#The Man From The Diogenes Club

[blond3ang3l]

Eren is a geek lover. He absolutely is enamored with you. Watching your lips with every word you spoke. The way you got excited telling him about every single new detail of the things you got interested in. Eren worked hard as a famous rnb singer, long days in the studio trying to perfect his songs. Then having to perform when he literally had the WORST anxiety known to man. It always felt like someone needed him and was on his ass about something.

But he did it all for you. For moment like this were he could come home and listen to you tell him. About the things you’ve watched in your huge list of video essays that you had in a playlist on YouTube. How you lit up telling him different facts from how the dating game killer had a coworker that also happened to be a serial killer and he didn’t know to the conspiracy theory of the 27 club, no matter what you said it always made you so happy and seeing you all giddy and stimming while you talked to him made him so content with his life.

…and his dick very hard

“I know cotards syndrome, Koro, Diogenes, fregoli, hypochondria, pica, capgras, boanthropy, apotenmophilia, kulver bulcy, ekbom, erotomania, Stendhal. Pics is like one of the more well known. You know that show my strange addiction that we watch together? Yeah so like those people who eat the random shit like the lady who ate rocks- omg that reminds me!”

Erens ass was not listening one bit. He was watching you, watching your body. You guys had been apart for a little over a month so could do a very short tour in another country and he was sick as fuck that he couldn’t bring you. Everyone knew it too. His attitude fucking sucked that trip. He was antsy, his anxiety was through the roof, he snapped at everyone, overall he fucking hated it. But now, sitting here with you he finally felt at peace.

You were sitting on his lap, yapping his ear off. His eyes couldn’t help but wander to your legs which lead him to notice you were wearing his boxers. The way your thick thighs filled them out compared to his own, he couldn’t resist grabbing them. Grabbing them led to groping them, which lead to him sneaking his hands under the boxer. This caught you off guard and stopped your sudden rant with a small gasp. He chuckled and slipped two fingers in his mouth covering them in his saliva before slipping them back under the boxers.

“Cmon baby, keeping telling me about the little videos.”

He had to have been joking. No way was he just gonna pretend he wasn’t teasing you. Like his finger wasn’t circling around your aching hole.

“Go on I’m waiting baby. Keeping telling me bout what you learned.”

As much as you wanted to roll your eyes you knew it would get you no where. This wasn’t a new thing, eren was always so needy. It was always worse after a tour. Even if it had only been a relatively short one.

“Okay well like I was saying, erotomania is something that a lot of celebrity stalkers have. Especially kpop ones. It’s when someone genuinely believes they’re in a relationship with a celebrity. Remember that girl that literally would follow you to the airport? That crazy bitch probably had it.”

Eren couldn’t help but bite his lip as he listened to you go on. God you looked so fucking good. Your hair looked so good. He was so glad he got you your own personal stylist so you never had to worry about needing to go to a shop or someone else’s house. You smelled so good too. That vanilla body oil you used was just fucking irresistible. He didn’t know whether he liked that one or the strawberry poundcake one more. Either way it only made him want you more.

He slowly slid a finger inside you, watching your face contort as you tried to keep your composure. A deep chuckle erupted from his throat. He missed seeing your face. Facetime wasn’t enough. Having to sneak off to the bathroom to jerk off to pictures and homemade pornos wasn’t enough for him. He needed to see you. To feel you. He slid his free hand up your shirt, groping your chest as he thrusted finger in out and of you.

“R-ren, fuck. Cmon baby, how am i supposed to talk while you’re doing this.”

Your whines only made eren smile as he thrusted a second finger inside you. He watched you as you threw your head back while crying out. He was enjoying every second of teasing you. You were so impatient and he knew it. That’s why he catered to every need you had. You hated having to wait and tended to be bratty when you did. So he made everything about you. Whatever you wanted you had. But this time he needed to be selfish. He wanted to watch you come undone first. And that’s exactly what we’re doing.

Your tight grip on his shoulders told him everything. Your nails were digging deep into his skin as you pushed back against his fingers. You didn’t want to admit it but you missed Ren so much. Your fingers and toys didn’t compare to what he could do. How he could prolong your orgasm by teasing you. He could feel you leaking all over his thigh, his boxers now all sticky along with his thigh. He slowly slid his fingers out of you causing you whine.

He didn’t feel bad at all. It was about him this time. He gripped your hips dragging you along his thigh, making it even more of a mess. You hid your face out of embarrassment. It was too much at how he could make you a whiny mess. No other man could do this to you but him.

You couldn’t help the small noises that fell past your lips as you grinded against his thigh. Eren shivered feeling your warm breath against the side of his neck. The way you tugged at his hair he knew you were close. He could read your body like a damn book.

“Cmon baby, almost there. Let me see you.”

“F-fuck ren, I cant.”

Eren wasn’t having that at all. You couldn’t what? You were gonna disobey him? No chance in hell. He gripped your jaw forcing you to look at him

“You telling me no baby? I could have sworn I said I wanted to see your face. I’ve been gone for a long time and you think your whining is gonna stop me?”

You loved moment like this when Eren suddenly got serious. He was…well he was very off Standish which came off to mean as others. But he babied you. The moment you told him no thought after he told you to do something? It was like a switch flipped in him. His tight grip on your face was only turning you on more which made you rut against his leg faster.

“You’re gonna be good aren’t you baby? Gonna cum for me like a good little whore?”

You eagerly nodded as you bit your lip. You could only cry out his name as you came all over his thigh, making a mess in his boxers. Eren kept his grip on your face to make sure you maintained eye contact the entire time. A smirk creeping on his face as you came.

“There you go baby, let’s go get you cleaned up..”

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@merakidoll Eren fic just like I promised🫶🏽

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Based of a conversation with my boyfriend where I literally was going on about mental illness during my rant about the many video essays I watch

[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom.

Silvery Witchcraft

It is of course not a secret. Not per se. I don’t hide my true identity. It has more to do with what people observe. Or believe, I suppose. Coming to terms with the fact that the paranormal is real doesn't sit well with most people. Therefore, I always find it amusing when someone calls me a witch. Little do they know…

I took my time when I got to choose my appearance and colours. An image of an elderly, fragile-looking lady filled my mind. She fit my favourite colours perfectly. Purple and silver. 

My place of residence had already been chosen for me. 221 Baker Street, London. Such a pretty place. Victorian. Reminded me of my childhood. I immediately set about furnishing the place. 221A would serve as my quarters. I decorated it as a woman my supposed age would. Lots of lace curtains, antimacassars, velvet cushions, a Persian carpet, and mahogany furniture. I hid the modern kitchen appliances in old, almost ancient ones. My cooking and baking would not suffer because of an unpredictable oven, thank you very much!

I didn’t bother with 221C at first but moved upstairs. 221B was going to be rented out. I needed to earn a living. Keeping up appearances and all that nonsense. The flat was quite spacious and had two bedrooms. The empty space got my full attention, and I chose carefully. My intention was for it to look as if the previous tenants had left it fully furnished. 

The walls were covered with creamy-coloured wallpaper and a black lily pattern. Two mismatched chairs, one in worn, but exquisite leather, the other a faded red upholstery one, were positioned by the fireplace. Although they looked old, they weren’t. 

I used quite a few moments to get the bathroom and kitchen just to my liking. The space was scarce, but by using my silver sparks, my secret weapon, I got everything to fit without it seeming cramped. Letting the rooms expand unnoticed by the users, was quite a challenge.

***

My first tenant was Mycroft Holmes’ little brother, Sherlock. Witchcraft is surprisingly fully recognised by the British government. Not publicly, of course, and only a handful of ministries are aware of its existence.

Mycroft summoned me to the Diogenes club, and almost begged me to save his brother.

“He won’t listen to reason,” he sighed. “I have tried everything. You are his last chance, or he will end up dead under one of London’s bridges.”

Mycroft Holmes is just as much of a drama queen as his brother, but this time he wasn’t far off. I saw it in the lines around his eyes and mouth.

Arrangements were made, and I literally served my fake mafia husband to Sherlock on a silver plate. We got on like a house on fire after that.

Sherlock immediately fell in love with 221B, and he moved in the day after we returned from Florida and the execution. I hadn’t felt so alive in centuries!

“You will need a flatmate,” I told him after a while. “It’s too lonely for you. Don’t you roll your eyes at me, young man. I hear you during the wee hours. Playing your violin and pacing. A loyal companion is what you need.”

“Who would want me for a flatmate, Hudders?” he asked.

My heart nearly broke at that. Sherlock had become like a son to me, and I hated to see his loneliness. Few people were able to look behind his haughty façade. Greg Lestrade, Mike Stamford, and Molly Hooper being the exceptions. And me and Mycroft, obviously.

“Talk to Mike Stamford,” I urged him. “He will keep an eye out, and he certainly won’t pull someone like Sebastian Wilkes out of his sleeve.”

***

Before Sherlock left for Barts on January 29, I sent some silver sparks after him. For a moment, too brief for the human eye to discern, it lit him up, making him appear even more handsome. Not that he needed it. It was more for good luck, which he might have needed. It was difficult to use my magic on him due to his unpredictability and that monster of a brain.

The moment I laid eyes on John Watson, after Sherlock’s unprecedented hug, I knew he was just the one to share 221B with the genius detective. I didn’t even consider using my magic on him. He was already perfect for Sherlock. I just had to make sure that Sherlock didn’t push John away when he made his move to inquire about his romantic life and orientation. 

