#holmes being accepting and loving his husband

[talkaboutanythingcuswhynot]

ACD johnlock harry potter au where watson is actually a wizard, tells holmes after they get married in secret-because same sex marriage is normal in magical Britain. Cmon, with all that blood purity thing, there surely was some pureblood who would rather marry the same gender instead of a muggle-but instead of holmes claiming it ridiculous and hating it, he is absolutely FASCINATED about it.

He studies diagon ally. He wonders and questions watson-cus I hc that he also went through healer training for wixens-if their anatomy is any different. He runs experiments-under watson’s supervision, of course-on potions.

Give me john watson being afraid of getting rejected by someone as logical as holmes, and so, SO relieved and full of love when he is accepted. When he is still seen as his husband, partner, instead of something weird.

Give me sherlock holmes who is just so fascinated about his husband’s new side he never knew about, and it doesn’t change anything about the man he loves. He tells him how he brings new colorful adventures to his previous monotone life.

Give me holmes and watson, the victorian husbands who would accept and love each other no matter what.

[aphroditelovesu]

Hai, do you take request for Enola Holmes? If so could you do a headcannon for Yandere husband Sherlock holmes x Young Duchess Of Somerset who is a very wealthy, prestigious, powerful and Influential woman in England?

(Both in headcannon and Boi, please)

❝ 🔍 — lady l: I hope you like it, anon! I certainly enjoyed writing it and here is the link to his bot :) have fun and forgive me for any mistakes! ❤️

❝tw: stalking, mention of kidnapping and death and unhealthy relationships.

❝🔍pairing: yandere!sherlock holmes x female!reader.

Sherlock Holmes never planned to get married, too focused on his work to even think about the possibility of getting a wife and having children. He always kept that thought in mind for a long time, until the day he met you, the Duchess of Somerset.

During an investigation, Sherlock had to go to a ton society ball to get clues and with the money and fame he had, it wasn't difficult. He just didn't expect to find you there, so beautiful and surrounded by flatterers. Holmes did not expect to be taken away the way he was by your smile.

You changed his way of thinking very quickly, leaving him intrigued and a little curious. Who were you, anyway? And why don't you get out of his thoughts? Endless, unanswered questions were all Holmes had.

Sherlock did extensive research about you and your family. You came from a noble and powerful family, very rich and prestigious and there were many benefits to marrying you. Several young nobles had their eyes on you as your title and powers were very tempting. This made him furious.

They were all leeches who only wanted you for the power and riches that came with it. They could never appreciate you the way he would, they couldn't worship the ground you walk on the same way he would. They would never be as good to you as he would be.

Sherlock wasn't sure why he felt this way about you, but he knew he couldn't allow you to marry one of those unworthy fellows. He had to have you, it was a need, a desire that dominated him completely. You would be his, he would be sure of that.

He was quick to pursue you and court you. Being the excellent detective that he was, Sherlock quickly discovered all of your interests and places you used to go to and he consequently started appearing in those places and talking to you. He knew he shouldn't seem crazy, so Sherlock was kind and showed an obvious interest in you.

It didn't take long for him to become in love with you, even with the dark and unhealthy feelings taking over his mind, Sherlock still remained the same with you. You also fell in love with him gradually, he was handsome, kind and not a brainless sycophant. He was everything you could want in a husband, so when, one autumn afternoon, he asked you to marry him, you happily said yes. Holmes smiled at this, everything was going the way he planned.

Fortunately for your family's life, they had no problem accepting Sherlock into the family. He was a good suitor and had good fame and fortune, so he was good to marry you, the Duchess of Somerset. Sherlock was happy about that, satisfied with the fact that he wouldn't have to convince your family in less orthodox ways.

Life with him was good and Sherlock was a good husband by the standards of the time. He was faithful to you and loved you deeply. You never thought a husband could love his wife as much as he did, but Sherlock was one of a kind. He made you feel loved every day, every little bit of you was adored by him. He loved the ground you walked on and did everything he could to make you happy.

He spoiled you endlessly, anything you wanted he would buy for you. Even if it wasn't necessary due to your status, Sherlock still loved giving you gifts. Your wardrobe grew a lot after your wedding and there were many times when you only wore a dress once out of the many you received.

Sherlock was very protective and slightly possessive over you, but he won't let you down. He will vent his jealousy and fury in other ways, he could never think of upsetting you with that. But his overprotection could be suffocating, as he made a point of personally taking care of his safety and he was constantly attached to you. It was part of the job, he would tell you.

He would teach you self defense if you didn't know. He knows it's dangerous, but Sherlock wants you to know how to defend yourself in case he can't protect you. Especially when you were pregnant, he wouldn't take any risks.

Being the Duchess of Somerset and having so much power and influence wouldn't stop Sherlock from pursuing you. He might have some problems with that, since due to your heritage he could never kidnap you because he would be discovered, but he would deal with it. After all, you are his and he is yours. And when he became your husband, he swore to himself that he would never stop loving you and he would never let you go.

You are united until death, at the end of it all.

[emmahasadhd]

Well since yall have brought my attention back to my post, I may as well add another, and probably cooler reference. In the end, when Holmes arrives and Kitty basically comes to save the day, the background music is shortened orchetral part of the finale of Don Giovanni, which shows Giovanni's downfall and death, as he is being dragged into Hell to be punished for his sins.

(I still love the first one mentioned more as the aria is one of my favorites from Don Giovanni)

Also I would've just reblogged, but it won't let me add the clip lol

And also almost full story explained below

Just to clarify the basic storyline of DG. The opera starts with Giovanni trying to seduce donna Anna. Well lets just say that does not go according to the plan and results in Giovanni killing Commendatore, Anna's father. Anna and her fiancé swear to have their revenge on Giovanni and not to mary until the former is achieved. Giovanni tries to seduce another woman later in the story, also while being pursued by donna Elvira one of his many former mistresses, who hopes he will come back to her. Giovanni doesn't want to, since he just wants to vontinue with his not really a boyfriend material lifestyle.

(Also reffering to the beginning, everywhere is said "seduce" I would think it is not about seducing as he is just trying to escape from her fucking house while she wants to unmask him. And I won't believe she is just "so much into him that she doesn't want him to leave". But yeah, that on your own interpretation I guess, since many stage productions put it simply like this. In my mind she just stopped her assailant and she hates his guts for everything he has done)

So the ending comes like this. Giovanni and his servant Leporello are at the cemetery. Giovanni sees the late Commendatore's statue and invites him over to dine with him. To his surprise and terror, the statue actually shows up and offers him a handshake. Giovanni accepting the handshake and refusing to repent dies, being dragged to Hell. Anna and her fiancé eventually get married, Zerlina and her husband are happy together and Elvira decides to join a convent.

The subplot with Zerlina, the woman Giovanni wants to seduce and Elvira I will leave out to simplify the story, as well as some other things. But if you are interested, look it up, youtube has many excelent recordings of the whole production.

(I would reccomend an older one though, since it usually portrays the opera set in the original time period and doesn't include conceptional and contemporary direction and scenic elements, therefore makes it a good starting point for opera newbies. Nothing against contemporarily produced performances, but if you want to get familiar with the source material and don't want to pre-read everything, those can make it harder to grasp what is actually going on.)

[bluebellofbakerstreet]

A-Z Sherlock Fan Fiction Tropes Bingo

Many thanks to @swissmissing for creating this bingo card! Because I'm like that, I decided to go for a blackout bingo! And because, even as I was typing these, I kept thinking of more wonderful fics that would fit the brief, I hope to fill in my bingo card again. Writers are amazing and deserve to be lauded, and I have left off so many amazing fics and authors. Besides, we all need fic recs. 💙

AU/Amnesia The Murder of Emory J Amat by chriscalledmesweetie. Sherlock and John in 1920's AgathaChristieLand. It's a WIP but is currently updating weekly. (52k, T)

BDSM/Bodyswap - Certain Skills by NoStraightLine. John expressly told Sherlock that if he stole his gun again he’d get the fucking he was asking for. Sherlock “Boundaries Are Boring” Holmes stole John’s gun. (3k, E)

Crossover/Crack - Repo Men by Anyawen. In which Mrs Turner's married ones are James Bond and Q. Q is kidnapped; everybody is a BAMF. (7k, G)

Domestic/Disability A Building of Bridges by pengke. Alternate first meeting. No one would ever send Sherlock in to defuse a stand-off; but on one unlikely day, that’s exactly what happened. “Congratulations, Lestrade,” he called out sarcastically. “You’re traumatizing a war veteran.” (11k, G)

Established Relationship/Enemies to Lovers - Interview by bluebellofbakerstreet. In which the boys are in an 80's punk band, and are being interviewed by Rolling Stone. (2k, G)

Future/Fluff 50. Be You - No one Else Can by KittenKin. John's had a bad day and Sherlock doesn't know how to help. They both feel better at the end, and you will, too. (1k, G)

Gen/Genderswap - The Art of Communication by stillwaters01. Lestrade is receiving odd texts from Sherlock; he reads between the lines and brings help. (2k, T)

