#enola holmes x sister!reader

[positivelyholland]

moving forward

hey y'all! i'm trying to decide what direction i want to take this blog, and who i should mainly focus on so please participate!!

[rustys-lodge]

His ward.

Summary : Sherlock notices a few changes in you. It's sleep, nutrition and....Other things. You're just simply not okay. What's he going to do about that ?

warnings : Talk about lack of nutrition, a bit of angst, as well as poor behavior caused by lack of sleep. And one mention of physical assault.

A/N : First sherlock fic ! yaaay ! I'm so excited to add a new fandom to the Masterlist . So, as some of you might notice, the scene's the same. Just a few changes of my own to fit the story better. And a much better ending that I'm sure a lot of us wanted !! 😂 For those that don't know the scene. Here it is.

-----

"Did i ask you for advice ? I found you on the street. Drunk."

The man froze, turning to face you in a defeating manner.

"Now what may I observe about you ?"

You shook your head. "We're not playing this game."

Let's rewind a few hours back...Where Sherlock was...standing like a crab, balancing himself to not fall drunken face down on the ground. If you hadn't found him and brought him home....You'd say he would've ended up dead, somewhere in a garbage can.

Now Sherlock, thinks otherwise. Mister great detective says it is he, who helped you. How ? God knows how....

He is also saying you should leave....Which...You don't agree with. He needs the help. His place is a mess. he needs cleaning. He needs someone to help him organize the chaos that he's living in...He needs-

"Your eyes are redder than redder than wine." Sherlock started and you take a step back. "You're much slower than you usually are."

"Like you know what i usually am like, Sherlock." Accusations spilled out of your lips, but Sherlock ignores them, simultaneously talking ober you and analyzing you.

"Your face has lost it's color and your wounds are healing very slow."

"You're one to talk, look at you, your hair's more messed up than a-

"And then there's the irritability, you are less-"

"Stop !" Your index found itself inches away from Sherlock's face. And he stops.

"And then there's your nails." Sherlock's voice decreased into a soft tone, yet the sternness was still there. And before you could move your finger away, his hand reached for it. "Your nails are brittle."

You yanked your hand away at his response. "They are n-"

"I wasn't in such a state as to not see that, Y/N." Sherlock leaned closer to your face, the glare in his eyes freezing you in place. And then he kept on blabbering as he walked away from you. And you couldn't help but insult him back concurrently . "You're neither sleeping nor eating. Why is that ?"

Your throat dried up as his words emerged louder and louder. "Sherlock, you- You-How did you-"

"And." Your brother lifted up his arm. God damn it.... "Your neck is red. Someone has gripped it or held a knife against.." a shaky breath replaced that last little word as realization hit Sherlock, his features emulsifying into a state of shock...

Or was it anger ?

Your hand instantly flew up to cover your neck as your gaze darted to the ground. You couldn't help but think about the product of the aftermath. And as the silence grew louder, the images started-

"Are you involved in something dangerous ?" Sherlock broke the silence. Finally. And you glanced away. "Because you are still my ward." Steps grew closer and a second after that, you found yourself towered over by him.

Your foot staggered back. You...You don't n-need him.

"If you need my help, my offer remains on the table." A soft command is what it was...And you couldn't help but thi- "Don't be so desperate to prove yourself, Y/n."

You faltered, scoffing. Is that was he thought it was ? It was that....But did he have to say it ?

"I am not desperate." A fake spark of triumph electrified you. And you found yourself turning on your heels. "And i don't need your- or anyone's hel-"

"Not so fast."

You turned around, somewhat thrilled. "What ?" You spa out.

You might've gotten thrilled. But that doesn't mean you were going to show that to him ?

Your brother threw a glance at you before his gaze fell down. His giant slumped shoulders gave away the desperation and the deceit he was feeling.

Your heart stung at the sight of it.

"What ?" You repeated yourself, a bit louder. Impatience was growing thicker in you. You....Yo-

"If you insist my help is not needed, than i will serve you a plate and i shall observe you e-"

What ? "No!" He can't do that to you !! you're not a pet !

Sherlock raised his hand, motioning for you to stop. "To make sure you are well nurt-"

"No. No." But his attempt to defend himself failed, as you cut him off again, shaking your head violently. How could you not ?? What kind of suggestion is that-

"And you'll sleep here tonight. And then tomorrow you're free to...Not ever come back."

His words pierced through your heart.

"No."

"Okay." Sherlock condensed. And you squinted your eyes at his mischievous s- "Then you're not going anywhere."

There is it ! You...You knew it. Rolling your eyes at him, you tilted your head back as frustration swept over you. "No."

"I'm sorry. But"

"No" You shrugged, turning on your heels. You were not having any of it. Not the accusations, not the suggestion...Nothing. And Sherlock was quite different from Mycroft...He was gentler, sweeter. More loving. That meant : His opinion doesn't matter. After all, who's h-

"Hey !"

You flinched at the sudden yell that echoed through the room. Sherlock's voice was consumed by anger. Hoarse and low, the yell only made whimper unconsciously...And you thanked god your brother was far enough not to hear it. He better not have heard it...

"But Sherlock i-You can't withhold me h-"

"I am not withholding you, sister, I am only seeking your safety and your well-being." The detective's voice simmered down again, almost mirroring yours. The only difference is that you sounded almost weak. He sounded...collected.

"I-"

"If." Sherlock's voice filled the room again. "you do step out of that door, the consequences of that will be solely your responsibility to bear." The softness in his voice sent chills down your spine, as behind it hid a dark pitch that...You weren't sure you wanted to hear again.

With two fingers slightly curved around the door handle, your eyes dart from handle to Sherlock....You reconsidered....Stay and risk him finding out ?(Choice 1) Or Leave and risk...Whatever he has in mind for you ?(Choice 2)

-----

Tell me which choice would you choose ? if anobody wants to be tagged for part 2 tell me. ❤❤❤🌹🌹🌹

[padfootdaredmetoo]

Hi again! Here's the second Henry Sherlock X Peaky idea I had if you wanted! It would be a Sister Holmes X Tommy Shelby where reader is Tom's secretary and has just stated dating him but hasn't told her family yet because she hasn't seen them in a while. Then maybe one day a girl (badly disguised as a boy) is caught snooping around the betting shop and as Arthur takes her to Tom's office for questioning the reader immediately clocks it as her little sister who a agreed to spy for Sherlock. Then reader finds him and is berating him for putting Enola in danger while Sherlock is mad about her ruining their cover because he's investigating Tom for a case and as their arguing the reader says she knows Tom didn't do it because he was with her at the time (maybe she reveals the hickies) and Sherlock just freezes and goes into big bro mode while the Shelby family is trying to figure out what's going on because for once they didn't commit this crime and they haven't heard about the readers family yet. And yeah! That was the other idea😂 idk which to send in so you can choose which you'd rather do! Feel free to change anything about them too! I just desire some Sherlock x Peaky goodness 😂 ❤️❤️ also I hope those weren't too long I just didn't know how to explain them shortly!

Have a great night/day/time! ❤️❤️ and remember: GO YOU!!

Hey Love,

Hope you enjoy this and thank you for waiting so long! Was away on vacation (realized I didn't post that I was away.) Thanks again for these requests! they were so fun!!!

Warnings: Mention of child trafficking/conflict between family / peaky blinders-related themes

You were tired after being up all night. The conditions were nothing to complain about though. You lay in bed thinking about the chaos that surrounded your boss, and your relationship to him. You knew he wasn’t always a good man. But just like the morning sun streaming through your curtains, your mind was hazy. 

This feeling was not something you had experienced before. Complete ease. You were relaxed when he was around, and you even enjoyed being around his family. The feeling was addictive and considering the family you were born into it wasn't a mystery how you had ended up with such an appetite. 

While the Shelby family could match your folks for chaos, they had a consuming warmth about them that was foreign to you.

You thought long and hard on your way to the betting shop. This emotion could be a result of lovemaking, you knew enough about brain chemistry to know that there was a scientific side to these things. But why were you so happy the rest of the time? Why were you becoming so attached to him and his family? 

You got to the betting shop and were thankful to see tea brewing in the kitchen upstairs. You poured a cup and grabbed a muffin from the counter before settling in at your desk. 

Your mind was finally distracted from trying to sort out your feelings. Relief flooded you as you tied your hair out of the way and dug into the various file folders. You were doing your favorite, well, second favorite thing. Analyzing data for patterns. This particular situation was close to your heart you wanted to find the evidence as quickly as possible. 

You were so consumed with compiling evidence that you didn't even notice that something had kicked up in the betting shop until Arthur had dragged the commotion to the front of your desk. 

He held a girl dressed in boy's clothes by the collar of her shirt. The girl was young with a face that resembled yours a great deal. Your stomach dropped and you weren't sure if you wanted to shout at him to take his hands off of her or die of embarrassment. 

Your own appearance was embarrassing enough, your hair was tied up in a scarf, and your thick-rimmed reading glasses probably only made your eyes look even wider than they were. 

“Enola?!” You hissed. Your whole nervous system kicked into high gear. She could have been killed. Arthur could have killed your baby sister. 

You stood up and Arthur was smart enough to release his grip on her. 

“What the bloody hell are you doing?!” She looked up at you with sad eyes, a trick that had been abused many times over the years of broken dolls and colored pencil scribbles on the pages of your books. 

“Arthur?! What on earth-” Polly shouted from upstairs. 

“Eh - Looks like it's being handled,” Arthur called back, giving you a wink. His face told you that he knew exactly what emotion you were feeling. Older sibling to older sibling, he was going to let you handle your sister. Rather than the alternative, which would have been to put her in the cellar till Thomas got back. 

Your stomach dropped. 

“Enola what the fuck.” Your voice was low and she gave up on looking sad. 

“Fine.” She rolled her eyes and you fought the urge to slap her. She gave you a meaningful look and slowly said “It’s family business” 

Arthur snorted slightly. Polly was coming down the stairs. 

“I called Thomas. Now what is going-” She started but you cut her off. 

“Enola, why are you here, I trust them with family business.” 

“Well, you shouldn't.” She snorted and you hated the arrogance that was radiating off of the girl. This attitude and performance lead you to the conclusion that Sherlock must have sent her. She was always hungry for his approval. 

“What does Sherlock want with them?” You asked firmly. Her eyes widened slightly but she brushed it off. 

“How long have you worked here?” She said giving you a cold look. 

“I’m the one interrogating you.” You reminded her. “Now where is Sherlock? I’ll just ask him myself.” 

Just then as if summoned he came through the doorway with Thomas. Your temper flared up and you gripped the edge of your desk to steady yourself. 

“Could have just called me.” You said trying to keep the anger out of your voice. 

“You can’t really be trusted on this one.” He said in his usual unbothered tone. You knew that this mess was clearly for an ongoing case and that because you were employed here you couldn't be involved. But it hurt non the less. 

“Right.” You said narrowing your eyes. “Get it over with. Now.” You demanded, unsure if Arthur took a step closer toward you in an effort to show solidarity or if it was in case you ended up being a threat to the family. 

“Well, I’ve been employed by a family to investigate the Shelby family here. Yesterday it became an active murder investigation..” 

You watched an expression cross Thomas’s face and you wondered if he lied about that part of his life being packed away. You caught a look of confusion on Polly’s face that quickly turned into a stony mask. She didn't know what this was about, but she’d turn on you if it was necessary. 

“What family and when?” You said sharply. You felt Thomas’s cold eyes stay locked on you. 

“Harris, I placed the time of death around 8pm.” He bit back. 

“We were at dinner, I can account for his whereabouts for the whole evening. Before you accuse me of lying, I’ve been looking through all their books and paperwork.” You picked up the papers you had been collecting your findings on. You almost wanted to laugh at your luck, for once you had the upper hand. 

“Your employer didn't take too kindly to us after we refused an offer they made regarding the children at the orphanage.” Sherlock’s face paled slightly. “I’ve got more than enough evidence through the paperwork here to put them away for life. Human trafficking.” 

You both entered a famous Holmes staring contest and he knew that he’d messed up. You weren't expecting him to look so angry though. Sure when you were children he would get mad like this. You hoped he was angry at the horrible crimes being committed but something in your stomach said otherwise. 

You wanted to break and look to Thomas. You suddenly became aware yet again that your hair was messy and you were still wearing your glasses. You normally always took them off when someone was approaching. Your cheeks got slightly pink at the thought of him judging you. 

“The real question is what will we do to bring them down,” Polly said trying to break up the tension. 

“Why this?” Sherlock’s voice cut like a knife as he gestured to the room.  

“We can discuss this later.” He didn't budge and you were grateful that Polly started to pull Enola up the stairs. 

“Come let's get you some tea and a snack,” She said quietly. Polly shot Arthur a look over her shoulder. He gave you a reluctant look but followed her out of the room. 

Thomas stayed against the wall looking as relaxed and bored as he always did when in the company of outsiders. 

“Why them?”Sherlock repeated once he realized Thomas wouldn't be leaving, and you realized it was the same question that had been nagging you all morning. 

“They make me happy. He makes me happy.” You said quickly. 

“They are criminals.” 

“These are hard-working people. You snoop around if you like, but you won't find anything criminal here.” You knew this because you handled the transition of the business yourself. 

“I don't like it.” He said firmly and the emotion he was giving off finally made sense. He wasn't one-upping you, he was trying to protect you. 

“You wouldn't like it if it was anyone else either.” You said with a small smile finally understanding. “I’m sure we can help each other with this?” You gestured to the paperwork. 

“Of course.” He nodded and came to stand next to you. Just like that things fell into their usual flow,  you explaining a pattern and him trying to prove you wrong to help narrow it down. You and him went back and forth at a rapid pace and within a few moments, he was in agreement with you. Just then you heard Enola speak. 

“Did I miss all the good stuff?” She asked Thomas and you looked up, breaking your concentration. He gave her a small smile. Once seeing his friendly nature you went back to pulling the last of the stolen documents you hadn't examined yet. 

“I think they have most of it sorted,” Thomas responded. 

“Damn.” Enola sighed. “Was it cool? I bet it was cool.” 

“Very.” Thomas’s response caught you off guard. 

“Sorry about your shop - and everything.” She said in an uncharacteristically shy voice.

“It’s alright. Feel free to stop by anytime.” You watched Enola’s face light up at his words. While they were legal on paper, you knew this was a dangerous place and probably always would be. Was Sherlock's world any different? As long as the family kept her safe she would be fine you reassured yourself. 

“Thanks.” She held out her hand to him.

“Enola.” 

“Thomas.” 

They chatted and your heart got a little bit softer the more they spoke. 

“This is enough to take to the inspector.” Sherlock finally said officially letting you win in his own way.

Your eyes snapped up and looked to Thomas, he was listening to something Enola was explaining. He gave you a nod before looking back at your little sister. 

“Excellent - erm Thanks.” You said not sure how to proceed with things. “I know they have a rough history. But so do we.” 

“You and Enola are my responsibility. I’ll be around.” He gave you a long look before standing up. He shook hands with Thomas and you walked him and Enola to the front door. You said your goodbyes and watched them hail a cab. 

Once they were on their way you took a few deep breaths before going back into the shop. You took your hair down and tucked your glasses into the pocket of your sweater. 

After another moment you went back inside to apologize. 

You came back in and heard their voices from the bottom of the stairs. It sounded like they were filling John in on what he had missed. 

“I’ve never seen anything like it. It was like watching a machine or something.” Thomas said and you weren't sure how you felt about his words. You were a receptionist on paper, you could have done many things with your life. But this job was invisible. No one bothered you, no one compared you to either of your big brothers. It was comfortable. When Thomas asked you to take a look at things you were simply going to give him your findings so he could bring those bastards down. You didn't want credit or publicity. You certainly didn't want him to see you as that nerdy girl with glasses who had so often been belittled. 

“Machine or not, she’s one of them. She’s handled everything! She could take us down any moment - you just can’t-” Polly hissed and you felt her words cut through you like hot knives. 

“I’ll handle it.” Thomas cut her off darkly and you felt like you had been dunked into cold water. 

“Tom - at least hear her out. Not like they treated her nicely. Maybe she’s different?” Arthur said in a pleading tone but there was no response. 

You knocked on the door frame to announce your presence. Sharp eyes landed on you and you took a breath trying to look composed. 

“Walk me home?” You asked Thomas and he looked at you for a long moment as if he was studying something strange in a museum. He gave you a nod and took your arm. 

He didn't say a word the whole way back. You felt his eyes land on you periodically and each time your heart rate sped up. These were last looks and you could feel parts of you start o spin out of control. 

You opened the door to your flat with shaking hands. Once you pushed it open the stuffy air made it even harder to breathe. He shut the door and locked it, the sound making your chest constrict even tighter. You felt like you were being suffocated, but now wasn't the time to show such emotions. 

“Why did you help us?” The question was simple and you were relieved he was going to hear you out, even if he just had the patience for a fraction of the story, it would lessen the burden on your chest significantly. 

“You needed help. You wanted to be better.” It was hard to get your voice up above a whisper. Your mind flashed to all the times you wondered about him and his family and why they would be converting their business over to be completely legal in the first place. They would reach much farther opportunities being shady. What was in it for them? But there was always something shining in Thomas’s eyes that answered your question. Pride. He didn't care about making more money at this point. He cared about his family being respected after a hard life of being dismissed and shit on. 

You remembered the various balls and social events you had been forced into at Mycrofts side. All the men that had tried to take your hand in marriage. All from grand wealthy families that had started much like Thomas had. It was unavoidable. You thought about how your life would have been as a wife instead of a gangster's girlfriend. 

“You could have turned us in any time. Given your bothers the tip-off”

Brothers plural. So he knew Mycroft too. Fuck. 

“Why would I?” You mumbled feeling defeated. “They care about themselves. Well, not Sherlock, he cares in his own way. Enola is just a kid still. Mycroft only cares about himself.”

“He hasn't pressured you for information on us?” 

“We would have to talk for him to do that. As far as he knows I’m a “worthless spinster living within the dregs of society.” You mocked his voice feeling frustrated. If his existence was the thing to fuck this up for you, you would find a way to make him pay for it. 

“Why didn't you tell me about your family?” He was still as cold as you expected him to be but there was a slight toe of hurt in his voice. 

“Well, there's the Holmes family that everyone sees and then the other side. I just - I really like it here. Your family is - more - they like me. They seem to enjoy having me around. It’s not a big competition all the time. And then you -” Your voice cut and tears started to become unavoidable. 

“Well, nothing bad has happened.” he shrugged. “Mycroft certainly doesn't know we're together.” He said with a smile. You wanted to know how he knew that.

“Everything was destroyed anyway. It would be my word against yours, and as you can see no one listens to me anyway.” 

“I do.” He said and pulled you against him into a tight hug. 

_________________

He proposes shortly after.

Mycroft finds out and needs to be taken to the hospital because he thinks he's having a heart attack

Sherlock randomly shows up at Arrow House while You are shopping with Enola. Examining the whole house while Tommy smokes and follows him. Eventually, Sherlock agrees that this is a fine house for you to run. That if Thomas fucks up in any way that Sherlock would kill him and that Sherlock was sure he wouldn't get caught. They shake on it.