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[julienbakerstreet]

ACD Holmes Ephemera Flatlay Full list of canon references under the cut:

From left to right, top to bottom:

Simpson's restaurant matchbook (The Illustrious Client, The Dying Detective) [Simpson's is still in operation and this is actually one of their logos]

Newspaper clipping from the text entitled "Singular Occurrence at Fashionable Wedding" (The Noble Bachelor)

Ticket for The Gloria Scott (The Gloria Scott)

Visit Reichenbach brochure (The Final Problem)

Il Trovatore Opera advert (A Scandal in Bohemia) [Consulted Klinger's Annotated Holmes for a list of contralto roles Irene could have played]

Shag tobacco (Holmes's favorite, referenced throughout) [Hugh Campbell's is a real brand of shag from the period!]

Sarasate ticket at St. James's Hall (The Redheaded League)

Lysander Starr for Topeka button (The Three Garridebs) [This is a deep cut but if there's two things I love it's vintage political buttons and the name Lysander Starr]

The Diogenes Club matchbook (The Greek Interpreter, The Bruce-Partington Plans)

Arthur Pinner's Franco-Midland Hardware Co business card (The Stockbroker's Clerk)

Bradley Cigarettes (Holmes notes them as Watson's favorite in The Hound of the Baskervilles)

Sussex honey label (The Second Stain)

Come at once telegram (The Creeping Man)

Hotel Dulong label (The Reigate Squires)

Dancing men cipher (The Dancing Men)

Keep away from the moor note (The Hound of the Baskervilles)

Red-Headed League membership card (The Red-Headed League)

Wessex cup ticket (The Silver Blaze)

Underground ticket (The Red-Headed League)

Everything is based on real vintage ephemera, albeit not quite period-accurate because Victorian design gets boring quick <3

Might post individual designs later, but if anyone wants a specific design let me know!

[itwoodbeprefect]

btw i have to do a specific shout-out to short story "the greek interpreter", for having its very first words be "during my long and intimate acquaintance with mr. sherlock holmes", which then turns out to be the intro to a paragraph in which watson mentions (laments) holmes's "aversion to women" (in a romantic sense), and THEN, in my edition on the very next page, watson tells us that holmes tells him that "the diogenes club is the queerest club in london, and mycroft one of the queerest men".

(can you guess what happens next? if you guessed that holmes takes watson to the diogenes club, you guessed correctly.)

in (re)reading the original sherlock holmes stories it's hard not to appreciate how genuinely sweet holmes and watson's relationship is, even harder to avoid noticing how many times watson describes what they have as an "intimate acquaintance" or "two men who know each other intimately" and the VERY hardest not to have my brain bombard me with every single suggestive meme or emoji i've ever seen when another passage like that pops up.

... and they were roommates-

[girl-next-door-writes]

Here, There And Everywhere

Characters: Mycroft Holmes x reader

Summary:  Could the festive spirit finally give Mycroft Holmes the little push he needs to step out of his comfort zone and approach the one person who has captured his attention and possibly his heart?

Word Count: 1365 words

Prompt: Crowded Party, Mutual Pining, Tugging You Closer By Your Waist.

A/N: This is the fourth of my Build-A-Festive-Fics so thank you to the brilliant @russian-soft-bitch who put these prompts together for the wonderful Mycroft Holmes.

***********************************************************************

The grand ballroom of the Diogenes Club sparkled with festive decorations, casting a myriad of colors across the polished marble floors. Once a silent sanctuary of solitude, tonight it buzzed with the jovial chaos of the season for the annual Christmas ball, a spectacle not to be missed, not even by the impeccably dressed Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft lingered along the outskirts of the room, his sharp eyes surveying the revelers. Every detail, no matter how small, was noted and neatly filed away in the recesses of his mind for potential use at a later time. The half-filled champagne flute in his hand and his stern countenance deterred would-be conversationalists, and he couldn't help but appreciate the opulence of the ambiance. Despite the crowd, he remained acutely aware of the exclusivity of this gathering.

The grand ballroom emanated a symphony of sounds, from the melodies of music to the laughter that resonated through the air. The festive scents of evergreen and spiced delicacies wafted around, creating an enticing atmosphere. The stark contrast between the usual solitude of the Diogenes Club and the lively chaos of the Christmas ball was both palpable and intriguing.

Mycroft's thoughts remained inscrutable to others as he navigated the crowd. He was polite but remained rather solitary, his inner awkwardness prevailing. Social gatherings were one of the rare things he felt he did not excel at, no matter how much he may have tried in the past. He was not good at small talk and often missed social cues which left him with a burning sense of embarrassment and inadequacy.

Overhearing snippets of conversations, Mycroft gained insight into the lives and relationships of other guests. The dialogue painted a mosaic of characters, revealing both the mundane and the mysterious that he wished to understand and, occasionally, be part of.

The lavish decorations, a testament to excess and elegance, transformed the ballroom into a visual spectacle. Unique Christmas-themed elements punctuated the opulence, adding a touch of whimsy to the grand affair. Mycroft, despite his seemingly detached demeanor, couldn't help but be captivated by the extravagant surroundings, the festive spirit sneaking in to take root.

Sipping his champagne, Mycroft's gaze gravitated to the far side of the dance floor, and in that moment, time appeared to slow. There you stood, positioned at the periphery, resplendent in your festive attire. The twinkle of Christmas lights cast a soft radiance upon your features, accentuating your captivating presence and drawing him in.

For a man whose heart was said to mirror the stoicism of his demeanor, an unusual occurrence unfolded. Mycroft's heartbeat, once measured and deliberate, now seemed to accelerate at the mere sight of you. He blinked slowly, as if trying to comprehend the unexpected flutter within his chest, a phenomenon which only seemed to occur when he found himself in your presence.

The sounds of conversation faded away, leaving only the joyous melodies of the orchestra, and Mycroft found himself drawn to you like a moth to a flame. His feet on autopilot, took him through the crowd with one sole purpose. As he approached, he couldn’t help but admire the way your eyes sparkled with merriment. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly, and he took a deep breath, allowing him to savor the rare moment of respite from the burdens of his responsibilities. In this moment, he was not the embodiment of the British Government, or the responsible older brother, he was simply a man approaching someone he admired deeply.

You observed Mycroft's approach almost as soon as he embarked on the journey toward you. Patiently, you waited until he drew closer, a small but knowing smile gracing your lips as you offered a polite nod.

"Mr. Holmes, I did not expect to see you at a party like this," your tone carried a teasing lilt, and your eyes sparkled as they met his gaze.

Mycroft arched an eyebrow, a subtle smirk playing on his lips. "One must occasionally venture into the chaos of society, if only to maintain appearances," he remarked with dry wit. The comment earned him a light chuckle from you, and in that moment, a flash of pride bloomed in his chest at the unexpected achievement.

"I see. So, for appearances' sake, did you arrive this evening with a companion?" Your gaze gracefully drifted over to the dance floor as you took a sip of your champagne, projecting a nonchalance that was in strict contrast to the curiosity stirring within your heart at such a question.

"I did not," he stated simply, his eyes studying you for any sign of a reaction to that information. "I assume you are someone's guest this evening."

A small, knowing smile played on your lips at his deduction. It was an easy leap to make; the Diogenes was, after all, a gentlemen's club, and with the greatest will in the world, 'gentleman' was not a title you could pull off.

"I am the plus one of Lord Barrington's plus one."

"A plus one of a plus one?"

"Yes. Lady Barrington was concerned her husband would be too busy discussing business to keep her entertained, and so I am here as her companion, although the two of them have yet to leave the dance floor. They look like a pair of honeymooners, very much in love, even after forty years together," you shared with a touch of warmth in your voice, your gaze following the couple as they twirled gracefully on the dance floor.

Mycroft's gaze lingered on the Barringtons, his keen observation capturing the nuances of their dance. "An impressive feat," he mused, the faintest hint of nostalgia crossing his features.

"One worth aspiring to," you responded, a subtle warmth in your tone that resonated with Mycroft's unspoken sentiments. His gaze shifted from the happy couple back to you, his usually stoic expression softening slightly as he found himself silently agreeing.

"Would you like to dance?" The words had escaped him before he fully processed the thought, his eyes widening as he weighed the possibility of the potential humiliation—whether it be from you rejecting his offer or discovering him to be a less-than-agreeable dance partner.

“I would love to, thank you, Mycroft,” you replied, your acceptance lifting the weight of uncertainty from his shoulders. Taking your champagne flute, he placed it alongside his on the nearest table and offered his arm. If he was going to do this, he decided, then he would focus and, at the very least, prove himself a competent dance partner.

Concentrating turned out to be a far more challenging task than Mycroft had anticipated once he led you onto the dance floor and held you in his arms. Swallowing thickly, he found himself looking at his feet, attempting to recall how to lead without inadvertently stepping on your toes as the two of you swayed to the music.

You gazed up at him, finding this nervous and uncertain side of him endearing. A question lingered in your mind—was it the act of dancing itself or your presence that had this effect on him?

“Relax, Mycroft. It's just a dance. I've been led to believe you're rather good at such things,” you teased lightly.

“I have?” He raised his gaze to meet yours, genuine surprise evident in his eyes.

