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sobeautifullyobsessed · 1 year ago

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tagging: @strangelock221b @mousedetective @stewardofningishzida @icytrickster17 @darsynia @bakerstreethound

Happy Christmas, Mr. Holmes

a Sherlock Holmes x OFC fic

summary: Christmas comes to Baker Street, in a form Sherlock Holmes had never envsioned. There is a sweetness in seeing the holiday through someone else’s eyes, and there are lessons in holiday spirit and the nature of giving–as well as how Love makes the season even brighter–to be learned. Part of a continuing romantic series, this is the tale of Sherlock & Tessa’s first Christmas together. It just proved too irresistable for me not to tell! Takes place in an AU, post Season Two--in which Sherlock didn't take The Fall. And John hasn't met Mary yet.

rating: general audience; chapter 2 of 4

Chapter Two: Deck the Halls

(the following Saturday)

Passing through the door of 221 Baker Street, Sherlock didn’t need employ his commanding powers of deduction to determine that Mrs. Hudson had started her holiday baking. The air was redolent of sugar and spice, vanilla and cocoa and cinnamon, and his mouth began to water in anticipation of the sweet treats in store. Earlier than usual, he realized, wondering what had prompted the change in her accustomed pattern—normally, her culinary frenzy was reserved for the last week leading up to Christmas. No matter, though; it would be just as much a pleasure to enjoy her cookies, cakes and tarts now, as on Christmas Eve.

He’d left the flat early that morning, on pretext of investigating a lead on a case, waving off John’s offer of help in the matter, and taking time only to down a quick cup of coffee and a day-old Chelsea bun before embarking. There had been a lead of sorts to follow, though not the kind John would have expected, and Sherlock had very satisfactorily concluded that part of the business at hand. It would still be a couple of weeks until the outcome of his efforts reached fruition.

He’d been about to climb the stairs, when the door to Mrs. Hudson’s flat swung open, allowing the aromas of good baking to flood the little anteroom that sat outside 221A proper, to reveal Tessa clad in a flour-dusted apron, oven mitts on hands, and holding a baking sheet covered in fresh gingerbread men. Sherlock couldn’t decide in the moment which was more irresistible—his perennial favorite, gingerbread, or the sight of his Tessa fully attired in the trappings of domesticity. Fortunately she didn’t make him choose. “Darling,” she exclaimed, beaming with delight, “your timing couldn’t be better!” She quickly crossed to his side, stood on tip toes, and kissed his cheek. “Cookie?” she asked, surely already knowing he couldn’t say no.

“This is my last batch for now,” she told him. “Just let me set these on the rack to cool, and I’ll join you upstairs. Sherlock nodded, nibbling on his gingerbread, before proceeding up the stairs.

Reaching the lower landing, he heard the strains of Christmas carols coming from the front room of the flat, giving him pause before he climbed the rest of the way. That had to be Tessa’s doing as well, he deduced, for John knew how he felt about giving in to such trite holiday conventions. Sherlock decided not to fault her in this, but at some point he knew he would have to make his strong opinion known regarding the saccharine rituals of Christmas—and knowing her penchant for the sentimental, sooner than later would be called for, as she was likely to get as carried away with them, as he was to detest them.

Ah, but it turned out he was already too late with that resolution. Standing at the threshold of the front room, he saw that Christmas had exploded in his absence. Sherlock sighed deeply, rolling his eyes, knowing there would be no putting this unwanted present back into its packaging. Tessa came up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist, hugging him tightly. “John thinks you will find it a terrible bore,” her tone indicating that she expected better of Sherlock, and would settle for no less, “but I insisted we absolutely had to wait for you before we decorated the tree.” She gently prompted him forward, and before he could protest, she was sliding his coat off, to hang it on its accustomed hook on the back of the door. Sherlock remained still, gaping at the profusion of red, green, and gold that dominated his view, trying his best not to sneer too loudly. The battle is surely lost, he thought; Tessa is enjoying this far too thoroughly.

Mrs. Hudson was sitting on the sofa, sorting through a box of ancient looking ornaments, dusting them lightly before laying them upon the coffee table, with frequent pauses to drink what appeared to be steaming, mulled cider. Surely spiked, and certainly leaving her with a very rosy disposition, he concluded. He looked over a John, who stood beside the fresh Douglas fir standing to the left of their hearth; the doctor turned from stringing lights upon the boughs to grin at Sherlock in clear recognition—and hilarity—over what he knew Sherlock had to be thinking. John lifted his own mug of cider in an ironic toast, “Cheers, Sherlock!” John’s amusement over his friend’s inconvenience was unmistakable, “You’re just in time; now the party can really get started.”