They end up working together occasionally. Enola becoming very attached to Esme & Polly. Sherlock eventually becoming fond of the family and occasionally accepting a dinner invitation when he had time.

[heliads]

Enola Holmes x sibling!reader who isn’t as smart as Enola and feels inadequate because of it; and gets hurt on a case and worries Enola?

'my mind isn't yours' - enola holmes

masterlist

To be a Holmes is to be beyond anything or anyone else. No one in your family would ever say this aloud, of course; it didn’t need to be said, and all of your direct blood relations knew better than to say things that weren’t needed. You have your mind for the long, extensive, impractical thoughts, but spoken words are meant to be heard and pondered over for generations. A Holmes does not need to state their supposed victory over their neighbours. It is simply known and celebrated in the glorious expanse of their own private intellect.

Sometimes, though, again in the quiet confines of your mind, you wonder if this divine knowledge skipped a beat when it came to you. You may be a Holmes in blood and legal right, but that doesn’t mean you think like them. Sometimes, it feels a bit like being an outsider in your own family, watching Sherlock and Enola race off on proverbial puzzles while you sit back and try to pick up the pieces they’ve already put together.

You try not to let it get to you, but it’s hard not to feel some sort of inferior. You’re a clever student in your own right, but clever alone does not a Holmes make. You’re supposed to be a genius like your brother or a prodigy like your sister, but instead you just feel like you. Y/N Holmes, not a screwup in any sense but worse than that to some– completely, utterly normal. Base level. Right in the middle of the pack if a little bit above.

To a Holmes, though, mediocrity is a mortal sin. Sherlock and Enola seem leagues out of your reach. Since Enola is closest to you in age, you feel the sharp stab of that comparison with extra burn. She excels even despite the extra burden of being a young woman in this world of yours, but you could never burst the bubble and go shooting far beyond the stars like her.

You’ve never brought up any of this to either Enola or Sherlock, of course, but there’s no reason to do so. You have no doubt that they both realized your inadequacies compared to them far early on. Why comment on something that’s so obvious? Every time you’re working on a case together and they both figure out the twist in the plot ages before you, you can feel that deep cut slice open afresh. You don’t have to be a complete genius, you were never planning on becoming a mastermind academic anyway, but goodness knows you really want to feel like something compared to them.

It aches away, but what can you do? With your mother off doing who knows what, Sherlock and Enola are the closest you have to family. You have your friends, of course, but they don’t understand what it is to be a Holmes, even if you don’t entirely feel like one all the time either. To put it simply, it’s your siblings or nothing sometimes, and goodness knows there’s an awful lot of aching in nothingness even when the only alternative makes you feel terrible about yourself too.

And thus you find a way to sit on the outskirts of the case discussion and puzzle solving sessions anyway. Maybe you can’t always be the first to untangle the riddles, but you can be the first to offer up a cup of tea, and sometimes there’s something they’ve overlooked in their grand hurry to get to the finish line that you can point out and feel useful for along the way. It’s not awful, no, not in the slightest. You just wish it could be a little better as well.

You’re reminded of this little agony whenever they stumble upon a new case, which, as luck would have it, happened recently. Mysterious ransom notes are popping up all over town. Some group of strangers is threatening the top businesses around, demanding cash and gold in exchange for being left alone. No one was really taking the notes seriously until a small bank ignored the messages and had their establishment robbed before being burnt to the ground.

Now, the case has been turned over to the Holmes’ possession. Well, it’s been given to Sherlock and Enola, to be precise. They’ve been kind enough to allow you to join their inner circle while they try to puzzle the whole thing out, but you swear there’s this unspoken agreement that they’ll be the ones finding the solution, not you. It’s not like they’d ever bar you from speaking, they just know that you won’t have anything new to say that they hadn’t already come up with.

You sit silently, watching them go back and forth. Sherlock and Enola get lost in their own world at times like this, forgetting there’s even a country or universe outside of their feverish planning. At the end of an hour’s time, though, they’ve decided that the criminals must be hidden somewhere near an abandoned railway station near the southern end of the city, and that their main modus operandi involves bribing secretaries in each building to anonymously drop off the notes, then clue them into easy ways to get into the businesses without getting caught.

More importantly, this group of thieves has managed to get their hands on a master ring of keys to the city through bribing an overworked and embittered assistant of the chief inspector. So long as these crooks have that key ring, they’ll be able to let themselves into whatever building they please, and the demands will just keep worsening until the entire city has been wrung dry.

An idea is occurring to you. You may not have been able to figure out the clues quite as easily as Sherlock and Enola, but you can still be helpful. While they’re haggling over how exactly to move forward, an idea is already occurring to you. You take after your mother in one important manner:  you are a person of action. When you are given direction, you follow it exactly. And, when you come across a situation in need of a physical solution, you take charge and get the job down. Adrenaline is your best friend, followed quickly by good balance and good coordination. This, at last, is where you can step in.

Sherlock and Enola are too busy with their plotting to notice when you sneak out of Sherlock’s flat and creep into the city. You’ve got an hour or two until nightfall, which means it’s the perfect time to strike. These robbers will have day jobs and places to be. There’s a reason all of the attacks happened at night, it’s because these people had to keep up pretenses until they could break into the businesses under the cover of darkness.

That means you’ll have a very short window of time in which to find their hideout and grab the master key ring before they come back. You don’t doubt that the key ring will be in their foxhole near the abandoned railway station; they can’t exactly risk bringing it back to any of their respective flats and having it found out by the maids or neighbours.

You stealthily make your way over to the abandoned railway station. The sun is setting much faster than you’d like, so much for taking your time to thoroughly scout out the place. Then again, that doesn’t much matter. What’s most important is getting that key ring and getting out, then seeing the looks on Sherlock and Enola’s faces when they realize you’ve saved the day.

It is this thought of victory that propels you into the station house. You stalk down the dusty corridors, checking in rooms and peering in the drawers of desks. Most everything here seems long abandoned, but there’s one room at the far end of the hall that seems most frequently used, at least judging by the smears of fresh mud outside the door. 

After pausing to listen carefully in case of approaching footsteps, you quickly try the doorknob and are surprised to find it opens easily. These guys were so sure of themselves that they didn’t even bother to lock the door. You try a few drawers in the desk in the center of the room, and you grin in silent victory when you find the key ring sitting in one of them, covered halfway by a stack of folders labeled with the names of various buildings in the city.

You grab the key ring and the folders as well, just in case extra evidence is needed. Just as you’re straightening up, though, you hear sounds echoing through the dusty hallways. You panic, quickly closing the desk drawers and heading for the door. You won’t have time to run, though; you can see a silhouette in the corridor, right outside the door.

Instead, you flatten yourself to the wall right next to the door. Moments after you get into position, the door flies open and a man steps inside. Brow furrowed, he calls out a name, likely one of his compatriots.

“Miller? Was that you I heard?”

The second he’s clear of the door, you immediately scurry back outside. You do your best to be quiet, but the man whips around.

“Hey! Get back here!”

You’re not all that inclined to follow instructions, especially when doing so would likely bring great danger onto yourself, so you hurl yourself out into the corridor, dashing down the dusty floor in a mad sprint. The man immediately gives chase. He almost catches up to you by the end of the hallway, but a series of quick turns give you a chance to put more distance between the two of you again.

All that’s left between you and the freedom of the outside air is a wide, rickety staircase. You go up the stairs as quickly as you can. Risking a glance behind you so you can tell how close the man is behind you, your eyes widen when you realize he’s pulled out a knife. You’re almost to the top, so close, but the man lunges at you in an attempt to slow you down and you feel a hot pain as the knife cuts through your sleeve and slices your arm. It’s not a deep cut, or you don’t think so, at least, but it’s the extra incentive you need to push yourself to the top of the staircase and out into the open.

Immediately, you’re greeted with loud shouting. For a moment, you panic, and then you realize it’s the inspector with his men. “You’re alright,” one of them tells you, “Stand aside so we can put the thief under arrest.”

You nod, taking a hasty sidestep so you won’t get in their way. The robber comes up just seconds after you, but upon seeing the police, he immediately starts sprinting down the abandoned railway. The inspector and his men give chase, and you watch them go shouting down into the gloomy distance.

You’re not alone for long. Sherlock comes up to you, shaking his head. “That was an absurd move to pull. Give me the key ring and folders, I’ve got to get this to the inspector as soon as possible.”

You want to protest that you should be the one handing over the evidence since you went to so much trouble to get it, but one firm look from Sherlock reminds you of how much trouble you’re probably in for pulling a stunt like this and you quickly hand over the materials. He starts walking back towards the city proper, trading out his spot by your side with your sister.

Enola. Great. She looks furious. “Just what were you thinking?” She asks incredulously. “That was ridiculously stupid. And look, you’re bleeding. This is awful.”

You frown. “Don’t call me stupid.”

“I’m not calling you stupid, just the idea to break into the robbers’ hideaway,” she clarifies. “I mean, why on Earth would you feel compelled to do this?”

Looking at the tortured expression on her face makes the last of your confidence bleed away. The whole point of retrieving the key ring was so your siblings would finally feel like you might be one of their equals, but now they’re even more convinced of your bad decision-making skills. This was precisely the opposite of what was supposed to happen.

“Well, that’s the thing,” you say desperately. “If I can’t be the smart one, if I can’t be the one making all the clever plans and figuring out the loopholes like you and Sherlock, at least I can be the brave one. At least that’s something right I can do.”

Enola’s face slackens. “What are you talking about?”

You laugh bitterly. “I’m sure you’ve figured it out by now. Come on, you can crack cases and solve puzzles in your sleep but you can’t understand your own sibling? I’m not like you two. I’m not as smart as you and Sherlock, and I hate that.”

Enola shakes her head. “I’ve never thought that in my entire life. We’re both chatterboxes, obviously, but just because you weren’t talking as much as either of us didn’t mean I thought you weren’t as smart. I just assumed you were doing your thinking in your head instead of out loud, which was what I was supposed to be doing, anyway.”

You look at her cautiously. “Really?”

“Really,” she promises. “Y/N, the thought had never so much as occurred to me. I’m so sorry, I wish I had realized you felt this way sooner. You’re my sibling. Of course I hold you in the greatest regards. I mean, I never would have been brave enough to march into the thieves’ hideout like that on my own, not without several hours of planning to make myself better about it. You up and decided it just like that. I was so impressed with the whole affair, only I was so worried about you that I forgot to tell you.”

You smile at her. “I’m glad you think so, Enola.”

“Well, of course I do,” she says exasperatedly. “What else would I think about? Now come on, we’ve got to get that arm of yours bandaged. Maybe I’ll see about getting the paper to put something in about you being a local hero while I’m at it, too. It would be quite deserved.”

You laugh. “That’s more than I was expecting, to be sure. I’ll settle for knowing that you’re proud.”

“That, of course, is already decided,” Enola declares, and starts to lead you back into town. Watching the sun set overhead, you think that this little rescue mission of yours went quite according to plan indeed. Perhaps you’ll have to stage another one fairly soon.

enola tag list: @mayfieldss

all tags list: @wordsarelife

[ellieslittleburrow]

Requested by the beloved @fatherlesschild2 : CAN YOU WRITE SOMETHING ANGSTY ABOUT SHERLOCK AND ENOLA BEING SIBLINGS WITH READER, IDK I HAVE A QUESTIONABLE IMAGINATION BUT MAYBE THE READER GETTING INTO A FIGHT AND TRYING TO HIDE IT?

Warnings : uuuuuuuum angst? Grr scary brother

A/N: sorry for the delay lol. I had to copy and paste every single line from my other account so if something's out of place im soorry hahahah ❤️

------

*creak*

God damn you st-

*creak*

Maybe if i went slower

"God da-"

"Young lady."

Your eyes flew up as your lips parted in a little gasp. Before you stood a large figure. Broad shoulders and a threatening stance, it towered over you, causing you to freeze in place.

Tiny splinters dug into your frozen fingers as you gripped the stair handle, tightening your hold the more Sherlock kept silent.

I mean, is he going to keep standing there until the sun sets and the birds start churping?

Your older brother stepped aside, motioning for you to step inside. And you complied, slowly and hesitantingly.

"Youngsters ought not to be wandering about late at night, particularily when expressly told ,on multiple counts, not to slip out." Sherlock patienly waited for you, taking after you the moment you passed by him.

You felt smaller with a much bigger shadow than you. But you kept your posture straight, anyways.

Your head was feeling too heavy for your liking and you just wanted to sleep.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, is there any way we could do this tomorrow morning? Now's not the time for a lecture." The words came in a gruff tone. And as if you weren't already in enough trouble with the man, you just headed for the room you and sister Enola shared.

"Sure...Tomorrow." Sherlock's voice sounded." Good night, little one."

"And don't think i didn't see those marks on your neck"

Fuck.

"We'll discuss it tomorrow."

--

It's tomorrow.

A pain is etching from your temple down to the hollow part that sits under your cheek.

Flashes of your....eventful evening storm in from your subconscious and a long sigh escapes your lips.

" Finally awake."

AH. You shriek, your body jerking to the uncomfortably close voice over you. Rolling around halfway, you jump backwards, shrieking at the two people standing over you.

What the hell?

Sherlock and Enola were standing at your bed, both leaning down to examine you like you're a cadaver they were just about to start inspecting.

But you weren't. So why the fu-"

"How did you get that, y/n?" The investigator's eyes dart from your own eyes to your cheek, and you unconsciously cover the said thing with your hand.

Uh....you were't sure whether to lie or not. Whether to tell the whole truth or just half of it.

"Uhhh..." A long sigh escaped your lips without your accordance as you hadn't already decided on which story to tell yet. "Uh..." You stuttered again, flustered.

You shrink in your bed, melting into the sheets as you leaned away from the figure that lowered it's upper body over yours.

"Little one, your answer better be the right one."

Sherlock's eyes calculatedly pursuited yours until they locked.

Dark and threatening, they glared into your soul. Shit. How can someone regret their decision the second they made it?

"I....I fell down the bar stairs."

Fuck. How can someone regret their decision the second they made it?

Sherlock straightens his back. "Really?"

"Y...yeah. you c-c-an ask the men th-there if you want." You got out of bed, the opposite side of where your siblings were standing.

"I was walking....I might've had a drink or two." Maybe admitting to another forbidden punishable act will help you elude the real thing? "And as i was walking down, my ankle twisted and i found myself flying down the stairs."

You brushed past both of them, heading for the door. Nice lie! If they were to go ask the men there, nobody would be able to say a single word, because all of them would have been too drunk to even know their own names.

You'd highfive yourself but-

"Alright then, show me the other bruises."

You were glad your back was facing them, as your eyes widened in surprise. Fuck! You didn't think of that. "The ones on your hands and knees, probably, as well as your hip." Triumph laced Sherlock's voice. You internally damned him to an afterlife in hell.

"What...other bruises?"

"Well of course i can't do that!" You spin around, disdain etched across your face. You scoff.

"I can't undress myself in front of y-"

Haha! Enola. You almost forgot about h-

"He'll leave the room."

You snort a provocative chuckle "You really believe i think of you any differently, Enola?"

"I'm sure he trusts my decision making by now." Your sister lifted a triumphant brow.

Enola's eyebrows relax as annoyance etches across her face. She sighs and happiness internally floods your body. Looks like you were close to win the battle. With her.

"How's this?" Anger embodies Sherlock.

Definitely only with her.

"Lie and i will make sure you...never do that again."

Sherlock started walking towards you.

"But then again, i would like for you to spare us the anticipation, i already know you're lying. Because your-"

"Because my toes seem strange and i breathed in instead of out?"

"Because your friend came running here and said you were getting yourself in really bad trouble. And that it was only a matter of time before somebody got badly hurt."

Oh..of course she did...

"Listen, y/n, we understand that you're afraid of our reactions." Enola started, crossing her arms over her chest. "But you can't hide those things from us, we're your siblings."

Adorable-not good enough, though. Not to insult Enola's attemps and efforts, but you'd never do that just because you're siblin-"That's Enola."

"On my part, if i ever find out you're lying to me about something like this, i will make your life a living hell, little girl. And trust my words, i will make sure of it."

Your head spun towards Sherlock, a bit surprised and...scared as darkness suddenly swamped his voice.

You would've rolled your eyes at him but you were already in enough trouble. You wouldn't want to bury yourself in it, would you?

"I'm sorry." The lie slipped out of your lips like butter. You're not sorry. You don't care. In fact, you're not done with those stupid bastards. And you're not one to let go easily.

Thankfully, they weren't going to know since your face was already bruised. Or are they?

------

I HAVE A QUESTIONABLE IMAGINATION TOO I WILL DO BETTER NEXT TIME OKI KISSIES NOW BYE BYE. ❤️❤️❤️🥀🥀🥀

[free-for-all-fics]

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

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

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

~

“Good day, Mister Holmes, I—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Right. How?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Honorable?”

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

“So you broke her in?”

“She didn’t understand the rules.”

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

“I thought her child had died.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Old habits," he conceded, smiling faintly.

"Indeed."

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

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

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

“Leeches?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You will know when you know.”

“What does that even mean?”

“I cannot tell you.”

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

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

“At night? What happens at night?”

“When you are alone.”

“When I am sleeping?”

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

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

“Sister, what a question!”

“I thought one needed to be married.”

“What are you talking about?”

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

“Sister, that is enough.”

“I take it you know?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sherlock Holmes!”

“A round of fencing.”

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

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

“Y/N Holmes.”

“Go on, then. Chastise me.”

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

“Suppose I desire something different.”

“How do you mean?”

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

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

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

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

~

“Keep your voice down!”

“Please come and join us.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Or three.”

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

“Really I don’t…”

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

~

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

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

“We hardly had time.”

“One makes time when one wants to.”

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

“Bessie is counting on me to find Sarah.”

“I meant in my seeing my ex-fiancé.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe I can help.”

“You can help by leaving.”

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

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

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

“Can I get you anything, darling?”

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

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

“All right?”

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

“What did you have in mind?”     

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

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

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

“It is very intimate.”

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

“As do I. To what shall we drink?”

“Let us drink to getting drunk.”

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

“To lose control?”

“Behave indelicately.”

“Your message sounded urgent.”

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

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

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

“She surprises you?”

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

“A colleague.”

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

“To collaboration.”

“It is a fascinating case.”

“What disturbs you about this one?”

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

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

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

“From a woman?”

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

“Has that been your experience?”

“Sorry?”

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

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

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

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

“It’s interesting, I agree.”

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

~

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

“For what purpose?”

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

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

“Someone?”

“A woman.”

“Oh.”

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

“A kindred spirit.”

“Perhaps. Yes, I think she is.”

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

~

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

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

“Believe what?” Enola asks.

“That I don't have feelings for her.”

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

~

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

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

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

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

“Both apply.”

“If you’d like to talk about it…”

“I would not.”

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

“No.”

~

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

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

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

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

“I’ve not refused.”

“You have. And it’s unbearable.”

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

“Expressing?”

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

“Are you saying you regret it?”

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

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

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

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

~

“I meant what I said before.”

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

“Aren't you?”