“Rumor has it you dance rings around most of the people you encounter.”

“Ah, well, there is a very large difference between verbal tapdancing and physically doing so.” He said dryly, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

“Luckily, this is more of a waltz.”

“Perhaps,” he chuckled, using the hand resting on your waist to pull you closer.

Mycroft could never accurately gauge how long the two of you remained lost in your dance. Time seemed to lose its grip as you stayed in his arms, the music guiding your movements until it came to an end for the evening. The once-crowded space had now thinned out, leaving the two of you as the sole occupants on the dance floor. Even then, he was reluctant to let you go, and the two of you continued to sway silently to the music only you could hear.

[fancyfeathers]

I had a thought about Yandere Mycroft Holmes after watching the movie Amsterdam last night, a spy/government agent darling

His darling is from another country, perhaps America or France, because in the Victorian Era those governments were not exactly on good terms with the British Empire, but for the sake of this let’s say she is from America. She is merely sent to keep tabs on the overpowering nation, do what is necessary and sent updates to her superiors. She lives there, picking up new jobs and identities when needed, and keeping her eyes and ears open. Then one day she gets a new assignment from her supervisor, she is to retrieve documents that are in the possession by British Military Intelligence that have confidential information on American Military Personnel which could potentially expose her and other projects.

She picks up a new identity, getting paired with one of her fellow agents, a young man, the two of them dressing up as a wealthy young couple who has relatives in an American firearms company, a possession that would be less suspicious when they begins to ask questions. Her partner has to attempt to obtain a membership to the Diogenes Club or obtain a meeting with member there in the Stranger’s Room so he could look there for the documents. Meanwhile she had the back up plan of becoming friends with the wives of the men who worked in Military Intelligence so they could be invited to a party so they could sneak around and find the documents that way.

It is a long shot but both of them succeed in their goals, he is accepted into the club and she is welcomed into the social circle of women. She is unable to find the documents herself and he has an inkling that the documents are in the office of the founder of the club, Mycroft Holmes, and it is no secret of who he is. It is risky to poke that far and they think about potentially leaving it to the diplomats but if they do it will give the British Government to investigate the documents and find out where and who they are and their jobs as agents will be done and dead, the best case is being sent back to America and receiving a reward for their efforts and other jobs, worst case is that they are arrested and kept across the sea, far away from home. So the two do what they have to in order to get the job done.

One day when she is writing an update report back to their supervisor, her partner returns home and she almost calls out to him and tells him exactly what she is doing but he manages to interrupt her first from the other room…

“Dear, we have company.”

She wastes no time shoving the papers away before making her way into the front entryway to see her partner along with the one they have suspected of having the documents, Mycroft Holmes. Apparently Mycroft had approached her partner just outside of the club and wondering if he could spare some time to talk about potential business opportunities with the so-called firearms company they had relatives in. Her partner asks Mycroft to wait in the drawing room while he speaks to his wife. He takes Mycroft’s darling to another room and tells her to go to the now closed Diogenes Club and sneak into Mycroft’s office to get the documents and she is slightly confused and…

“He knows about me at least, I do not know if he knows that I know he- just go, say you are going out to meet a friend, but go.”

She listens to him, rushing out the back door while her partner goes to deal with Mycroft. She goes through a broken window to get into the club under the cover of night and certainly picks a few locks to get into Mycroft’s office but when she is rummaging around she finds nothing, not just the documents, but there is literally nothing there…

Then it hits her…

He knew this would happen…

It was a trap!

It clicks in her head when she hears the clicking of a draw back of a gun. She looks up to see another man, no doubt who works for Mycroft, across the room with a gun pointed at her, but judging by his smile she knew he was not intending to pull the trigger. She is frozen and has no where to go-

“Ah it seems she got quicker than planned, thank you for holding her up, Albert.”

Mycroft does not do anything like arrest her but rather just asks her to sit down with him in his office. He acts as if nothing is wrong when he takes out the very documents she was looking for from his jacket and sits down across from her, addressing her by her real name which she has never told him so clearly they had figures out the documents and it was all exposed.

“I knew from the start, your partner’s discomfort with his wedding band signaled how you were not married for four years, he kept on fidgeting with it in the club.”

The way he kept on pretending was just humiliate them in the end and the meeting was really just to inform her of this and also…

“You will not be returning to America.”

“W-What?”

“I negotiated a trade with the embassy last night, the promise and return of these documents and that we will never use them against your nation and in return we receive one of their top agents any of the knowledge they have on any potential threats to our nation.”

She really has no other choice but give Mycroft all of her old mission reports along with any oral knowledge she has. Her old partner was sent home and she asked him to tell her family what had happened while she works on transferring her life’s work over to another government. This could take weeks or even months of constant supervision and questioning and then when it is over and she has given what she has and wants to go home and asks her captor…

“No, the trade was made for you not just for your mind, besides they traded you over so willingly, clearly they go not care about you how you cared about them.”

She could not deny the fact that he was right.

[throughpatchesofviolet]

A Night Out

Synopsis: Heathcliff and Sherry spend an evening out at a local tavern, taking advantage of a rare opportunity to relax.

Ship: The Adventure of Wuthering Heights

Words: 5,445

Warnings: alcohol, mentions of gambling, smoking, mentions of drugs, mentions of torture and death (no one is actually tortured/killed), mentions of food

Note: This fic is set in my Sherlock Holmes AU; Originally posted in June of 2023

A pleasant hush had descended on the Backstreets, and Heathcliff observed the evening routines of the local residents with a disinterested expression—here, on the outermost fringes of the Nest, the denizens of the District enjoyed a modicum of tranquility that stirred a bitter resentment in his heart.

Arrogant bastards, he thought, glaring at a pair of men as they lounged on the steps of their apartment, discussing whatever topic entertained those within the folds of high society—poetry, he supposed; those Odysseys and Iliads that only men and women of  ‘genteel breeding’ had the pleasure of reading.

Scoffing, Heathcliff leaned against the side of the alleyway, his gaze turning towards the building that formed the opposite wall—the Diogenes Club. It was a polite structure, constructed of ruddy bricks that had been glued together with thick globs of cement, and several windows adorned the frontside. The building possessed two stories, with the second floor rising from the first and shunted back a ways, and every single curtain was drawn, much to his consternation.

How much longer is this going to take? He thought, eyeing the nearest window warily. Every now and then, the drapes were drawn back, and someone would peek out before hastily drawing the curtains once more. He knew exactly who it was, and the game he played, but he wasn’t deterred. Does he just think he can keep her all night? That I’ll get fed up and leave?

Huffing, Heathcliff kicked the pavement, muttering a string of curses to himself. He’d been waiting since five, and, though there wasn’t a clock nearby, he knew it’d been a good three hours since his companion had vanished into the establishment—the surrounding apartments had been painted gold, then orange, and now a cool shade of indigo, and now the faintest lines of silver were beginning to dance through the streets, lending a soft, sparkling sheen to the pavement of the cul-de-sac.

What business is so important he has to keep her three hours? He glowered at the window, the curtains once again flickering as someone peered out at him. If I have to wait much longer, I’ll go mad.

Heathcliff had oft repeated that exact line to himself over the past three hours, yet he’d remained outside, patiently awaiting his companion’s return—such was the power of the vow between them.

“I shouldn’t have signed that lousy scrap of paper,” he grumbled. “I’d be off having a fine time with my mates at the pub if I hadn’t—I’d be starting scraps here and there, sure, but at least I’d be inside where it’s warm.”

But I wouldn’t be sitting half as pretty as I am, he reminded himself with a scowl.

His gaze returned to the window, but it was still. A moment later, the front door opened, and a woman dressed in a familiar coat of brown tweed stepped onto the street, her brow knit as she addressed someone behind her.

“—I won’t hear anymore of this, Mycroft. I have made my position on this matter perfectly clear—perhaps clearer than you would’ve liked. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my companion and I have another appointment, and I’ve wasted quite enough time entertaining your nonsense.”

“Sherlock, you cannot be serious about keeping this … engagement of yours. Your reputation will suffer for it—as will the family name!”

“Reputation means little to me, as you well know—besides, you’re the one the family name relies on, what with you being the eldest.” Tipping her cap, she offered the man a stiff bow. “Now, good evening.”

With that, she turned on her heel and set off at a brisk pace down the street, signaling for Heathcliff to join her with a wave of her hand. Glancing between her and the man still standing in the doorway, he shrugged, detaching himself from the shadows and hurrying after her.

“I take it things didn’t go well?” he asked, raising an eyebrow as she fished a pipe from one of her coat’s numerous pockets.

“It went as expected,” she replied crisply. “Things played out exactly as I told you they would, this morning: Mycroft begged me to drop my work as a Fixer, but he really dug in when it came to me keeping you around.”

“Ah … hence the ‘your reputation will suffer’ …” Heathcliff sighed. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone worried about me disgracing a lady.”

“And, as I’ve told you, not even my dear brother can undo the ties that bind you and I.” She smiled mischievously, lighting her pipe. “Imagine the look on his face if I were to produce the contract … he’d faint, I’m sure.”

“As would a good chunk of my mates,” Heathcliff muttered, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Though, they wouldn’t be as civil as Sherlock’s brother, he thought ruefully. No … they’d brand me a traitor, and then they’d exile me … but not until after they’ve tried to kill me.

