“Have you anticipated me, Miss Bedi?”

It was Clara’s mistake for stopping short of her movements. Her fingers froze on the handle of her teapot and it was then she realized the incriminating ink stains that blotched her bronzed fingers.

She did not. He knew that. He likely knew what she had for breakfast as well. Hence the cloying pride that laced his query.

A tickle caught in her throat and she swallowed tightly to preserve her pride as she arched a dark brow. “No, I have not, but I applaud your effort. Nobody contemplates and makes a theater out of their face quite like you.”

Looking up from the tea she was pouring, Clara barely caught the indignant twitch in his face, even as his mountainous posture was unrelenting. For a man who was presumed to be discreet, he was quite eye-catching.

He dropped his gaze down to the lonely armchair and side table Clara would enjoy her tea in. It was the one perpetually surrounded by her basket of stained pen tips and folded newspapers— Clara had the habit of saving old prints—bits of thread, scraps of silk in cooler hues, linen from occasional embroiders, and stacks of books from Edith that never make it back to the shelf, being moved around constantly on the empty promise of being read to completion.

It was a detective’s heaven.

“The name ‘Holmes’ is beginning to mean quite a deal in this country,” her eyebrows slanted, copper eyes filled with constellations, “and do you think I would be in my position if I did not know?”

“Precisely why you flinched when I used your name and not your pen name.” His voice was rich as a fine velvet she let her hands graze over at a textile stand, but detached. “Deceit. To hide the plain truth, just as frills and elegant coifs do. Yes, it may dress you like a powder puff—” she parted her lips in protest but his eyes glimmered like opals, he was clearly not done—“but the man holding the pen is entirely different. In that…”

Her grip on her teacup could not get any tighter, for one tremor to rattle the porcelain would have him arriving quicker to the deduction he savored for last.

“He is not a man at all, is he?”

She watched in bated, almost nonexistent, breath—wondering how quickly she could get her hands on the cake spade lying unfashionably by the crumbs of a Dundee cake she had scarfed down the night before—as he fished a blue silk tie that bookmarked the yellowed book she just realized he held.

“How does a C.E. Babbington become… the elusive Clara Eashwar Bedi?”

A wave of cold took her from head to toe. If Clara wasn’t gripping the edge of her desk, knuckles quickly whitening, she was sure her knees would’ve given out. She stared down at the pretty silk tie, and then at the folded pamphlet he slid over the varnished surface, the black ink script almost snickering at her in mockery.

His words came as fluidly as water, uttered with a stone-cold expression she figured was his mask for his famous deductions.

“Four separate purchases of pens and paper from three different vendors.”

Spreading her tracks. No writer who desired anonymity would so foolishly expose herself by making a reputation with one seller.

He was studying her closet-office now. A satin kerchief protected his hand as he chose a stained pen to scrutinize. “Bills from Whitechapel. Cheaper ink—a shadowy writer such as yourself would not earn her dues to spend carelessly on finer supplies than supper for the night. Or silk ties to make her mark. To create a name.”

Cheaper ink bleeds easier. Her fingers, a blatant victim.

“Bedi.” He tasted her last name on his tongue for a moment, eyebrows pinched as if he was trying to paint a map in his acute mind. “When did your father leave India?”

Her throat was dry but she swallowed down her apprehension and managed out, “Fifteen years ago.”

“Does he work on the docks?”

“Worked.”

A flash of humanity lightened his eyes and the man of a chilly, pragmatic acumen faltered. “Apologies.”

The sound that tumbled from Clara’s lips could only be described as something between a shaking sigh and an aggravated grumble. “What is it you want, Mr. Holmes?”

“You write for the Magazine of Modern Womanhood,” he continued, making Clara bite back an exhausted groan. “Yet you affect a pseudonym. Why?”

“I don’t write for the magazine, I write alongside it,” Clara mumbled. Why was she entertaining him? “I don’t have the means to print my pieces independently— as you so cleverly deduced by my purchases of ink.”

“Your pieces… and other submissions, I’d bet.”

“Are you a betting man?” She lifted a brow curiously, daring him to stop this frivolous quadrille of tongues and get to the point.

“A cipher with the fingerprints of my sister was published in the personal advertisements column of your magazine, The Pall Mall Gazette, and The Journal of Dress Reform. It’s our mother’s interest she hopes to attract and with the choice of your publication, she has a good start.”

“God, there’s more of you?” she asked, feigning horror. “Is the world ready for that?”