In addition to the tree, there were strings of colored lights hanging around the window frames, with garlands of evergreens and strands of holly strategically placed. Most people would find the decorations a modest nod to the season, but Sherlock found them too excessive for his tastes. He realized John was taking full advantage of the opportunity Tessa presented—for in past Christmases, Sherlock had allowed very little in the way of holiday decorations in their flat, forbidding any sort of tree as a waste of time and space, and reserving the playing of Christmas music to the eve and day alone.

Tessa was quick to bring him a hot mug of cider, taking his hand to pull him further into the room. “We wanted to surprise you,” she told him guilessly, “we’ve been planning this all week.”

Her eyes shone so brightly, so happily, that Sherlock swallowed back the sarcasm that normally would have dripped in his response, “And surprised me you have.” He took a bracing swallow of his cider.

Now that he thought about it, he’d caught John and Tessa several times over the previous days, heads close together, sometimes laughing lightly, and swift to move apart when they caught him watching them. He had actually assumed they were discussing the topic of Christmas presents—presents for him specifically—over which he would have no objections in the least. Blinded by his ever-so-slight weakness in the face of the bounties of Christmas, he’d left himself wide open for their cunning ploy.

Sherlock approached the tree in silence, knowing the three waited upon his reaction before continuing their jovial proceedings. “As trees go, I suppose it will do,” he sniffed, “but I expect you will keep it well hydrated, John. We’ll not have needles scattered about the flat well into spring.”

“As opposed to finding fresh body parts in the fridge or microwave?” John chuckled.

“Those items serve a useful purpose, John.” Sherlock’s tone was light enough to make clear he had accepted the inevitability of the tree, “I see no practical reason for this silly spectacle.”

Mrs. Hudson broke her silence, tsking at them “Come on now, boys. Play nice.” She rose and crossed her way to the kitchen to refill her cup. “It’s about time we had a proper tree up here.”

Tessa was at his side again, eager to sooth any ruffled feathers. “It’s not entirely Christmas without one.” She was pouting slightly in her usual way, for she knew it was often enough the thing required to finally win him around. Sherlock could only give her his resigned smile, knowing for certain that she’d likely find a pleasant way to show her gratitude later on. Her suit fully won, she circled his neck with her arms, kissing him squarely on the mouth, and then taking a moment to brush his lower lip with her thumb to wipe away the stain of her lipstick. Tessa’s voice was low enough for his ears alone, “I swear you won’t regret this, my darling. We’ll make it a Christmas to remember.” Her eyes, lingering on his, gave him the sweetest of promises, before she joined Mrs. Hudson in the kitchen.

At this point Sherlock noticed—to his minor chagrin—that several pieces of his equipment, normally stored upon the kitchen table, had been shunted aside, in favor of several types of biscuits cooling on trays and racks. The two women were gathering up the confections into plastic containers, talking quietly as they did so. Apparently Tessa had commandeered both downstairs and upstairs kitchens for a serious baking project; there looked to be a good ten dozen cookies in a variety of flavors. Additionally, he observed a large pan filled with what appeared to be chocolate fudge laced with bits of candy cane, and a smaller pan that looked to contain some sort of salted variety of fudge.

Sherlock found it a little disconcerting—his kitchen so completely out of its usual order--for when he’d left that morning, Tessa had been snugged down under the covers, with no indication of a diabolical Christmas plan on her itinerary for the day. She’d tricked him right well, and now he wondered what other holiday themed surprises he might expect. It was enough to make him start to rue the season.

The women worked together smoothly, gathering up the empty racks and pans into a pile for washing later, and stacking the sealed containers neatly upon the table. Tessa had set aside a small portion of each type of cookie and treat on a platter, which Sherlock assumed meant they were available for immediate consumption. In fact, Tessa had picked up a piece of the salted fudge, and headed his way. “Taste this please, Sherlock, and tell me what you think.” She held it up to his mouth so he could take a bite.

It was actually quite good; salted chocolate-caramel, incorporating two of his favorite flavors of sweets. He took the rest of her proffered piece in hand to finish it. “Very good,” he told her, “your own recipe?”

Tessa blushed slightly, looking delighted with his response, “Well yes; I tinkered a bit until I found the right ingredients and measurements.” Her eyes grew even merrier as she told him, “I made it special just for you.”

Damn it, he thought, she’s just going to steamroll me with this Christmas business; yet her manner in it remained so charming, he knew to offer any objections now would be simply heartless. Caught, he was, in her delicious Christmas cul-de-sac; he supposed he might as well accept it now and settle in for whatever further surprises she had in store. The corners of his mouth lifted in a small, secret smile, knowing that the holiday surprises he had in store for Tessa would far surpass any she might have imagined for him.

Sherlock was to discover that the huge baking Tessa had undertaken was for gift-giving, a tradition handed down for several generations on her mother’s side. “It’s the first Christmas that I’ve been on my own that I’ve been able to do this,” she’d told him, as she continued to tidy up the kitchen after lunch, “The oven in my flat is fussy and far too small for a project like this, and I really never had the luxury of time to do it anyway.” In the end, she had made sure all his apparatus found their way back to their homes, so he was left without a need to complain. And she’d ensured there was plenty of treats for him and John to enjoy, with the promise of more to come if they were greedy enough to finish them off too quickly. Tessa had even left Mrs. Hudson with a basket full of goodies, insisting she take them despite her objection that Tessa needn’t do so.