He glanced at Sherlock—Sherry—hoping that he’d feel the familiar rush of rage towards her that he’d felt when they’d first started out on this private venture. But, try as he might, the flames of anger and resentment had long since abated when it came to Sherlock Holmes. After all, she’d opened her home to him, despite his untoward behavior, and had let him eat whatever leftovers remained when she finished eating—and, oftentimes, those leftovers were the entire feast.

She’d even enlisted her friend, Dr. John Watson, to tend his injuries whenever he returned to the Office covered in wounds from this or that clash between Syndicates, silencing Watson’s complaints with nothing more than a cold glare and a single, sharp word.

And, if that weren’t enough, she’d promised him the one thing no one else could—information. Along with a forty percent cut of her earnings, so long as he agreed to help her on cases every now and then.

By all accounts, Heathcliff had landed himself a deal that others would’ve killed for. Free room and board, a doctor whenever he needed one, tidbits of information on the person he yearned for most, and a sizeable paycheck … to hate Sherlock Holmes after all she’d offered him would be to bite the hand that feeds—and she fed him well.

And all he had to do was swallow his pride and sign a fancy little contract.

Heathcliff sighed, abandoning his attempt at hating the woman beside him—it was impossible for him to harbor hatred toward her, given the circumstances. “You said we had another call, this evening?”

Sherry shook her head. “That was simply an excuse to get away from my brother,” she said, her smile fading. “I don’t like lying to him, but he’d exhausted my patience.”

“Then we’re returning to Baker Street?”

“If that’s what you wish.”

Heathcliff raised an eyebrow. What I wish?

That was the other thing that had stifled his frustrations shortly after they’d both signed that scrap of paper—Sherry always took interest in what he wanted. At first, this had only served to incense him further—he was already bound to aid her, and now she was trying to befriend him? It reeked of deception, the kind of trickery any Backstreets swindler would employ.

And yet … she’d met his gaze whenever he answered—she’d seen him, rather than straight through him, and committed his responses to memory. It’d been far too long since someone had wanted to know Heathcliff for who he was rather than for what he could do for them, and, despite reminding himself over and over that it was probably a clever ploy to win his trust, he’d developed a secret fondness for the detective—a fondness he both loathed and treasured.

“I didn’t have anything that I wanted to do,” he said finally, ignoring her piercing gaze as it settled on him—those sharp, sapphire eyes, sparkling with an intensity that made his insides squirm, were incapable of missing even the slightest of details. Heathcliff instinctively reached to adjust one of his suspenders, then froze.

Lass has me fretting about my appearance, now, he thought, gritting his teeth and forcing his hand back into his pocket as Sherry chuckled softly.

“You’ve been doing that more,” she said, closing her eyes.

“Doing what?” he asked, feigning ignorance.

“Straightening your clothes whenever I cast a glance your way,” Sherry replied, smiling. “There’s no need for it, you know—I’m not going to scold you for having a button undone.”

She cracked open an eyelid, her gaze hovering on the collar of his shirt, which, as usual, was unbuttoned.

Heathcliff muttered an oath, beginning to fumble with the buttons, which only made Sherry laugh more. After a moment, she tugged his arm, halting him so she could adjust his attire herself.

“I told you—I’ve no problem with how you dress.” She pulled his dusty, brown jacket so that it covered his shoulders properly, then fussed with his sleeves, picking off a few pieces of lint. “As long as you’re comfortable, I’ve no qualms about your clothing.”

Heathcliff grunted, waving her away. “If you didn’t care, then you wouldn’t be fussing.”

“I’m only fussing because watching you fumble with buttons and folds is as entertaining as watching rain trickle down a windowpane,” she retorted.

“Yet you were chuckling just a moment before,” he growled.

“Only because you fall for my teasing so easily—surely you know when I’m taking the piss, by now?”

Heathcliff bristled, but couldn’t think of a clever comeback. Instead, he settled for another curse, turning to follow Sherry as she continued down the street.

“If you don’t have anywhere you’d like to visit, then we can retire to Baker Street early—Victor did send me a letter, and I could spend the evening continuing my correspondence with him.”

At this, Heathcliff hissed. “Not that rich sod from the Nest, again … he isn’t insisting you return to that bloody estate of his, is he?”

Sherry’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “He is. I know how you feel about him, so you can look after the Office when I visit him, if you so choose.”

And let him flirt with you? I’d rather be shot! Heathcliff bit his tongue, barely stopping himself from listing the numerous reasons Sherry shouldn’t return to Victor Trevor’s estate—chief among them the jealousy surging through his veins.

“Victor informed me that a man by the name of Hudson has been working his father into quite a state, and wishes for me to look into him, and it wouldn’t do to turn down a friend after all he’s done for me.”

She turned her eyes toward Heathcliff, their mischievous twinkle growing brighter as she grinned.

“Unless, of course, something prevents me from writing back to him.”

Heathcliff returned her gaze coolly. He knew exactly what she was doing, and if he wasn’t so stung by her dragging Victor’s name into the conversation, he would’ve been flattered. To think, the great Sherlock Holmes was hinting at wanting to spend time with him … outside of the Office, no less!

Finally, he sighed. “I suppose … I might know a place we could go—but it’s not exactly the kind of establishment I should be taking a lady.”

“My dear Heathcliff, do you think I’m unfamiliar with the City’s dens of iniquity?”

“No, but still …” he avoided her gaze. There were places he frequented that he’d wanted to keep Sherry away from—the taverns were one thing, but the gambling dens and the underground fighting rings, thick with tobacco smoke, were places he didn’t want her to see, lest they spoil her opinion of him.

“I assure you, you shall receive no judgement from me—if that’s what you fear.” Sherry placed her finger over the end of her pipe, snuffing out the flame before pocketing it. “And if you’re concerned about my reputation … I made my stance quite clear, earlier.”

“That you did,” Heathcliff muttered. “Alright—perhaps I have a bit of unfinished business at a place nearby. But I don’t want to hear you complaining about the clientele, got it?”

The Rat’s Nest was an unassuming building upon first glance, with ashen brick walls and a number of freshly scrubbed windows, but locals knew better—though the establishment had a modest exterior, the inside was rank with illicit activity, from gambling to forgery to smuggling enkephalin.

Still, it was a place Heathcliff frequented—if nothing else, he could turn up a tidbit of info or two to run back to Sherry for her cases. And … well, the drinks were nice, too.

“The Rat’s Nest,” Sherry’s eyes glanced over the sign hanging above the door, and she sighed, clearly unamused. “How clever.”

“Careful there,” Heathcliff said, nodding at a crowd of thugs gathered outside the establishment, their eyes trained on the unusual duo. “This place is one of the most dangerous places in the District.”

“I’m familiar with its reputation,” she said softly. “Many of my clients have run into trouble with those who frequent this establishment … but it’s a wealth of information for any Fixer willing to step inside.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been here, then?”

“No—but I know a certain man with a rather unkempt appearance who has.” She shot him a sly grin, and he grit his teeth. “What’s your business, tonight?”

“Same as every night where you’re not demanding I go and dig up information—pool.”

Sherry raised an eyebrow, but said nothing as he opened the tavern door, a cloud of thick, blue tobacco smoke roiling forth and smothering them as they ducked inside.

The building was packed, with people from all corners of the Backstreets crowded around tables throughout the main floor. Many of them were speaking in hushed whispers, dark eyes glittering warily as they surveyed the room, watching for potential eavesdroppers. Most were smoking thick cigars, contributing to the hazy blue cloud drifting across the ceiling, while others had their fingers curled around neatly chiseled glasses filled with brandy, vodka, or gin—at least, that’s what Heathcliff supposed, having glanced over the bar menu briefly once or twice. He fancied the scotch, himself.

One quarter of the room had been lowered several yards, and a staircase had been installed for guests to travel down to the lowest point in the tavern—a space filled with dartboards, pool tables, and slot machines. Throngs of Rats had gathered around the slots, their dim eyes reflecting the dazzling colors as they watched the reels spin as if in a trance.

Sherry barely suppressed a soft cough, glaring at the indigo fog rolling overhead. “Would it kill them to crack open a window?”

“Don’t let ‘em hear you saying that,” Heathcliff whispered, nudging her towards the stairs. “Trust me—this crowd can sense disapproval, and they’re pretty quick to stamp it out.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You’ve upset them a few times, then?”

“And what would make you think I’m the one who upset ‘em? Perhaps I was just an innocent bystander who witnessed some poor sod getting thrashed for daring to tell one of ‘em off?”

Sherry grinned, shaking her head. “My dear Heathcliff … I’m sorry, but it sounds like you’re recounting one of your personal experiences.”

He muttered a curse, prodding her closer to the stairs. “Fine, I’ve been in a few scrapes with these lads in the past, but that’s all the more reason for you to keep your mouth shut.”

“Oh?” she raised an eyebrow, her eyes gleaming mischievously. “Is that why you’ve been coming back to the Office so ragged these past few weeks?”

“Mouth. Shut.” Heathcliff hissed, his eyes flicking towards the bar before scanning the nearby tables. “I don’t need you drawing more attention than you already have.”

Sherry huffed, folding her arms. “You’re not scared of them, are you?”

“What? No!” he scoffed. “Just get down the bloody stairs before I—”

He stopped midsentence, noticing a few people had turned to stare at them, and he felt his face flush. Grabbing Sherry by the elbow, he led her down the stairs, then towards a pool table in the bottom left corner of the room.