(But where the name Mycroft Holmes was etched in cold stone and proud, old money, she had the sense the name Sherlock meant something else. Something whisper quiet like a dusty novel on crumpled velvet. Elegant with solitude.)

Sherlock took a step forward, his fingers still thumbing the fraying corner of the book. “Have you any idea where she might be?” He tilted his head. “I’m afraid our mutual acquaintance Edith had more to say of my “ostrich-like” nature than my sister.”

Clara couldn’t help the kick in her voice as she responded, “Appropriate.”

He smiled at her, a Private Investigator brand of Smile that Clara knew well enough from the numerous times a constable had approached the magazine for its inflammatory words, and which only deserved a Young Journalist Smile.

But what he said snagged her attention as well as a good story. Eudoria’s daughter. Little Enola. 

Edith had mentioned her once or twice. Clara might have seen a glimpse of a little brown-headed girl with quick feet, dashing about Ferndell Hall when ladies of a particular ilk huddled around a table, bearing swords on their tongues and determination in their hearts. Clara typically stood behind her bolder friend, Edith, clutching a pen that barely made a scratch against her worn pocketbook. She knew little for the illustrious Sherlock Holmes to knock on her door… but little was more than enough to be cunningly dissected and deduced by him.

“Enola’s missing?” she asked slowly, hoping to stall but Sherlock Holmes was not a man for idle chatter. Her head shook in a disappointing, deceiving refusal. “I’m sorry, but I have the faintest idea as to where she’s gone and why.”

“I find that highly improbable,” said Holmes in a tone that suggested he too was done with this waltz. “You’re protective of your name, or, names —”

“And what will you do if I use your name, Mr. Holmes?” Clara countered rigidly, her heart leaping into her throat. “Loudly? With proper dictation? Letting everyone know your business more than you’d like?”

“Then you’d also find yourself and Edith in a very difficult position, one that I’ve made clear to her and will to you if I must,” Sherlock warned, dropping his voice to a decibel that made a chill rattle her spine. A hint of vague frustration was tangled within his dull humor. 

Clara stilled, watching as he turned over the book and leafed through toward the back cover. Stuffed in the spine was a folded napkin and he paired it with the newspaper clipping for her viewing displeasure. Wrinkled and white and stamped with the crumbs of a pastry, her eyes were naturally drawn to the hasty scrawl in ink:

“C.E.B.

Matter of Bill —

Tea Rooms”

The same dismayed expression from when he dissected her alter ego took ahold of her face once more, even if she tried to disguise it by a clench of her jaw. 

“Macaroons could do with some attention but Edith has enough to worry about,” said Holmes. “She’ll notice the missing book from her seditious collection but not the message hidden inside— a message written to Babbington, who I understand is an intrepid young woman, so I’m sure you’re aware of what the proper connections can do for a man.” The distant, icy blue of his eyes warmed. “I asked of your father— a man who likely worked too hard for too little a reward and you, his daughter, silently fighting in favor of a bill that will help the men and women like him.”

“My,” Clara gasped, “Mr. Holmes, I didn’t take you for a man of politics.”

The stray little curl swished across his brow as he shook his head. “Oh, I’m far from it.”

She hummed curiously. “Then, what do you fancy? People? Poetry? Probably not. It’s your cases that keep you warm at night, which is why you hunt your own sister in blind circles like a dog chasing his tail.” She leaned forward, lowering her voice, “If Edith tells you nothing, I will say even less. Trust your sister… and the future. Good day, Mr. Holmes.”

She made to go around him, ignoring the way her stomach fluttered as she did, until a bleak and dare she say, concerned mutter caught her ear.

“She’s a child.”

“By my understanding, you’ve abandoned her once, Mr. Holmes. In the pursuit of where your mind takes you and little of your heart,” Clara said, more sharply than was her wont. 

“I beg your pardon.”

The anger in his voice flared like a bleeding heart. A man who was a fire next to gunpowder, ready to speak his mind and snatch the rug beneath a pair of unsuspecting feet. She could loathe him for being so perceptive and intelligent, yet plainly missing the changes of the world. But that tone… He was no longer a brilliant mind or a pleasantly distant man. He was a brother who wanted to know where his sister was.

And if there was ever a case that Sherlock Holmes would encounter, it would leave no secrets he could not crack.

Clara turned around, stained fingers toying with each other, teeth worrying her lower lip to a reddening bruise. Amusement danced in her eyes, quenching the frustration that twisted his sharply cut features.