Historical/Humor - Acceptable Behavior by bbcatemysoul. Sherlock isn't really sure why John wants to shag him, but he's certain that if he's careful to behave properly about it, John can be persuaded to keep doing it. (3k, M)

Illness/imprisonment -  Radioactive Trees in a Red Forest by Maribor_Petrichor. Harrowing account of John's battle with mental health issues and addiction after - you know - everything. (280k, E)

Jealousy/Jilted - Hungry by LipstickDaddy. John can't figure out why Sherlock is being so nice to that new guy working with the yard. (7k, G)

Kids/Kink - The Alchemy of Sea Glass by reveling_in_mayhem. Salt and air and sand surrounded their little party of three. Crashing waves, gull cries, and the exhilarated exclamations of an excited three-year-old served as the soundtrack to a day filled with blue skies and bright sunshine. (22k, E)

Long/Love Triangle The Edinburgh Problem by snorklepie. “A nice holiday, just a bit more...murdery. ” John said drily. “Yes! The best kind of holiday!” Sherlock beamed. “So we won’t get bored!” (152k, E)

Magical Realism/Major Character Death Left by LifeonMars. John Watson is left-handed. He’s tried not to let it affect his life, but as any Lefty knows, that’s almost impossible. (45k, M)

NSFW/Next Gen. Warzone by abundantlyqueer. Three smutty stories that pick up where the first two episodes left off. (13k, E)

Omegaverse/Only One Bed - Scars Don't Lie by CumberCurlyGirl. The prospect of going undercover as husbands to a couples retreat is just too enticing to refuse. (33k, M)

Parenthood/Platonic The Man With the Cartier Frames by JRow. Sherlock's top priority is The Work, just as it's always been ... in between trips to Putney to help with Rosie, collecting Rosie from school, and preparing for Rosie's sleepover at Baker Street. (32k, T)

Queer/Quest Dance With Me by TotallySilverGirl. Sherlock's queer quest for johnlock requires dancing, and some help from Sally Donovan. (28k, E)

Retirement/Road Trip - The Winter Garden by Callie4180. As Sherlock nears the end of his career, he's given the gift of a cottage in Sussex. The honey from the beehives out back is amazing. Almost...magical. (31k, T)

Soulmates/Slow Burn Soul Mate by Mottlemoth. Mystrade. The words appeared on Mycroft's arm aged fourteen. He's now lived with the unfortunate words all his life, not certain that he even wishes to meet his soul mate if that's how the man talks. (4k, T)

Teen AU/Time Travel - The Curious Adventure of the Drs Watson by ShinySherlock. What if ACD Watson and BBC Watson switched places? (40k, M)

Undercover/Unrequited - Last Call at the Homesick Pub by Chryse. During the hiatus, Sherlock is both undercover and suffering from unrequited love. (3k, T)

Vampires/Villain POV - Nine Tenths of the Law by bendingsignpost. John knows what's his - of course he'll kill for it. (Modern vampire AU) (18k, M)

Whump/Werewolves When Your Belly’s in the Trench by Morgan_Stuart. The next time that door opens, John Watson will kill the person on the other side. (4k, T)

Xenomorphism/Xmas - Ghost Stories by SwissMiss. Sherlock's parents think he and John are a couple. They might be onto something. (22k, M)

Zombies/Zoomorphism - Aim for the Head by Breath4Soul. Sometimes you don't really find yourself until everything has ended.A fic about finding love, healing, and purpose after everything has gone to hell. Still a WIP, but worth it. (44k, M)

[strangelockd]

I love you

Pairing: SherlockHolmes x Reader

Synopsis: it’s getting late, but your son has a special request for more music

Warnings: fluff and angst, (kinda proof read, Ill fix it later if I find errors)

A/N: I know two fics in one week!!!! 😮

Please accept this small fic of tooth rotting fluff as I finish up ‘Darling You Taste Divine’. Its Sherlock being a perfect adorable dad so naturally its catnip right?

“Play it again daddy play it again!”

Your son squealed with glee as your husband played his violin, its something you all have come to enjoy doing every evening. His little green eyes lit up as he gazed upon his father, he was his hero and best friend. He always felt like an outcast, but ever since you came into his life that changed for him. With the birth of his son came this human that looked at him not as a “highly functioning sociopath”, but as a hero, and someone to look up to. As far as he was concerned Sherlock could do anything.

“John William Holmes for the last time daddies hands are tired and he needs a break” you stated sweetly to your only son.

His little head turned to you with hands clasped pleading, “aw come on mom, just one more song pleeeeease!” Noticing his eyes getting bigger it was hard saying no when he has the eyes of his father. He always had his fathers tenacity and you admired that. Glancing over to your husband his bottom lip quivered in what looked like a cute attempt at a begging pout. Rolling your eyes you smiled and obliged, “ok fine alright but just one song, ok daddy. I don’t want him up to late” you and Sherlock eyed each other in a knowing glance and he gave a smiling wink.

“Oh trust me He won’t be the one up late tonight,” He gave that look that sent a flutter in your core. Returning his gaze to your son he smiled

“So, what does my little prince want me to play?” He plucked the strings gently with a smile across his face, “shall daddy play Mary Had A Little Lamb? I know mummy loves that one.”

“Ya daddy play that one!”

He winked at you across the room returning his instrument to his chin playing the classic melody. You noticed he eyed you and mouthed the words “I love you” that made you blush and blow a kiss in return. Over the years watching the happiness glow in both of there eyes made your heart burst more and more. There was nothing Sherlock wouldn’t do for you both.

Leave a comment if you liked it. Interact! It inspires me to keep writing.If you want to be tagged in future stories comment below.

A special thanks to the followers who request to read my work.

Back to Main Masterlist

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[amypihcs]

Dear friends in Doyle and ACD Johnlock.

A brief list of post-hiatus Johnlock moments that will prove how much married these two are and that OF COURSE Watson went back to live with Holmes. Let's say sharing rooms... once they stay in Watson's room, once in Holmes'.

yes, this post will be even more unhinged then my usual, be warned and forgive me if you can.

Let's begin with Empty House, alright? Holmes comes back from death and Watson, saint that he is reacts with

Grabbing him and most likely hugging him.

Agreeing to go on an adventure with him at moment's notice.

Saving Holmes' life. And most likely kissing him after a brandy back home.

Enter the golden pince-nez.

Passing the evening just doing their things and reading together! Maybe snuggled one near the other? Cuddling a little bit?

next one, next one! We have Three students. They're away together outside London to 'escape circumstances' in 1895. Yeah. Watson is being worried for Holmes but they're together. And at least in being together they can tease each other

And clearly get a laugh out of it, since Watson isn't writing this with any bitterness. And then, of course, Holmes is Holmes.

Bursting into Watson's ahem, THEIR room, maybe greeting him with a kiss, And asking him to skip breakfast or at least to postpone it for a while! And of course Watson answers with a yes.

ENTER solitary cyclist. They are simply very married, Holmes even APOLOGIZES to Watson.

And they have a danger-case date in the country! Watson likes it.

Of course the evening the case is solved they hug and cuddle once they're back at baker street. Holmes is feeling down because he made a blunder, Watson because he can't run as fast as Holmes. Cuddling MIGHT indeed make them feel better. Kissing each other, showing their love to the other.

Now enter Black Peter! It starts with proud and exasperated husband Watson, of course. Who is totally unruffled by yeah, y'know, Holmes entering the room with an harpoon in his hands.

Well, ALMOST. Totally unruffled. He's surprised. That he is. He's already living there again toh. That much is clear. But then, once accepted the case they go on the palce itself, well

Mr. I hate the countryside goes with his husband to take a walk in the woods. Because WATSON likes it. And because in the woods there are corners secluded enough to allow them a little kissy here and there! Then a nice ambush and we'll see the solution of the case At breakfast!

Holmes is grumpy and Watson notices. Watson MUST have taken Holmes in his lap once back to baker street. Cat-Detective Husband loves it!

Holmes HATED this case. Poor darling.

Oh! And Watson saves him again as they arrest the murderer

And then off to Norway, time for a good vacation!

Time to have some Quality Time between husbands! They so love each other!

This said, the statement in today's letter was quite obvious.

After he reports the teasing at breakfast, i'd say even an UNNECESSARY statement.

We knew, Watson. We had got it PERFECTLY WELL that you and your husband were living together again. And probably fucking each other silly against the most various surfaces of baker street, other then in your beds.

Congratulations! Congratulations to the happy couple, keep solving misteries together, detective husbands!

[stargazer-sims]

More random stuff...

When Stephen first met Ginger, way back when she was teaching in the UK and first started coaching Sebastian, he didn't know that she came from a wealthy family. He learned that Ginger's husband Liam was on his way to potentially becoming a self-made millionaire, but he also quickly realized that the marriage was doomed to failure because Liam was more interested in getting rich than he was in taking care of Ginger. Stephen was baffled as to why they'd even gotten married in the first place, and could only conclude it was because Liam wanted arm candy and because a talented and successful wife would lend him some credibility and give him something to brag about.