Releasing Sherry, he sighed, leaning against the pool table with his eyes closed. This woman is going to be the death of me.

“Eight-ball or one-pocket?” Sherry’s question, asked in a soft, gentle tone, made him open his eyes, and he was surprised to see her racking pool balls on the table behind him.

“Eight-ball,” he answered, and she nodded. “You … you’ve played before?”

“Once or twice,” she replied, shrugging. “Mycroft often lets the boys play at the Diogenes Club, and I picked it up from them—though, my dear brother was upset when he found out.”

“I can imagine.” Heathcliff couldn’t help but grin at the thought of Mycroft fuming because his precious little sister had learned how to play something as ‘scandalous’ as pool.

Sherry removed the rack from around the balls with a flourish, setting it to the side before placing the cue ball at the headstring. “Would you like to shoot first?”

“If it pleases the lady,” Heathcliff hummed, and Sherry scoffed. But she nodded, tossing him a cue stick from the set hanging on the wall beside the table.

“The floor’s yours.”

Without another word, Heathcliff moved himself behind the cue ball, leaning forward and placing his bridge hand on the table—open bridge, as always—and delivered a sharp prod to the cue ball, which collided with the pool balls at the opposite end of the table, sending them scattering in all directions. A solid blue ball rolled neatly into the top left pocket, and Heathcliff shot Sherry a smug grin.

“Seems I’ll be taking an early lead.”

“Don’t go getting cocky, now,” she warned, rubbing a chalk cube on the end of her cue stick. “You haven’t even seen me shoot.”

He shrugged, moving to the right side of the table to position himself behind the cue ball, eyes fixed on a solid red ball a few inches away from the leftmost pocket. As he settled down to shoot, though, he felt that familiar sensation of being watched by a sharp pair of eyes …

Sherlock, he thought, gritting his teeth as his heart skipped a beat. His gaze flicked up to meet hers, but he quickly focused his attention back on the cue ball, trying to ignore her. Just focus on the game, Heathcliff—don’t let her get in your head.

He poked the cue ball firmly, but it only rolled enough to nudge the red ball he’d aimed for, and he muttered a quiet curse as Sherry scooped up the cue ball and reset it behind the headstring.

“Allow me …” she said, settling into a striking position.

Heathcliff huffed, stepping back to lean against the wall, studying Sherry’s movements.

There were few moments where he had the opportunity to truly look at Sherlock Holmes—she was always bundled up in her brown trench coat, a short, tweed cape hanging about her shoulders, with a familiar cap perched atop her head.

 And that was usually all he noticed.

But here, in the dimly lit tavern, with her crouched low as she charted the course of the cue ball in front of her, Heathcliff had a rare opportunity to admire her face—it was surprisingly soft, with the faintest of wrinkles under her eyes denoting the many sleepless nights she’d spent in her favorite armchair, her deep blue eyes reflecting the leaping flame contained in the fireplace. He never really knew what she was thinking on those nights, but he knew one thing: Sherlock had some of the most piercing eyes he’d ever seen, and they expressed her thoughts more clearly than her own tongue.

Sherry narrowed her eyes, studying the cue ball with an intensity that she usually reserved for the morning papers, and she set her bridge hand flat on the table, running the edge of her cue stick back and forth along her thumb and index finger in quiet contemplation. A few locks of her warm, tawny hair brushed against the table as she leaned forward, delivering a firm strike to the cue ball that sent it shooting across the table, knocking a ball with a thick, yellow band into the top right pocket.

Wordlessly, Sherry straightened, moving around the table to prepare for another shot, this time her gaze set on a ball behind the headstring, sporting a band of indigo. And, again, she sank the ball.

Moving back around the table, she cast Heathcliff a sly glance, and he snorted. So, she’s got a little bit of skill—it’s nothing to be proud of. It’s not like we’re playing for money or anything.

Sherry sank yet another ball, and he sighed as she once again looped around the table.

Okay … maybe she’s got something to be proud of.

“I do hope I’m not boring you,” she said, flicking her eyes in his direction  as she settled down for her fourth shot. “I’m not familiar with the kind of conversation people have when they play pool.”

“They’re usually about topics that wouldn’t interest you, anyway,” Heathcliff replied.

“Try me.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, listening as the cue ball clattered against a trio of balls at the other end of the table. “When it’s me and my mates, the topic usually turns to who fancies who pretty quick.”

“Ah … you’re right. That isn’t something that interests me.”

“Not even if it’s about me?” he asked, opening his eyes to study her curiously.

“I was under the impression you were in love with that Earnshaw woman.” Sherry’s words were polite, but her eyes were dark. She gestured at the table. “It’s your shot.”

“So it is,” he murmured, detaching himself from the wall and plucking the cue ball from the table, once again resetting it behind the headstring. “Have you learned anything more about Cathy, by any chance?”

“Nothing that pleases me,” Sherry muttered bitterly, brow furrowed. “The more I learn of her, the more I dislike her—if you’ll pardon me saying so.”

Heathcliff hummed in response, taking his shot and sinking another ball in the rightmost pocket. “Wouldn’t happen to be because you’re … jealous, would it?”

“I have no reason to envy her,” Sherry said simply, but the storm in her eyes brought a smile to Heathcliff’s face.

Oh, she’s definitely jealous …

He missed his next shot, and Sherry took his place, resetting the cue ball and knocking two more balls into separate pockets. She really was quite good at the game—better than most.

“If I’d known you were this good, I would’ve made a bet with you.” Heathcliff sidled up beside her, earning an annoyed glare.

“And what would the stakes have been?”

“Nothing big—just a bet to see who’d be buying drinks.”

Sherry shrugged, jabbing the cue ball and sending another pool ball rattled into a pocket. “If you want a drink, I have no problem buying you one.”

“You, Miss Sherlock Holmes, are the complete opposite of a lady. Your brother would be horrified if he heard you were offering to buy a man a drink, you know.”

“There are more scandalous things,” she replied, rounding the table and sinking her seventh pool ball. “For example—I’m about to beat you at pool by knocking the eight ball into that pocket.”

She nodded at the hole closest to him, and he grinned.

“You’re just racking up your sins, tonight, aren’t you?”

“I never said I was a lady—you’re the one who assumed I was.”

With that, she sank the eight ball into the pocket beside Heathcliff, and the game was finished.

“Not bad,” Heathcliff mused, knocking the rest of the balls into the table’s pockets as Sherry hung up her cue stick. “Seems I owe you a drink.”

“If I drink, it’ll be back at Baker Street.” Sherry sighed, twirling her hair around her finger. “I don’t care to drink in public—and especially not in places like this.”

“What—you can’t hold your liquor?” Heathcliff teased.

“I hold my drink better than you,” she said sharply, and he winced—she had seen him in a drunken stupor once before, and though he couldn’t recall any of the things he’d said or done, the disapproving look in her eyes during the weeks following his intoxicated haze had hurt more than the initial hangover. “But … if you’d like, I can treat you to a glass of brandy.”

“Scotch would be nice,” he muttered, hanging up his cue stick.

“Scotch, then.” Sherry moved towards the stairs, and Heathcliff scrambled after her, catching up as she reached the main floor.

Before he could say anything, however, she’d vanished into the crowd, leaving him alone on the landing.

Shit, he thought, glancing around frantically for her. Really, Heathcliff—you bring a lass out with you for the first time in years, and you decide the ideal place to take her is a seedy little tavern packed full of the shadiest Syndicates in the Backstreets … and then you go and lose track of her. Sure, she’s Sherlock Holmes, but with a face as cute as hers, any drunk sod could fancy the idea to try and charm her—not that he’d succeed, because she is Sherlock Holmes and has no interest in romance, but …

He shook himself, muttering a quiet curse.

Pull yourself together, you stupid fool! It’s because she’s Sherlock Holmes that she’s in so much danger here—all sorts of Syndicates gather here, and none of ‘em are too keen on her after she broke up their enkephalin smuggling rings. If they cornered her, they’d do all manner of unthinkable things to her …

He shuddered, a cold, dark realization dawning on him.

… and it’d be my fault. I’d be the reason she got caught and tortured. His stomach twisted painfully at the thought, and his heartrate accelerated. They’d kill her and I’d be the one responsible for it, because I’m the bastard who brought her here in the first place.

He was about to dive into the crowd in search of her when he felt a gentle tug at his arm, and, glancing down, he saw that Sherry had returned, a glass of whiskey in her hand, which she offered to him.

“Sherlock!” he wheezed, relief washing over him. “You’re … safe.”

“Of course I am,” she replied, raising an eyebrow at his quivering frame. “Are you feeling alright? You’re shaking like a newborn calf …”

He blinked, then released a tired sigh. “Don’t go running off on me, love … you scared me half to death.”

“Ah …” Sherry glanced away, then took his elbow. “Let’s go over here—there’s a table in the corner that was unoccupied … you can rest there for a moment.”

Heathcliff allowed her to lead him through the crowd, and they settled down at a small booth in the farthest corner of the tavern, far away from the wary eyes of the ruffians clustered around the bar.

Sherry was silent, quietly observing the murmuring crowds, and Heathcliff took the opportunity to take a swig of his drink, sighing as the familiar warmth of alcohol spread through his limbs, filling him with renewed vigor.