“Yes. I suppose I am.”

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

“I'm perfectly safe, thank you. Cab!”

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

“Sherlock Holmes, you just took my cab!”

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A breakthrough you made for yourself?”

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

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

~

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

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

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

“But there’s more?”

“I feel pulled every which way.”

“You should abide by your own advice.”

“What of you?“

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

“I should step purposefully, then.”

“Yes.”

“I shall miss you, Laszlo.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Will you come over for the wedding?”

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

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

“I love you too, little sister. Bye.”

~

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

Sherlock,

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

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

~

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

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

“Oh...very happy. And very busy.”

“We should tell them tonight.”

“I thought you wanted to wait.”

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

~

“Enola, I - we have some news.”

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

“Y/N is in a delicate condition.”

“Dare I ask?”

“I'm the father.”

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

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

“What do you mean, ‘you know’?”

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

~

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

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

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

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

“Now?”

“Mm.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It's really over now, isn't it?”

“You sound disappointed.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

“And he agreed?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She was offered a ride.”

“Though perhaps you might have insisted.”

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

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

“You find that amusing?”

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

“I was speaking metaphorically.”

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

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

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

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

“Oh, Sherlock, isn't she a vision?”

“You look…wonderful.”

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

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

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

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

“Oh, my!” Mrs. Lane exclaims.

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

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

You smile at hearing that.

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

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

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

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

“I’m a detective.”

“As am I.”

“You’re teasing me.”

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

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

“I’ve read all your work. I’m Enola…”

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

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

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

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

“What’s on your mind, Enola?”

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

“But you do here.”

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

“Indeed, he did.”

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

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

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

“What do you know about her?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I would have a glass of burgundy.”

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

“I will have that.”

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

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

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

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

“What I meant was…”

“I know what you meant.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Enola.”

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

She nods.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you spying on me now?”

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

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

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

“Sherlock…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Love. What it does to people.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My mother had her reasons.”

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

“She cared for me.”

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

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

“Is that the way your mother was?”

“Yes.”

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

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

“I'm sorry, Y/N.”

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

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

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

“What will make you happy?”

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

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

“Then she is wise. Goodnight, Enola.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

“How old was she?”

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

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

“She's no longer a child.”

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

“Certainly you have.”

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

~

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

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

~

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

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

“That doesn't sound foolish.”

“It doesn't?”

“No. Sounds beautiful.”

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

“Of course. It’s a wonderful idea.”

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

“That's a lot of thinking.”

“Look at this.”

“Ah, it's an old society column.”

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

“You were looking for something on your father?”

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

“You seem to be obsessed with the man.”

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

“I’m sorry, Y/N.”

~

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

“Cheers.”

“I hope she’s makes you happy.”

“Thank you, Enola. She does.”

“Proud of you, Brother.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Mm.”

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

“You are already mistress of all this.”

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

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

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

“Then let her resent.”

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

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

“Mr. Holmes.” You curtsy.

“Mrs. Holmes.”

You laugh as you exit your bedroom.

The phone rings. Sherlock answers it.

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

“Watson, I am on my honeymoon.”

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

“Very well! If I must.”

~

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

“Well, is there anything I can do?”

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

“How much?”

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

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

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

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

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

[holylulusworld]

Mrs. Sherlock Holmes (1)

Summary: Your marriage starts rocky.

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Wife!Reader

Warnings: angst, injured reader (light), mentions of getting robbed, angry Sherlock, implied innocent reader

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

Mrs. Sherlock Holmes masterlist

“Where is my brother? We need to talk about Enola and the upcoming event. She needs to make her debut…” you hear Mycroft downstairs. He’s usually a stoic and silent man, but you kinda like he’s silent and leaves you alone most of the time. “Where is the lady of the house? Maybe she can help my sister correct her behavior."

You hear his voice grow louder as Sherlock’s head housekeeper raises her voice. She always acts more like the lady of the house than a servant.

“Mr. Holmes,” you gracefully walk down the stairs, putting on a strained smile hurting your bruised face. “I’m afraid my husband is not at home. He’s solving another case.”

“Again?” Mycroft holds out his hands. He presses a quick kiss to your offered hand. “He should’ve left his lovely wife all alone so short after your wedding.”

“Sir, it’s fine,” you flutter your eyes shut as you try to keep the wrong words from spilling from your lips. It all became too much lately.

Sherlock's absence, and his displeasure in participating in your marriage. The head housekeeper acting like you are not Sherlock’s wife but a peasant.

“My dear, what happened?” Mycroft gasps when his eyes finally see your swollen left cheek and your split lip. “Please tell me my brother didn’t raise his hand on you. If he did, I’ll make sure he’ll regret putting his hands on you.”

“It wasn’t my husband,” you reach out for Mycroft and grab his hand. “He’s a little distant and mostly interested in solving cases but…he would never. I swear, Sir. It was my fault. I shouldn’t have gone to town on my own. But Mrs. Demeter refused to send for a carriage.”

“What happened, my dear,” Mycroft worriedly asks. He offers his arm to you, and wonders if you are lying to protect his brother. “Please do not fret. Tell me everything.”

“I left the house to get the books Sherlock wanted,” you sniff. “I paid for the books and carried the books out of the store. A woman ran into me, and I dropped the books. I tried to pick them up and then…” You choke out a sob. “There was a masked man. He ripped my bag out of my hands and hit me with it.”

“My dear!” Mycroft gasps audibly. “Did you tell my brother about this?”

“He wasn’t home,” you drop your gaze, ashamed about your weakness, and inability to stand up for yourself. “The owner of the bookstore helped me pick up the books and accompanied me to Scotland Yard but…they didn’t want to listen to me.”

“Did you tell them your name?” Mycroft is furious. “How dare they ignore a young lady in need.” He huffs as you tell him repeatedly it was your fault for not telling them your name. “Stop blaming yourself, my dear. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s my brother’s for ignoring his wife.”

Downstairs it sounds like a war is going on. Sherlock and Mycroft yell at each other. And you are afraid, Mycroft is winning.

Your betrothed falls silent after a while, and you hold your breath as you repeatedly hear your name. The last thing you wanted was to cause a rift between the brothers.

They already have their hands full with their younger sibling. Now you are causing trouble too.

You wring your hands while hearing footsteps on the staircase. You hold your breath and step away from the door. “Wife,” Sherlock grumbles as he opens the door. “Where are you?”

“I’m here,” your voice cracks. “Sir.” You add, in the hope of appeasing your husband. He steps inside your room, eyes roaming your body. “Please accept my apology.”

“What for, Precious?” He steps closer to cup your face with both hands. “Why didn’t you send for me? I would’ve come here to take care of my wife.”

“I didn’t want to disturb you, Sir. It’s nothing,” you close your eyes when his gaze gets too intense.

“You got hurt. This is not nothing,” he raises his voice but gets a grip seconds later. “No one touches my wife.” His lips press against your swollen cheek, but you only feel the warmth of his soft pillows, not the slight pain. “I will call for Lestrade. We will find the man hurting you.”

“I think he worked with the woman running into me,” you explain while Sherlock inspects your injuries. “She distracted me long enough for the man to steal my bag.”

“Why did he hurt you?”

“I-I didn’t want to give the bag to the man. You gifted it to me,” you shyly batt your eyelashes as Sherlock angrily furrows his brows.

“You are fearless, my dear,” he cracks a smile. “I am sorry about my absence. After our wedding, we should’ve…” He clears his throat. “I'll send for a doctor.”

“She’s well then?” Sherlock sizes the doctor up. “I need to know every detail. Please don’t shelter me.”

“Her cheek is swollen, but the cut on her lips is already healing. She’s mostly frightened of the person attacking her,” the doctor says. “I’d suggest not leaving her alone for the time being.”

“Sir, what are you doing?” You almost screamed when Sherlock entered your room. He softly whispered your name and picked you up in bridal style to carry you toward his bedroom.

“I’m bringing my wife to my bedroom,” he carried you out of the room. His chest swelled when you rested your head on his chest.

"Sir, I think...you have a case and..." you whimpered. If he wanted to finally have your wedding night, you were not sure you are ready to be with him.

“I shouldn’t have taken case after case. We didn’t have the chance to get to know each other better. I know this was an arranged bond my mother and your father agreed to. But I…I want you to know that I’ll protect you from now on.”

>> Part 2

Tags in reblog.

[cherryclxud]

Catch me if you can, Lord Holmes pt1

(ENOLA HOLMES)!Sherlock x BRIDGERTON!reader

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Description: a writer by the name of Marcus Bradford has been writing a weekly updated crime story that appears in the newspaper and it is the talk of the ton. sherlock is then pulled in to uncover the mystery of the story of the abominable bride. will he be able to find the writer of this story who yet remains hidden from seemingly all of society?

word count: 3.8k

Warnings: none

read below for credits

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MARCUS BRADFORD WAS AN EXTRAORDINARY WRITER. He wrote books of fantasy, romance, and tragedies. But anyone who has read Bradford’s works will tell you his prized works were that of the thrilling crimes series that would be posted on the weekly newspapers on page 4. Yes, no one could deny that this was the reason he was the talk of the ton. Appearing out of seemingly nowhere, Marcus Bradford’s words made it into every household in London, whispers about the crimes written were on the tongue of the fanatics every passing day, 

“Did you read what this man has written?”

“Did you see where he left this week's edition off?”

“How can the bride return when she so clearly shot her brains out in front of a whole street?”

“She returned and killed her husband then was found back at the morgue?”

It was a story where no one could see a true way to solve it, and so it kept everyone on the edge of their seat, that is…everyone but one.

Sherlock Holmes hated Marcus Bradford, and he hated his work. He was never a fan of fiction since fiction wasn't real and wasn't deducible, therefore he was never actually interested in anything this man was writing, but when all the clients asking for help seemingly came to him complaining that they wanted him to solve a fictional case written in a newspaper, that's when he would pick up the story to read and wasn't able to put it down till he had finished the latest edition of it. Two thoughts running through Sherlock Holmes’ head after putting the paper down, he hated fiction, and he hated Marcus Bradford.

The story was impossible to deduce anything out of, how could someone dead return? The bride quite clearly can't be who murdered her husband however the story clearly states that the husband had recognised her before his death. But she was in the mourge, how could the bride be in 2 places at once? How could she then continue to kill countless men after her funeral? Sherlock felt there were too many open ends and loose threads. Threads that only one person knew the ends of. Marcus Bradford.

But no one knew who Bradford was, no one had seen him before, in fact, he had never attended any soirees nor had any presence in the ton that anyone knew of. This opened a new case for Sherlock. Who is Marcus Bradford?

No one in the ton knew that Marcus Bradford was always under their noses.

In the prestigious house of the Bridgertons, y/n Bridgerton picked at the strings of her violin with a sigh. Mrs Wilson walked into the drawing room with the weekly news and a copy of today's Lady Whstledown, y/n watched as her younger sister Eloise snatched this week's paper out of the head maid's hands and quickly skipped to page 4, with an eye roll, y/n took the gossip sheet from Mrs Wilsons hand thanking her before pretending to skim over the paper. In truth y/n wasn't interested in the words of Lady Whistledown, she only ever tried to look out to see if ‘Marcus’ was ever mentioned. He was not. She dropped the sheet on the table before standing at the window and looking out.

“Can you believe it, another one?” Eloise spoke up not tearing her eyes from the sheet. Looking back at Eloise, y/n feigned confusion “Hmm, sorry what was that?

Eloise dropped the paper on her lap and looked blankly at the ceiling “Another man was murdered, all because the yard can't solve the case”

y/n picked the paper from Eloise and pretended to skim over it while hiding her smile, “Oh Eloise don't tell me you are going on about this stupid little story again, why not go read something more useful? Or try looking into who Lady Whisteldown is again, you loved that remember? This story doesn't seem to be doing anyone any good, and the writer seems to have hit a wall don't you think?”

Instantly Eloise turned her head to y/n  and stood up walking to her, “no you don't get it, sister,” she snatched the paper from the elder girls hands and pointed to a line “See here it's different ‘The man’s face paled as he looked at the contents of the envelope, turning it over, four orange pips dropped unto the table’ see sister it’s strange, this man got a warning the others didn't. Something big must be coming y/n, something different.” she quickly took the paper and ran up to her room leaving y/n looking behind her.

In truth y/n was out of inspiration. Writing under the pen name Marcus Bradford, she had made quite the name for him, but she thought, perhaps she had gone too strong with the opening and now she was crashing, the seeds in the envelope was her quite literally reaching for straws at this point, trying to buy herself time hoping that some grand idea will hit her. 

She was happy with all the attention her writing was gaining even if it was under a false name. She knew her stories would have gotten nowhere otherwise. She also knew that she couldnt keep writing forever, no matter how much she loved it. Her mother was on her back about missing many balls since her debut last year and that since Eloise’s debut this year, it’s harder taking care of two girls at once, especially two girls who cared more about books than looking to the men right in front of them. 

It wasn't like y/n was not interested in romance at all, rather, she was actually quite the romantic, but she found no interest in the advances of the men of the ton, in fact she always compared the whole process to a birds mating ritual, all the dancing, and the reciting of poetry and the hundreds of flower bouquets and colours. no, she much preferred the romance on the paper she read, and quite often found herself daydreaming about the books she had read, maybe one day a pirate would take her to go treasure hunting together. Or maybe a past childhood friend she doesn't remember will profess his undying love to her and how he never forgot her all these years.

y/n scoffed at the thoughts she was having, “Maybe all I need is a change of perspective and scenery…I assume a ball will have to do then” She rolled her eyes before standing and going to look for her mother's whereabouts. 

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IF YOU WERE LOOKING TO FIND SHERLOCK HOLMES, polite society would usually be the last place you would look. To Sherlok it is mundane and boring, and really there is no point in trying to connect with people whose knowledge and understanding end where yours begin. With this knowledge in mind, you can imagine how shocking it would be to the people of the ton when that very Wednesday Lord Sherlock Holmes was in the promenade with his younger sister in hand, they walked straight ahead ignoring all the stares they received. Enola could quite clearly see many desperate mamas pointing to Sherlock and whispering to their daughters. “You must remind me again Sherlock, why are we here?”

Sherlock stopped walking and unhooked his arm out of Enolas’ before looking around the park and then turning to her “I’m hunting”

“Hunting? In the promenade? Brother that's hardly quite safe” she spoke with a smirk before raising an eyebrow at her brother “Don't tell me you’re-... you're not hunting for a wife are you?”

This question made Sherlock momentarily stop looking around and then sigh “Really Enola think before you speak, honestly a wife out of any of the women here? Marrying a mannequin would be more  productive, at least then it wouldn't throw stupid questions at me” he eyed a few women but quickly looked away uninterested “besides I doubt any of them can hold up any meaningful conversation with substance”

Enola rolled her eyes before swatting her brother's arms lightly with her fan “Don't be so easy to underestimate them all Sherlock you never know” She then walked ahead leaving him behind.

“Of course I know, I'm Sherlock Holmes”

—--------

y/n sat on the chair under the umbrella with a fan in her left hand and a book in her right, skillfully managing to hold the book and turn the pages all with one hand, her mother sat by her chatting her ear off about some lord or other that had passed by, and all y/n could do was hum in absent agreement to please her mother when in truth she held no care for whatever lord she spoke of.

“y/n dear look theres lord manyard,” y/n looked just above her book at the lord her mother spoke of, truth be told he was appealing to the eyes but y/n knew better, she knew that he had been sweet talking almost every debutant in the ton, her eyebrow twitched into a semi frown when he caught her eyes. A wink and smirk were sent her way causing her to use every muscle in her body to not shiver with disgust, she could not however stop the massive eyeroll she did “i hear that he owns land and estates in the country and that he is even buying out oil factori-”

y/n lightly slammed her book in her lap and gave violet bridgerton a tightlipped smile, she knew her mother meant well and that she only wanted what is best for her, but it was getting hard to see her mothers disappointment at every rejection she made, “Mama, where perchance did eloise go? I did have something quite important i needed to discuss with her”

Violet sighed but pushed no further “well yes I suppose sitting here will do you no good, last i saw her she was on the promenade trail with Penelope, will you be alright on your own or should I send Anthony with you?” 

y/n had already gotten up and adjusted her dress “No it's quite alright I think I’ll be fine on my own” and with that, she made her way in the direction her mother pointed to only to be stopped by a bunch of little kids running past her throwing confetti at each other, unfortunately, some got caught on her dress so while she walked she busied herself with clearing the tiny squares of paper off of her. As such in cliche stories and books, she wasn't looking in front of her causing her to bump into someone who equally wasn't looking where they were going.

Both parties' priorities regaining their balance before looking to the person in front of them, and looking up y/n noticed a girl about her age looking back at her “Please accept my apologies I wasn't focused on where I was going”

The girl quickly shook her hands in front of her “No no please you must apologise i also wasn't aware of my surroundings as I walked so if anything I'm equally at fault here”

Y/n smiled at the girl in front of her and gave her a small nod, then suddenly thought…what now, the girl was looking at her almost expectantly, y/n wasn't sure if she should say something or just walk away, but she had already stood there for too long in silence to suddenly walk away, but on the other hand what does she say?

“Enola”

Y/n raised her eyebrows “Sorry?”

“Enola Holmes… that's my name if you wanted to know” y/n raised her eyebrow at the familiar-sounding name. Enola extended her hand to y/n to shake.

“OH… oh I see yes, very nice to meet you Enola, I'm y/n Bridgerton” She then grabbed Enola's hand and shook it too as they smiled to each other.

“I must say Enola I haven't seen you in the promenade before…or at any soirees or some such thing” y/n spoke as she looked around.

Enola nodded as she brought her head up to her forehead “Yes well, I don't usually come out, I'm usually around my brother and he really doesn't care for the affairs of the ton so we rarely actually leave Baker Street”

Y/n tilted her head “I see, then what seems to have prompted today's outing?”

Enola linked her arms in y/n as they started to walk “Well-” stopping midsentence the Holmes girl furrowed her eyebrows and lifted her chin as she tried to think “In all truthfulness, I haven't the faintest idea when I asked my brother he simply stated that he was hunting”

Y/n stopped midstep and looked to Enola in confusion, “Hunting? In the promenade? I doubt he'd be lucky getting any deer or game here” She laughed at the absurdity  then a thought popped into her head “he's not..hunting for women is he?”

“Those were my exact words when I confronted him, however, if I know anyone it's my brother, he isn't interested in trivialities, ‘Enola, I’d rather marry a mannequin than a woman’ were his exact words to me” she spoke as she walked on with y/n and even deepened her voice as she quoted her brother, making y/n giggle at the absurdity.

“Quite the idealist he sounds like, lucky he is a man and gets to choose and not get judged upon it” y/n voiced her thoughts making Enola look at her “You quite right y/n, and it helps him that he is also the second son so no responsibility on his shoulder he is free to do as his heart desires”

Y/n and Enola both laugh before the latter girl notices her brother standing with a couple of gentlemen smoking cigars. She pointed at her brother and sighed “Had I known he had planned to throw me aside for his playmates I would have benefited more from staying at home” 

Y/n looked in the direction she was pointing at and suddenly it was like it all clicked once she saw him, of course, how could she miss such an obvious thing “Your brother is Lord Sherlock Holmes?! Of course, how could I not realise it sooner.” She slapped her hand lightly on her forehead as she looked to Enola who nodded in response.