“You have it,” she admitted after a pause, cheeks growing warm. “Because I’m a woman who believes in second chances… and the calling of her heart rather than her mind. And a desolate, hopeless bachelor tugs at that heart, I’m afraid.”

Sherlock’s face contorted incrementally, the corners of his lips curling up just a tad. It was not a smile. Another part of her would have thought so but not the smart part. Still, it was an odd expression that made Clara think it was gracious.

“I’m not aware of such a reputation.” Fond.

“Figures,” she sighed, eliciting a huff of laughter from him. The sound was enough to make her face crack with a smile. “Enola’s sixteen. And if she’s anything like her mother and brother, she won’t go down with a fight nor will she be drawn away from it. And the real fight is coming. I advise you to start there.”

He squinted at her. Then at the napkin. Then at the clipping signed by C.E. Babbington. The fight.

“A problem with no name,” he murmured.

“It has a name, Mr. Holmes. Whether it will be spoken is decided by men like you and your older brother,” she added, rightly hopeful. “Perhaps that will change.”

Silence settled comfortably between them until the pounding of her heart became too loud for her ears to bear. She cleared her throat and pulled the knob to her door, returning her gaze to Sherlock.

“Until next time, Mr. Holmes.” She smiled. “I hope your game finds its feet. My best to your sister.”

He tilted his chin in an understanding nod, hand pressing against the curly blue tie that still sat next to his evidence, her pamphlet. To her surprise, he waited. One hand disappeared in the flap of his jacket and came out holding a fine black pen shot with gold trimming. To a man like Holmes, it was a pen to write some very useful reckonings of the mind but to Clara, it looked more valuable than what she earned in a week. It clinked as he set it on her desk, accompanied by that slight, mysterious smile.

“Trust a bill won’t be made,” Sherlock assured, amused as he approached her. He extended the blue ribbon to her.

“And a secret will be kept,” she enforced, fixing him with a look as she curled her fingers over the forbidden silk tie, folding it into his palm.

His hand was cold, callused like the reward of cracking cases. Yet it managed to send a surge of heat swirling in her chest, akin to lightning crossing a black sky.

(And did she intend the other thing she did too? The split-second brush of her fingertips over his palm and the way the ball of his throat was disturbed by a tight swallow. Savoring the softness of the lapis silk strand against his pale flesh and her copper skin.)

He lingered by the doorframe for more than a second. Sherlock looked at her— perhaps a more bewitching case with the narrowest twists and the sharpest of turns. A shadow of a smile graced his prim lips and he let out a delectable, ruminative hum. “Is that a promise I would be foolish to break, Miss Babbington?”

“Indeed it is, Mr. Holmes.” She watched him depart, a puzzling black figure who had more to his voice than what he decided to speak. 

“Oh, on the subject of hearts…”

Sherlock paused and turned around. He studied the meticulous way she swept her indigo skirt behind her and made him wait until she finally, painstakingly met his gaze. Only then she made him realize how beholden he was to her unfinished prose.

“While surely hopeless for a… perspicacious man with such a baffling pigheadedness,” Clara murmured, smiling lopsidedly, “do keep yours open.”

Before he left with another curt, reserved nod, Sherlock ruminated on her words. Her tone— he barely noticed the way he wondered how all of her other pretty, printed words would sound if they were turned from ink to… to… that voice.

No… she was not a case. She was a quandary. An unsolved riddle that he cracked with the full assumption that the winning hand was in his, only to turn over his cards and see that it was she who had the royal flush.

What fresh hell was this?

[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.

[hey-its-roseaurum]

Guilty Until Proven Innocent: Part II

A/N: Hello again everyone, it's been a minute. I couldn't post this part until @lainiespicewrites finished her part. This part was fun and extremely difficult to write, so if it ends up being a dumpster fire, then I'm sorry. Hopefully not. Anyway hope you enjoy it and let me know your thoughts.

Synopsis: After the agreement to work with Sherlock, Olivia was given an address to meet and discuss the plan. Once she arrives, she discovers something about Sherlock that not a lot of people get to see.

“221 Baker’s Street.  You didn’t mention that it would be on the second floor Sherlock”  I huffed to myself as I made my way up the stairs.  The night before Sherlock had briefly explained that I had to meet him at a specific location tomorrow.  He said he would give me all the information I needed.  When asked why he couldn’t mention it here, he mentioned he wanted to be safe before revealing crucial details about a case. 