As for decorating the tree, Sherlock had steadfastly abstained for as long as he could, John good-naturedly needling him from time to time throughout the afternoon a counterpoint to Tessa’s subtle attempts to get him involved. Wiley as her efforts were, Sherlock quickly saw right through them, but as always found them dear, for he knew they were born of her love for him. He had sat down at his computer, meaning to do anything, anything, but what was clearly their priority for the day, meaning to tolerate the process with as much grace as he could muster. Tessa speedily adopted a new tactic, making a casual display of such poor choices in fitting out the branches that his sense of the aesthetic would be offended enough to need to correct her.

Glancing up from the screen at her attempts, Sherlock wrinkled his nose in disapproval, but said nothing. Instead, he fetched a dramatic sigh, closing his laptop, and then grumbled about how anyone expected him to work with such ridiculous goings on around him. Tessa had looked immediately hopeful as he rose, thinking she had finally won him over, but he pointedly selected a random book from the case in the corner opposite the tree, taking his place on the sofa to at least pretend to read it.

Tessa had then redoubled her efforts, now asking him every other minute or so what he thought about a particular ornament, or did he think the tree was looking a little lopsided. John had retired to the kitchen to refill his cider and grab a few of the fresh baked cookies, observing them with a very wry expression on his face, as he waited for Sherlock to either explode in irritation, or simply give in to Tessa’s dogged determination. Mrs. Hudson was busy trying to sort out the best location for the placement of the mistletoe.

Sherlock, of course, was not taking in a word of the book in his hands (a treatise on fungi and their medicinal uses versus dangers) as he waited for Tessa to admit defeat. She eventually came to sit—wide-eyed as a pleading doe--at his side, silent until he turned his full attention to her. “Please?” she asked simply, and in the end Sherlock had conceded. Perhaps it was the healthy dose of rum contained in the cider; perhaps it was the way that Tessa, John, and Mrs. Hudson had joined in merrily with the carols playing; or perhaps it was the very holiday cheer that Tessa seemed to embody, but in the end he found he was more than happy as he helped her deck the tree, setting right her purposeful blunders and, at the last, placing the star atop just as she requested he do.

Mrs. Hudson had long since gone downstairs; John was out on a date (with high expectations of success on the field of amore); and Tessa was leaning upon Sherlock in the warm silence, the room lit only by the fire in the hearth and the glow of Christmas lights. Their conversation had come around to family traditions, highlighting the wealth of differences between their upbringings, and when Sherlock asked her about her happiest Christmas memories, she had many she was glad to share with him. It was a marvel for him to think of her as a girl, of her as a teen on the cusp of womanhood, cradled in the loving environment she described. It was no wonder she adored the season as she did, and he realized that if her intent was to open his eyes to its simple, familial pleasures, she was decidedly succeeding.

“But you know, darling,” her voice soft and satisfied, “you’ve given me one of my brightest memories.”

This surprised him, and so he had to ask, “Really? How so?”

Tessa laid her hand on his shirt, absentmindedly fingering the buttons, as she found the best way to explain, “That day in the church. I never expected that from you. I know now that I should have.”

“What?” he replied, “That I actually showed up?”

She shook her head, softly against his shoulder, “No. That you understood how I was feeling. And that you wanted to make it right for me.”

He was looking at the star atop the tree, remembering what he’d been feeling as she’d cried those sentimental tears. Protective and irresistibly caught in her softness, and knowing in his soul that no matter how messy her emotions were at times, he’d never want her any other way. “My dear, what I wanted in that moment I couldn’t say aloud in a church, for the sake of propriety.” Tessa gasped against his shoulder, surprised; yet he knew she hung upon what he might say next. “What I wanted was to bundle you up and take you back home and make love to you all night long.” Sherlock paused, feeling the truth of his words as a warmth in his chest, “Until you cried out my name again and again, and the only tears you might shed would be happy ones.”

Without a word, without a bit of hesitation, Tessa was kissing him then, in ways that never would have suited those moments in the church, with her hands is hair, and barely stopping even a moment for breath. Finally breaking the kiss, she leaned her forehead against his, whispering, “Oh Sherlock, my Sherlock, my darling, wonderful Sherlock. It’s so cold outside right now,” she lingered deliciously before finishing, “and I need you to bundle me well.”

Of all the things she had asked of him that day, that request turned out to be the easiest one for him to fill. And he would tell her later that she had easily given him his favorite Christmas memory.