“Trust me y/n, not as fun as it sounds, my eldest brother gave my wardship to Sherlock since he is already busy as it is with family and estate affairs and ever since then Sherlock has been as busy as ever” she stuck her tongue out at sherlock who looked away from the group of men at his sister. His eyes quickly flickered to y/n but didn't linger as his attention returned to Enola before he too stuck his tongue out to her.

Y/n smiled at the sight of the two of them, they made her think of her own family “You complain yet you both seem inseparable, it's sweet, mine are over there” She pointed to where Anthony and Colin were standing with Hyacinth and Gregory playing with a hoop. Hyacinth threw it up and Anthony managed to hook his arm in it then bowed to the trio in front of him. 

Enola giggled at the sight “My that is a lot of siblings how do you get a moment of peace to yourself?” causing the other girl to roll her eyes with a smile “I don't, and believe it or not there are 4 more” Enola’s jaw dropped before noticing that Anthony had apparently started approaching them, “it seems your brother wants you back I assume?”

“Not at all I'm just checking on my sister” he smiled at the two girls before directing his attention solely to his sister “sister I'm glad you are finally adjusting and meeting people that aren't on paper” y/n rolled her eyes before pushing Anthony's shoulder lightly “oh nothing makes you happy does it Anthony, I sit reclusively, I’ll become a spinster, I mingle with other people I'm suddenly to adventurous” they both laughed before the sister turned to Enola “Enola this is Anthony my brother, Anthony…this is Enola Holmes”

Anthony's eyebrows rose “Holmes? As in Sher-”

“Good day to you Bridgerton” 

There is a saying, ‘Speak of the devil and he shall appear’, and it seems quite fitting to use right here seeing as the man who approached the group and spoke up at that moment was Sherlock Holmes himself.

Anthony stood straight and nodded with a straight face to Sherlock  “Holmes.”

Both men looked at each other, like in a staring contest, both Enola and y/n raised their eyebrows in confusion, looked at each other then back at their brothers. Suddenly like it was synchronised both the men shook hands and pulled each other into a friendly hug. 

“I'm sorry Anthony but it feels like there's some missing context here, you both looked like you were about to murder each other and yet now you are acting like old friends, which is it friend or foe?” Y/n crossed her arms as she looked at the two men

Anthony looked to Sherlock with a smirk “Definitely foe dear sister seeing as since  his graduation Lord Holmes here didn't see it fit to send any correspondence any longer”  

The younger Bridgertons eyes widened as she looked to the older Holmes “You knew Anthony during his study?”

Sherlock nodded “We studied at Oxford at the same time, I studied chemistry and your brother focused on history and literature or some such thing”

Anthony coughed looking away quickly “Lord Holmes here was 1 year my senior and was booked in a flat with Hastings and I, of course, he valued his complete privacy so while he got the single bigger room in the flat me and Bassett had to share” he spoke with an eye roll.

It was Sherlock's turn to clear his throat and look away “Yes…how is Bassett… well I assume I must respectively call him the duke now”

Y/n who had felt that she and Enola had been quite forgotten now spoke up before Anthony could “Yes he is quite well, dukedom fits him rather well” 

Sherlock turned to the younger Bridgerton “Is that so? I see you have become acquainted with the duke” making the girl smirk “But of course hard not to when my sister is quite literally married to him”

“I see…”

“So Holmes” Anthony spoke up clapping his hands together to divert the conversation “you never promenade what has changed? Finally thinking of settling down?” 

“He's hunting” Enola spoke up.

Sherlock looked to his sister with a sigh before meeting the confused face of the Bridgertons and before they could speak up with any accusations he decided to clear his name.

“Not hunting persay, more scouting. I'm looking for the Bradfords”

It seemed as though time stopped around them, the two Bridgerton siblings and Enola’s eyes widened and y/n’s fan stopped mid-swing, the silence was heavy but was burst when Anthony quickly started laughing. 

“Holmes, surely you jest, don't tell me you too have been ensnared by a small column of fiction like the rest of the ton” he spoke and was quickly followed by Enola who expressed that he constantly refused to read it and that he could possibly just be joking.

Y/n looked at each person and stepped back to watch how this would play out.

“I assure you I do not jest or joke, I have received many clients coming to me with this case and it can only be solved if I find this Marcus Bradford himself” Sherlock frustratedly spoke while looking to his sister and old friend.

Enola raised an eyebrow before addressing her brother once more “And…what case might that be Sherlock?”

Suddenly as Sherlock looked to the three stood before him, his eyes flickered between them as he embarrassingly spoke. “The case of the abominable bride.”

Y/n tried so hard but couldn't hold in the laughter causing it to come out as a snort more like. Most unladylike and in fact unhelpful seeing as Sherlock's embarrassment now turned to frustration and annoyance.

The girl quickly realised her mistake and apologised with a smile, “It's just you'd think you of all people wouldn't waste your time with a storybook” 

Anthony was quick to scold his sister lightly then turned to Sherlock “I am not sure why you are doing this Holmes but…if it helps there is no Marcus Bradford in the ton, trust me people have looked.” 

Sherlock nodded solemnly while looking around the ton slowly “I see… well then we had best be on our way then, it was nice seeing you and meeting your sister Anthony”

Anthony nodded and bid the Holmes' farewell as Enola promised she would write to y/n. As the two families split away and started walking away, y/n suddenly stopped and stood back and waited for Anthony to keep walking and not notice before quickly walking back to the Holmes siblings.

“Lord Holmes!” she called out to him, Sherlock and Enola turned to y/n as she stopped in front of them and took a moment to regain composure. “You know Lord Holmes… I have a pet cat named Minnie” 

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed in confusion as to why he was being told this, then the Bridgerton spoke up once more “She has this terrible terrible habit of loving the house a lot, and it drives me crazy looking for her but I think I have a technique down on how to catch her.” Sherlock still had no idea where this was going yet…something in him told him to humour the girl and give her his complete attention. 

“I used to go to every maid and ask her if she had seen Minnie until I realised, really if I track down the most important places I'd be saving time and energy, so now… when Minnie runs off, I just go to the kitchens and wait… she will have to eat sometime and the kitchen staff know not to let her out after that.”

And with that y/n turned around and walked back to her family who were sitting under the umbrella. 

“What was that about?” Enola spoke up when she noticed Sherlock was still looking at where y/n stood with a far-off look.

“A cat called Minnie…apparently”

y/n smirked as she watched Sherlock and Enola leave the promenade. If Sherlock Holmes wanted a wild goose chase, then who was she to deny him of it?

“Catch me if you can Lord Holmes” she spoke with a smirk

The game was truly afoot.

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I do not own Bridgerton

I do not own Sherlock or Enola Holmes

and I most certainly do not own the abominable bride story

they belong to their rightful owners.

I only own the fic idea.

@frost-queen

[kittenofdoomage]

Let me take you back...

.... to when this happened:

I'm still not over it. Naturally, I wrote something for it. It's below the cut. Happy Friday! 😘

Carnal

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x fem!reader

Word Count: 1651

Warnings: smut, blow jobs/oral sex, fingering, unprotected vaginal sex, drunk!Sherlock, dirty talk, slight breeding kink, slight cockwarming, unbeta’d (we die like heroes)

You had been surprised to open the door to Enola and a very drunk Sherlock when you’d not been expecting either of them. Getting him up the stairs had been a challenge; Sherlock weighed about the same as a small elephant, and you had to hold your giggles at Enola’s repeated remarks about his ridiculous size. Once he was inside the apartment, he managed to move under his own power - just about - refusing assistance when it came to removing his coat and allowing it to hit the floor with an ungracious thud. He quickly landed on the chaise longue with one arm slung over his face, mouth half-agape as he got himself comfortable.

“You can sleep in the guest room,” you whispered to Enola. “I’ll deal with him.”

“Are you certain?” the younger girl asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m certain,” you replied, shooing her off, well aware she probably hadn’t slept in a proper bed for weeks, and you knew Sherlock wouldn’t actually mind. Despite his outward exasperation at his little sister, he adored her, and wouldn’t deny her one night of comfortable sleep. Enola smiled and headed off, content to leave her big brother in your capable hands.

Sherlock grunted as you unlaced his shoes, pulling them off one by one, offering no resistance but no assistance either. As you moved further up, going for the buttons on his waistcoat, he grabbed at your wrist, lifting his arm from his face to shoot you the most inebriated grin you had ever seen. “You should buy me a drink first,” he slurred, and you smirked at him.

“I think you had enough to drink,” you scolded. “Now let me get you out of this before you fall asleep and strangle yourself with your tie.”

He pursed his lips, blowing out a puff of air in irritation, but his grip on your wrist loosened, allowing you to pluck the buttons of his waistcoat undone, yet he gave no indication he was going to move for you to actually get it off of him. You clicked your tongue in impatience, lifting your hands to get his tie undone, only to find your fingers encased in his much larger ones.

“Sherlock -”

“You’re so gentle with me, my lady,” he murmured, kissing your fingertips. “Why do you take such good care of me?”

You smiled despite his intoxication. “Because someone has to,” you chided gently, attempting to pull away. “And you know very well why that someone is me.”

“Mmm, yes,” he chuckled, “because you love me.”

“Yes, dear. Now will you let me get -” His lips brushed your palm, and lidded lust-drink eyes flitted up to you. “Sherlock -” He grinned again, pulling your hand down to cover the bulge in his pants, and you sucked in a breath, glancing towards the door to make sure you were alone. “You’re incorrigible.”

A low chuckle greeted the slight, but you were already kneeling beside him. “Yet you remain,” he breathed, releasing your hand. “Let me feel that pretty mouth on my cock, sweetling.”

You glanced backwards again, letting your fingers find the fastenings on his trousers; he was already achingly hard underneath the material, springing into your palm as soon as it was free. Sherlock moaned when you stroked him, clinging to the low back of the chaise as he closed his eyes in bliss. “You are a bad influence, Sherlock Holmes,” you hissed.

“As I recall,” he mumbled, “you did not require much influencing.”

With a scowl, you leaned in, swiping your tongue across the thick tip, tasting the first beads of his essence, and when you looked up at his face, his teeth were buried in his bottom lip, an expression of pure ecstasy covering his handsome features. Once upon a time, you had believed such carnal indulgences belonged only in brothels, or at a stretch, in the wedded bed chamber - this was neither, but you’d quickly found that there was pleasure to be had in someone else’s enjoyment. The sound he made when you took him into your mouth was enough to prompt a rush of warmth between your thighs.

“Yes,” he groaned, hips undulating as you began to take him deeper, letting your saliva ease his path. One large hand came up, resting against the side of your head, guiding without pressure, and you moaned around him, squeezing your legs together to try and stem the throb growing there. “Don’t stop,” Sherlock hummed, arching on the chaise. “Mmm, your mouth feels perfect…”

Your neck was beginning to ache with the odd angle and the height of the furniture, so you pulled off of him to adjust yourself, only to find yourself pulled up and onto the chaise longue with him, manhandled until you were straddling him, skirts bunched around your hips. He grinned up at you, clearly still inebriated, though you didn’t protest when his large hands made their way underneath your skirt to the thin fabric hiding your skin.

“Too many layers,” he grumbled, tugging at the material, and you yelped as he gathered it in both hands and pulled hard, smirking up at you when the satisfying tear followed. Your protest at the loss of another set of undergarments was lost when his thick fingers prodded at your sex, and you gripped the back of the chaise as you slumped forward, gasping in surprise. “That’s better,” Sherlock muttered, arching up to kiss you suddenly.

A single digit sought out your entrance, finding you already wet, and you whined into his mouth as he used one hand to torment you, using the other to make the hole in your clothing bigger. His cock was trapped underneath your bottom, twitching and hard enough for you to feel it through the layers; you tore away from his mouth to breath, and he moved again, lifting you easily to force two thick fingers into your slick channel. The penetration knocked the breath out of you, and you bit your lip to stop yourself screaming and disturbing anyone else - the last thing you needed was to be caught in such a compromising position.

“That’s it,” Sherlock grunted, watching your face with a satisfied grin as he worked his fingers inside you, coaxing out your arousal until your body began to tremble. You couldn’t stop the way your hips worked against him, your traitorous body seeking out more friction, and you closed your eyes as you felt your walls clench around him, unwilling to see the smug look on his face.

Your orgasm was slow, a shudder that ran through you over and over. Sherlock murmured his approval, withdrawing his fingers, manhandling you until you were poised with the thick tip of his cock at your entrance. No amount of protesting would stay his enthusiasm, and you had to bite your lip to stop yourself crying out as he pulled you down, splitting you open in one hard stroke. He paused then, chest heaving, clothing disheveled, that one unruly curl falling into his eyes as he allowed you a moment to adjust. You shivered as you forced yourself to relax, feeling him press deep, almost missing the smile spreading across his lips.

“What?” you whispered, self-conscious under his heated gaze.

“This may not be the best place for this,” he muttered, reaching up to grope your chest through your dress. “I should conduct myself better.”

You smiled shyly. “Would you like to move? Perhaps to the bed?”

“No,” he exhaled, pulling you down to kiss you. “I shan’t.”

His free hand snuck back underneath your skirts, cupping your bottom through the ruined fabric of your undergarments, and you moaned into his mouth as he began to force your hips back and forth, creating the smallest amount of delicious friction inside you. Fresh moisture coated his cock, allowing him to increase the movements, and you found yourself panting when you pulled back, held in place by his hands.

“We must be quiet,” you whimpered, pressing your cheek into the palm of his hand.

“Mmm,” he agreed, staring up at you hungrily. “Yes, you should be quiet.” His hand moved, covering your mouth, and your eyes went wide at the rush of heat that filled you. “That’s it, sweetling -” A grunt followed the affectionate term and his face twisted in pleasure just as your pussy began to tighten around him. You could barely keep your eyes open, silenced and forced to breathe through your nose by the hand covering your mouth, unable to move more than he allowed by the hand on your rump. It took embarrassingly little to wring the pleasure from your body, and all you could do was gasp into his palm and quiver around him.

He didn’t slow even when you went a little slack, using his superior strength to manipulate your body on top of his, spearing up into you over and over. Usually, he would withdraw before the crucial moment, but this time he didn’t stop, and you found yourself suddenly craving it, falling into a final climax of your own as he spilled into you, warmth filling your insides and leaking out around him. Even when he was done and he pulled you down into a last kiss, he didn’t seem to care for the consequences of what you had done - his eyes fluttered shut, a ghost of a smile on his lips as his cock continued to twitch inside you.

“Sherlock…” You tapped his face lightly, and his eyes opened with a second of bewilderment before he smiled at you. “You finished… you… inside…” The heat in your face was unbearable, but he kept on smiling, closing his eyes again, apparently unconcerned that he was still buried inside you.

“Oh dear,” he drawled, sounding anything but upset at what he’d done, sighing happily as he wrapped his arms around you. “Then perhaps I shall make an honest woman of you.”

It would be remiss of me not to tag @deandoesthingstome (though I don't know if you even read Sherlock, I just don't wanna get yelled at for not tagging you 😅)

[ladylaviniya]

Wails of Wedded Bliss

Chapter 6 || Masterlist || Chapter 8

Chapter Summary: Upon meeting the Baroness you are enamoured by her devotion.

Pairing: Sherlock Homes x wife!reader

Chapter Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, (No Smut), typical historical misogyny and sexism, mentions and discussion on miscarriages. Implied domestic abuse and infidelity.

Word Count: 9k

Author Notes: This is an important but rather sad chapter. I beseech you all to read the warnings. The details of this chapter are important to the plot of the missing Baron Thaddeus Pennicott.

Inspiring Song: "Flightless Bird American Mouth" by Vitamin String Quartet

8:30am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England. 

Sherlock tucked your arm into his side as you three entered the Groveland house foyer. The floor was made of fine marble tile and with ever step a light echo raced down the halls.

The inspector called upon a nearby dusting maid to fetch the head of the house. Who returned was a thin and tall man in a butler’s uniform with a sliver pocket watch hanging from his chest. His hair was the colour of autumn leaves and his face littered in freckles.

He bowed, “I am mister Edward Redmayne, head butler of the Groveland estate, how may I assist you?”

The inspector shook his hand and stated quickly, “We spoke on the telephone yesterday? A telegraph was sent.”

The butler smiled with a relieving gasp, “Detective Holmes?”

Lestrade sheepishly looked over his shoulder to you and your husband. He nodded. His expression wore a emotion of embarrassment mixed with annoyance. Perhaps he was jealous of your husband’s successful published case stories. You wished you could have told the constable not to fret as Sherlock was nothing short of a arrogant mule...yet again- the mark on his face...he probably already knew that.

8:42am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England. 

Upon meeting the lady of the house, you stood frigid by your husband. You felt somewhat self conscious by her grey eyes that lingered over your dress. Perhaps you should’ve worn your Sunday best before meeting a woman of such a high status.

The baroness was unmistakably pregnant. Her belly was bold and rounded beneath her maternity gown. She had been sitting calmly on a resting chaise, knitting a small bonnet for her future child. Her hands were covered in fine burgundy velvet gloves to match her modest dress.

Her face was framed by a light brown curls, that appeared almost white in some places, twisted into a bum at the base of her neck. Her pale face was blotchy with pink flecks and slight acne.

“Lady Pennicott, I am Inspector Braydon Lestrade of Scotland Yard,” the British officer proclaimed as he bowed dramatically forward. You withheld a girlish giggle by how low the man had bent his head and presented himself foolishly, and from the corner of your eye you manage to catch the whisp of Sherlock’s smirk.

The inspector waved his arm behind him and moved aside, “-and with me is Detective Sherlock Holmes and his wife, Mrs Holmes.”

You produced the baroness a respectable curtsy, your eyes glued down to the beautifully patterned carpet. You wondered how the servants could keep it so clean and freshly unstained by dirty guests. It must have been new.

The baroness shuffled her knitting needles and ball of woollen yarn into a Whicker basket and disposed of it beside her.

A slow stretching smile graced her thin lips as she spoke to you, “Oh, are you the little dear who solved that factory match girl incident?”

You weren’t sure how to answer her question. You weren’t entirely sure what the baroness was referencing until Sherlock stepped closer with your arm still cradled in his.

“No dear Baroness,” Sherlock pat your hand gently, “That would have been my sister Enola Holmes, she has her own detective office at present moment. My wife is here on my invitation. I wished to gift her a sight of the grand park and estate while I was here upon duty.”

The Baroness cocked her head, from her ears hung pearls that swung and hung like rain drops.

“Come forth dear,” she lifted her hand and beckoned you, “I would like to have better view of you.”

You wondered if she could smell the sweat beginning to drop down the back of your neck. You bit your tongue and tried to refrain from trembling. You were nervous. Her eyes were cold but her smile warm, two conflating details that you couldn’t understand. The last thing you needed now on top of a terrible start to your marriage was to be scrutinized by a haughty pregnant baroness.