Fast forward a couple of years, and Ginger & Liam's marriage indeed ends in divorce. Sebastian and Sofia are tired of boarding school in the UK and want to come home. They've practically become bilingual in the time they were away, and they've had an international experience, so Stephen agrees. Sebastian begs his coach to come too, and since Ginger no longer has any reason to stay in the UK, she decides to go to Japan and continue to be Sebastian's coach.

Stephen offers to let Ginger live in their guest house, which Sebastian is thrilled about. He adores her, and it's great to have his coach and "bonus mom" close.

As time goes on, Stephen and Ginger get to know each other. She starts spending more and more time with the family at the main house. Eventually, they're comfortable enough with each other that Stephen decides to invite Ginger as his "plus one" to a high-powered business event.

Ginger accepts without so much as batting an eyelash. If there's one thing she knows, it's how to behave around rich and powerful people. She spent the first 14 years of her life learning etiquette and the complexity and nuance of navigating upper class society. She even managed to teach Liam a thing or two about it during their marriage. Meanwhile, Stephen is floored that this woman he assumed was from a lower middle-class background doesn't need any coaching and slips seamlessly into his world. To say he's impressed is the understatement of the decade.

It's during the event that he inadvertently learns who Ginger really is. She introduces herself to someone at the party as Vivienne Holmes, and asks them if they've heard of her father, Ian Holmes, CEO of Holmes Security. Stephen makes a mighty effort to keep his jaw from falling open, because he had no idea. The company founded by Ginger's great-grandfather is a multinational organization, and they have security contracts with many companies worldwide, including the two major ones headquartered in Mt. Komorebi; Okamoto Electronics, and his own family's company, Gnome Sports Equipment.

It's a long time before Stephen has the courage to ask Ginger why she never told him about her family. She explained that she's always had a distant relationship with her parents, and although she still loved them and was still in contact with them, she had no interest in trying to force a closer bond. She preferred to live her own life, and she had her "found family" back in Canada to rely on; her found parents, Stan and Milena Kovac, and her found brother, Nikolai.

She confessed that part of her enjoyed the glamorous upper-class lifestyle, but to her, people would always be more important than wealth. She wouldn't turn down being rich, but if she had to choose between money and happiness, she'd always choose happiness and being with the people she cares about.

Looking back on it, Stephen realized that was the moment he fell irrevocably in love with her. She was perfect, as far as he was concerned; genuine, sincere and down-to-earth, neither greedy nor overwhelmed by the idea of wealth, and comfortable in his world.

[mariana-oconnor]

Thor Bridge pt 3

Back to the Gold King again.

But first we have to go and see the young governess who he claims thinks she can fix him.

I had expected from all that we had heard to see a beautiful woman, but I can never forget the effect which Miss Dunbar produced upon me. It was no wonder that even the masterful millionaire had found in her something more powerful than himself—something which could control and guide him.

Watson, rein it in, she's been a victim of sexual harassment from her employer and she's now in jail for allegedly murdering his wife. There is a time and a place for your horniness, now is not it. But, I suppose, at least you are consistent.

"After seeing you, I am prepared to accept Mr. Gibson's statement both as to the influence which you had over him and as to the innocence of your relations with him."

I really hope that this is because of an indent on the little finger of her left hand and a shiny patch on the inside of her elbow, because if this is just because she's pretty, Holmes, then I am disappoint.

"I would not wish to wrong her, but she loved so vividly in a physical sense that she could hardly understand the mental, and even spiritual, tie which held her husband to me, or imagine that it was only my desire to influence his power to good ends which kept me under his roof."

Oh boy, she's really believing the nonsense, huh? Sure, you have a mental and spiritual bond. I'm sure his intentions are entirely chaste. Yup, yuhuh.

"I can see now that I was wrong. Nothing could justify me in remaining where I was a cause of unhappiness, and yet it is certain that the unhappiness would have remained even if I had left the house.”

Which means the only thing gained by you staying was your own unhappiness. So that was pointless. But yes, you should absolutely have left and not tried to use your married employer's crush on you to manipulate his actions. Like, I get that you were trying to do something good, and I understand you're a victim in all of this, but that was still a bad idea.

"I saw no reason for such secrecy, but I did as she asked, accepting the appointment. She asked me to destroy her note and I burned it in the schoolroom grate."

Oh boy. Always keep the receipts. You were being framed so hard.

"Never did I realize till that moment how this poor creature hated me. She was like a mad woman—indeed, I think she was a mad woman, subtly mad with the deep power of deception which insane people may have. How else could she have met me with unconcern every day and yet had so raging a hatred of me in her heart?"

Yeah, little weird that the person we have been repeatedly assured was incredibly emotional and open about her emotions somehow managed to smother them to that extent on a daily basis until this point. Almost like there was some catalyst for her outburst (or this is a lie).

“Mr. Gibson is a very strong, self-contained man. I do not think that he would ever show his emotions on the surface. But I, who knew him so well, could see that he was deeply concerned.”

The more you talk about him, the more I think you were taken in by him. You're being very nice about the man...

“It could only have been at meal-time, or else at the hours when I would be in the schoolroom with the children.”

So... almost any time of day then?

It was as well for him that I did so, for he took little care for his own safety when his mind was once absorbed by a problem, so that more than once my revolver had been a good friend in need. I reminded him of the fact.

I mean, you killed a dog that one time. But usually he sort of... hits people himself? This feels like revisionist history. Holmes once bent a poker back to being straight.

“Do you know, Watson,” said he, “I believe your revolver is going to have a very intimate connection with the mystery which we are investigating.” “My dear Holmes, you are joking.”

Is Holmes about to throw Watson's revolver into a river?

“It all depends upon the behaviour of Dr. Watson's revolver,” said my friend. “Here it is. Now, officer, can you give me ten yards of string?” The village shop provided a ball of stout twine.

Well Watson's revolver is definitely going to be thrown somewhere.

Watson, why do you trust him with your things?

At the words he raised the pistol to his head, and then let go his grip. In an instant it had been whisked away by the weight of the stone, had struck with a sharp crack against the parapet, and had vanished over the side into the water.

🤣😂🤣

Bye bye, revolver!

You will also find beside it the revolver, string and weight with which this vindictive woman attempted to disguise her own crime and to fasten a charge of murder upon an innocent victim.

So the wife committed suicide to frame the governess for her death because she was jealous about her abusive husband? That's... utterly nonsensical of her.

Should have killed the governess and framed the husband (I mean, no, she shouldn't have, but it would have been a better plan).

Oh god. Oh no. Oh fuck me no. This is going to end with Miss Dunbar marrying the Gold King in order to fix him, isn't it? Isn't it?

I hate everything about that.

No doubt she blamed this innocent lady for all those harsh dealings and unkind words with which her husband tried to repel her too demonstrative affection. Her first resolution was to end her own life. Her second was to do it in such a way as to involve her victim in a fate which was worse far than any sudden death could be.

So the guy abuses his possibly already mentally ill wife to a point where she considers suicide the only way out? And she blames the other woman completely and not her husband. And Miss Dunbar isn't exactly blameless, using the guy's crush on her to her own ends, however altruistic they may be.

Just a whole lot of nope.

"Well, Watson, we have helped a remarkable woman, and also a formidable man. Should they in the future join their forces, as seems not unlikely, the financial world may find that Mr. Neil Gibson has learned something in that schoolroom of sorrow where our earthly lessons are taught.”

Just no. Just no... That poor woman. And yeah, what she did sucked. But what the actual fuck. Fuck everyone, honestly. None of this ended well. I hate it all.

Happily ever after because the love of a good (~British~) woman will change him and make everything from now on sunflowers and daisy chains. And no thought to the children who lost their mother or the fact that abusive partners can't just be 'fixed' and he's absolutely going to abuse his next partner when she doesn't live up to his standards. They're just going to be in this horrific manipulative relationship and the children are going to be trapped with them.

No thank you. This is not what I ordered.

But I did appreciate Watson's revolver taking a bath. Nice moment of comedy in amongst all the nonsense.

[marta-bee]

I’m rereading “The Adventure of the Dancing Men,” mostly because it’s the basis for the next Granada episode, and since I’ve just read SCAN, I’m noticing all sorts of fascinating parallels between the King of Bohemia and Hilton Cubitt, the client in DANC. 

By the end of SCAN, it’s pretty obvious the king is more the villain than Irene: not evil, but certainly at least as interested in controlling her than being safe from her supposed threats. Hilton is more unambiguously a good man. Doyle describes him thus: “He was a fine creature, this man of the old English soil, simple, straight and gentle, with his great, ernest blue eyes and broad, comely face. His love for his wife and his trust in her shone in his features.” He accepts Elsie’s decision to keep her past secret for him, at at first. By period standards he seems pretty progressive.

But for all his words, he really struggles to let Elsie manage her past on her own terms. Even at his first meeting with Holmes, when Holmes suggests the man just ask his wife why she was so bothered by the titular dancing men, he responds, "A promise is a promise, Mr. Holmes. If Elsie wished to tell me she would. If not, it is not for me to force her confidence. But I am justified in taking my own line – and I will." He promised Elsie before her wedding never to ask about her past, and he’s abiding by the letter of that promise. But the spirit, which was surely not to involve himself in that part of her life, he’s much less willing to go along with. He’s hiring a detective to look into why these drawings are so alarming to her, which, if it’s not quite violating his promise (Holmes is investigating the drawings, not Elsie), it’s at least right up against the line.