So here I am, trudging up the stairs.  

And I hate every second of it.

But I push through my heavy breathing until I make it to the final step.  It wasn’t until I could breathe evenly that I knocked on the door.

A heavy pause lingered in the air before the door creaked open.

“You’re late.”  A gruff voice sliced the air.  Sherlock stood right in front of me, one hand on the door, the other holding a pipe.  

“Sorry.  I had a hard time finding this place.”  He stepped aside, leaving a glimpse of inside his flat.  A silent invitation.  “You never mentioned that this place was on the second floor.  Those stairs were brutal.”

“One should always have steps, to avoid people stepping on you.”  Sherlock merely stated, his eyes tracking my movements as I passed the threshold into his place.

“Umm…I’m not sure I entirely follow.  But I’m pretty sure-”  I stopped suddenly as my brain caught up with what was happening around me.  The hairs on my neck stood up as I felt my breath catch in my throat.  I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

Everything, even parts of the floor was consumed by documents of varying sizes.  Some were folded, some were ripped.  There were even some with tea stains.  Not one seat, save for one in the middle of the flat, wasn’t covered by some degree.

How can someone live, let alone work, in a place like this?

One of my main pet peeves is cleanliness.  It’s been instilled in me ever since I was able to move.  My mother always said that a clean house is a clear mind.  I tried my best to make my home as clean and decluttered as I could; even when I was at the small cottage.

But to see someone as put together on the outside live in such a state, especially someone like Sherlock Holmes,   says something about their mind…

I bit my bottom lip and drew my attention away from the mess and towards the smoke trailing behind Sherlock.  It took everything in my power to distract myself

“So…what is it that you need me to do exactly?”

Sherlock had traveled to the other side of the flat, completely avoiding the papers.  He puffed on his pipe, his face strained in thought. 

“There is a performance at The Reform tonight.  It appears to be a central location that the suspect likes to visit.  His latest victim had been a showgirl.  I need you to go in and see if you can retrieve any belongings of the two victims.”  My eyebrows creased together in question.

“Pardon?  Two questions.  You mentioned ‘latest victim’.  There’s more than one victim.  Why has it not been mentioned in the newspapers?  Two, if I go in, how do we know that their belongings are still there?  They could be gone by now.”  

“Due to the budget of the showroom and the amount of performers it takes to run a show, the items won’t be touched.  The show requires six performers to perform without any hindrance.  So far the show has five currently.  It will not run unless they have the right number of people to perform all of the acts.  The police haven’t connected the string of murders to one suspect yet.  They believe that there is no connection and no motive between the two.”  So there has been another murder, but it hasn’t been revealed to the public.  Why?  

It doesn’t make sense.  There was only one mention of a death that had claimed to be murder, at least from what I can recall.  The only other thing that has been repeatedly mentioned is about a new entertainment business coming to London.  It had been on the front page three consecutive times.  But the murders and the entertainment show can’t be connected, can they? 

“Olivia, have I lost you?”  Sherlock’s voice grew in my ears like thunder in a growing storm, shocking me out of my thoughts.

“NO!….no.”  I jerked my gaze to meet his.  My eyes trailed back to the ground and focused on each paper.  It took most of my attention to avoid stepping on any of the documents on the ground.  “Please continue.”  Sherlock stared at me momentarily, taking a puff of his pipe before continuing.

“I’ll need you to pose as one of the new dancers hired for the show.  You will be given access to their belongings.  Look for any personal belongings related to the victim, acquire them, and exit before the show begins.  Do you have any questions?”

“One question actually, um…if there are five performers and I’m posing as the sixth one, what is stopping the showrunner from putting me in the actual performance?”  I felt a slight quiver in my voice when the question left my lips.  My nerves felt like they were beginning to light on fire, and my breathing quickened with each passing thought of having to go on a stage.  

“Because there is a sixth performer.  You are to get in and leave before they arrive. Try not to run into them before you get what you need.”

“Oh…ok, great.”  I swallowed hard, feeling my anxiety growing.  How am I supposed to know what I’m supposed to grab?  I don’t know anything about the victim.  What if I take the wrong item?  What if I can’t even make it inside?  Even if I make it inside, there’s no guarantee that I won’t get caught.  If I did then everything would be for naught.  I’d end up in jail with no money to get bailed out.  I would let the victims’ families down, and let the murderer have another chance to strike.  Worst of all, I’d have the greatest detective in the world disappointed in me and regret ever allowing me to work with him.  