She flickered your fingers for you to bend down to her. As you leant down, you swore you could smell copper, a metalic scent. A vein on your scalp pulsed. She scanned your face of its details. You dared to wonder what she was searching for. And then it clicked...the smell...

‘Dear god, you prayed, please don’t let her smell my blood, please let this not be my blood...’

You should have sprits on some perfume before leaving baker street.

She glanced behind you and questioned angelically, “How does it feel having such a clever husband?”

Your lips opened and closed. You resembled a fish. You were stumped to answer quickly.

‘Miserable, infuriating, torturous, pleasurable mixed with a cup of agony...’

She lifted her brows until you hurriedly blurted, “He is...formidable and righteous...” you stood up tall and took a step back, adding with a monetarism of truth, “I am very lucky to have become his bride.”

‘Lucky, while incredibly resentful.’

You reached back, Sherlock adopted your arm back into his hold once more.

Lady Pennicott rubbed her belly, her eyes started to twinkle, “And soon you will have a plethora of children that will look like him I gather.”

Your eyes fluttered. Sherlock’s hand tightened around your glove and his throat bobbed. You felt hot in the face.

Yes that’s right, that’s what normal husband and wife did isn’t it? They have children. That was your role, to be the mother of Sherlock’s offspring...

You couldn’t answer.

And there. That dear girl is when you questioned for the first time. ‘Is this what I want?’ and ‘Do I want Sherlock’s children.’ Because having a knowing of his barbarism conflated a fear in your belly...would Sherlock hurt his own children if he could easily hurt you, his wife?

When you hesitated for too long to answer her again, Sherlock said with a strained tone that was masked in a hopeful joy, “One may only hope, Baroness.”

“Lady Pennicott,” Graydon interrupted, “We have come to ask you on the whereabouts of Lord Pennicott and the evening he was last sighted.”

Her eyes narrowed at the inspector and with an annoyed twinge she muttered and wiped her hands on a nearby blanket, “I already informed the police of what I was informed of by our butler Edward.”

She glanced up next her right. Mister Redmayne observed her, looking down. The pair smiled to each other. She reached out to him. She grabbed his hand and they squeezed.

The inspector laughed nervously, “Indeed but Detective Sherlock Holmes was not presently involved in the case until yesterday.”

Her eyes flickered quickly to your husband and her face flared with confusion quickly to be matched with a impressed smile, “Of course, please sit all of you as I am near a indisposition with my child,” she gestured to the mirroring chaise and a chair beside the fireplace, “Edward, please tell Martha to bring tea and biscuits for our kind service men and Mrs Holmes.”

The butler bowed to you all and left the sitting room.

Lestrade took his place on the lone chair while Sherlock sat you beside him on the chaise. You took your time to lower yourself. Sitting on your bruises was uncomfortable while another cramp hit you. Your fingers dug into his palm.

From Lestrades breast pocket he pulled out a notebook and small pencil.

“Lady Pennicott,” Sherlock softly hummed, “Please, could you tell me what your husband is like as a person?”

The woman who you believed was in her late thirties smiled and stated softly, “My Thaddeus is a noble man, good taste in wine and very devoted to his work. He likes to go hunting and we share a passion for gardening,” she glanced up at the ceiling and paused, “He prefers to plant vegetables to donate to the church and orphans, whereas I have always loved to grow my flowers.”

The way she described him, her devotion was deep and honourable. She touched her round belly.

Sherlock looked over to the fire place behind the baroness. On the mantle was a magnificent portrait twice your height, painted on the canvas was who you recognised as Lord and Lady Pennicott. He was sitting up straight on a fine red cushioned chair with his dirty blonde hair and softened mutton chops while she stood at his right and her ringed hand on his shoulder. The similarities were there but Lady Pennicotts hair had lightened in reality perhaps from all the years that separated her likeness and her reality.

“I was informed Lord Pennicott is a father of five?” Sherlock asked.

The Baroness smiled proudly and pat her tummy softly, “Six soon.”

You couldn’t help notice something was missing from the painting, Sherlock also had a similar thought.

Where were the children in the portrait? Where was a family portrait in the house?

“Forgive me,” a breath of air escaped from him, “are the children away at school?”

“Oh,” her uncanny smile remained while her brows angled down, her throat tightened as she spoke, “I fear they are in the loving embrace of angels now. All of them were taken from us by God,” her eyes glanced to you, “They came out sleeping.”

Your heart sunk to the pit of your belly with sorrow and pity.

Five babies lost, five babies gone…five pregnancies… four and a half years of pregnancy and for what? Five angels.

A woman had one holy role in life, to bare her husband children, and when a woman was defective or produced a sickly child, it was a symbol of failure in society. But you never saw it that way...you imagined it must’ve been agony to lose so many babies. One or two was a common occurrence but five? Five was a curse to experience and relive over and over.

“Well,” you interrupted Sherlock rudely, cutting him off from his next abrasive question by squeezing his hand a little too hard.

You could see the mourning in the baroness’ face. You saw the classic look of all women made uncomfortable by something a man has said. What the hell would the detective know about a woman’s emotions after how coldly he has treated all women and yourself.

You shuffled on the opposite chaise and smile softly, “I will pray this one will come swiftly and feel the warmth of their mother.”

The baroness’ face lifted and warmed. She smiled happily and nodded, “Thankyou, oh I’m just so excited! This one really is a big one, I can feel it. I hope it’s a boy.”

Sherlock was staring at you intensely as the maid Martha finally delivered a pot of tea and poured the steaming liquid. His brows were knitted and his eyes held suspicion as he kept you in his sight. You politely nodded your head once at him before reaching for a hot cup and lifting it to your lips.

Sherlock sighed and turned back to his questioning, “You would say you liked your marriage?”

The baroness appeared offended by your husband as her face wrinkled and a sneer spread her thin lips, “Of course, any woman who doesn’t like her marriage should not be married in the first place. She is a burden to her husband if she cannot perform her duties as a wife.”

Lady Pennicott leant forward and collected her own cup of tea, she delicately pinched a biscuit and dunked it into the contents.

…you felt Sherlock drag his thumb across your fingers. You felt chilly, could he read your thoughts? Did he know truly how much you already hated him and his ideas of intimacy in your marriage? He clear his throat when both your glancing eyes caught each other.

“Can you tell me what happened,” Sherlock pressed, “The night of your husbands disappearance?”

“Well...after dinner,” the baroness sighed in thought and nibbled on her moist biscuit, “Thaddeus wanted to speak with me in his office about a spending I had made a week ago. You see, I had bought a cradle for the nursery. The one we had originally was broken and beyond repair, we disposed of it a month prior. Thaddeus was not pleased with the price and claimed it was an unnecessary purchase,” she paused and set her cup aside before she touched her belly again; rubbing in soft slow circles, she began to blushed, “He was sorely hurt by my choice. He then became very cross with me and left his office in a huff.”

She looked to the yarn, to the tea pot and then finally to the painting on the mantle, “I deemed that he would find forgiveness in his heart by the morning and brush it off. I returned back to the nursery to tidy up before I went to my rooms and went to bed to sleep in my quarters of the east wing. Thaddeus keeps himself to the west wing most nights.”

The detective nodded, “What time do you believe it was when you went to your bed, Baroness?”

She hummed softly while pursuing her lips, “A quarter to nine in the evening.”

“And how did you realise your husband was missing?” Sherlock stole a scone off the tea tray and lifted it to his lips. He paused amidst chewing it slowly.

The noble woman sighed and recollected, pragmatically, “In the morning Mr Redmayne informed me on how Thaddeus took off into the night astride Arion, our prize stallion Clydesdale. Thaddeus had not returned by the next morning and that is when concern drew near. I sent members of my staff to the factories to investigate his whereabouts and none had come upon him. I knew something had to be wrong so I alerted the authorities by the second morning.”

Your husband took a deep breath and discarded the half bitten scone, he wiped his hand unceremoniously on his jacket and throatily asked, “Do you recall if Lord Pennicott has any potential persons he might be deemed as an enemy towards?”

“Only his company competitors, Detective,” She said saccharinely with her smile, “He was a very loveable man.”

“Do you have a list of the names of staff who were working that evening here in Groveland House?”

The butler stepped forward and cleared his throat, “That would be in Lord Pennicotts office,” he pulled out a pair of keys, “I can you show you gentlemen in and where he keeps his accounts and other paraphernalia to his business if you’d like?”

Both Sherlock and Lestrade smiled and stood up.

“Baroness,” Sherlock gently requested, “Would it be overly bothersome if my beloved wife remained and kept you company while the inspector and I look in your husband’s office.”

Your heart jumped to your throat. What was Sherlock doing leaving you behind with the Baroness by yourself!?....what if you spoke out of turn or said something too presumptuous for your status!?...

“Most certainly not,” she beamed “I will gladly accept such delightful company,” She held out a hand, palm down to her right. The butler speedily stepped to her side and leant her his hand. She winced as she scooted forward on the cushioned lounge before struggling to rise to her feet.

Sherlock leant down and kissed the back of your wrist again, so scantily in front of the baroness. You tried tor refrain from loudly gasped and bringing anymore dangerous attention to yourself. Your husband left your side and followed the butler with Lestrade out of the sitting room.

So the party turned to two married women. The baroness was pleased.

She stepped closer to you and reached for your arm. You were surprised by her familiarity but you would not deny the assistance of a woman so desperately swollen and ready to birth any day.

“My dear, would you care to have a stroll with me in my garden?” She smirked and jerked her chin, “Knowing how dear Thaddie kept his space organised I suspect the gentlemen might be a while.”

You nodded and quickly made the warning assurance, “Are you in a condition to move great feets Lady Pennicott?”

“Fret not,” She giggled girlishly and waved her hand casually, “The physician told me fresh air is delightful for the health of the babe,” she tapped the top of her belly, “I have a month or so before they come.”

Your eyes widened, she looked huge enough to give birth now, surely she wasn’t a month away!! Maybe she was going to be blessed with a pair of twins. You had such a limited knowledge of pregnancy in women. Your grandmother hadn’t given birthed a child in the last forty years before your birth!!!

She pointed the way out of the main mansion to enter the garden paths. The sun was perfect today amongst the clouds. It was neither cold nor hot nor humid and dank...it was pleasant and you could smell the fresh nature of bushels and flowers.

“How long have you been known as, The Mrs Holmes?” She inquired cheerfully with her shining silver eyes.

“...Not very long,” you replied warmly before risking a white lie, “We recently finished our honeymoon.”

She grinned and waddled passed a wooden bench, she took a quick stop to rest and pat the seat for you to join her instead of standing dumbly.

“Shall I share some words of advise?,” She hummed, “From a woman that has been married for twelve years?”

“I would be ever so grateful,” you said rushed and desperate. You wouldve listened to anything she had to say. A woman of her standing must’ve held adequate wisdom.

She warmly cupped both your hands and squeezed them. And yet there was an ice creepy into her gaze. She appeared to dissociate, her voice losing its youthful lilt. Her lip wobbled slightly.

“Men are visual creatures. While you are so young and beautiful, you must become pregnant as soon as possible,” Lady Pennicott ran her palm across your waist, her eyes like razors cut across the yard to a bush of red rose buds, “It is inevitable that our husbands will stray their gazes to other women, it is in their nature,” those grey stones in her face rolled back and weighed you down, “as I said- visual creatures. The sooner you make a babe, the easier his devotion comes,” A joyous grin returned to her thin lips, she playfully tapped the tip of your nose and stated, “Trust me upon this.”

You clenched your hand behind you and strained a smile, “I thankyou for such wise words Baroness. I will endeavour to do what I must to conceive.”

At this moment in time Sherlock had proved himself a monstrous villain. Would it be possible for you to fall pregnant?

You looked out at the divine lush greenery and exhaled softly.

“Do you garden Mrs Holmes?” the baroness queried.

You chuckled softly and removed your gloves, you flashed her a sight of your palm, “I am afraid my hands have never been introduced. My grandmother preferred I focus on mastering piano and embroidery.”

The grey orbs fluttered back at you with a surprised him, “Embroidery is a lovely skill,” she pat your hand and pointed across the field, “Please help me up Mrs Holmes, let us take a look at my lilacs.”

You stood straight up and leant out your arm, she was surprisingly light for a woman her size. She leant against you and took small timid steps to her flower patches.

She stood and admired the flower patches, pointing to different types and explaining the breeds of flowers she hoped to grow in the future.

You finally bent over enough and cupped the petals of purple to hold up to your nose and took in a wiff “They smell lovely,” from the corner of your eye was a line of crimson, “I see your roses will soon be in bloom.”

She pinched a bud that was peaking to bloom soon.

“Oh yes, the soil is rich and healthy,” she giggled, “I can’t wait for Thaddeus to return, he liked the roses. He would stand here for a while and think. I know he will love the red colour. It is his favourite shade you see...” She sighed dreamily with her eyes scanning the bushes of scarlet rose buds, “I miss him terribly. I hope he’s alright. I want him to come home soon before the baby arrives.”

A fly smacked into your eye and you sputtered, battering it away. When you gracelessly composed yourself, you stood back up to your feet beside the Lady of Groveland.

You could see how her eyes puddles with droplets of mournful tears. You felt bad for any woman that did not know where her husband was. Especially if there was a rumour about him fleeing the marriage and abandoning her in her serious pregnant condition.

Taking the chance, you boldly took both your hands into yours and now squeezed them. Another buzzing from a fly sat on your shoulder.

The day was growing warmer and a bead of sweat rolled down your neck. The fly tickled your neck and suckled along your salted skin.

You tried your best to ignore the annoying creature.

“I am sure he will Lady Pennicott,” you soothed with a soft welcoming grin, “And he will be most happy when he returns.”

She sighed solemnly and glanced back at the rose bushes. You felt obligated for her happiness in that moment. Glancing back to the house you felt a opportunity come to you.

“May I visit your nursery Lady Pennicott, so I may have references for my own in the future?”

Her eyes flickered up, her face shine bright and her hand tightened over your wrists excitedly as though she was still as youthful as a school girl.

“Why of course Mrs Holmes,” she spun on her heel and wobbled a slight, she lifted her hand and called to the maid Martha still packing the china set inside, “Please inform the detective that I am taking his wife up to the nursery.”

“Yes Baroness,” she said with a humble curtsey and scurried off while Lady Pennicott took you totally inside the house and up a grand stair case from the foyer.

9:03am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England. 

Up, up, up you both climbed the stairs. You noticed how the stairs didn’t bother her ladyship once, she was fit and stridden widely whereas you were breathing a little hard by the top step.

She pulled you down a hallway to a white painted door.

She excitedly opened the door wide and practically skipped inside to show you around her future child’s room.

The walls were covered in light blue and yellow paint. There were small peonies covering the trim of the room. There was no carpet but who needed one when you had a newborn.

“Welcome to the resting nest of my baby,” Lady Pennicott proudly exclaimed, spreading her arms out at the room around you.

There was a tall shelf filled with stuffed animals and teddy bears. There was a rocking horse, a doll house, spinning tops, tin cars and rubber balls all waiting, collecting dust, awaiting the arrival of a playmate. There was a permabulator by the window sill. There was a rocking chair in one corner and against the wall closest to the door- you smiled and swaggered over curiously, “Is this the cradle you bought?”

It was made of fine cream painted wood. You chewed your bottom lip in the thought. It was a lovely crib, why was Lord Pennicott so upset by such a delightful purchase? He didn’t have money issues. You put it down as that you didn’t understand the way men thought and men will never know what women think.

“Yes,” Lady Pennicott chirped, “it is from William Whitely department store in Baywater next to the Howard & Co dress department.”

The Baroness sat down into her rocking chair and slowly moved it back and forth, watching you admire the nursery she spent hours and years consistently curating.

You clenched the edge and looked over the railing down at the empty bedding. There was a teddy lamb in the corner, you pinched it’s fluffy white tail and sighed. For a brief moment you let your eyes close and your imagination wander far.

One day you’d have this...with Sherlock. An empty cradle to be filled. You caught the vision of a tiny hand squeeze around your finger and the sound of soft gurgles with the warm pressure of a hand on your waist...was that Sherlock’s hand? Was that your child?

One day you’d have a baby to care for, to provide these things that meant love...yet, was any child of Sherlock’s capable of love? He certainly wasn’t as far as you were concerned.

You bit down a shudder and opened your eyes, feeling hot tears glide down a cheek. You pushed back and sighed, “I am most confident on one thing Lady Pennicott.”

“And what is that Mrs Holmes?” she said softly, she could see the unspoken pain in your face. You swallowed hard and your face fell into a smile, you flashed her a wink.

You laughed softly, “Your child will be spoilt rotten by the love you give.”

She chuckled with you and nodded.

“Have you thought of a name?” you inquired, waltzing over to the chested drawers of baby knick knacks on display.

“Thaddeus Colin if it’s a boy,” she hummed, “or Theresa Grace if it is a girl.”

“Theresa?”

She giggled gently, “That is my name dear.”

Mrs Theresa Pennicott. It suited her. Her old soul eyes reflected her devout name.

A shine of glass pierced a ray of sun into your eyes, you pinched the glass object carefully. You touched a long black tube pulling out of it. You couldnt understand it’s purpose, your eyes narrowed at the rubber end that was shaped like a thumb or a cows udder. There was a second tube attached to the first with a rubber squeeze ball at the end.

“What is this?” you humoured.

“Oh that? It’s a fantastic invention,” The baroness said, “It’s a pump for breast milk with a tube that syphons the milk into this baby feeding bottle. When babies start to teeth they can scar your breasts. This is an effective and modern method I look forward to trying.”

Your eyes widened, scarring!? Babies teeth could scar a breast!?

You placed the bottle bump back and helped Lady Pennicott when she beckoned to stand back up from the rocking chair.

“Have you ever felt the sensations?” She suddenly, “In which they kick within?”

Your face must’ve looked idiotic as you asked plainly, “Kick?”

She giggled and nodded, “Give me your hand, perhaps you may feel them moving.”

She plucked your palm and pulled your glove off your fingers. She pressed your entire hand intimately to her belly. You felt a sense of taboo shame, she was making you touch such a beloved spot.

“Do you feel it?” she then asked.

Felt what? Confusion flooded your mind. Your hand moved around her belly slowly.

“I am afraid I don’t know what I’m meant to be feeling?”

She moved your hand and again you felt absolutely nothing.

“They are very brutal on my body,” Lady Pennicott sarcastically assured, “trust me there is a kick.”

She made a point to push your hand harder, but all you felt was the hard material of her corsetry beneath her main dressing materials.

“Baby’s kick you inside?” you marvelled with stunned horror. This was the first time you’d ever heard of such a notion of a baby beating it’s mother inside.

“Not out of malicious intent Mrs Holmes,” she reassured, “mostly it is the baby using its limbs to move their cramped bodies inside or excitement at the sound of voices, I truly believe they can hear us while still inside. Fear not, to you it will feel like a faint touch like this-”

Lady Pennicott softly tapped your wrist, “Like that.”

And there again was new knowledge you heard from a woman on matters of pregnancy. You moved your fingers around, seeking the supposed feeling of a kick...