Setting the now-empty glass down, he turned his gaze to Sherry, who was staring at her lap, her hat drawn low over her eyes.

“You doing alright?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m fine,” she replied curtly, lifting her head and staring out at the people milling about the tavern.

Heathcliff tried to read her eyes, but they weren’t the dazzling window to her thoughts that they usually were—instead, they were clouded with an emotion that was foreign to them … something different from the delight and anger that usually thundered through them.

“… can I ask you a question, Heathcliff?”

Sherry’s voice was soft, hesitant—so much less confident than usual.

“Of course,” he said, tilting his head. “What is it?”

“Do you still love Catherine Earnshaw?”

Heathcliff blinked, surprised by the question. “Of course I do—Cathy’s the only reason I’m doing all this, remember? You said that as long as I help you out here and there, and sometimes keep you company now that Watson’s left to focus on his practice, you’d tell me what you learned about her whereabouts.”

“I see. I suspected as much.” Sherry’s words were stiff, and that clouded emotion in her eyes thickened. “And what if she’s ceased to love you? Have you ever considered that possibility?”

“That ‘possibility’ is an impossibility,” Heathcliff hissed, bristling.

Sherry frowned. “Then you’re set on returning to her, once I discover where she’s decided to roost?”

“Naturally—once I get the information I want, our contract’s fulfilled. I’m free to go on my way, and you can find someone else to accompany you on your cases.”

“And what about everything we’ve been through? Is the friendship we share so trivial that you’ll just vanish without a word once you get what you want?”

Heathcliff hesitated at this—certainly, Sherlock meant something to him … she meant more to him than anyone else in the Backstreets. Hell—just a few moments ago, the thought of losing her had stricken him with terror, and that fear was rivaled only by the bitter thought that someone else would steal away her affections … but he knew that was impossible. Sherlock Holmes had no interest in winning a man’s heart—and besides, didn’t his love belong to Cathy?

Still, the idea of parting with Sherry once he finally learned of Catherine’s whereabouts left him feeling hollow. He did harbor a secret affection for her, after all … even if he refused to admit it.

“You’re … you’re not going to make me choose between the two of you, are you?”

“I’m not. But the fact that Catherine Earnshaw and I lead very different lives and desire very different things—save, perhaps, one thing—is undeniable. It’s not a matter of choosing between Catherine and I … it’s a matter of choosing between the life Catherine wants and the life you currently lead.”

He blinked—he’d never once considered how different his life would be once he was finally reunited with Cathy. He’d just assumed things would go back to how they were before he left—only this time, she would accept him. How could she not? He was returning to her a fairly wealthy man, after all …

But, life as it was before was … dull and uninteresting, now that he thought about it. He’d rise with the sun, eat breakfast, do whatever business required his attention, eat lunch, return to business, eat dinner, and then go to bed shortly after sunset. And there’d be balls, no doubt—and he loathed balls. Even with Cathy at his side, the drabness of it all would bore him to tears—especially in comparison to the fast paced life he led in the Backstreets working with Sherry.

At Baker Street Office, he had his three meals a day, a room for himself, and there was something new happening nearly every day—unearthing scandals, busting enkephalin smuggling rings, tearing down entire Syndicates, and learning the secrets of the Wings … plus, he still had the pleasures of gambling and drinking to pass the time whenever Sherry gave him leave. Though the consequences of those behaviors weren’t always the best, he at least enjoyed freedom when he was working for her … a freedom that he’d lose the moment he returned to Catherine.

“I’m close to figuring out where she is, Heathcliff,” Sherry said softly. “I just wanted to make you aware of how serious a choice awaits you. I won’t sway you one way or the other—but I will say that of all the men I’ve known, you certainly keep me the most entertained.”

She rose, brushing off her coat.

“I think I’ll return to Baker Street, now. All things considered, this was a lovely evening—it’s been a long time since I had this much fun.”

Heathcliff started. “Don’t you want company on the way home?”

“I’ll be alright on my own—I’ll leave the door unlocked for you. Just go easy on the whiskey, alright?”

With that, she swept out of the tavern, leaving Heathcliff to brood over the problem she’d unceremoniously dropped in his lap.

It was only a few minutes after she departed, however, that he realized something—Sherry had said there was one thing that both she and Catherine wanted. What that thing was remained a mystery to him, though his fluttering heart dared to hope that, perhaps, it was him.

[afrotumble]

2015 novel written NBA legend Abdul Kareem Jabbar and Anna Waterhouse.

Fresh out of Cambridge University, the young Mycroft Holmes is already making a name for himself in government, working for the Secretary of State for War. Yet this most British of civil servants has strong ties to the faraway island of Trinidad, the birthplace of his best friend, Cyrus Douglas, a man of African descent, and where his fiancée Georgiana Sutton was raised.

Mycroft’s comfortable existence is overturned when Douglas receives troubling reports from home. There are rumors of mysterious disappearances, strange footprints in the sand, and spirits enticing children to their deaths, their bodies found drained of blood. Upon hearing the news, Georgiana abruptly departs for Trinidad. Near panic, Mycroft convinces Douglas that they should follow her, drawing the two men into a web of dark secrets that grows more treacherous with each step they take...

Written by NBA superstar Kareem Abdul- Jabbar and screenwriter Anna Waterhouse, Mycroft Holmes reveals the untold story of Sherlock’s older brother. This harrowing adventure changed his life, and set the stage for the man Mycroft would become: founder of the famous Diogenes Club and the hidden power behind the British government.

[hergan416]

Okay, gimme a drabble for Sherlock and Moran. Or John and Mycroft. Or both, idk.

Sorry for taking so long. It's not morning, but here we are, John and Mycroft + shield! It's about 200 words... I think I just am too verbose for true drabbles. And all the tea stuff ended up barely being used in the final version 😅

Mycroft Holmes was already a dark man, but despite the color of his clothing changing little, mourning somehow looked darker on him. John attributed it to the dark circles and heavy bags under his eyes, as opposed to the extra band of dark cloth upon his arm.

Mycroft looked as though he’d aged ten years since John had last seen him. That had been just months ago, sipping tea at a comfortable cafe within walking distance of Baker Street. Warm lights and laughter had dulled at the time: Irene Alder’s body had been dredged up from the Thames.

At Club Diogenes, there was no sound to dull, and there was no body to be found. Sherlock was as alive as Adler had turned out to be; but John had no way to communicate this to Mycroft amongst the harsh and gilded silence.

He wondered, briefly, if some quirk of his body language might give him away, or if the silence here would shield his secret forever. Was Mycroft even meant to know?

And so, he simply sat, drinking bitter tea, hoping his companionship provided at least some solace in Sherlock's absence.

[terikanae]

the hound of the baskervilles with werewolves (stole the idea from ao3)

When Hugo Baskerville kidnapped a maiden, he was cursed by Satan, and since then every man from his family has been the bearer of this curse. Thought the first time turning into a hound is activated by severe stress - fear or anger, so not all of his descendants were werewolves, the majority of them has a very calm, privileged life, nothing threatens, and even not everyone believed in the legend. Sir Charles never turned into a hound in his life, but one of his relatives - yes, it was either his brother (Stapleton's father, not Sir Henry's), or his grandfather, so he believed that the legend was true, but he and the rest of the family did not spread that this was not just a hound from hell that was haunting them, but always one of the Baskervilles themselves. Stapleton turned when he fled Brazil - he then stole a large sum of money, and his life was at great risk. Having realized that the family curse was not a fiction, he decided that he could use it for his own purposes. Having already arrived in England and having met Sir Charles, he still bet on Sir Charles's sick heart, but was also ready for the fact that he could also turn, hoping that he would defeat an opponent who was no longer young. I really want to put Mycroft into this au, because I want their interaction with Sir Henry. In the beginning of the story Sherlock will consider that Sir Henry may be in danger in London (maybe not without reason) and send him at least for a day to Mycroft in Diogenes club, and Mycroft will almost go crazy with this talkative man, but then he will say that he will go with Watson to Baskerville Hall, Britain will survive without him for a week or two. However, I don’t want to do an open romantic interaction between Mycroft and Sir Henry, they will end up breaking up anyway, because Britain will actually last without Mycroft for two weeks, no longer than that, and Sir Henry needs to stay in Baskerville Hall. But if sparks fly between them, it will be great. it would also be possible to add more Stapleton, I would like at least one conversation between him and Sir Henry, when Sir Henry already knows who Stapleton is and what he was up to. And a final battle of werewolves (because the stress will eventually turn Sir Henry into the hound), but I don’t want Sir Henry to kill Stapleton, he’s already suffered enough, and it’s too much for him. So the final battle, to which Mycroft, Sherlock and Watson rush, ends with Stapleton, seeing the numerical superiority, trying to escape and drowning in the moor. Story may end with Sir Henry asking Beryl Stapleton to stay with him after all, if she doesn’t like him - he has money to take her home to Brazil, but she will say that she has had enough of this family and will sell the house, then she will have the money herself. I also drew art - the moment when Mycroft, Sherlock and Watson find Sir Henry, who has turned for the first time, is a full moon, and the werewolves are not fully conscious then. So Sir Henry tried to attack them, but Mycroft broke an oil lamp on his face - this scared the werewolf and he rushed away. Regeneration will allow Sir Henry to avoid scars all over his face pity that I will never write it

[mystradeholidaycollection]

Mystrade Holiday Fic Update...