Keep it together Olivia.

“You look troubled.  What is it?”  His words sounded far away with the ringing in my ears.  I swallowed hard, trying to keep my composure.

“It’s nothing.  It’s not pertaining to the case.”  My voice felt out of place like it wasn’t me talking.  I felt like I wasn’t in my own body. I didn’t want Sherlock to know my doubts about this task.  We weren’t as close as I would like to be.  And the last thing I want is to show Sherlock how much of a mess I am inside.  He’d label me as just another person possessed by their own emotions.

I mean I sort of am but I didn’t want to divulge that with him.  It would just add to the list of things he’d be disappointed in.

Stop it

“I don’t want this to affect you when you are out there.  So please get it off your chest.”  There was a slight tilt to his head, his gaze analyzing me.  I could feel him already concluding that I was not cut out for something like this.

“It’s just…”  I trailed off.  How could I tell him that what I was about to do was crazy?  Everything I said when I was back at Edith’s place was completely spur of the moment.  At the time I genuinely thought that I would be able to pull something like this off.  Having it mere hours away from happening felt like I had been dowsed in ice water.

“Olivia.”  Just one word, my name, stilled my thoughts and pulled my attention to Sherlock.  His face had less of an edge to it like his demeanor had shifted and began to morph into something else.  I don’t know what it was but he almost appeared gentle and patient.  It was a complete contrast to what I saw several moments ago.  This was not the same Sherlock that had asked for help a fortnight ago.

This made it almost harder to speak.

“Okay, okay It’s just….” I bit my bottom lip, “why is your place so messy?”  I blurted out, completely changing the topic.  Maybe if I talk about something else I won’t have to show my doubts.

“It’s not messy.  Everything is where it needs to be.”  Sherlock appeared slightly taken aback by my sudden question.

“Right…that’s not what I’m seeing here.  It looks like you’ve just thrown around-”

“You’re changing the topic, Olivia.”  Shit…he knew what I was doing.  I guess I don’t have a choice…

“Okay fine.  I’m just worried about tonight, that’s all.”  A long sigh escaped my lips, “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I don’t look like showgirl material.  I mean LOOK at me.”  I stretched out my arms showcasing all the bumps, dips, and curves of my body.  “There’s no way I would pass as one, let alone be able to get through the door.  People like me are the ones who listen to the music and the cheering outside the building.  I don’t want to let the victim's family down, or especially you.”  A heavy presence filled the air, choking the silence.  Sherlock just stared at me.  I don’t know if it was out of shock or if he was reconsidering his decision to bring me into this.  

I don’t care anymore.  I let my insecurity out and hung it up to dry for him to see.  

All he has to do is say the words and I’ll be on my way back to my little damp cottage.

“You know Olivia…”  Sherlock cleared his throat, saying, “It’s normal to feel anxious about an uncertain situation.”  He paused, taking a moment to place his pipe on a nearby table.  “I’m going to give you a piece of advice.  Out there, feelings and being emotional poses a risk.  It is understandable for you, given the danger you may face.  However if you feel like this is too difficult for you, then I won’t force you to do this.  I can find other routes to get what I acquire.  All you have to do is say the word.”

He’s giving me a choice. 

He knows that the situation can be dangerous.  He knows that I’m feeling overwhelmed, but isn’t forcing me to commit.  There’s still a chance to back out, and yet he’s still giving me the option, however much that hurts him.  And if I don’t do this, it’s another chance to be another victim.

I can’t let myself back out.  

“No,”  I paused, collecting myself.    “No, I can do this.  I won’t let my emotions get in the way.”  A pleased look crossed his face, a small smirk threatening to reveal itself.

“Good.  I’ll see you tonight.”

A/N: Thank you to the following people who wanted to see this part happen. Stay tuned for part 3!!

Tag List:

@lainiespicewrites

@shellyshellshell

@xblueriddlex

@rosecentury

[unusuallysubtext]

YSL Sherlock Holmes Masterlist

Request by Anon

[tirednamelessguy]

Sneak peak into the latest chapter of my wip

Hopefully, I'll edit and post it soon

[self-conscious-author]

“Katherine Rossi.”

Orphan.

Only child.

Athletic.

Linguist.

Ambidextrous.

Italian father parent.

Closer to mother.

Clever.

Guarded.

Unemployed.

Inheritance. Family money.

Beautiful.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

Hiding something.