(to be continued)

If you enjoyed this, I’m hoping you would be so kind as to reblog it. Being stuck in shadow ban prison has severely curtailed exposure of my work here on tumblr. Any reblog you could give me would be sure to share this story with many others, and maybe get this piece some much-needed love. Thank you!

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rainydaydream-gal18 · 2 months ago

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(BBC Sherlock) Sherlock x Reader: Holiday Cheer

Author's Note: I struggle publishing Sherlock fics because as a Christian I personally disagree with his statements about God on the show and find it insulting actually. However, I otherwise enjoy the show and enjoy writing fics with his character.

Just a little blurb about the holidays with the Baker Street boys! Enjoy!

Word Count: 954

You slowly lifted the mug of hot chocolate, pausing to inhale the rich, sweet scent of the beverage and feel the liquid’s warmth waft against your skin. With a smile, your lips skated over the dollop of whipped cream as you tilted the mug to take a sip.

Mrs. Hudson was known for keeping the flow of cuppas constant at 221b Baker Street, but since the Christmas season had begun, she came walking up the steps with a tray of hot cocoa and an assortment of cookies instead.

The flat was all decorated for the holiday with strings of soft, glowing lights hanging on the wall and wrapped around garlands. Holiday knickknacks decorated the area. A few Christmas cards had arrived as well, so you and John took turns arranging them nicely on the fireplace mantle as you received them in the mail.

At the moment, you were seated comfortably in one of the living room chairs, eyeing the decorations and occasionally gazing wistfully out the window at the heavy snowfall that covered London streets in a blanket of white. A lovely Christmas tune on the violin drifted through the flat as Sherlock practiced. Despite it being an afternoon in, he was fully dressed in a dark blue suit. John was at the table, typing away on his laptop about a recent case. It was evident that he was trying to record many details because the click-clack of the keys was rapid and constant.

Occasionally, he paused to check the notes he had previously jotted down.

You turned your attention back to the fire crackling in the fireplace.

What a scene, you mused to yourself.

You took another sip of the hot chocolate and savored the rich flavor.

John glanced up from his laptop at you. “That looks good.”

“It is. Mrs. Hudson really knows what she’s doing.” You proceeded to pour him a cup, dropping a dollop of whipped cream in with a spoon. John set his laptop aside and rubbed his hands together in anticipation before you handed the mug over to him.

“Mm.” He took a sip and nodded in approval.

Sherlock had paused his playing, setting the instrument down to instead gaze out the window in silent observation. You wondered what was going through that mind of his. It wasn’t always a mystery. Sometimes he uttered his musings aloud for anyone nearby to hear his train of thought. Other times, when he was in the deepest of thoughts, he fell silent.

You always wondered what thoughts could prompt that. The great Sherlock Holmes loved to hear himself talk. It gave him some sort of satisfaction to sprinkle in his genius observations into everyday conversation. More than that, he enjoyed a long spiel to summarize his logic and make a final statement about his conclusion of the solving of a mystery just to observe the shocked and impressed faces of those around him. You and John both discovered that after working cases with him for as long as you had.

“I was thinking,” John spoke up, setting his mug down on the tray.

Sherlock’s voice sounded as a deep rumble from across the room. “That’s dangerous.”

John, now used to his roommate’s antics, continued on, ignoring him. “I was thinking about taking a stroll tonight to see the Christmas lights. Would you like to come?”

Excitement welled up inside you at the prospect. London famously had spectacular lights around the holidays. Whole streets were lit for passers by to see, and they made for lovely walks.

“That sounds like fun,” you replied enthusiastically. John smiled, and both of you turned to the consulting detective. “What do you think, Sherlock? Want to come?”

“I have other matters to attend to,” he said over his shoulder.

“Oh, well, okay then.” You shrugged, hoping to disguise your disappointment. “John and I will go.”

“I said I have other matters to attend to. I did not say I wasn’t going.”

John’s brows furrowed in a look of confusion. “Okay…?”

Sherlock proceeded to take up his violin again and play another holiday tune. You stifled a chuckle in frustrated amusement of your friend. John exchanged glances with you and shrugged.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

“Oh, how beautiful!” You exclaimed in awe.

The street was very festively lit with strands of lights hung overhead. You and John were enchanted by the sights while Sherlock walked beside you with his hands stuffed in his coat pockets. His expression was guarded, though you caught him glancing around. The great Sherlock Holmes was not impervious to holiday cheer, even if he tried to act like it.

John stopped to look at one fixture in particular, and you turned to Sherlock, who was already inches away.

“What do you think?” you asked, trying to look unphased by the close proximity. It was difficult enough with any other person, but especially with the detective. You were very aware of how he could pick up on the smallest details. He probably already saw your pupils dilate, or noticed some other telling sign of your affection for him.

He tilted his head so that he was face-to-face with you, eyes flickering down to meet your gaze. His eyes were like ice, but with the twinkling lights shining in them, they didn’t look quite so cold as they regarded you. “It’s not so bad,” his voice rumbled lowly.