Oh my goodness! So many more fics have joined the collection! They run the gamut--sweet, poignant, flirty, heartwarming, fluffy, mysterious, sexy, funny. Please do go give them some love.

So Nice and Warm by @stlgeekgirl (rated G, 1783 words)

Summoned to the Diogenes Club, Greg reflects on the year and possibilities, while outside, the temperature drops and the snow piles up. Post S2

All Is Calm by @ewebie (rated T, 2,259 words)

Leaving the office in December, even with the short, dark days, had become a spot of joy in Mycroft’s life. The Lestrade house had holiday traditions and decorations and food and plans, and Mycroft had been adopted into all of them.

Happy Holidays from Mycroft and Greg by @lavenderandvanilla (rated G, 610 words)

Mycroft and Greg sit down to write their first joint Christmas Card.

A Holiday in Hiding by @eventhorizon451 (rated G, 5,249 words)

Seeing Anthea filling your office doorway on Christmas day is not for the weak of heart. Nor is the news that Mycroft Holmes is missing. It's on Greg, now, to find him and set Anthea's worries to rest...

Epiphany by @lavenderandvanilla (rated G, 468 words)

Last Christmas Greg Lestrade separated from his wife for good. The holidays now have become a time to be endured. Mycroft Holmes wishes only to help his friend, any way he can.

Christmas Jumper Day by @littlefluffycloudsao3 (rated G, 567 words)

Greg’s strong preference for Christmas is to do very little, very late. Most years that works out just fine — he capably meets the low expectations he’s set over his adult life. This year, both his division’s Christmas fundraiser and last minute decisions about his first Christmas with Mycroft disrupt his well-honed strategy.

So Much More by @starkraivennemad (rated G, 2,700 words)

Words were said and Mycroft Holmes sat in absolutely the last place he expected to be late on Christmas Eve. The last he wanted to be on Christmas Day, but he was.

It was the last refuge for those who had nowhere else to go yet could not be to be totally alone.

Especially in late December during the holidays.

And Mycroft Holmes found himself still there on Boxing Day.

The Diogenes Club.

Sliver Light by @aworldofgoldfish (rated T, 2,166 words)

It's the small things. It's always the small things. Mycroft sees his ideas of what makes his life good change as he realises that small unimportant titbits turn big and significant when spent with Greg. After all, they are the things he can change and enjoy with the man he loves.

Any and all Mystrade holiday fics written this season are encouraged to join the collection.

[blond3ang3l]

🌷♡₊˚geek lover! eren🦢・₊✧

———————————————————————

This is a remake of the already geek lover eren, but specifically a sfw version but I actually really love this story

———————————————————————

Eren is a geek lover. He absolutely is enamored with you. Watching your lips with every word you spoke. The way you got excited telling him about every single new detail of the things you got interested in. Eren worked hard as a famous rnb singer, long days in the studio trying to perfect his songs. Then having to perform when he literally had the WORST anxiety known to man. It always felt like someone needed him and was on his ass about something.

But he did it all for you. So you can have everything your heart desired. He left nothing behind when it came to you. You wanted to see a new sci fi movie? He already bought out the theater. There’s a new podcast you like? He’s downloaded all the episodes for you on both yours and his phone. Don’t even get started on books. On your first date you mentioned you like to read and study psychology in your free time. Once you moved in he had your very own book room built for you. Carefully picking out each book for you on his own. Your own desk and room for you todo your writings in. He even surprised you with a laptop and camera so you can start your own podcast! He just wanted to show you how much he loved and supported you.

For moment like this were he could come home and listen to you tell him. About the things you've watched in your huge list of video essays that you had in a playlist on YouTube. How you lit up telling him different facts from how the dating game killer had a coworker that also happened to be a serial killer and he didn't know to the conspiracy theory of the 27 club, no matter what you said it always made you so happy and seeing you all giddy and stimming while you talked to him made him so content with his life.

"I know cotards syndrome, Koro, Diogenes, fregoli, hypochondria, pica, capgras, boanthropy, apotenmophilia, kulver bulcy, ekbom, erotomania, Stendhal. Pics is like one of the more well known. You know that show my strange addiction that we watch together? Yeah so like those people who eat the random shit like the lady who ate rocks- omg that reminds me!"

Erens ass was not listening one bit. He was watching you, watching your body. You guys had been apart for a little over a month so could do a very short tour in another country and he was sick as fuck that he couldn't bring you.

Everyone knew it too. His attitude fucking sucked that trip. He was antsy, his anxiety was through the roof, he snapped at everyone, overall he fucking hated it. But now, sitting here with you he finally felt at peace.

You were sitting on his lap, yapping his ear off.His eyes couldn't help but wander to your legs which lead him to notice you were wearing his boxers. Your hands thick thighs were filling them out so well. His hands moved to grip them as he watched you talk. You’d kill him later for not listening but he just felt so much dread when he was away from you that he couldn’t help but just stare at you forever.

“Rennie, papa are you okay? You’re getting all red. Are you feeling sick baby?”

You were worried, he had a bad history of getting sick easily. With him coming back from another country he could have likely caught something. It would hurt your heart to know he wasn’t feeling well.

“I’m fine baby. Keep going. I wanna hear you talk.”

“Are you sure baby? We can go lay down if you’d like.”

It warmed his heart how much you cared for him. You made him the man he was. He used to be so closed off to anyone that wasn’t your friends mikasa and armin. You taught him how to deal with the grief of life and got him therapy to get through the rough days of his depression. He just loved you so much and truly couldn’t imagine being anywhere without you.

“I’m fine baby, just missed you so much..”

For my girlie @merakidoll

[lisbeth-kk]

May Prompts

Today's prompt is: secret

The Luckiest Girl in the World (chapter 11)

Summary: Uncle Myc has his eyes everywhere. Even at Rosie's school.

Eleven Years Old

From time to time, uncle Myc picked me up from school in one of his black town cars. The questions were endless the days after, and I found it increasingly difficult to answer them truthfully. By now I knew that my uncle’s business was of a delicate and important nature. In my eyes, he knew everything my parents didn’t, and he obviously had eyes everywhere. Also, in my school it turned out…

I rarely visited him at home. When he picked me up, there were three possible destinations we’d arrive at. Baker Street, a café to have something sweet, or like in this case, his office at the Diogenes Club.

I greeted George, the man at the front desk, in sign language. The first time I did it, I was a bit disappointed that uncle Myc didn’t seem the least bit surprised by this. 

One of my classmates was deaf, so each week we learned new words. My uncle obviously knew this, because he remarked on my progress when we were safe inside his spacious office.

“You know everything, don’t you?” I said, which he assured me he didn’t. 

“I just prefer to keep a keen eye on things,” he offered.

“And sticking your long nose into matters that aren’t your concern!” I heard Papa murmur in my mind.

A chuckle escaped me, and he cocked an inquisitory eyebrow at me.

“Don’t tell me my brother has taken up telepathy,” uncle Myc said dryly, which made me snort.

“Papa doing anything paranormal related?” I asked incredulously. “Are we speaking of Sherlock Holmes, or do you have another sibling?”

I’d never seen my uncle like that. He was shaken, looked ashen, but was rescued by a knock on the door. Tea had arrived.

***

During tea, my uncle asked me about school, my progress in mathematics, science, biology, history, English and geography. He never asked about my friends or teachers. Other people than his family never seemed to interest him much, though he did sometimes inquire about Greg Lestrade.

“Something is bothering you, Rosamund,” uncle stated. “How can I be of assistance?”

I didn’t even blink at this. I might have a few years ago, but I was used to his and Papa’s “knowledge” when their loved ones struggled or had a problem that needed solving.

“Intrusive questions from classmates and other pupils,” I sighed. “Not my friends. They understand that I’m uncomfortable about answering everything about Papa’s and your work, but the others…I’m tired of coming up with constantly “new facts” you know.”

“Indeed,” uncle agreed. “I have something for you to help with that. It’ll be our little…secret.”

He walked over to a large cupboard and retrieved a black box. Inside were several files with suggestions to what I could answer my peers, without giving away any government or personal secrets. (Not that I knew any of the former…)

“Brilliant!” I exclaimed while I leafed through the sheets.

“You do realise that you are saying that out loud,” uncle Myc chided, but the satisfied smile and his pink cheeks gave him away.

Also available on AO3

Thank you all for the lovely comments so far. All the love <3

@calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @raina-at @helloliriels

More tags in the replies.

[no-side-us]

Letters From Watson Liveblog - Apr. 7

The Greek Interpreter, Part 1 of 3

Sometimes Watson says things like this, and I wonder why when he himself has seen many moments of sympathy from Sherlock. You'd think it's the sort of impression only someone unfamiliar with him would have.

I love learning about Sherlock's history. I looked it up, and there were a few French artists named Vernet, but the one commonly associated with Sherlock seems to be Émile Jean-Horace Vernet.

So Watson finally learns about Mycroft, the smarter, more mysterious older brother, all because Sherlock wanted to win an argument.

Speaking of said argument, that does make me wonder whether their shared skill in observation and reasoning is actually hereditary, or if the fact they likely grew up in the same environment meant they both simply acquired their skills in the same manner.