When I said I was seeing parallels between the King in SCAN and Hilton in DANC, I was really thinking of the final part of SCAN, where the king learns Irene has married someone else. This effectively takes Irene out of his sphere of control --she is now another man’s wife-- and he seems to regret that at some level. It seemed he enjoyed having her as “the other woman,” perhaps not an ongoing sexual partner but certainly as the emotional parallel of a mistress or courtesan. He didn’t want to be free of her so much as in control of her. 

And Cubitt is nowhere near as sexist and controlling, but there’s still a milder version of that dynamic. (Speaking as a 21st-century single woman with all the sensibilities and expectations that carries with him.) He’ll agree not to ask Elsie about her past because that was the only way she’d marry him; but what she clearly meant was not to pry, to leave her past to her to manage; and that’s something Hilton’s manhood won’t let him give her. it’s his duty to protect her, and leaving her to manage her past means ceding some of his... domain, for lack of a better word, to her. Masculinity, especially in the context of husband/wife relationships, just won’t allow it. In much the same way that later, his pride as a respectable quire from a respectable, solid family, won’t let him withdraw and go somewhere else.

At the risk of imposing concepts I’m not sure how to apply to the Victorian period, both because they’re so contemporary and also because I just don’t know enough about Victorian social norms, the problem here is heteronormativity, and to a lesser extent, a commitment to being respectable. Elsie’s past and her keeping it to herself isn’t easily reconciled with what it meant to be a husband and wife in their social setting. Certainly not once the messages start appearing and her past becomes much more relevant to the present. This isn’t the King of Bohemia’s blustering about and trampling over Irene’s autonomy. Hilton is trying, bless him. He’s a “man of the old English soil, simple, straight and gentle.” But everything about that won’t let him give Elsie control over this domain, much as Irene couldn’t have control over her life without being the pinnacle of virtue as a respectable English (unmarried) woman, and even then, she really only got security when she took shelter as a proper wife. The King would have been much more sympathetic as a character (which he wasn’t supposed to be; which was the point) if he’d only been concerned with protecting himself from blackmail, rather than maintaining his control over Irene. And in a much milder but still in many ways similar way, Hilton would have done much better to truly leave Elsie’s past to her to manage, rather than trying to square his promise with his need to protect her, almost to subsume her past into their combined present.

All of which makes the little domestic scene at the beginning so interesting. I’ll quote the whole bit, because it makes me smile but also because it’s actually a really interesting alternative to the whole dynamic between Elsie and Hilton.

"So, Watson," said he, suddenly, "you do not propose to invest in South African securities?"

I gave a start of astonishment. Accustomed as I was to Holmes's curious faculties, this sudden intrusion into my most intimate thoughts was utterly inexplicable.

"How on earth do you know that?" I asked.

He wheeled round upon his stool, with a steaming test-tube in his hand and a gleam of amusement in his deep-set eyes.

"Now, Watson, confess yourself utterly taken aback," said he.

"I am."

"I ought to make you sign a paper to that effect."

"Why?"

"Because in five minutes you will say that it is all so absurdly simple."

"I am sure that I will say nothing of the kind."

"You see, my dear Watson" – he propped his test-tube in the rack and began to lecture with the air of a professor addressing his class – "it is not really difficult to construct a series of inferences, each dependent upon its predecessor and each simple in itself. If, after doing so, one simply knocks out all the central inferences and presents one's audience with the starting-point and the conclusion, one may produce a startling, though possibly a meretricious, effect. Now, it was not really difficult, by an inspection of the groove between your left forefinger and thumb, to feel sure that you did NOT propose to invest your small capital in the goldfields."

"I see no connection."

"Very likely not; but I can quickly show you a close connection. Here are the missing links of the very simple chain: 1. You had chalk between your left finger and thumb when you returned from the club last night. 2. You put chalk there when you play billiards to steady the cue. 3. You never play billiards except with Thurston. 4. You told me four weeks ago that Thurston had an option on some South African property which would expire in a month, and which he desired you to share with him. 5. Your cheque-book is locked in my drawer, and you have not asked for the key. 6. You do not propose to invest your money in this manner."

"How absurdly simple!" I cried.

I’ve joked before how normal roommates don’t store their personal documents in each others’ desks like that; and since Watson was a published writer, it’s not like he surely didn’t have his own desk somewhere in the flat. I suppose it’s possible it didn’t have a locked drawer (maybe Holmes as an investigator has more of a need to keep documents secure?). Perhaps there’s a good explanation that doesn’t just ooze old-married-couple vibes. Perhaps it’s just a device to make Holmes’s reasoning dramatizable. Perhaps there’s also just no point in trying to keep secrets when Holmes’s piercing observations are thrown into the mix. But Watson having to involve Holmes if not outright ask his permission before he can act on a financial decision really does scream married domesticity more than cohabiting bachelors (confirmed or otherwise).

It’s really interesting, though, the way Holmes positions him and Watson here. Yes, Watson would have had to ask for the key, because it’s his desk drawer and the kind of thing Holmes would have possession over. But there’s no sense that Holmes would have imposed himself on Watson’s decision. Watson has the autonomy to spend his money as he likes. 

Holmes will know, because that’s just what Holmes does; but it’s Watson’s choice what to do with his own money. It’s all very shared, but still not comingled in the way Elsie’s and Hilton’s married life is. Watson has parts of his life he has control over. And it doesn’t lessen Holmes not to have control over Watson’s money because they’re not husband and wife with the social expectations that carries with it. We can joke that they’re practically married, and that response isn’t coming out of nowhere, but if it’s anything like a marriage it’s free of what it would mean to be husband and wife. And this is really only possible because they’re queer, even if that’s queerplatonic or something else that doesn’t actually involve the erotic. Holmes can be masculine and still give Watson space to be his own man in a way a man more literally married to a woman never could be precisely because he’s (they’re) queer.

Would that Hilton Cubitt had been so lucky. He and Elsie would have both been so much better off by the story’s end. Which is pretty much the point.

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

There is so much I could say about BBC!Mary here, the problems of your past being your business, etc., but it’s 2023 and I’m pretty sure everyone’s made up their own minds of how to read HLV by this point and I’m not quite brave enough to tiptoe into that foray on a Saturday night, so.

[zealouscanonindeer]

11. No trouble, I take it?

Series Masterlist

Emily Cartwright:

I awoke the next morning to the sound of someone playing the violin over by the window. It was no tune that I recognised, but right now I knew of only one man in the vicinity who might have a violin with him. The melody he played was slow and thoughtful, and put one in mind of long afternoons spent in a library or a study. As I sat up, I saw a clay pipe resting on the end-table, momentarily forsaken in the name of etiquette. It had been filled, but apparently he'd decided afterwards not to light it after all. Holmes, I saw, was already dressed. He was facing away from me, studying something out the window.

"Good morning," I said, inadvertently startling him so the strings squeaked harshly under the bow. He turned.

"Good morning, Clarissa," he said, in case I needed reminding of our ruse, "I trust you were able to get back to sleep after your nightmare?" He turned back. "I still think it was a bit silly, you insisting we move in here, even after I'd rekindled the fire."

Showtime.

"I tell you, John, it wasn't a nightmare," I replied tartly, "I know what happened, and I know the difference between reality and nightmares."

"Yes, yes," he said, waving a hand, "The Ghost. I think the Hammonds' stories simply got you all worked up and made you imagine things. I told you last night that there are no ghosts, and I tell you again now that there are no ghosts."

The conversation, one can safely guess, deteriorated rather rapidly from there until we were both shouting, ending with my loving husband telling me that he was damn well going to prove that I was imagining things because an intruder would have left footprints and if he didn't find any I would have to accept that it was a nightmare brought on my hysteria. As he barked this, Holmes twitched aside the curtain so that I could see through the window the flawless layer of snow covering the back lawn. He arched an eyebrow at me, and I nodded, advising John that as far as I was concerned he could shove his hysterical nightmare theory up his nose. He stormed out, murmuring an apology to Cordelia - who had come to see what all the fuss was about – in the hallway.

"I'm fine," I said in response to her concern, "My husband's being an ass."

"That's such a shame," she replied, "The two of you seemed to be so much in love yesterday."

"Maybe it was a nightmare," I said, for the look of the thing.

She looked honestly concerned. I knew the difference between fake concern and real concern (most of the women with whom my father socialised – wives to the last – had all the personal depth of a sheet of paper), and one could not fake it this well. "The Ghost?"

"I think so. Of course, John says it was a nightmare."

"Well, don't worry about him right now. Men can get a bit silly about their wives sometimes, especially at the beginning."

"You sound like you've had experience in that."

She offered me a strained smile. "My Tim… but he's grown up since then. He doesn't go for that sort of thing any more." She quickly rearranged her features into something more pleasant. "It looks like he left without cinching you up. Let me help you with that, shall I?"