You were frozen in place, lips parted to speak, but with no words coming out. Neither of you moved for what felt like ages until John spoke up somewhere ahead. Sherlock took a step back to create a little distance, though he paused so that you could walk beside him before the two of you continued your stroll down the lane.

#sherlock x reader #sherlock bbc #sherlock fanfic #bbc sherlock x reader #sherlock reader insert #sherlock imagine #sherlock fanfiction #john watson #sherlock x reader fanfic

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reiyldx · 8 months ago

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The Two Gentlemen Of Verona

William James Moriarty x Reader

"You guys need to find new hobbies besides reading all day." Sherlock rolled his eyes as he pulled himself up on the cobbled ledge just a few inches higher than the street they had disposed of themselves to walk on, azure eyes transfixed on a certain blonde haired man within view of him, as well as you, who had your arm locked with William's.

"Atleast we do not make it a hobby of ours to sit by a window and gaze out of it with a melancholy stupor thrice a day with not much motive as its accomplice." you shot back, feeling a sense of satisfaction well up in your heart as you noted the change in expression you had inspired in the great detective.

"Tch. You're always such a smartass, aren't ya?" Sherlock groaned, a hand running through his now much longer raven hair, as he pulled it up into a ponytail yet again.

"I suppose the shop spoken of by you must be the one there." William turned his gaze to a small shop, furnished by brisk wood, flowers protruding from the doorway with an almost elegant look about it, if one surmised to glance at it charitably enough.

"Thats the one." Sherlock gave a brief nod. "Jewellery is real cheap there. And looks good too. Though I'll warn you, they only deal in silver and an amalgam of it with copper or brass to imitate gold. There's none of the pure deal when it comes to gold, not even a 20 carat, given how it is affordable and quite in the sorts when it comes to such a common part of Lewes."

"We would not want anything excepting that which is 'quite in the sorts', I assure you." William replied with a chuckle. "We have quite tired of the frivolity of the exemptions. We only wish for something to fulfill our desires for cherishing, and not much else. There is no need for a lavish expense for such a simple task."

"Aye, as simple as how none of Proteus' wealthy affections could win over Valentine's earnest love." you chuckled. William quite liked your statement, for he gave out a little laugh.

"Would you guys stop with the inner Shakespeare jokes?!" Sherlock groaned. "You're different from John and Mary, thats for sure. Their gifts to each other are nothing less than extravagant."

Once inside the shop, you and William picked out some beautiful jewellery for each other, paying for it in a manner of all due propriety before returning to your house in Brighton by the dusk, Sherlock as company.

By the time you had had dinner and settled down, and Sherlock bade leave to his own house after a hearty meal at yours, you slipped into your nightclothes and made yourself comfortable to the idea of sleeping with William cradling you in his arms. That was when you felt something cool slip onto your neck. The silver necklace that William had bought you today, with small charms of roses and birds hanging on to its slender body. You turned your head to the back to meet with scarlet eyes gazing into your irises, a wide smirk decorating the lips of the man you loved as he ran his hand gently up your spine before it came to rest on the nape of your neck, your bare skin humbled by the warm touch of his rough, calloused palm.

"At first I did adore a twinkling star." William recited, his finger tracing the necklace woven around your neck gently. "But now, I worship a celestial sun." His finger brushed your lips, tilting your head upwards as the sweet bitterness of his own lips locked with yours, throwing you into disarray as you longed for breath that you could not afford as your husband kissed you deeper still, his arm steady around your waist as he kissed you gently, his warm chest pressing against your back. "That was quite witty of you, to make a reference you knew Sherly would not be able to comprehend. The Two Gentlemen of Verona." he mused.

"Someone had to bring him down a peg or two." you grinned as you turned around to face William and pressed a kiss to his chest, an action that caused him to blush and smile. "Your words are bonds, your oaths are oracles, your love sincere, your thoughts immaculate, your tears pure messengers sent from your heart, your heart as far from fraud as heaven from earth." you said softly, tracing a line from his chest to his exposed collarbone with your fingers. You felt the man shiver beneath your touch, his heartbeat picking up pace as he surrendered himself to your unyielding desire for him.

"Love." William whispered quietly with all the manner of a dark blush evident on his face. "Do spare me from the teasing. I find it hard to find strength in myself to even stand upright."

"Then you are a man of small resistance." you teased, pulling William closer and kissing his chest passionately, drawing a low whimper from the man. You pressed a kiss next to his collarbone, leading him to instinctively grip you tighter and pull you in closer.

"Only for you, madam." William blushed. "And never would I be a fool enough so as to choose any Silvia over you, nay, you are far greater than even Silvia and Julia combined, my dearest love, (Y/N)."