Still nothing. You frowned, was there something wrong with you that the baby was choosing not to reveal itself.

“How interesting...”

A soft knock on wood alerted you both to glance at the door.

“Mrs Holmes,” the butler from earlier politely spoke, “the detective is requesting your return, I believe he intends to depart.”

Your face fell. You couldn’t believe it but you’d found this experience immensely enjoyable. You had surprisingly made a friend of the Baroness.

The fair lady hugged your side and sweetly exhaled, “Then I shall escort you back to your husband, Eddie fetch me my cheque book.”

He nodded and walked ahead of you both. You solemnly shut the nursery door, trying to remember every precious detail as possible. It was a innocent place to escape from the crude world.

You returned to the bottom of the foyer and smiled at your husband that stood by Lestrade at the front doors.

By the bottom step you faced the noble woman and curtsied.

“Thankyou Lady Pennicott for your kind hospitality and agreeable cooperation to the case,” you heard Sherlock’s voice float over your shoulder.

“Of course detective, please,” the Butler returned with her cheque book, “find my beloved Thaddeus.”

She scribbled speedily with a modernised ink pen, a sharp tear of paper flashed to his direction, “Here. Thirty pounds. I am sure you are busy with other clients considering your reputation, but I beseech you to seek out my husband quickly.”

Sherlock bowed his head as he deposited the cheque into his pocket, “We shall try our hardest. Good afternoon Lady Pennicott.”

Your mouth might’ve collected flies. Thirty pounds. THIRTY pounds. That was a hefty wage for a year to many men.

Sherlock was granted his coat and walking cane along with Lestrade.

He opened the front door and left slowly, glancing over your shoulder back at the heavily pregnant Baroness.

9:21am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England. 

Sherlock and you walked up the gravel path in silence for sometime. You weren’t in much of a mood to speak to him despite well knowing conversation would need to spark eventually.

The three of you slowed down beside the inspectors horse cart.

Thankfully it was Sherlock who destroyed the silence with a stretched sigh. Lestrade grimly smiled at that sigh and rocked on his heels.

“Lestrade, show a useful skill,” Sherlock slapped a coin purse into his chest, “Find my wife and I a decent ride homeward. You still need to return back to the office and finish writing those reports on the Spring heeled Jack sightings....” he snickered.

The mutton chop male grumbled and left you pair alone to walk down the path into the main parklands to hail a cabriolet or another hackney carriage.

Sherlock pulled out his pipe and lit it quickly, he inhaled fast and asked curiously, “Did you learn anything else from our suspect?”

You squinted and felt a gasp pop from your lips, your hand snapped out and dug your nails into his arm with a scolding hiss, “Suspect? Look at the state she is in Sherlock. She clearly loves her husband. How could such a indisposed woman do anything to her husband?”

He smirked, “Perhaps a jealous one?”

Your brows pulled together. Jealousy wasn’t something you would’ve describe Lady Pennicott as especially with such a privileged life. Such an emotion wouldve been beneath her...but.. ‘It is inevitable that our husbands will stray their gazes to other women, it is in their nature.’

Sherlock pinched out a piece of card from his pocket, a business calling card, he flashed it through his fingers and let you carefully pluck it from his hand.

“it is no wonder Thaddeus Pennicotts name was so familiar,” Sherlocks huffed a puff of air, “He visits a like minded establishment.”

On the front of the card was a single image, a dove holding a olive leaf, and when you turned the card around there was a woman modelled in immodest clothing with text and an address in perfect hand writing.

“The Mayfair Row Dove club.”

You almost dropped the card in the mud at your feet.

He tucked the card back into his breast pocket and hooked his arm around yours, walking you closer to Lestrade waving his hands back at you both.

“I’m curious who his go to bird is there,” He chuckled.

You shook your head and scoffed in disbelief, “but she’s pregnant.”

“Men have needs,” Sherlock sighed, “I thought you’d have learnt that from last evening?”

Your nails dug harder into his arm and grit your teeth. Not everyone was as depraved as Sherlock, surely not. You couldn’t imagine Mycroft or your grandfather practicing such atrocities on women, especially women that weren’t their wives.

You noted snootily, “She said her husband liked to stand out by the roses to think. Perhaps he regretted his choice.”

Sherlock laughed cruelly and hard enough to almost drop his pipe from his lips. He plucked it out of his mouth and kissed you hard and squarely in front of Lestrade and any passing people that shook their heads in disgust at such public affection.

The taste of his tobacco filled your cheeks and floated down your throat into your chest. You could feel how his breath became your breath. Your head grew dizzy from it. His release left you trembling and collapsing against him briefly. His arm grabbed around your waist and held you totally against his chest.

“You see too much good in the worst people,” he whispered wetly into your ear.

“Not true,” you panted, you blinked your eyes hard and tried speaking again. You weakly pushed away from him back onto your own two feet. From the corner of your eyes you could see the inspector standing beside another hackney carriage.

“Not true,” you repeated and swallowed hard, “...I don’t see any good in you Sherlock.”

He grinned devilishly and walked you both to the carriage, He ignored Lestrade entirely except for retrieving his own purse.

“None at all?” Sherlock asked as he helped you step up inside of the carriage. It jostled as he plotted himself next to you instead of opposite.

You thought hard on his question for a time. You shouldn’t have ever been as petty as him. So you kept your silence before you could decide on a eloquent response. You did try to find the good in him. The trouble was you barely knew Sherlock and the side that you’d encounter was nothing short of a blagged, insufferable man that happened to be very experienced in the arts of the bedroom. So you tried to think about qualities you hadn’t seen in him but had at least heard of him.

“You help solve cases and even sometimes restitution, these deeds could be counted as decent and beneficial...perhaps good...”

He smirked until you finished hastily, “However your mistreatment and lustful addiction is nothing short of that than a person that suffers in his sin.”

A long annoyed sigh drew from his lips, however the corners jerked up.

He tug out his pipe and tapped it’s contents out the moving window, “Might I ask Mrs Holmes...” he inquired as he tucked in his pipe, and wiped his lips thoughtfully, “Do you think yourself better than me?”

The silence shared between the horses trotting along the cobblestones allowed you a chance to glare long and hard at Sherlock.

It was a jab, a jibe, a joke, a trick, a trap...

He wanted you to say yes... You could see it in his eyes the way they flicked to your lips and almost drooled with anticipation. He wanted to start a fight.

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking at you, you turned your head away and scoffed, “You may have quick wit and a expansive knowledge Sherlock, but I at least carry myself with the fairest morals.”

And that? The reply was granted a omen of Sherlock’s sickly chuckles and his heavy warm hand to sit over your thigh, running his them over the fabric of your skirts.

“We will see how fair a baker street whore morals really are when we arrive home then shall we?”

You leant against the wall of the carriage and chose to ignore him. You closed your eyes and held Sherlock’s hand to prevent it wandering anywhere else. His thumb rubbed along the back of your gloves hands.

You couldn’t understand Sherlock. And feared you never would.

HELPLINES:

If you are a victim of sexual abuse, assault or domestic violence or know someone who is please reach out to these links that share helpline services, phone numbers or emails. Consent and respect is important in every relationship whether between friends, family or even strangers.

Australian Helpline Services

UK Helpline Services

American Helpline Services

India Helpline Services.

[dearfandomdiary]

Mornings with your husband

sherlock holmes x wife!reader Warnings: idk. ooc!sherlock ?? lmao word count: 810 word

Author's note: Hey! this is part two of Waiting on your husband ! There is a Sigmund Freud reference just for funsies bc you're into psychology and just read his paper; is it accurate to the time period? idk. is this for funsies? absolutely. SO ENJOY!!

You awoke due to the sun streaks coming through the curtains. You had forgotten to close them completely. Like instinct, your hand reached out to your right where Sherlock slept but all you felt was emptiness; the bed made and cold. You groaned at the memory. He had slept on the couch after coming home drunk.

You sighed before getting up. That will be interesting, you thought with a chuckle as you made the bed. Wrapping your morning robe around your body, you walked out of your shared bedroom.

Silence welcomed you which came to a surprise. It was already 8 am. On any other day, he would be up and about already. Making tea, working on his cases; some kind of noise always happened.

Sherlock was still asleep, you noticed and you chuckled quietly. His body was turned towards the backrest as best as he could, almost curled into himself like a fetus. Seeing him sleep, you decided to make coffee and breakfast first. He would definitely need that. You also grabbed his newspaper from outside.

After preparing everything on the dining table, as quiet as you could, you walked over to the chaise lounge and sat on the small corner. A hand on his thigh, you began: “Sherlock? It’s time to wake up.” Your hand brushed over his thigh. “Sherlock. Come on, love.”

Then, finally. He groaned, his hand reaching out to cover your own. “Lay with me.” he mumbled, his hand grabbing yours to tug you close.

But you held your ground. A chuckle left your lips. “Maybe later. I made coffee and breakfast. Porridge with applesauce and toast with jam.”

This caused Sherlock to open an eye and twisting to look at you. His eyes squinted against the brightness from the kitchen windows. “Black coffee with a splash of milk?”

You nodded. “Of course. Up you go. Your sister is arriving soon.” you reminded him with a smile. His antics really were adorable sometimes.

He hummed, another attempt to tug at your hand. “Soon isn’t now. Come on, let's cuddle for a bit.”

For a moment, it felt it was working. You weighed your options. You loved spending time with him, his hugs felt like home and comfort but then again. Enola was coming soon and you needed to get dressed and Sherlock needed to get ready for the day no matter how hungover he was.

With a huff, you removed your slippers. “Fine. But only for a few minutes, alright? I have so much to do today even if you never notice it.” you argued as you watched him; his hand never releasing yours. He sat back against the back of the chaise lounge, his legs spread slightly so you could get settled in his arms, leaning against his chest. Your head fell back against his shoulder and a low hum left your lips.

“Good?”

“Perfect.”

He chuckled at your response and kissed the top of your head. “Did you get my newspaper?” he asked and you nodded.

“It’s on the dining table. Do you want it? I can get it for you.”

Sherlock let out a laugh. “What I want, is for my woman to stay in my arms right now. I can read it later.” he said, his arms tightening around your waist.

You chuckled. “Well maybe your woman likes being on her feet and not just sitting around all day.” you replied while your hand came down to Sherlock’s, your index finger running up and down his fingers.

Goosebumps were forming, you could see it and it made you grin.

Sherlock groaned in response, his face resting in the crook of your neck. “You never even met my mother and you’re starting to sound like her.”

You couldn’t resist laughing. “Careful or people might think you have an Oedipus Complex.” you teased as her hand reached up to stroke through his curly hair.

His eyes opened almost immediately. “Mh? Did you read his paper?” Sherlock lifted his head. “I do not have an Oedipus Complex, (Y/N).” he argued.

“I know, love. I was joking. I’ve been with a few men before you who fit those criteria a lot better.” you said, your eyebrows furrowed slightly; you were almost cringing at the image. “Anyhow— let’s not speak of that. What were you doing yesterday that required you to get drunk?”

You felt him stiffen behind you and could feel the change in topic before it happened.

“Oh, look at the time. Enola should arrive sson. Let me get changed! I’ll eat after!” he said as he gently pushed you back to get up. He practically vanished into thin air.

You pouted a little. He rarely kept such tight hold on his cases. What could possibly be going on?

You were ripped out of your thought when you heard a knock on your door.

[positivelyholland]

hey how bout a character outline on holmes sister?? i LOVE your work btw, and im so glad you're back!!

oh my god i love enola holmes so much it's literally such a good movie so i'm SO glad you asked!!

She's a very chill person. With Enola's dangerous curiosity and her habits of always breaking the rules, there needed to be some balance in the family.

She has such a big heart and is so kind. She will always drop what she's doing to help someone in need, and will be a shoulder to cry on anytime of the day.

As far as looks go, i would say she is a very well-groomed person. She will not be caught dead without her hair tied up nicely, her clothes washed, her face clean, or really just messy in general. She is just an organized person, which is good because between her mother and enola, somebody needs to keep things relatively neat.

I think for age and all that, she's Enola's opposite twin. She was never really close with her brothers even after they came back. I mean, Enola and Sherlock had a love detective business to bond over and well, Mycroft is just Mycroft so it's hard to be friends with him. He does however take a better liking for this sister since she is decently put-together and mannered.

Overall, she's more of the quiet friend who will always be there for you and just listen to whatever anyone has to say. I hope to write for her more in the future as this character gets more requests!!

[rustys-lodge]

His ward Pt 2 (choice 1)

Summary : After your little fight with Sherlock, you decide not to leave. Sherlock treats you right.

Warnings : Just floofers

A/N : A special thanks to @fatherlesschild2 for encouraging my ass to write these two. It's been a while ❤ @czheythebard @bunny24sstuff It's here again ahahah ❤

Part 1 Part 2(choice 1)

---

"If." Sherlock's voice filled the room again. "you do step out of that door, the consequences of that will be solely your responsibility to bear." The softness in his voice sent chills down your spine, as behind it hid a dark pitch that...You weren't sure you wanted to hear again.

With two fingers slightly curved around the door handle, your eyes darted from handle to Sherlock....You reconsidered....You removed your hand from the handle...And your lip started quivering against your will.

Your brother approached you, slowly, and stopping an arm away. An arm away because he brings it out, offering his hand for you to hold.

You hesitated for a moment, rethinking your decision. But you needed him just as much as he needed you.

As a wave of sleepiness hit you, you took it as a sign to take the help that's being offered to you. So you slowly reached for his hand. And before you even knew it, you were wrapped up in his arms.

"What are you doing, Sherlock." You protested, pushing your body away from him. But he didn't let go, didn't tighten his grip either. "Sherlock, let go of m-"

"I will find her, I promise you."

Why did he have to bring her up....

"Okay, let go o-"

"Y/n, just..." His voice low and shaky, Sherlock sounds unsure. Not unsure in a hesitant manner. It sounded like the emotional kind of uncertainty. Like he wanted to be there, he just....He just didn't know how to do that! And frankly, neither did you. And you'd praise him for trying but...But it was getting harder and harder to...move your muscles. Your whole body was slowly weighing down on you...As well as...As well as your eyes.

"Alright !" The man almost shouted, sudden enthusiasm flooding his voice. And as he pulled away, he dragged you over to the couch. "How about-" He gently pushed you down. "You sit and rest and I make us some tea."

"No" You contested, attempting to get up, causing him to push you down again. "Uh-I need to clean your mess of a hou-"

"No." Sherlock bent down to wrap your legs in his arm, turning you to lay you down completely on the couch.

Oh....Your back ached a bit before relief washed over. Feels nice... And sudden warmth...Sherlock set a blanket over you.

"When was the last time you washed this...It feels...Filthy." You opened your eyes only to find yourself staring into Sherlock's. Who happened to be leaning over you.

"You're filthy." He objected and you gasped, squinting your eyes at him.

"You're filthy !!" You isnulted him back.

"You look like hell."

"Your breath smells like hell."

"You...You-" Your brother huffed. "You know, I should punish right now for speaking to your older brother in this manner."

You scoffed.

"I have the right to do that, you know. You are my wa-"

You sigh. "Say I'm your ward again and I'll jump off of this bloody window."

Sherlock chuckled at your reaction, tipping his head downward.

"Alright, rest now."

You smiled back, nodding as you found sudden interest in the ceiling. You'd look elsewhere but your eyes felt heavy over your eyes...

Shifting into a more comfortable position, you decided to rest your eyes until Sherlock came back. Yeah...Staying wasn't to bad of an idea.

----

Aii, hope everyone likes this as much as i did. I found myself the scenes as well ahah. Yall enjoy. ❤❤❤🌹🌹🌹

[padfootdaredmetoo]

Hi again! Oh yeah! I guess its request time then😂 (Also I love that gif😂) also right after I sent the first ask I had an idea for another Henry Sherlock x Peaky and I can't decide which to send so I'll send both separately and you can choose which one you like better! The original idea I had was for a Shelby sister Reader and the other is a Holmes sister Reader. But the first idea is this: 

What if another Shelby sister moves to London and ends up being Sherlock's neighbor but he ignores her at first (or pretends to) even when she becomes friends with Enola. Then one day a man looking for revenge against the Blinders breaks into her home and almost succeeds in kidnapping/killling her but suddenly Sherlock appears and saves her. Then right as he's helping patch her up like half of the Shelby Company Limited +Co show up because they got the call reader was threatened. And after that reader and Sherlock gee closer and like Ada and Enola are constantly working to set them up! And yeah that's the first idea I had if you were interested!❤️❤️

Hey Love,

This request is just - I'm not worthy. But I hope this makes you happy. I have three extra pieces that I'll try to post tonight. Thanks for sending this in, I'm having a lot of fun with it!

Warnings: Reader is assaulted, kissing, fluff,

EXTRAS: Little extra bits of the story that give more context. I figured they might make it too long but I'm still super attached to them.

Kissing - Additional Short about kissing

You looked around the sun bathed flat in amazement, a sound you could never recall rang in your ears. Silence. It was quiet and only the furniture was put in place. Aunt Pol and Ada insisted on staying with you for the first night, in your world that was a party so naturally, Esme was in toe with them when they showed up. You all listened to records and drank yourselves silly. Gin and dancing, laughing and gossiping, your heart was soaring high when you eventually fell asleep on a pile of cushions. 

However, in the morning, it was a different feeling entirely. You woke up first wondering how on earth you all could make a mess out of a practically unpacked apartment, but there it was. The anxiety from the booze started to hit you and laying still became impossible. Your stomach turned violently and your mind started to race with unwanted memories. Time to get busy, you groaned and got up for the day. 

You ran out to get some bread and eggs for breakfast. The street was brutally loud and you were grateful for the little shop as the door closed and the sound was muffled. Eggs and bread turned into a large and heavy paper bag full of all sorts of things. You managed it well enough till you got to the top of the front steps. You nestled the large paper bag in one arm and struggled to get your keys out of your coat pocket.  The door swung open suddenly and a very tall man glared down at you. The paper bag fell from your arm as the man's gaze held you. He was very tall and broad, looking down at you with a displeased face.

“So-” You stopped yourself and shook your head this was not your fault. You picked the bag up and tried to hold your head high while walking around the large man, something that would have been possible if his shoulders didn't take up the entire doorway. 

Your eyes rested on his collar bones that poked out of his nightshirt and you wondered how on earth someone could have shoulders so…. 

“221C?” His voice was deep and velvety and would have been very pleasing if he had sounded less grumpy. His crumpled hair and long sweeping robe made you wonder why he was going out at all. 

You turned your head to the side as you met his eyes again, a move you regretted instantly. 

“Normally people refer to me by my name.” You told him your name and reached out to shake his hand. He gave you a firm handshake and gave you another look over. 

“Last night was a terrible experience. My work requires a large amount of concentration and -” 

“Are you the new woman?” An overly cheery voice called out from behind the hulking man. He let out an exasperated sigh. A girl with long brown curly hair fought her way out of the doorway and bent down to grab a tin of coffee that had escaped in the fall. 