I wondered if Holmes had planned to dodge corsetry duty that morning. It didn't really matter, in the grand scheme of things. What did matter, however, was finding out what Cordelia was talking about – perhaps she knew more than she let on, and perhaps it was nothing.

Once I was dressed (and my waist back to the socially acceptable eighteen inches), I followed Cordelia to the breakfast table.

"Sorry I'm a bit late," I said to those assembled, who were already partway through breakfast.

"Think nothing of it, Mrs. Baker," Cordelia replied, "You had a poor night's sleep, is all."

"I hope I didn't keep anyone up?" I half remarked, half-asked.

As I'd expected, nobody heard anything unusual during the night, let alone a bloodcurdling scream from the guest room. Damn.

As I ate, I glanced surreptitiously at those assembled and was disappointed to note that none of them showed any signs of having been in a scuffle within the past eight hours. My heart sank as I noticed another conspicuous absence.

"Where's your son Alexander?" I asked Cordelia.

"He's taken ill this morning," she replied, "He says he needs to rest and not to bother him. It might be the change in weather."

"Might be," I echoed dully, my appetite gone. "Maybe I could bring him something for his breakfast?" It was imperative that I have the chance to speak with him.

"Oh, you don't have to do that. You're a guest here, after all."

"It's no bother, really." I glanced over just in time to see Mr Fairfax stop looking very hard at me, and I smiled in a manner that I hoped appeared sufficiently vapid. "I insist."

A theory was forming in my mind, one that I would be testing very shortly.

Sherlock Holmes:

My dear Emily.

The words had come almost casually the previous night. Were they a meaningless sign of platonic affection – or something else? In any case, I hadn't the time at the moment to analyse it further, so I filed the incident away for later study. Instead, I proceeded with the plan we'd formulated and which commenced with our staged argument. Claiming a need for space, I bundled up to go for a not-so-casual walk.

I had no way of knowing how long it had been snowing when I first noticed it that morning around six, but once I had pulled on a pair of snow boots and stepped in up to my ankles, I knew that if there were any prints they would have left hollows in the snow. The fact that this was not the case proved that the Ghost was no outside intruder. Of course, the probability was all but dismissed in my mind, but one must make certain one has considered all the facts and possibilities before one can be sure of a theory. Just such a theory was rapidly taking shape as I made my way out to the hothouse.

Inside the glass enclosure, I found an assortment of perfectly common English flowering plants (such as those Mr Fairfax was wont to present to Mrs Fairfax) and herbs (such as I'd noticed accenting last night's dinner). However, the humid air carried a faint, though distinct, odour of mothballs, which I followed back to one corner of the hothouse. There, I found a workbench, of the sort used by gardeners for re-potting plants. One such specimen struck a chord in my memory, for it looked exactly like the diagram of Valerian in the herbalism book. Lying nearby was a sharp knife, a mortar and pestle, and a small strainer. I sniffed each one, and each smelled of camphor. It was rather anticlimactic, really, but I had to allow for the possibility that only one person ever went in here anymore – which would only make sense, for only a fool would leave such evidence in plain view unless it was in an area in which he felt secure against prying eyes.. And since Mrs Hammond's arthritis precluded her from engaging in any gardening anymore, there was only one possibility remaining.

I could only pray that Emily wasn't planning to do anything stupid in my absence.

Emily Cartwright:

The Fairfaxes lived in a series of apartments on the lower floor which – despite the fact that they adjoined what by rights would be a cellar and which did in fact contain most of the stored and preserved foodstuffs and a quantity of firewood – were actually quite cosy-looking and habitable. Balancing the laden tray on one hand, I knocked on the door which Cordelia had indicated was Alexander's. There was no answer aside from movement within, so I tried again.

"Who's there?" Alexander's voice came from close to the door, and his words sounded slightly slurred.

"It's Mrs Baker," I replied, "Your mother said you weren't feeling well, so I thought I'd bring you some breakfast." Alexander didn't reply, so I added, in a lower voice, "I really think that we need to talk. About the Ghost in general, and especially about last night. I think you know why."

There was another long pause before the door finally unlocked and cautiously opened.

Alexander's face was a fright. The left side of it was swollen and mottled with the bruises that had had ample time to develop since last night, his lower lip was puffy, and his left eye was swollen shut. He looked blearily at me with the remaining eye, and he had a general air of resignation about him.

"I'm sorry," he said mournfully, "I'm sorry about last night, but I had to. You were so nice to me and so was Mr Baker, but I had to. Please, try to understand."

I offered him the tray of breakfast – two eggs, sausage links, toast, and a glass of orange juice – and he took plate and glass back to his bedside table. I set the tray aside.

"Tell me," I said, "Tell me why I shouldn't start screaming bloody murder and have you arrested."

He sat down, lacing his fingers together. I was sure I'd find nail gouges under his sleeves if I cared to look. Finally, he sagged, apparently relieved at the chance to tell someone.

"My father," he began, "Did you know that he never gives Mother flowers when the Hammonds don't have any guests? He practically ignores her the rest of the time. I'll see him in town sometimes, talking with the local women… talking like a courtier talks, not like a married man. I don't think he can help himself. He's gotten better at hiding it, but I think Mother knows anyway. Mothers make a point of knowing everything." He offered me a crooked and bitter smile. I saw the gap where an eye-tooth had been until fairly recently. "Oh, he was so happy for the Hammonds when they said they were going to rent out to guests. How could they have known what he'd planned? How could they know what he'd started growing in the backyard?"

"The valerian," I put in.

"Knockout drops," he replied, "Mother made the coffee so the Hammonds could socialise with their guests. Father probably put it in when she wasn't looking. I knew it smelled off, but I didn't know until later…" His eyes started brimming with tears. "He'd get up in the middle of the night, say he was going to the lavatory. One night I followed him… and I saw…" His shoulders shook in silence for several minutes. Although I knew with surety his father had surpassed the limits of matrimony I was quite ignorant of the specifics of consummation, the act only with one's lawful husband, it seemed. He looked up at me. "The next morning, I saw Father, and I hated him, and I knew I had to do something. I knew if I said something they'd only say I had a nightmare."

"So the Ghost was born," I said, "But how did you get in without anyone seeing you?"

He pointed toward the low ceiling above his bed, where I saw a trapdoor. "The Hammonds put in a proper set of stairs, of course, when they moved in, but I think that used to be the way people came in and out of the cellar back when this place was first built. I think everyone's forgotten about it, ever since the ladder was removed. I can reach it when I stand on my bed."

"But where…" I trailed off as I performed some silent calculations. If I was right, the trapdoor opened up right underneath the guest bed!

He nodded, seeing my expression. "I'd wait until Father got up 'to use the lavatory', and then…"

He stopped suddenly, looking past me at the open doorway. I turned to see Mr Fairfax – that repulsive troll! – standing in the doorway.

"Stand aside, sir," I said curtly, "I do not like feeling confined."

"Now, Mrs Baker," he replied, in a tone that indicated he'd overheard most of my conversation with Alexander – or at least the parts that directly pertained to him, "This is a family matter, between me and my son. I'm sure you don't want to go starting trouble, would you?"

I smiled grimly. Like hell I didn't.

[kierrasreads]

The Adventure of the Yellow Face (The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes #2) by Arthur Conan Doyle Review

Plot

Grant Munro thinks his wife is being blackmailed. He's distraught and hires Sherlock Holmes to find out the details. He tells the story to Holmes and Watson of a strange apparition at a nearby cottage recently rented, of his wife's visit to the cottage at 3 in the morning when she thought he was asleep, and her recent break in amiable behavior. Holmes ponders and then states that he believes he has the answer. Yet, in Watson's summary of the case, he indicates that it was a failure. What did you say?

Discussion

I may sound like a broken record, but this caught me by surprise! I honestly believed that the mysterious figure with the yellow mask/in the cottage was Effie's first husband (turns out, he passed away in America. I suspect it was racially motivated since Effie treated Lucy like a dirty little secret. Plus, her fear that Grant would leave her the minute he found out about this. I also recognize that he could've simply died due to illness, but it was never confirmed).

Interestingly, this whole case could've been resolved if Effie and Grant communicated properly. I loved how Grant instantly accepted Lucy, it was a sweet moment :).

Rating

3.5/5

[amypihcs]

And as usual when i see such beautiful retired holmes and watson fanart i can't help but writing some little snipped for it. Hope you like it and that you don't mind OP

In the eye of the beholder

Dr Watson smiled softly as his husband slipped his hand in the crook of his elbow leaving the church.

“Thank you for having joined me tonight, Holmes.” He smiled patting his Holmes’ hand.

The retired detective smiled back. “Nothing to thank me for, my dear boy. It was important for you, I know.”

“Forty years since I returned to England. I can hardly believe to have lived so long, can you believe it?”

Holmes laughed as he followed the doctor’s lead on their way home. “I can, my Watson. Because we are here together.”

The doctor squeezed his husband’s arm to his ribs and sent him a bright smile. “And then you say you’re not a romantic.”