#william james moriarty x reader #william james moriarty #yukoku no moriarty #yuukoku no moriarty x reader #yuukoku no moriarty #moriarty the patriot #moriarty the patriot x reader

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justacanofcorn · 18 days ago

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quam amiterre ludum (losing the game) James Moriarty x OC

Chapter Thirteen: elicere

Chapter Twelve

The collapse of the tower. Anora returns. elicit.

When Anora awoke, she was on the couch. The fire was still going, so someone (presumably James) had tended to it. Anora sat up and stretched, her bare limbs pimpling up in the sudden cold. One look at the window showed snow and frosted glass.

“Good morning.”

Anora turned. Sitting at a small table with breakfast, tea, and the morning paper was James. He was already dressed and put together.

“What time is it?” Anora asked as she stood and stretched the rest of her stiff limbs. James checked his pocket watch.

“Quarter past eight.”

“You should've woken me sooner,” she said, walking to him and giving him a quick kiss on the forehead, then going after a slice of toast on his plate. He turned the page of the paper.

“I could get used to that,” he mused.

“What, me stealing your food?” Anora asked through a mouthful of toast.

“No. Watching you wake up. Did you know you talk in your sleep?”

Anora studied the toast in her hands to mask her embarrassment.

“Not since I was a child. Why, what did I say?”

“Oh, you were telling all of my secrets,” James said and closed the paper. He was clearly joking, but the toast still went completely dry in Anora's mouth.

“Impossible. You don't even tell me your secrets.”

He stood and came to her, sliding a hand to her shoulder and looked out the window as well.

“No, it was mostly murmurs. You said my name some, something about the station-” Anora's heart skipped. “And you apologized quite a bit. What do you have to be so sorry about?”

He kissed her head. It was impossible that he knew, and she knew that, but even still. His playfulness, she noticed, sometimes took on an air of meanness. If she's playing along, it feels in good fun. If not, it feels dangerous.

“Not sure.”

Anora finished her toast and James stood behind her peacefully. She liked him like this, calm.

“I should get ready for work, shouldn't I? I will see you soon.”

Anora squeezed his arm and she went to leave. But Moriarty's hand on her shoulder turned her. When she faced him, he held her face in his hands.

“I'm very fond of you. Once our plan is enacted- oh, I have so many things to do with you.”

What exactly he meant by that was so lost on Anora that she sincerely faltered, but he kissed her goodbye and so she left his room. She went to hers, washed up, changed, and ordered her own breakfast. At eight, she was leaving for the factory. At twelve, Jefferson came to fetch her.

“Staff meeting,” he explained, out of breath.

“Did you run here?”

“Boss said it was urgent. Come on.”

And Anora knew exactly what the meeting was for. She walked with Jefferson to the base of the western tower, which served as head of operations on property. Anora's legs felt as though they were filled with lead. She made a choice, so why is she so terrified?

When they entered, Moriarty was pacing the floor behind a long table. He saw them and beckoned them over. There, in that moment, he was only her employer, and he regarded her as so. Anora was glad. She didn't want him treating her differently in front of the men; it could give them one more thing to hold over her head if they ever felt as if they needed it.

“Alright, we’ve received intel from a reliable source that our two friends, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, have arrived in Heilbronn, which means we can likely expect to see them tonight. What I want is to get them separated, Holmes with me in the tower, and Watson on the ground, preferably with a bullet in his brain.”

The bluntness of the statement turned Anora's blood cold. She cast James a confused look that he didn't receive.

“Work for me,” Moran mumbled.

“Yes, and I would like for you and Anora to keep watch.”

Anora's head snapped up.

“What? Why me?”

There wasn't an eye in the room that wasn't on her, staring in surprise. James himself lifted an accusatory eyebrow. Anora cleared her throat.

“Because it's what I'd decided.”

“Yes- forgive me. I simply mean to ask-”

“Because you're quick, and you can report to someone if need be. Is that enough reason?”

She'd never heard him speak like this to anyone. She burned with indignation.

“Yes, sir. My apologies.”

The remainder of the meeting passed with Anora's ears ringing in fury. How dare he speak to her like that? Regardless of the relationship, had he no regard for the person who saved his life? Even on his worst days, would he speak to Moran that way?

Once positions were determined everyone began to file out. Moriarty held her back. The last person out, Mikhail, grinned at her wickedly before shutting the door.

Anora sighed and tried to push her anger out with the breath. She wasn't going to apologize- she'd already done that, and she wasn't going to justify herself. Whatever he had to say, he was going to say it. She turned back to him. He was staring at the table hard. He was silent. He remained silent. Anora couldn't stand it.

“I'm not going to-”

“Stop.”

She stopped. James huffed and pushed his hair back.

“I'm not angry. It's simply difficult. You know that cannot happen again.”

He wasn't angry, but she was. Her heart softened a bit at his admission but not enough to stop her words from spilling out.

“It felt personal. It was ugly.”

He finally looked at her, confused.

“I was under the impression that we had an understanding. You are still an employee.”