Ah, and another cornerstone of Sherlock Holmes lore is cemented. Also, I've never realized it before but the club is obviously named for Diogenes the Cynic, an apt name for a place where no one wants to talk.

I bet I won't be the only one to highlight this line. It does make me want to ask if today there actually exists a club in London for queer people that is called the Diogenes Club, cause I bet this line could be used as a great slogan or something.

This was always an interesting little tidbit, that Sherlock sometimes goes to Mycroft for help. I wonder what cases, if any, of those we read might have had Sherlock send a quick telegram to his brother, just to ask.

And we finally see Mycroft in the flesh! Watson's line here seems to imply that Mycroft is always just at full observational and reasoning capacity, which is so cool.

You know, I was pretty pleased with Watson for not describing Mycroft poorly even though he's quite a larger man, and then Watson had to go and make this comment comparing his hands to a seal's flippers.

Oooh, deduction battle!

Now, I've seen some fans criticizing this scene, saying that the picture book and rattle is something Sherlock should normally be able to observe, but he doesn't here because the story wants to make Mycroft smarter.

However, I like to look at the scene as though there's a bit of rivalry present, not the animosity seen in some adaptations, but a friendly bit of showing off. And with Watson here, Sherlock is just a little too eager and, shall I say, rattled to think as clearly as he does. Also, I doubt either Holmes brother is taking this seriously, they seem to just be having fun, that's all.

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

[willsherjohnkhan]

Rogue Male: A Sherlolly Story

Chapter 4: Identified

***

LONDON

Returning to England, making his way to London, and meeting up with Mycroft were all risky decisions. But they were necessary ones, for they gave him the upper hand on those that pursued him.

England was home, and London his domain. It was here he had his own vast network to assist him with whatever he was likely to need in order to apprehend the other members of Moriarty’s criminal organisation.

*

It didn’t take long after slipping away from The Diogenes Club for Sherlock to become aware that he had been tracked down. His shadow skilfully followed his every move. Whoever they were, they were remarkably adept at keeping well out of sight.

This simply would not do. It made Sherlock doubly determined to discover their identity, exposing them, if for no other reason than to assess the level of danger his shade posed, to himself and the public in general.

The question was, how best to get them to reveal themselves.

***

LONDON UNDERGROUND

Without warning Sherlock ducked into the Hollborn Underground Station, quickly buying an all-day pass before inserting the ticket into the machine and gaining access to the platforms. Once through he immediately made his way to the escalator that took him to the Central London Line.

Luck was on his side as a train had just pulled onto the platform.

While passengers on the train disembarked, and those waiting on the platform moved forward intent on getting onboard, Sherlock used the brief interlude to scan the crowd in search of his quarry. But to his growing frustration they remained irritatingly elusive.

The train was about to leave the platform when Sherlock jumped onboard, only to immediately turn around and hop off.

He ran for the stairs that would get him to the Piccadilly Line. As he began his descent he had the satisfaction of hearing someone having to force the train doors and leap out just as the train took off.

A brief glance over his shoulder was enough for Sherlock to identify his pursuer.

“Gotcha,” he murmured triumphantly as he made his way hastily down the steps.

*

His name was Parker, a short, stocky, yet powerfully built man, essential in his line of work. He was a garrotter by trade, and a member of Moriarty’s inner circle.

He was definitely the type you should be prepared for. Knowledge of your opponent was an invaluable asset.

With the distance between them and Sherlock’s longer stride that allowed him to reach the platform first, giving him a few precious moments to decide which car to enter, and find somewhere to sit.

The innocuous babble of schoolchildren that crowded around him, either sitting or standing, was only made bearable by the fact that they kept him shielded from the frantic searching gaze of his pursuer, who was forced to abandon his search in order to get on the train just as it took off.

Sherlock had no intention of staying put for long, but he also didn’t want to reveal his whereabouts if at all possible.

*

The obvious advantage for getting on the Piccadilly Circus Line was that it would take him to the Baker Street Station. But there was great risk in doing so, but as things stood at the moment, this was the best and quickest option. Sherlock could only hope that his run of luck thus far would continue.

When the train began to slow as it pulled into Baker Street Station, Sherlock was relieved to see the platform overrun by a mass of schoolchildren.

A number of passengers on the train began making their way towards the doors, all bracing themselves for the inevitable impact as the unruly hoards of children forced their way onto the already packed train car.

Sherlock made certain to be right in the middle of the mayhem, giving as good as he received in the pushing and shoving in order to get off the train as quickly as possible.

*

His luck held, with Parker this time unable to make it out of the door before the train left the station.

Using the few precious minutes before Parker could catch another train back, Sherlock made his way to a locker he had at the station. From it he retrieved items he had left instructions for a member of his Homeless Network to leave there: a backpack loaded with supplies for living off the grid, and a sleeping bag.

Then, using a public phone he rang a former client, who had offered his assistance should Sherlock ever require it, and made arrangements for where he was to be picked up.

***

ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF LONDON

Sherlock unfolded himself from the cramped confines of the man’s mini, and headed off without a backward glance.

His plan, to remain concealed from prying eyes for as long as possible, in order to give him the time he needed to get his plan of action up and running.

To that end he immediately left the road and headed over to some overgrown woodland that would help to keep him hidden and well out of sight.

Time was of the essence, for he knew that with their resources Moriarty’s operatives would soon track him down. So he needed to keep one step ahead of them for as long as possible, and use what time he had to set a trap.

***

[zealouscanonindeer]

The Rules of Property and Sentiment

Sherlock Holmes:

The only thing I could follow up on was father, so I decided to visit her prior residence and inquire there.  I left in silence but not before reassuring Mrs Croft of my innocence in the whole matter. She begrudgingly trusted me, my earnest nature winning over her distrust of me. Her wary gaze followed me as I hailed a hansom and made my way to the Cartwright estate.

On my arrival, I was greeted by the kindly looking, silver haired butler, Leopold who of course knew me. He greeted me courteously, always the professional and impeccable at his job. 

“Mr Holmes, I did not expect to see you here. How can I be of assistance?” he said.

“I’m here to see Miss Cartwright.” It was a shot in the dark but I did not want to distress her family. 

“Oh, she moved closer to the city.” He tactfully omitted the part where she had grown tired of the continuous lash of suitors her father hurled at her before she decided to get away. Perhaps...

“Was she being courted?” I knew full well the answer to this unless there had been a recent development.

“Quite the contrary”

“Very well. May I speak to Mr Edmund Cartwright then?”

“He is to leave for an important business affair in France. As per his custom, he shall be at the Diogenes club at this hour before he boards the train after dining there.” Leopold informed me evenly.

The Diogenes Club? I must say I was surprised. I didn’t take the man to be one for such stringent silence. 

“And there is no possibility that Emily accompanied him?”

“Miss Cartwright is in London to the best of knowledge. She despised accompanying her father on business ventures. She found it drab.”

I couldn’t escape his rather forceful and pointed emphasis on propriety. Within social boundaries I did not have the right to refer to her by her Christian name.

“Thank you, Leopold,” I bowed slightly before making my way to the Diogenes club, in the hopes of encountering her father. 

 Alas, I was too late to catch the gentleman who after breaking his fast had already made his way to the station. If my calculations were current, his train was well on its way.

I sighed, taking a seat, too anxious to smoke so I settled for a drink. Usually, it was only with considerable ire that I consulted Mycroft. The matters at hand, the precious lady in question and the terror at any harm coming her way pushed me to gather some insight from my brother. 

I walked into the stranger’s room, taking up a spot opposite my brother, who sat with his fingertips together, his watery grey eyes clouded with introspection.

“Yes, brother mine? What agitates you?” 

“What makes you think I am agitated?”

“Really Sherlock, I thought you could see the signs yourself, it’s quite obvious. Firstly...”

“Never mind, let’s get to the matter at hand.” I did not have time for this childish play.  

“Which is?”

“Emily is missing. I was to meet her on Thursday…” I continued filling him up with the details, realising far too late that I had said too much. Mycroft chuckled, smiling amusedly before smugly replying.

“Surely you mean Miss Cartwright. You were to meet her? Is that sentiment I detect on account of her?”

I internally groaned, propriety slipped my mind while addressing her. As for the sentiment, I preferred to keep Mycroft in the dark.

“Pray, how are you acquainted with Miss Cartwright?” I pointedly questioned.

“Her father is a member of the club, I made her acquaintance right here, in this very room. Brilliant I must say, with a knack of getting into quite the scrapes. Something to do with her jumping over the back fence after locking a potential suitor in the wardrobe.”

“That sounds just like her.” The words left my mouth subconsciously.

“So, you know what she is like?” Mycroft quickly picked up on it.

I gritted my teeth in frustration. This girl shall have me humiliated in front of everyone before long.

“Mycroft, just tell me what you think of it.” I answered sternly, dangerously close to losing my nerve.

“I think you are positively swooning and have scared her off. If I’m to guess correctly she shall be back in your arms in no time unless you cease this line of inquiry.”

“I hope so too.”

Again, I realised my folly only too late. Mycroft’s raised eyebrow and amused mirthful expression left me quite red in the face. I quickly got up, trying to regain my composure. 

“Goodbye.” I huffed.

“Give my regards to Emily.” 

I merely ignored his jests, finally making my way to Baker Street after the day’s excursions. I now had to deal with Watson, who I realised could read me better than he let on.