“And in fact I’m most certainly not a romantic, dear Watson. I’m just observing the facts.” He replied, beginning one of their usual good natured bickers that lasted until they were almost home.

As they were half a mile from their cottage, they heard the first fireworks explode over the village and stopped to admire them.

“The blue ones are truly the most beautiful.” Smiled the doctor turning to his Holmes.

“What are you looking at, my dearest?” He asked with a smile, finding his partner’s always keen gaze focused on himself and not on the show that went on over their heads.

“At the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen, my Watson.”

“You old romantic. – Smiled the doctor. – Merry Christmas, Holmes.”

“And to you, mon chevalier, once more.” Murmured Holmes bending to kiss his husband’s lips softly.

The doctor smiled softly, his breath condensing. “We are in a rather public setting, honeybee.”

“Haven’t you heard? There’s nothing like isolation to favour crime. – Laughed the detective. – But I do agree with you that this chill will do neither of us any good.”

The doctor laughed, then assumed a mockingly grave expression. “Then I suggest, Mr Holmes, that we reach our lodgings posthaste.”

“Proposal accepted, Doctor. I can’t wait to see you in a much better light than this.”

“As do I, dear Holmes.” Laughed Watson, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

The two men were snickering like schoolboys as they finally reached their room.

They undressed each other slowly, never breaking eye contact until they were in their birthday suit, then Holmes closed the distance between them, cupped Watson’s cheek and kissed him.

“As I said, – He declared. – still the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.”

The doctor smiled, his hands always attracted by his husband’s still slim waist. “Beauty, my Holmes, is in the eye of the beholder. And I do tell you that you are still the most magnificent of men to me.” He murmured uniting their lower halves.

The detective smiled again. “In the eye of the beholder indeed. Come to bed, John. I’m cold and I crave my husband.”

“As I crave mine, Sherlock. Come, honeybee, let me warm you up.”

They cuddled close in bed, making love gently, bringing out all the love they had for each other, worshipping each other’s aged body, marking each other with white hot kisses as they showered their lover and beloved with unending devotion.

When at the end they cleaned up and cuddled close, the detective was caught by a fit of snickers.

“God rest ye merry gentlemen…” He sang softly, answering his husband’s enquiries.

Dr Watson snickered as well and kissed his Holmes’ nose mischievously. “… let nothing you dismay…” He sang softly in answer.

“Let us rest now. – Smiled the detective. – We’ll have plenty of time tomorrow.”

“We will. – Smiled Watson back. – Goodnight my heart.”

“Bonne nuit, mon amour.” Smiled the detective closing his eyes, basking in the feeling of safety being hugged by Watson always gave him.

Happy holidays

[amypihcs]

And hello again, dear friends! Here with the last letter from our most dear Watson!

Holmes seems to want to shock his husband Watson

YES! I'M SEEING THE GRANADA SCENE!

Watson's 'a-ha, jolly good' -you're married to ME, Holmes. PLEASE.- And then FOR HEAVEN'S SAKE, HOLMES. This scene is peak comedy. Also, they're the cutest

And then, well...

Holmes is not a fan of the idea, but he is more callous than usual in this case. He usually cares SO much, but here he needs to do it and WILL do it.

And when i mean he'll do ANYTHING

I mean ANYTHING.

Also, let's consider that it's pouring, so Watson's wounds mustn't be the happiest right then. Well, Watson is DEFINITELY not enthusiastic. But Holmes has his point, eh

VERY MUCH justifiable. very very much.

Well, anyway, i'm going. No you don't come.

Alright, alright, YOU COME. This is the ONLY thing that might made me thing this whole story happens after the hiatus. Watson refusing to let Holmes go alone. But otherwise, it's IMPOSSIBLE that it happens so late!

Also you must, MUST, i say, LOVE Watson.

Very weak protest before accepting. After all you've shared a room for years, right? ;3

Being arrested for a real crime would be funny!

And in fact Holmes does have another tiny reason

HE FINDS IT FUNNY! It would be a GREAT HOBBY FOR HIM! LET ME TRY, WATSON, COME OOOON! -sigh- OF COURSE.

Holmes: I see you have a natural turn for this sort of things Watson, a true husband: I wonder where i learnt it... -kissy to his Holmes-

Well, well, you can see the following in the image up there

You DRESS WELL before a burglarly date! Of course! And they are at Milverton's!

You DON'T have to be so mean to poor Aggie! You should apologize to her afterwards! Well, lucky thing that Milverton sleeps soundly!

SEE??! She even locked up the dog! And yeah, Holmes DISLIKES dogs. A LOT.

Burglarly time! Hand in hand!

Holmes is a confirmed CAT. So he leads Watson through the room...

AND TO THE SAFE! Now down to forcing it. And should someone enter, Watson, you can just bonk him over the head with a chair. You seem to have... ah, a natural turn for this sort of things.

Holmes' hobby of forcing safes is so cool toh! And he's good at it!

FUCK! Stacca stacca c'han sgamati

QUICK! HIDE! (At least here he isn't forgetting the skeleton key in the lock!)

Milverton's here... be quiet!

Watson, Watson. Your habit for cliffhangers!

We'll see how the date ends in the next episode!! Lots of love, darlings!

[multific]

Run Away

Sherlock Holmes x Reader

Summary: When Sherlock went to work in London, he made a promise, a promise he has to keep and now, even more urgently as your father found a suitor. 

Ever since your eyes met his, you loved him. 

Back then, all he was is a handsome young man who intrigued you, but as the years passed, as he matured, your feelings grew. 

You two met in secret, just on the edge of your father's property, you met him every night. 

He told you about his dreams and you told him about yours. He dreamed of becoming a detective, the best one. And you had no doubt he would become just that. He had the potential.

But then, he needed to leave you.

He left you and his family for London.

"I'll become the greatest detective, My Love, and then I'll bring you with me to London, I'll ask your father for your hand in marriage. I promise." he said as he left you, and you believed him.

You believed Sherlock, so, you didn't look for another. But your father sure did.

And soon he found, Richard. 

Richard Moore was from a rich family, noble with way too much money, so of course, your father didn't have to think much and arranged your marriage to him.

You have never seen Richard, you never met him nor his family and yet, your wedding invitations were already sent out.

As y last desperate attempt, you asked for them to also include the Holmes family. Your father never knew about your feelings for Sherlock. But he sure knew who he was.

"Such an arrogant man. Sherlock had potential and yet, he became a detective," he said a year ago, just as Sherlock's popularity grew, so did your father's hatred.

"Being a detective mustn't be that bad. What if my future husband will be one?"

"Impossible! I'll never give you to a useless man! A politician or a hard-working man will be your husband. No arrogant detective can take my daughter's hand!" 

And ever since, this feeling of his only grew. Your father soon found Richard Moore, his family were known for their political views. 

No doubt, you would only be a trophy wife for him, he needed someone to call his and to show to the public, he didn't want feelings, and he would never love you. 

You were convinced you would never love someone as much as you loved Sherlock.

Which is why you insisted on inviting him to your wedding. If his feelings were true, he would come and he would rescue you from the future which seemed so dark now. A hand written invitation just for him.

You hoped he would get to you before the wedding, but as you stood there in your white gown, which you weren't even allowed to choose, your heart panicked.

Your mind told you the cruellest things, how Sherlock never even loved you, how he wouldn't come and how this will be your life from now on. And you started to believe. You started to believe that all of it is true. 

That Sherlock found someone more interesting than you, a stunning woman who is independent. 

And there you were, a love-sick teenager who was still waiting for him. He must be laughing at you, you often thought, at just how incredibly naive you were. And you don't blame him.

You were ready to walk down the aisle. You let out a deep sigh as everyone left you alone for just a moment before your father would come and walk with you.

"Love?" the voice behind you, barely a whisper, and you thought your mind was playing a trick so you didn't move, but then you heard your name getting called with the same deep voice. You slightly turned and saw, Sherlock. "Love, I'm so sorry for not coming earlier, I had matters to attend to, but now I'm here. And I'll keep my promise and bring you with me." he rushed over to you.

"What took you so long?" you asked, rather angry with him.

"We don't have much time, Y/N, please come with me I'll explain everything. And you did, you accepted his hand as he pulled you out of the church and into a carriage. 

You were surprised just how easy it was to get out of there, even in your white, very visible, dress. All that you left was the bouquet of flowers.

"I missed you, you are more beautiful than the day I left." he wanted to lean in and kiss you but you pushed him back.

"You have to explain a lot to me. There I was, thinking you didn't even care about me, that you found someone else, and then you just show up."

"I had to arrange many things. Didn't help that the police had another very interesting case, but you were more important. When I got the letter... I thought you moved on, that you found someone else. But then I noticed, the way you wrote, hand written by you just for me, and your hands were shaky, judging by the ink and the paper soaked with your tears. I am not sure how I missed that but when I realized I rushed."

"I never moved on. My father thinks your job is... not the best, to put it nicely. I tried to convince him, so we wouldn't have to run away, but he is stubborn. And Richard... I never met him, never even saw him." your eyes met his as the carriage stopped. You weren't too sure, but London couldn't be so close. 