“You're the only one who can decide how you treat me and when? You would have never spoken to Moran or Jefferson or Mikhail that way-”

“I absolutely would if I felt that-”

“-and perhaps I don't care for this arrangement, then. Perhaps I don't care for being spoken to in this manner from the same mouth that roams my skin at night. Does that sound like understanding to you?”

He walked around the table to her. On some instinct, she flinched when he lifted a hand. He froze.

“Have I ever hurt you? Until moments ago, have I ever been unkind?”

“Moments ago you ordered Moran to put a bullet in the head of a man who is no more than an inconvenience to you.”

“Where was this protest in Paris?”

Anora growled in frustration. “It's different!”

“How? Tell me how it is different and I shall tell Moran to stand down, but you had better give me a compelling reason.”

Anora was near speechless. “He's one man.”

“As was Meinhard, as were the others in that room that night, as were those who came before. We are all “one man”, my dear.”

At that moment she itched to ask how many people he had killed, but she held her tongue. Don't ask questions you don't want to know the answer to.

He approached her again and she was still this time. He placed his hands on either side of her jaw, right under her ears. Cradling her, keeping her motionless.

“Nothing I do is without reason. I have not led you astray thus far. I will keep you from it and you must trust me to.”

She looked into his eyes. So close, she could count the lines on his face, the freckles, the early grays of his hair. With one hand she held his shoulder; the other swept a stray hair back. But she didn't say anything. There was nothing she could think to say.

He gave her a chaste kiss and she left, returning to her office until nightfall. Once the sun set she made her way to her post where Moran sat, his rifle at the ready.

“Did you two make up?” He quipped. Anora sighed and sat.

“I told him the truth. I didn't like how he spoke to me.”

“And? Did he care?”

“Of course he cared.”

“‘Of course’,” He mocked.

“Why is it you don't like me?”

Moran peered through his scope.

“We get our work done. That's all that matters.”

“Not to me.”

“And why do you care whether or not I like you?”

“Because- well, shouldn't I?”

“I don't care if you like me.”

“You also kill people for a living.”

“And we both know you're above that.”

“Of course I am.”

“‘Of course’.”

“Oh I bet you think you're clever.”

“I don't care, do I?”

“You know what I think?”

She knew it was a mistake before she said it, but she couldn't help herself.

“I think this is jealousy.”

That was outrageous enough to get him to look away from his scope.

“Jealousy! You're joking. Do you know why you're up here with me? He doesn't want you in there. Doesn't want you to see what he does when you're not around. I told him that you ought to know; hell, you deserve it. But he said no, because he knows what I know. Here's my hypothesis: as soon as you realize who your mentor truly is, it'll be too late for you.”

Anora's face felt numb. Each of his words held a shocking impact ten times worse than the last. She spoke through a dry mouth.

“And why haven't you suffered the same fate?”

“Because I'm not in love with him.”

The words hung between them, heavy like iron and weighing on Anora's chest as painfully as a hot brand might. Before she had a chance to think of a jabbing reply, shouting drew their attention. Moran cursed and went to his scope.

“The good doctor is here. Cover your ears.”

Anora did as he asked right as he pulled the trigger.

“Come on, move out of the way,” he muttered.

Anora bolted from where they were crouched and towards the tower. Moran called after her but she didn't stop. She needed to get to Moriarty. If the doctor was alone, then she had a good guess of where the detective would be.

Anora bolted inside the base of the tower and up the staircase. Her chest tightened but she pushed through. She strained her ears to gauge anything she could. She didn't need to wait long.

Operatic singing echoed through the tower and the yard below. It was almost too loud to handle but she could tell that it was coming from one final story above. She hopped the steps two at a time. She froze when the screaming started. She began to run once it didn't stop.

Anora came finally to the next landing and shouldered through the door to a room. She couldn't breathe but she had made it; her back hit the door and she choked for air.

Amid this, it took her a moment to gather what exactly she was looking at. Famed detective Sherlock Holmes was spinning above the floor, raised by a hook in his shoulder. As she found Moriarty's eyes, he gestured for whomever was manning the chain to let go, and the detective fell to the floor.

Anora went to the men, but didn't make it farther than a few steps before someone seized her by the bicep. She looked before she struck and that was a wise decision. The man holding her was one of Moriarty's larger goons.

“Let go of me,” she said, trying to pull away, assuming he would let her. He did not.

She looked incredulous from him to James.

“Tell him to let me go.”

But the professor only watched her, then crouched down by where Holmes lay. He grabbed the hook with one hand, the gesture making both Anora and Holmes wince. With his other hand he kept the detective down and leaned in to hear him whispering something.

Outside and above, more gunshots rang out. Seemingly pleased with whatever Holmes had said, Moriarty stood slowly, wiped the blood from Holmes’s shoulder onto a handkerchief, and sighed.