“Im Enola - Holmes! This is my brother” She looked between the two of you and registered her brother's deep glare “he’s hungover - completely ignore him.” She said with a beaming smile. She ushered you past him into the hallway and started chattering. Your head was pounding but you tried to follow along with what she was saying. 

“It sounded like a wild night, I don't think I’ve ever heard so much laughing.” She held onto your arm with the tin of coffee in the other hand and you felt weird being walked to your apartment by the girl. She must have been about 14 or so, something in her eagerness to speak with you made you feel she was lonely.

“You know I love parties, I know lots of jokes, and oh- do you run your own business. Your mail here has a company stamp with your last name. That’s really something, I’m excellent with numbers if you ever need accounting - not that you aren't good with numbers if you own your own business- ” 

“Enola” The man called from their door across the hall. 

“Sorry!” She gave you another big smile. 

“Do you want a cup of coffee or tea?” You don't know why you asked her, caffeine was the very last thing that girl needed. But her eyes were lonely and you remembered what it was like at that age. 

“No” 

“YES!” they answered at the same time. The man looked at you almost apologetically.

“She wouldn't be any trouble. My sisters are here with my aunt, ah tonight was sort of a one-off. Sorry about the noise and everything.” You fumbled and your face flushed. 

“No,” He said awkwardly. “ Not a problem I just - as long as it's not every night. I’m sure we can be just as loud.”  You gave him a nod and then opened the door to your apartment. 

“Behave Enola” He called out before stepping into his flat with his mail in hand. She made an exasperated face and rolled her eyes. 

_________________________________________________

You laughed as you came into the kitchen to see all three of them sat at the table in various positions that showed their hungover-ness. 

“Everyone this is my neighbor Enola.” Esme didn't lift her head from the wooden table but a groan of acknowledgment rang out from a mess of dark curly hair. 

Polly looked the girl over and lit a cigarette, then her eyes looked to you with a question. 

“She bumped into me in the hallway. Enola this is my Aunt Pol and my sisters Esme and Ada.” 

She gave them a wave and whispered a soft hello. Aunt Pol looked at her for a long while then gave a kind smile. 

“So you live across the hall then?” 

“Yes with my brother Sherlock Holmes - he’s a detective and I’m technically in training but I am taking clients,” Enola said proudly. 

Sherlock Holmes, you thought to yourself for a moment brain foggy as ever. The detective from the papers? You didn't know what to think of the information as you put the kettle on the stove.

“A detective eh?” Pol gave her a nod. “Do me a favor and keep an eye on this one for me?” 

“Sure thing. She can count on us.- You mentioned it’s just you living here now?” 

You nodded as you started to unpack a box of mugs. 

“I live in the neighborhood, but we are all from Birmingham,” Ada answered with a small smile. 

“Birmingham! Holy - I haven't been before but I read this article once -” And off she went quietly rattling on and on. You got some eggs, ham, toast, and coffee on the table. Pol took Enola’s mug and filled it with milk before she could grab some coffee. 

“It’s a dreadful habit dear. Have some milk.” She said knowing full well that she didn't need anything to wake her up. 

The morning passed into the afternoon and eventually, Esme raised her head and ate up her breakfast. They made Enola laugh loudly and you felt she fit in with your girl gang well enough. 

“You have a boyfriend then? How old are ya? Should call Finn over if not.” 

“No” You and Pol answered at the same time. Finn was a good 3 years older than her and the last thing you wanted was her caught up in whatever he was working on these days. 

“He’s my litter brother but he’s a hell of a troublemaker and a good few years too old for you.” You gave Esme a look and she shrugged. 

“I do as it turns out. Well - Erm - don’t mention that to my brother if you don't mind?”  You gave her a big smile. 

“Secret is safe with me.” 

“As long as we get to meet him of course,” Ada added sensibly. 

Soon enough the day passed by and you were left with a messy apartment to clean and many boxes to unpack. You said your goodbyes and enjoyed watching Enola light up as the women hugged her goodbye, with promises of saying hello the next time they came over to stay. 

You closed the door and looked at the girl who jumped slightly.

“You probably want me to leave - sorry!” She looked flustered.

“Stay or go, I’m going to do some unpacking then start on dinner. You are welcome to stay if you like” 

Enola took that invitation as a welcome to come over whenever she pleased. You thought it would start to bother you, but coming from such a big and loud family you found it comforting. 

You watched her interactions with her brother closely the few times you happened to run into him. They would fight over all sorts of things and you weren't happy about it. It was one thing to argue with family but he was an adult and she, whether her family liked it or not, was still just a girl. 

“Love, what happened to your parents?” You asked on a spring evening when you were both absorbed in books. They had been shouting at each other all morning and the question was burning a hole in your mind. 

“Ah, do I annoy you?” She asked in a voice you rarely ever heard her use. 

“No, you and Sherlock argue often I just - It’s none of my business but I -.” 

“We argue a lot because we're both too smart.” She sighed like it was a heavy burden. “We see equally important things, but different things when we assess situations and whatnot. He hates it when I get involved in his cases, hates it even more when I’m right but deep down I know he doesn't mind all that much.” 

You thought about her words and she let out another deep sigh. 

“My mum felt it was her time to be on her own again, my father died ages ago. My other brother Mycroft - he’s a real twat. Tried to put me in finishing school - but you know about that from my first case.” 

You gave a nod remembering the story. “Your mum felt you were okay to be on your own?” You looked at the girl and shuddered. London was a big city, and she was incredibly smart but she was still obviously more of a girl than a woman. 

“Yep,” She said it firmly like she was trying to be proud but there was a sadness etched into her posture that you couldn't unsee. You thought of your own mother and something sank in your stomach. 

“Well, I think you are entirely too much fun to be left alone. The world is big and lonely. Better to stick together with those who are worthy.” You said watching her face light up slightly. “Aunt Pol was calling to see if I’d met your fella by the way.” Pol had not mentioned it in her phone calls, but you said it anyway to make her feel like she was a part of things. She beamed. 

“I’ll take you and Ada to see him.” 

“Excellent. Baking cookies tomorrow, if you want to help?” she gave you a big smile. 

“Despite my extensive knowledge of chemistry, I’m awful at baking.” 

“Eh, you just need to learn.” You shrugged. “One more chapter then we best be off to bed.” A lie that was told frequently in your house. You both read until the wee hours of the morning, multiple cups of peppermint tea made and drank. 

You jumped out of your chair when a hand lightly nudged your shoulder. Out of instinct, you threw the book at the man. Sherlock was there and Enola was happily asleep on the couch open book resting on her chest. 

“Sorry!” You whispered. Sherlock only picked up the book you were reading and then gave you a long look. A thick flush covered your face as you accepted the book back from him. He always made you feel embarrassed and with both of them having all that fancy pants knowledge you really wished he would have caught you reading something of substance. 

“Erm-I” You fumbled. “What time is it?”

“Round six,” He said, still staring at you intensely. 

“Ah, sorry I told her one more chapter - “ You looked at the stack of books “Two books ago - Sorry” 

“It’s alright. I should be the one to apologize. Thanks for spending time with her. If it’s too much-” 

“She’s not a problem.” You said with a finality that showed too much emotion. “I - things are complicated with your family - I only know because I also come from a complex family. But really she’s not a burden or someone that’s better left behind.” 

Sherlock gave you a strange look and you found it impossible to look away from his deep blue eyes. 

“Complicated is a good way of describing it.” He looked around your apartment and you felt extremely uncomfortable. “She’s going to be smarter than all of us soon enough though, I guarantee you she won't be forgotten.”

“Oh, I’m sure she’ll make it into the public’s eye sooner or later. I’m referring to your mother leaving her-” 

“I won’t,” He said firmly and with his full attention turned to you. “Our mother had her own business to attend to, but I assure you Enola is safe with me.” His eyes held you in place and you hated how he made you feel like he could see everything that you were thinking and feeling. 

“You shouldn't shout at her so much.” The words toppled from your mouth as you held his stare. This made the corner of his mouth stand up slightly. He looked like he was debating whether he wanted to start an argument with you or not. 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He kept looking at you and you were surprised at his response. You knew deep down Enola’s situation reminded you of yourself a great deal. Mother gone, and many fights with Thomas, but you had Pol to back you up, and the rest of them looking out for you all the time. 

“Here - she can stay the night no point in moving her.” You got up and grabbed the thick blanket you left on the edge of the sofa for her. You expected him to already be out the door. He often abruptly ended conversations that is if he didn't ignore you completely. 

“Why are you in London?” His voice made you jump. 

“Wanted some space from the family.” 

“Your sister lives here and your Aunt calls frequently? Space from your family or from your brother?” 

“What do you know about my brother?” The hair on the back of your neck shot up. 

“He gives my bother a hard time in Parliament. Really his arch rival of sorts.” Sherlock said and you wondered if he had been drinking. 

“That pleases you?” You smiled at his unusual expression. 

“Very much so. Although I know you lot had to struggle to get to where you are now.” His voice was back to its usual neat grumpy tone. “I don’t think it's a lifestyle you engage in?” He looked around your colorful apartment again.

“No. It’s not.” You said hoping he believed you. Sure you had gotten into your fair share of grim situations but the company had been legal for a long while now. 

“Good.” He cocked his head towards you and his tone was light again. Something deep inside you wanted to do just about anything to keep his attention on you. With a small smile, he made his way out of your apparent closing the door softly. 

____

Enola was gone to stay with her mother for the night. You knew that something inside you had run over the boundaries of a friend or neighbor when you lay in bed tossing and turning. You knew she was perfectly capable of protecting herself and it really wasn't your place, but something in your mind wouldn't rest. 

Ada had gone back home to stay with Pol for a while, no one was answering the phone today. Now that you thought about it that was probably the main reason you felt worried. You thought about walking across the hall to see if Sherlock wanted help with whatever he was working on. 

In the last case, Enola insisted on your help as all the clues were in Romani. This was probably a normal case that would be over your head but maybe he’d have you for tea anyway. You sighed and got out of bed grabbing your thick robe and wrapping it around yourself. 

Opening your bedroom door you looked across the small flat and could see that the front door was open. Your first instinct was to move back into the bedroom but dark eyes fell on you before you could move. 

“Just come with us quietly love, no fighting” two men made their way towards you. Your fingers wrapped around the poker for the fire and you made careful notes of their appearance before the fighting started. 

You thought about the bedroom window behind you but the drop would guarantee your death. The front door was the only option. You held the iron poker in your grip tightly then the most sensible idea floated into your mind. If fighting didn't go as planned you were sure that screaming your head off would alert someone in the building. 

The two men came towards you and you got the first one across the side of the face before jabbing him in the eye. The second man proved harder to smack no matter how determined you were. Eventually, he got the upper hand and a hard smack landed across your face. You took a deep inhale but his hand closed around your neck before you could scream. You tried to scratch and hit his face but your arms became too heavy before any substantial damage was done. 

Your vision went hazy just as the man let out a loud cry. His hand released you and you watched a hulking figure pull screams from his body. Blood was spilled before the beast made his way toward you. 

You tried to move away unsure of anything, still unable to see or hear properly. Big arms gathered you up and lifted you into the air. 

“Calm down.” His voice was rough and you wondered how your body could switch from so panicked to letting go entirely. 

He carried you across the hall and into his flat. It was the complete opposite color scheme but just as cluttered with books. He placed you down on the countertop in the bathroom. He switched the lights on and you let out a groan covering your eyes. 

You watched him look you over for damage while your voice was stuck somewhere deep inside you. His rough hands traced the bruise on your neck and you let out a soft hum. He didn't move his hand and you looked up into his piercing blue eyes. A different type of tension settled between the two of you one that caused your bones to ache. Without further thought and with no one but God to judge you, you leaned forward and pressed a small kiss to his lips. 

A part of you expected him to recoil in disgust or offense, but he pulled away placing his thumb over your lips. He pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head, and you struggled slightly. You wanted him so badly it hurt to breathe. 

“You’re in shock.” He whispered with a softness you didn't know he possessed. 

“So?” You mumbled against his thumb. 

“So, see how you feel in the morning then try again.” He smiled slightly and you noticed how much blood had splattered up his arms. He got you settled in his bed and gave you some tea. He made some phone calls and after a long while, he came back.

Without any questions or stress, he started reading the book that he must have grabbed from your night table. 

You thought you should tell him to stop but enjoyed the way his nose crinkled and how he started to argue about the character's motives. 

“Men don’t think that way - surely you must know this?” he said looking down at you curled up in his blankets. The sun was just starting to come up and you were wishing there was a way for you to keep stuck in this moment. 

“I have no idea how men think” You whispered up at him. Right then there was a commotion in the hallway. 

“Oh, NO.” Enola’s voice had called out and you both shot up. You winced in pain as you followed him out of the room.

“Who are you lot? You need to tell me where she is right now.” Enola commanded in a voice that would have made the average person crumple. 

Thomas, the man standing across from her was not the average person. His eyes flicked from her to you standing behind Sherlock. You caught the relief flooding his features and Arthur let out a deep breath from the living room.  

“There she is. Tough girl.” Arthur came towards you and you let him pull you into a big hug. 

Sherlock and Thomas stood still staring at each other in a way that made you worry. 

“This going to be a regular occurrence?” Sherlock asked in a cold tone. John had squared up his chest when you noticed Ada seemed deeply pleased about something as she looked at you from your bedroom doorway. 

“No,” Thomas said easily. “This is for you.” He pulled out a folded piece of paper. 

Sherlock accepted the paper and sighed when Enola grabbed onto his forearm angling it so she could read it better. 

“Moriarty!” She gasped. “Oh, Sherlock this makes perfect sense! The last case was in Romani, he must have known we had her help. We never ask anyone for help so -” 

“So we put a gigantic target on her back.” He looked down at her with an icy expression and you hated the way it hit her. 

“I take partial responsibility for that,” Thomas called out taking some of the blame off of the girl's shoulders. Not something you would have expected from him. “Moriarty has been pestering me for a meeting for a long while now. I assume this was his way of grabbing our attention.”

“Can she stay with you?” Ada asked in a sweet voice. 

“Of course.” Sherlock and Enola both said at the same time in very different tones. 

“She should come home, Tom,” Arthur said tightening his arm around your shoulders. 

“She would be more help on the case here,” Enola said in a quiet voice. 

“She won't be any safer back home. Plus she’s the only one Alfie enjoys working with. Lord knows we will need his help.” Ada added. 

“If it's not any trouble” You looked at Sherlock. “I’d rather stay here and help.” You added moving your gaze to Tommy. 

“Fuck.” he sighed. “You stay here, deal with Alfie.” 

You smiled at the thought of how much it bothered your brother that Alfie would always keep his word if you asked him to. 

“If that’s settled I should be off.” Thomas gave you a quick hug then Arthur and John followed him out with glances of warning to Sherlock. 

“Alright, two of you go do your thing - with less shouting than usual. We will start on the mess in here.” You looked at Ada and she nodded. 

“No, It’s technically a crime scene or whatever?” Ada looked at Enloa. 

“Yes, she's right you should just move over to our side and leave everything as is.” Enola gave a serious nod and you couldn't help but think they were up to something. 

“We will have to review the last case to see how it relates to this. You need to rest.” Sherlock put his arm around out and gilded you towards his apartment. 

“Don't.” He said before you could start arguing. “Please just rest a bit for me.” 

“Did you just say please?” You said caught off guard by his choice of words. 

“Go to sleep.” He turned on his heel and left you to curl up in his bed. You got up for a while before falling asleep again on the couch listening to him and Enola go back and forth with different theories.

You felt him carry you back to bed and felt a moment of guilt realizing you shouldn't have made him carry you. He placed you back on the bed and you mumbled thanks. There was a moment of complete silence before you felt the bed dip under his weight. 

“My brother has guards covering the building, I don't think there’s any more evidence in my flat if you want me to -” You said realizing there really wasn't a reason for you to stay in his space. 

“I want you to stay.” He murmured into your hair and you felt his arm wrap around you. A heavy peaceful weight crept over you and you were very grateful to give him what he wanted.  

“Then I’ll stay.” You whispered and he pulled you tight against his chest. You thought about that kiss, but you felt his breath even out. With sleep washing over you, you made a note to revisit that kiss in the morning.

____

I feel really nervous about this one so let me know what you think <3

[ellethespaceunicorn]

Sometimes The Silence Guides A Mind

Title: Sometimes The Silence Guides A Mind

Rating: Explicit, 18+, Minors - DNI

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader

Fandom: Enola Holmes series

Word Count: 1.7K

Summary: As you were getting close to Sherlock, he stops visiting. You pop over to Baker Street and share an eye-opening moment.

Warnings: age gap(reader is about 20 in this, Sherlock is mid-30s), slight voyeurism, masturbation (male), handjob, unprotected p-in-v sex (wrap it up y’all), creampie

A/N: I’ve been throwing around this idea about Sherlock for quite some time. I hope you enjoy it. Unbeta’d, we die like people who tried their best.

Dividers by: @firefly-graphics

Support/Reblog banner by me

Cover Art by me

My Masterlist 

You’ve been friends with Enola for a short time, only since the beginning of the year. She’s led you on a few fun adventures, but more often than not, she’s led you on wild goose chases. She has helped you come out of your shell and you are grateful for that. On days that you weren’t exploring the countryside or causing a ruckus in the city, you would lounge around her large house. 

Spending time with her in her large house had its benefits. One of which was 6’1 with a head of unruly curls. The famous Sherlock Holmes was your best friend’s big brother. He lived in the city but came to visit Enola every week. 

You always made sure to be available on those days. If only for the chance to say hello to Sherlock. You wanted more but, truth be told, he made you a bit nervous.

You tried your best to keep calm when he would arrive, but Enola noticed your demeanor change every time. She teased you endlessly about your little crush and you would always bring up Tewkesbury. That would usually shut her up.

In truth, she did not care that you liked her brother, she just didn’t want you to waste your time. The man was not exactly sociable unless he found value in the opinions of others. One opinion he respected was that of his sister. You could sit and watch them talk for hours. She would get him to laugh with her jokes, and he would bring her to annoyance with his riddles.

You would interject a thought here and there and when Sherlock would give his attention to you, you froze. Something about the look in his eyes, it was more than attention. It was intense as if the two of you were the only ones in the world let alone the room.

More than once, Enola had cleared her throat loudly to get you and Sherlock’s attention back on her. But sometimes, she would just listen to you ramble on while Sherlock seemed enthralled in your thoughts. You mused about music and how interesting you thought his cases were. The more you spoke with him, the more comfortable you felt around him. 

Sherlock would show up now and then with little trinkets from his cases. At first, it was just things for Enola, but soon he would start bringing you little gifts as well. He started small with a single flower or a tasty treat from his favorite bakery. But soon, his gifts grew oddly specific. He bought you a brooch you had mentioned seeing at a store in the city. He would learn pieces of music from a composer you talked about and play it for you, much to the chagrin of Enola who wasn’t a fan of the violin.

It was when he didn’t visit for two weeks that you started to realize you were developing feelings for the older detective. You’d come to enjoy his presence and not because of his gifts. You just enjoyed seeing his face light up when he saw you. You relished the power you felt when the normally unflappable and distant man would sit enthralled when you gave voice to your thoughts. 