"I thought we shouldn't let that dress go to waste." he got out of the carriage and helped you.

The scene in front of you took your breath away. 

A small chapel in the middle of a beautiful field, you recognized Sherlock's siblings, mother and a priest. 

"But only if you say yes out of your heart. I would never force you to marry me." you looked at Sherlock, eyes tearing up as you nodded. You pushed him and he nodded before walking to his place as his mother walked over to you and walked you down the aisle. Of course, there was no actual aisle, but you could live with that.

The smallest ceremony, this was about love, not about politics or trophies, this wedding was purely out of your love for one another. Suddenly even the dress you hated became the most beautiful.

A small kiss made it official, from that day on, you were Mrs Holmes.

---

London was much like you imagined but at the same time, nothing like you could ever dream about.

221B Baker Street was... interesting to say the least. Clearly, the home was a place for a man but you did see how Sherlock tried to make it more livable to you. 

"Well, this is..." you trailed off as you tried to maneuver through the books. "Lovely."

"It's messy, I know but I do not have much time too clean up. We can hire someone to do that, I do not expect you. Oh please, don't open the fridge."

And you did, and it was already too late. You closed it as quickly as you opened it.

"I really hope that is cheese... right?"

"I always eat out, so it could be anything. I'll clean it out later."

At least the bedroom was in a good shape. The bed looked comfortable and warm.

"At least nothing smells in here." he laughed slightly behind you. 

"It's a new one, I got it before I went to get you."

"We have to do something about the fridge. I don't mind the books and if it's a little messy but..." you felt his hands run up your arms.

"Do as you wish. I have the money if you wish to change something."

"I like your home, and I don't think Mrs Huddson will be pleased if I ruin her kitchen." 

Sherlock smiled as he turned you around to kiss you and hold you.

He finally had you in his arms, and he was not going to let you go ever again.

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~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

A/N: Thank you to my beautiful friend, @imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl​ for helping me with the plot! 

[st-juliet]

Riotous

Fandom: Henry Cavill as Sherlock in Enola Holmes

Summary: A wealthy, titled, chaste young lady such as the Reader should most definitely not be found in attendance at a secret back-room boxing match. And neither should a refined, proper, cerebral detective. But here you are, and two weeks away from your wedding no less…

Content: A strong 18+ for highly suggestive language, including brief mentions of a woman pleasuring herself, and quite indecorous smut, specifically a virgin reader enjoying an enthusiastically consensual sexual encounter, but without penetrative sex, semi-public but uninterrupted. Something of a corruption kink on the part of dear Sherlock, my usual excess of adverbs, and descriptions of a boxing match, but no mention of blood or injury; just the act of throwing punches and that sort of thing.

Notes: I prefer giving a name to the Reader rather than using Y/N, but I hope you will make the appropriate substitutes in your imagination.

It begins as a dare.

Your sister Emma, younger by a year, has always been the wilder daughter; she is bold, adventuresome, and eager to taste all the pleasures life has to offer. You, on the other hand, are all propriety: modest, shy, and perfectly, immaculately chaste.

Well.

That last until you had occasion to meet Sherlock Holmes.

From the moment your eyes met, you have found yourself perpetually breathless in his presence; you thanked the stars every day that your vocabulary did not desert you entirely whenever he drew near. For indeed, it was your equal intellects, your shared fondness for studying the sciences, and your ability to converse for hours upon seemingly any subject that had grown into a deep, abiding affection that had surprised you both, composed, rational beings that you so eagerly claimed yourselves to be. But day he asked you to marry him, when he gently, courteously kissed your hand as he slipped your ring onto your finger, he looked at you with a new, burning intensity that kindled a desire in you that you had never before felt. You are completely consumed with thoughts of what it will be like for him to know and love you as completely as any husband and wife could.

Though you can boast no practical knowledge of the matter, Emma’s amorous adventures, and her inability to keep a single secret from you, have prepared you well in theory; more than one night has found you lying awake, alone in your moonlit bedroom, running your hands over your own body and imagining that it is his large, elegant hands caressing you, his brilliant, deductive mind unraveling the mysteries of your own person which you have only just begun to understand—

But to the dare:

Emma’s latest spark is a young man named Samuel, a second son of a baron who had a penchant for sport, specifically boxing. She has been wildly curious to watch him fight, in one of those secret backroom rings that are whispered about by your brothers and their friends, whose existence you might have doubted if it were not for Emma’s insistence. Citing her (fatuous) need for a chaperone, she had dared you to accompany her, but was ultimately the thought of your fiancé that spurred you to accept…he was valiant, courageous, and not one to back down from a challenge. If you were to be a proper wife to a man whose life was a grand series of adventures, venturing the simple silliness of a few rich boys trading half-hearted blows in a bar somewhere was the least you could attempt.

But what you discovered upon your arrival at the sporting rooms was not quite so silly or small as you anticipated: a hidden door in back of a pub gave way to a series of corridors, leading to what must once have been a warehouse or factory floor, but was now transformed into a real boxing ring. A sandy circle surrounded by a wooden barrier, with standing room and seats surrounding it, is the central feature, but food carts, tables and chairs, and a maze of further corridor beyond surround it.

Emma almost immediately vanishes into the ether on the arm of her gentleman, and you know better than to try to stop her…for all her boldness, you trust her to take care of herself. You muse that it is you who might truly need a chaperone in this new place, as you observe the clamorous patrons, the flowing libations, and two shirtless men contending in the large center ring, throwing and evading swift, deft punches and clearly having a marvelous time trying to outwit as well as outhit one another. And one of them is the most gorgeous, godlike, and completely unmistakable—though you have never before had the pleasure to view him this way—man you have ever seen.

“Oh, my god…” you breathe, weaving quickly through the crowd to stand right up against the barrier and gaze into the ring, where Sherlock Holmes whirls about, skillfully dodging a wild swing from his challenger.

Your eyes meet.

“Elizabeth?!”

For a moment he is as stunned as you are; you can practically see the delicate machinery of his brain whirring as it tries to make sense of your astonishing appearance in this unlikely place—but then, with an easy, playful smile, he looks you straight in the eye and levels a punch at his approaching opponent without even looking at the poor fellow, who crumples to the ground and gives a shout of surrender.

As Sherlock’s victory is declared, he raises his hands triumphantly above his head, so blatantly, obviously showing off his incredible physique for your personal benefit—and you are summarily captivated, your cheeks flushing crimson. To further add to your desperate ardor, the audacious, hopelessly beautiful man prowls over to where you stand, leans over the barrier, takes your chin in his hand, and tilts your face up for deep, sultry kiss. The crowd roars their approval of the newly crowned hero of the night and his mysterious object of affection, but your universe consists only of the two of you as you share your first kiss with your soon-to-be-husband. Here and now, of all places…yet the moment could not be more perfect.

“Lady Elizabeth, an unexpected pleasure,” he whispers in your ear, when your lips finally part. “Let me give my regards to my opponent and I will join you in a moment. Stay here; keep your eyes on me, and no one will intrude upon you.”

You do as he bids, watching him shake his defeated adversary’s hand with good grace; it’s clear from the other man’s expression that even to match with Sherlock is an honor, and given such free liberty to drink in his body, as chiseled as a Greek warrior wrought in marble, you can see why. He shortly returns and escorts you away from the ring towards a makeshift bar, where he accepts a glass of water and a finger of whiskey.

“How have you come to be here of all places, my lady?” he asks, downing his drink and, rather to your disappointment, shrugging on his shirt.

“Emma is enamored of one of your fellow contenders, and made a very convincing case that I should be her chaperone…only to desert me the moment she saw him.”

“That sounds like Emma.”

“She assured me that women were welcome, and that we were in no danger. I hope I haven’t…disrespected you, or discomfited you—“

“You never could,” he promises, and any further worries fade away as you both find yourselves leaning in closer to one another, as if drawn together by an invisible cord, pulling tighter and tighter with every breath. “I would say this is no place for a lady—but your place is always at my side. And you always elevate the company you keep. How have you found your excursion so far?”

“It’s all so exhilarating!” you exalt. “Do women ever partake in the sparring?”

“Not as yet,” he laughs.

“Perhaps we ought to. I am sure a great many Duchesses and Countesses would like to try their hands at a little rigorous exercise. The velvet glove hides the iron fist, after all, as the saying goes!”

“And the lace glove?” he inquires, toying with just such a glove that presently envelops your own hand.

“Merely a writer’s callous,” you answer back at once, and he beams with pride—then, in an action of heart-stopping seductive grace, he tugs the glove from your hand and lays a kiss to your palm.

“A token from my dear, clever lady, in honor of my conquest,” he explains, pocketing the glove.

“May my champion carry it always,” you say by way of blessing, with a fussy little curtsey that makes him chuckle. The glow of exercise, laughter, and the heat of the room paints him in an especially striking, enthralling light; he might have whiskey, but you have him. You are completely in thrall of his nearness, enjoying the pressure of his protective hand at the small of your back and his possessive posture that lets every passing stranger know you are the spoils of his victory, entirely his for the taking…and you dearly wish he would…

Meanwhile, another round of boxing has begun, but something seems to sour in the air. The crowd begins to grow unruly, and shouts of “Cheat!” and murmurs of a fixed match ripple through the stands. Sherlock immediately takes note of the disturbance, and pulls away from the bar, keen senses mapping out your exit in milliseconds.

“Come, my lady,” he barks, taking your hand firmly in his and pulling you down a nearby corridor, and just in time, too, for the fight has left the ring and entered the crowd. Different factions yell at each other, bottles and money and food is thrown, and you witness more than a few slaps and kicks, far less sportsmanlike than those executed by the actual boxers. Those uninterested in joining in the riot begin to rush from the hall, and a sudden crush of people begins to amass in the corridor. Sherlock immediately pushes you towards the wall, blocking you from any harm with his massive frame.

“You’re safe,” he insists, his voice steady and soothing. “We’ll just let them pass, they’ll tire themselves out soon enough. It’s happened before—you’re safe. I have you, I’ll not let them touch you.”

He has you indeed, and the feel of your bodies crushed together, even for the sake of safety—coupled together, no doubt, with the sparks that have been flying between you all evening—has elicited a physical response in him: Sherlock is hard as stone, and it is plainly evident even through all the layers of your respective garments.

You cannot suppress a sharp intake of breath at the realization, and to your embarrassment, your body seems overtaken by some primal instinct, and your hips push forward to meet his, though the difference in your heights is such that his rigid shaft grinds uselessly against your stomach, rather than where a persistent ache grows only more profound with each passing moment. He stifles a low groan at the contact, answering it with another thrust, and then immediately starts and glances down at you, looking genuinely abashed, as if he had purposefully put you both into such a scandalous scenario.

“Forgive me,” he murmurs into your ear, immediately maneuvering his hips away from you, though he never for a moment ceases to shield you defensively from the thronging masses. “My lady is a goddess…and I am only a man.”

“No, no—you’re perfectly—I understand—I…” you flounder, thankful that your own arousal could not possibly be detectable…could it? You tilt your face upward, staring into his icy blue gaze, his pupils blown wide, surely a perfect mirror to your own. Another rush of bodies through the corridor prompts him to push you flush against the wall. You cannot help yourself; you fling your arms about his neck, stand as tall as your tiptoes will allow, and kiss him fully on the lips. He returns the kiss, parting only when a lull in the crowd presents itself, allowing you both to escape down a smaller passageway, quiet and cloistered from the riot beyond.

“Are you injured?” he demands, keeping a little distance from you, though you can still see plainly the outline of his arousal, which has not diminished in the slightest.

“No; thank you, thank you, Sherlock…you are my champion, truly!”

Sherlock’s mind might still be on preserving you both from the commotion, but all you can think of is the sight, scent, taste of him—his ragged breathing, how fierce and powerful a protector he is, how selfless and kind even in that fierce power. Sensing a greater privacy and unwilling to forgo the courage your passion awakens in you, you tug at his collar, pulling his shirt open to indulge in the feel of his skin and the hair of his chest beneath your fingertips.

“My lady,” he warns, his voice descending into a feral growl and his hands sliding slowly up your waist, your ribs, hesitating before he reaches your breasts, an act of control that clearly requires more self-mastery than you yourself have managed in this charged moment. “Do you understand what you are—?”

“No,” you confess, but you boldly place his hand fully over your breast, his burning touch even more heavenly than you’d imagined. “Show me…please?”

“To hell with honor, then, Elizabeth,” he spits out, and every last trace of the perfect gentleman, the great detective, the gallant sportsman vanishes; now there is only his basest nature, somehow all the more pure and perfect than any polite façade. He practically devours you with a deep, unrelenting kiss, and finding the buttons of your dress too delicate for his need, he simply rips them away, baring your collarbones and the swell of your breasts above your corset to his eyes and hands.

“These little white dresses of yours…do you think they dissuade a man from wanting you?” he asks, adoring the soft revealed skin with rough kisses. “Quite the contrary, my lady; you might as well lay out a dove for a hawk.”

Satisfied with his survey of your neck and chest, at least for now, Sherlock shoves your skirts up about your waist and lifts you from the ground as if you weigh no more than a feather, your back against the rough stone wall and legs wrapped around his hips. At last, your bodies meet at their most sensitive, aching junctures, and even through your clothes you can feel his cock against your slit, twin heats made to fit together perfectly.

“Wicked, wanton girl, to torment a man so!” he chides, as he begins to thrust against you, unerringly rubbing his length against the little bud that is center of all your desire. “Haven’t I been a perfect gentleman? Never laying so much as a finger on you. Never more than a kiss to your cheek. But now you’ll take what you’re given, won’t you?”

“Yes, yes,” you chant, raking your fingers through his hair and kissing him deeply, lips and tongues tangling with no finesse or delicacy, only a burning passion at last given leave to run wild. “Anything, anything you give me.”

“I shouldn’t let you come.” This dark, carnal look in his eyes should be forbidden—no, completely, ineffably immoral. “I should leave you wanting as you perpetually leave me—such a polite, studious, chaste lady—but now I know your secret: your are my every sinful thought made flesh, the answer to every desire. And for that, you—may—come.”

He punctuates this last declaration with particularly bruising thrusts, sending you over the edge with a rapturous cry, muffled by his lips against yours.

“Hush, temptress—or will you have the whole of Cheapside know of your undoing?”

His teasing instruction is completely contradicted by his unceasing vigor, the roll of his hips and his mouth trailing kisses down your neck. You can hardly keep silent, try as you may, and nor can he, as his steady rhythm fades into a single-minded need and his climax seizes him. He calls your name desperately as he comes, his face buried in your hair and his arms tightening around you to pull you as close as possible.

Regaining something of his composure after a moment or two of shared sighs, soft smiles, and gentle kisses, Sherlock lowers you to stand, though you find you must still clutch at him to stay upright; your whole body trembles against him, and he holds you close.

“My valiant, fearless Elizabeth!” he praises you. “Braving a boxing match, a riot, and my unspeakable lusts all in one night.”

“You inspire all possible courage,” you reply. “And you speak your lusts most eloquently, I find.”

He answers this bit of boldness with a deep kiss.

“Sherlock…do you think anyone…?”

“I cannot imagine so; even if anyone did, we’d hardly be the first to find ourselves overcome with passion in these halls. And we are quite unrecognizable as the roles we assume in the daylight,” he reassures you, helping you to right your garments and buttoning up his own shirt. “You should see yourself. You are completely debauched.”

“So are you,” you challenge, your eyes flicking down to the stain on his trousers and the still-evident bulge that you long to touch, to feel inside you…

“A fortnight has never seemed more akin to eternity. If I catch you here again, my lady, there is no telling what your impudence might incite in me.”

“Then you must tell me when you next intend to fight.” You can smile sinfully, too, and turning his own trick back upon him seems to stoke the fires of your betrothed’s yearning all the more. “So that I might be most certain to avoid this place on those particular evenings, of course.”

“Brazen, presumptuous, devilish,” he lists, raking his hand through his hair in frustration. But somewhat to your disappointment, he turns away and breathes deeply and collects himself, steeling his resolve against any further temptation. “We must get you home. It’s near dawn, and believe me when I say you should be getting all the sleep you can, for you will not find much occasion for it in our married life.”

He does not even politely take your arm as you walk through the maze of the sporting rooms back to the streets—even the most cursory touch might be too much for either of you. Mercifully, the rest of the exiting patrons are just as disheveled as the two of you—though almost certainly for different reasons—and your tousled appearance goes unnoticed.

“Have you means to return to your room unseen? I would not for the world have your reputation questioned. This is for me, and me alone, to know.”

“Yes, there’s scarce a soul in the house; my parents are in Bath and we gave the servants a holiday. Only Emma would have noticed, but she is gone off somewhere with her own paramour, I think. Such was the purpose of the evening; I never dreamed I would meet you here, Sherlock.” You cannot help but stop and kiss him right in the middle of the street, and he is equally ardent, even as he carefully avoids clutching you quite so tightly as you both might like. “But this is so much better than any dream.”

“Better by far,” he agrees with a smile, smoothing a stray lock of hair back from your face. “Now, permit me to hail you a carriage—and I will not be accompanying you. No, no—don’t think you can bat your pretty eyes at me and change my mind, my lady!”

It is plainly evident on your face that you were about to do just that, and you laugh together.

“This is your penance for your mischief here tonight,” he continues, though it does not feel like much of a penance when he kisses you again. “I shall fight even harder against my constant urges to make you mine in as many wicked ways as a man can. You will have to wait until our wedding night.”

“And then?”

“And then, my sweet, bewitching creature, I will show you the full measure of my lust…and my love.”

Thank you so much for reading! If you liked this story, you can find my masterlist here, or request a story or suggest a prompt here. Your kind comments and reblogs are so, so appreciated…most special thanks to @ghotifishreads and @inlovewithhisblueeyes who left such incredibly gracious feedback on my other stories. 💖💖💖

Please don’t hesitate to reply or send me a message with your thoughts if you enjoy!