So, why did it stop so suddenly? Had you done something to offend him? 

You wracked your brain and Enola’s brain for that matter. She gave you his address so you could go and talk to him and she could finally be free of your fretting. 

You arrive at 221 Baker Street, your hands trembling as you knock on the main door. A sweet woman opens the door and introduces herself as Ms. Hudson. When you ask to speak to Sherlock, she sends you up the steps to 221B.

As you’re about to knock, a man opens the door and almost collides with you.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry. May I help you, Miss?” 

“Ehm, I’m here to see Mr. Holmes…but I can come back if that’s–” You are cut off when he speaks again.

“You wouldn’t happen to be friends with Enola, would you?” You nod, giving your name, “Of course, Sherlock mentioned you. I’m Dr. John Watson, and I have to be going but you are more than welcome to come in. Sherlock is just in his room down the hall.” He points around the corner from the door and walks past you before waving goodbye.

So, that’s how you end up in Sherlock’s apartment. It is eerily quiet and you think he might be asleep. That is until you hear soft moans coming from down the hall. Your first thought is it must have been the floorboards creaking under your feet.

What you hear next is the unmistakable sound of your name followed by a whimper. It sounded like Sherlock was calling to you, but how would he know you were here already? You walk down the hallway quietly and see that his bedroom door is slightly ajar.

Peeking in, you are blessed with a sight! Sherlock is laid out on his bed with his shirt and waistcoat open, his hairy chest on full display as it rises and falls quickly. His beautiful face constricted in pain one second, solemn and peaceful in the next. His curls are a sweaty mess on his forehead. One hand is fisting the sheets at his side and the other hand is wrapped around his thick veiny dick. You’re mesmerized watching him stroke himself until you hear him moan your name again.

In a moment of bravery, you step into the room. Your bosom heaves in your bodice as you breathe shallowly, adrenaline coursing through your veins. 

His hand stops its ministrations and he looks to you as you walk towards him. He’s frozen on the spot and can only watch you as you climb atop the bed and lay next to him. You replace his hand with yours and continue to pump his dick. Your hand barely fits around him and you enjoy the feel of his soft uncut length in your hand.

His hands come up to caress your face and pull you down for a kiss. When his tongue begs for entry, you allow it in. Heatedly, you mold your mouth to his, letting your moans and whimpers be consumed by him. Breaking the kiss, he looks into your eyes and you can tell he is close.

You remove your hand from him and stand up from the bed. It is only when you remove your undergarments does Sherlock understand why you stopped. Climbing back on the bed, you settle yourself with your cunt dripping onto him.

“I want you to be certain that you–” You cut him off as you slink down, his velvety smoothness sliding inside your wet heat. You take a moment to get used to the sheer size of him. He stretches you almost painfully. Leaning down, you whisper into his ear.

“Do I seem certain, Mr. Holmes?”

Instead of an answer, Sherlock groans and twitches inside you. His hands travel under your skirt and rest on your hips. You take that as a sign and sit up. With your hands on his chest, you begin to ride him slowly, agonizingly to the point where his hands start to guide you to a quicker pace. 

Using you like a ragdoll, he flips you so he is atop you while you are on your back. He slams into you repeatedly and you are no longer in control. He savors the sounds coming from you as he fucks into you. He urges you on as he kisses and licks and nips at your neck, careful not to leave any marks.

Pulling out, he moves you to your hands and knees before inserting himself again. The angle allows him to go deeper and you thank the Gods for it. As he holds onto you, he hammers into you. The filthy utterances that come from his mouth only serve to solidify the notion that he missed you too.

“I knew you would feel like Heaven, my sweet angel…”

“This pretty pussy belongs to me now…”

“You would look so perfect with my cum dripping out of you…”

“I could fuck you all day and night and still never get enough of you…”

“Be my good angel and come all over my cock,” He reaches down and rubs your clit between two fingers as he plows into you. You never stood a chance, your walls quivering around him within moments, “That’s my good girl. So good…for me. Fuck, so close!”

“Sherlock, please! Need you to fill me with all you have to give!” You surprise yourself and your lover with those words. 

Sherlock’s answering grunts as he makes mincemeat of your pussy are music to your ears. His punishing thrusts falter and he pulls you flush to him. He’s deep enough to kiss your cervix with the tip of his dick. You feel him swell inside you and it’s enough to make you climax again, milking him through his release. 

And the noises he makes when he comes are more intricate than the 24 Caprices. You’re sure that Sherlock would disagree but you don’t even care. You revel in the melody of his moans and surrender to its hold on you.

Sherlock’s hands roam over your back, your hips, your ass, and your thighs. As if he can’t get enough of you. He doesn’t pull out until you wiggle your hips, a sign that your legs are tired. Extricating himself from your sensitive folds allows his spend to escape. He catches what slips free and pushes it all back in before helping you lay down on your front.

He lays down next to you, pulling you close to him with one arm while the other rests behind his head. He looks so peaceful as he closes his eyes and hums. The feminine urge for pillow talk is high, but so is the need to just bask in this moment.

You’re in the arms of the man you care for, who also adores you. You rest your cheek on his shoulder and tangle your fingers in his chest hair. You breathe in his smell, his pheromones are surely on high alert from your activity. When he rests his head against yours, you feel at peace.

You do plan on talking to Sherlock later about everything. But, for now, you can take pleasure in the simplicity of the harmonization of your heartbeats.

A/N: The title of this fic is taken from The Neighborhood’s Sweater Weather. There is an amazing violin version of this song by Joel Sunny. And anything violin makes me think of Sherlock.

A/N: Also, I know Ms. Hudson wasn't featured in Enola Holmes, but I love her as a character and I wanted to use her.

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[darlingdekarios]

dance in the winter.

rating: explicit. 18+ only. length: 2,937 content: Sherlock Holmes x f!reader, porn with plot, smut [fingering - receiving, oral - receiving, unprotected p in v], kink(s) [praise, hair pulling], fluff

though he tried to restrain himself, it was useless – when he avoided you, circumstance always brought you crashing back into him. as he climbed the stairs to 221B Baker Street, he supposed this was one of those times as well.

Eight days, seven hours, and thirty-four minutes ago Sherlock Holmes had been persuaded by way of your fluttering eyelashes to take on one final case before Christmas, though against his better judgment he hardly needed convincing when it came to you. He’d met you months ago now through his sister and, despite himself, he’d found plenty of excuses to intersect his path with yours. The way you had burrowed into his mind was often infuriating, the way he had permeated your mind dizzying.

It was impossible to ignore the growing affection between the two of you – even Enola had remarked on it to you weeks ago and though you were a convincing liar, she was better at reading you. Sherlock’s behavior spoke for itself, Enola thought – the sheer fact he could be seen with you enough times to constitute a pattern meant he enjoyed your company, and for Sherlock that was enough of a compliment and revelation.

Though no one had pushed for an answer, everyone who knew both of you knew the energy that came with the both of you, and the assumption that you two had acted on those feelings would not be unfounded. Several times now, in fleeting and molten moments, Sherlock had kissed you breathless and reverent. Though he tried to restrain himself, it was useless – when he avoided you, circumstance always brought you crashing back into him. As he climbed the stairs to 221B Baker Street, he supposed this was one of those times as well.

“Eight days, seven hours, and thirty-eight minutes spent on your case,” he proclaimed as he closed his watch, tucking it away before fixing his gaze on you. “Only to follow clues to my own home, and to find you waiting for me.”

You waited for him with a smile on your face, sprawled against the worn fabric of his chaise in a dress you knew distracted him, the depth of its color bringing out the best in yours. He closed the door behind himself, dropping his cane beside the door and removing his jacket as he regarded you with analytic eyes.

“I’m afraid I deduced the crime before you, Mister Holmes,” you taunted, eyes sparkling in the crackling firelight coming from the fireplace near you. He closed some of the distance toward you as you spoke, causing you to raise to be seated before him in politeness, though you wished to cherish the way he hungrily eyed you as you lay before him. “I have been waiting here for the thief to return.”

“I assume you’ve decided it’s me,” he assessed, clasping his hands behind his back to resist the urge to reach out and push a stray hair from your face. 

“Yes, Sherlock, I’m afraid you are the thief, and you’ve stolen something very dear to me,” you mused, raising your hand to push the hair from your face instead, almost as if you were further taunting him. “I should hope you return it at once.”

“And what is it I’m accused of stealing?”

“My mind, dear detective,” you sighed, raising to your feet and standing close enough to him that he could make out the details of your face. “All of my sense. I demand you return it at once, I simply cannot pass another day in this state.”

A lazy smile passed his features, one that he gifted to you in privacy, entrusted you with in secret. You etched this one to memory just as the others.

“So, all this week while I have been uncovering clues and following trails,” he began, finally reaching forward to grasp one of your hands. Almost delicately he lifted it, pressing a kiss to your fingers before continuing. “They were all left by you.”

You nodded, fire engulfing your cheeks under his investigative eyes now burning into yours with something genuine and fierce.

“Hmm,” he mused, lowering your hand to rest against his chest as his own fingers traced along your jaw. “Who helped you?”

“I’m offended you think I would need help, Sherlock Holmes,” you quipped, noticing the twitch at the corners of his mouth in amusement. It crossed your mind he likely asked the question purely to antagonize you, though your pride insisted you assert your efforts. “It was me alone.”

“Of course it was,” he nodded, grasping your chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Though if you wanted my attention so badly, you hardly needed a game.”

“But you love a good game, or so I’ve heard,” you remarked, eyes light and playful. He had to appreciate that you could hold this back-and-forth with him without losing your footing, the mental dance you’d been in for months now fulfilling a deep need in his mind. “I enjoyed dancing with you.” 

His lips crashed to yours with bruising weight, the time since your last kiss finally settling into Sherlock and building the desire he felt for you. His hands found way to your lower back to hold you closer, covering himself in the warmth of you and swallowing the quiet sigh that passed your lips. The grasp he held on your dress revealed his satisfaction at having you so near again.

Eagerness would never spoil gentle intent. He carefully worked the laces of your gown free, pushing the heavy fabric to the floor when it had loosened adequately and immediately grasping your waist again. He released your mouth from his kiss to run his eyes over your body, his pink tongue swiping against his bottom lip in appreciation and to savor the taste of your lips.

“Lay down,” he instructed while motioning back to the chaise with one hand, releasing his hold on you to admire as you stepped back and listened with a meek nod. Eventually he’d tell you how amusing it was when you became bashful for him, but the comment could wait. Once you were comfortable again, he sank to his knees before you, reaching to pull the undergarments that covered you still with an appreciative hum before discarding them in the pile with your dress.

“Such a clever girl,” he complimented, leaning forward to press his lips to the side of your knee to encourage your legs apart. You listened without him needing to ask aloud, releasing a shaky breath as the cold air of the room passed over your heated core. “This is what you wanted, hmm?”

You could only nod as his fingers ran through your folds, teasing your soaked entrance lightly before running the digits back toward your clit, rubbing a well-intended circle around the already swollen nub. “You like when I praise you,” he remarked, like he was announcing his findings for notetaking. You supposed a man like him likely did keep mental notes. “Let’s find out what else you like.”

His head disappeared between your thighs then, his tongue replacing his fingers to eagerly taste what your arousal had to offer. A low sound rumbled in his chest in appreciation as his hands grasped your thighs, spreading your legs more so he could bury his face in your core, his tongue slipping into your cunt to massage your velvet walls. He was gifted with an unimaginable symphony of sounds from your lips as you fought to hold some composure and he fought to melt it away, connecting his thumb to your clit soon after. 

He felt the flutter to your walls and swapped his movements, reaching to take your swollen nub into his lips with a firm suck as he slipped a finger into you, curling it to massage the sensitive patch behind your clit. Your hips began to move to meet his face and hand desperately as your walls clenched, white hot euphoria washing over you as your fingers flung to his hair, pulling the wind-blown mess of curled locks in overwhelmed passion. 

Though you were in the throes of pleasure you heard the hefty groan that left his chest as he drank your orgasm from you, currently uncaring for tidiness and finding enjoyment in the mess you made of his lower face. When he was certain he’d carried you through it he removed himself from you, standing and displaying the obvious tent in his pants as he offered a hand to you. You took his hand without question, rising to meet him and lean against his wide torso for support. Finding your voice, however, was a task all in itself.

“Where are we going?” 

“My bedroom,” he replied, slipping an arm around your waist to lead you down the hall to the named room. While you knew the room existed, you had always assumed it remained empty…you had certainly never seen him use it before.

“Since when do you use your bedroom?”

“Since Enola made me find a flat mate,” he replied, sending a glance your way as he opened the door and gestured for you to enter. He followed behind immediately, pulling you back against him to press a kiss beneath your ear. “It’s not important right now.”

He turned you gently to claim your lips again, reaching behind his back to close the bedroom door before working himself free of his own clothes. You released a content sigh against his lips, pressing your bare skin to his to soak in his warmth and enjoy the feeling of him against you. When all that remained was his undergarments, he was offering you a taste of yourself with his tongue in your mouth, kissing you in ways that could be written of. 

To his amusement when he released you from his kiss a whimper slipped from your lips at the loss, and he satiated your disappointment with another gentle kiss before bumping his nose against yours. 

“You should have asked if this is what you wanted,” he remarked, offering a light smile when your eyes met his. If you wanted a game to play, Sherlock was the master of such matters, a painful reminder that fueled his mind. “Practice for me.”

“W-what?”

“Practice asking,” he instructed, trailing his kisses to brush along your jaw and to your neck. Infuriatingly, and perhaps admirably, he remembered the exact spots he needed to make you gasp, the perfect pressure to leave you breathless. He asked too much and knew it to be true, though he still insisted. “Perfect it.”

“Sherlock, please,” you whined as he backed you toward his bed, helping you lower down carefully to the cold sheets. Thankfully the cold was chased away by his warmth as he joined you, crawling between your legs and kissing up your chest slowly. “Don’t torment me, I want you so badly. Please.”

“I should make you wait,” he sounded too pleased with himself, too entertained by the desperate hitch in your breath and subtle shake to your legs as you wrapped them around his waist, eager to bring him closer. 

“Please…”

“Patience,” he reminded, sliding his hand down your body as he pressed an infuriatingly chaste kiss to your lips as he slipped two fingers into you. “Are you always this wet?”

“Often…when I’m near you,” you replied hurriedly, hips raising to meet his hand, desperate for anything he would offer you. He raised his head to drink in your expression, mentally noting the different hue to your cheeks and weight to your eyes. Seeing your body respond to him was science, learning the different ways to push you toward bliss a newfound task in his mind.

“Hmm,” he mused carefully, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Is this what you want?”

“Yes, Sherlock, please,” you whimpered as he curled his fingers again slowly, taking in your pleading expression as you continued. “No more games, please.”

He removed his fingers from you to grasp his throbbing cock, rubbing your slickness over himself before sliding the velvety head through your folds. With one last look for confirmation to your face met with a nod and whimper from you he slowly pressed into you inch by inch, holding you closer and claiming your lips again in a focused kiss. When he bottomed out and grasped your hips to hold you closer what were normally calculated kisses faltered slightly as your walls fluttered around him, the stretch to accommodate him making you feel almost too full but pulling a delicious moan from your chest.

When he moved it was as though he had been choreographing the movements in his mind nonstop for weeks…and perhaps he had with the way he seemed to massage every inch of you perfectly with each thrust. Your legs remained tight around his waist, holding him to you so he couldn’t withdraw further than you’d allow him – which he was more than happy to oblige. Focused on bringing you to the edge again the only noises that left Sherlock now were quiet groans in appreciation when you clenched around him, a low gasp falling from his lips when you pulled his hair again slightly. 

It was then when the lava returned to your core, bubbling under his mercury eyes and leaving your lips as a cry of his name. Your walls clenched around him tightly as you reached another orgasm, eyes squeezing tight as you bit into your kiss swollen bottom lip. It was then he found the words for you again.

“You look extraordinary like this…in my bed,” he complimented, his thrusts beginning to falter. You squeezed him tighter with your legs to encourage him to stay, a request he was more than happy to accommodate with a sloppy few final thrusts before his hot seed emptied into you. As he rode out the remainder of his spend, he pressed a tender kiss to your forehead, sliding one of his hands into yours and lacing your fingers together. 

You wondered if he would always find ways to take you by surprise. 

He was conscious not to linger, removing himself from you and pressing another kiss to your forehead before retreating to his living room, returning with your undergarments in hand. His hair was tousled from your desperation to grasp something and clung to the thin layer of sweat on his forehead, cheeks red. As you admired him you reached your arms toward him as he replaced your undergarments after running a clean cloth through your folds, discarding it to the floor to handle later.

He found his place beside you then, resting on his back and pulling you close to hold you for a moment, willing to relax now that you were cared for. His hands ran carefully along your stomach as he held you, pressing gentle kisses to the top of your head repeatedly to silently thank you for what had transpired. His gentle movements brought you to relaxation soon, raising your head to press a gentle kiss to his jaw. 

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock,” you cooed, repeating the kiss and causing a brief shudder to ripple up his back. 

“Mm,” came a low rumbled reply in his chest before he lowered his head to claim your lips again, aware that he needed to lighten it slightly to accommodate for the swollen bruise to your lips already. 

He held you that way for some time, allowing you to rest and enjoy the serenity of closeness to Sherlock in the afterglow of connecting with one another so deeply. Sherlock took advantage of the peaceful, quiet hours of the night to match it with little conversation as well, instead focusing his efforts on soothing your body and showing his appreciation and adoration. When you began to match his affections with soft kisses and nuzzles with your nose he opted to continue, pressing a kiss to your forehead before standing from the bed.

He reached beside the bed slowly to retrieve a robe, wrapping you in the fabric you recognized as one he wore frequently before replacing some of his clothes – whatever was necessary to move about the apartment with some decency. When you’d tied the robe he offered his hand to you, helping you rise from the bed and supporting you against him just as he had before. Even Sherlock had to admit the fulfilled swell to his chest at seeing you glowing because of him while dressed in his clothes.

“Come where it’s warm by the fire, dearest,” he offered in a tender tone, leading you back to the living room and helping you lower back into the chaise. 

While any ordinary time with any ordinary person you may have simply gone to bed, what was unfolding with Sherlock was anything but ordinary. Instead, you found yourself wrapped in his robe, draped across his chaise, and bathed in the golden morning glow as Sherlock took his place with violin in hand, playing you soothing and delicate songs. It was not long for you to be lulled into a heavy sleep by his music and for Sherlock’s flat mate to follow the sound of a violin so early in the morning. 

“Morning, Sherlock,” John greeted, adjusting his own robe carefully as he entered the room. “I see you found our guest.”

“Did you let her in, John?”

“I did. Did you tell her you figured it out days ago?”

Fondness pooled in Sherlock’s eyes at the question, and the lightest traces of a smile twitched his lips upward at the thought. He glanced away from your face just long enough to properly regard John, shaking his head astutely before returning his gaze to you. John knew the answer before Sherlock confirmed it.

“No.”

Rather than press the topic of the Christmas miracle unfolding before him, John elected to fix morning tea.

masterlist.