“James!” Anora hissed. Finally, he gestured to the two men who released her.

“One moment, gentlemen,” he said. Holmes began to move but James pressed near his wound with the toe of his shoe. “Not you, detective. You stay right where you are.”

The added pressure made Holmes shudder in pain, made blood ooze from under him, and caused Anora to cringe. She walked around Holmes in trepidation like he was some sort of wounded animal that may lash out in pain. She drew close to James and whispered.

“What are you doing?”

“I'm doing my work,” he said, and his small smile made it seem almost like he was humoring her.

“But- he clearly told you what you wanted to know. Now, you're not- it's just torture.”

James cocked his head at her and stroked her jaw in that way he enjoyed. “Dear Anora. Sometimes I forget how good you are.”

Holmes managed to roll partially onto his side.

“He's using you,” he wheezed.

“Shut up,” Anora bit back. She looked at James with wide, pleading eyes. “James, please. You don't have to kill him and you don't have to kill the doctor. They're nothing to you. Nothing to this. This cruelty- it isn't like you.”

He stood a little straighter, almost in an attempt to look down on her.

“It is exactly me. And I'm growing a bit tired of you trying to convince yourself it isn't. I'm not some newly horrible beast. I have been this man since the day you started my class. But you…you have been so willfully blind, haven't you?” He lifted her chin between thumb and forefinger. “Watch closely, and learn what you've closed your eyes to.”

James left her to step before Holmes. Anora backed towards a window. Looking over her shoulder, she could very faintly see the glint of Moran's rifle.

“I only have one more question for you. Which of us is the fisherman, and which is the trout?”

“James-”

He turned back for only a moment.

“My dear, this is a lesson in war. Never give your enemy the opportunity to overtake you. Strike, while you can.”

Strangely enough, this was a lesson taught almost immediately.

James’s eyes widened for the split second it took Anora to look behind her again. A massive object was hurling towards the structure.

She couldn't tell for sure. Perhaps it was wishful thinking but she could've sworn James reached out a hand for her before the window blew in, shattering the glass and masonry from above. Holmes turned himself over. Anora hit the floor with the unbearable stinging of what felt like a thousand shards of glass cutting into her skin, as the deafening sound of the tower wall being caved in boomed over them. When she landed on her back something heavy was atop her. She assumed it was brick, and that she was likely going to die.

So, it had always been this way? So this was the end of the road she's willingly walked down for months? Dead in a collapsed tower, in a munitions factory in Germany, with an international terrorist and a detective?

All she wanted was to learn math and chemistry. She wanted to honor the memory of her older brother. What had happened, and how did it all happen so soon?

Anora thought these were strange dying thoughts, but then again, she'd never died before. However, when she was beginning to wonder if the final moment would come, the weight on top of her moved slightly. Then, she felt the scratching of a beard against her neck, the familiar smell that enveloped her.

James, either intentionally or not, had flung himself between Anora and the explosion.

She wriggled under him, trying to shift the bricks and see if he was conscious.

“James…” She muttered weakly. He groaned a little, and overhead the sound of rock against rock could be heard. Footsteps. Finally, someone was digging through the rubble and pulling James from where he lay. The freedom of her chest made Anora take in a large gulp of air, and then dust, and subsequently she rolled onto her side to cough. The pain of the razor sharp glass was nothing now compared to the burning of her lungs. Through the haze of dust and debris, she could see Moran helping James to his feet. But she was still on the floor.

“James…” She said his name again. But the professor limped towards the doorway. Moran looked at her. His brows came together in thought.

“Moran, please.”

Moran betrayed a silent struggle with a moment's hesitation, yet resigned to help his employer out of the room, and once the two men were gone, the two she knew and the one she trusted, Anora lost consciousness.

Once they are packed, and Holmes agrees to get along with Irene, they and Anora ride to the docks. Once on the night ferry bound for France, they discuss further plans.

“So, any clues as to where Moriarty might be?” Holmes asks.

“When we were here, we stayed at the Sofitel de Scribe, but I doubt he's returned there. It would be too obvious.”

“Perhaps he stayed there at the start to get his affairs in order,” Irene offers.

“Perhaps a post office? Find where he gets his mail sent.”

“The post office is not known for its loose lips regarding personal privacy,” says Holmes.

“No, but I'm sure they wouldn't object to his wife,” Irene says pointedly at Anora.

“Why wouldn't his wife know where he lives?”

“You recently moved to Paris, of course,” Holmes says, lighting his pipe. “To get away from the hustle and bustle of London. In the midst of the packing and moving, you forgot the address, and that's when the postman will be kind enough to provide you with it.

A wave hits the boat and they shift to the side. Anora hates boats. She gets seasick far too easily. She hasn't been on one since Paris before.

“If you believe it will work, then there's no harm in trying,” Anora agrees, trying to make herself believe it.

“Despite his methods, Sherlock is effective more often than he is not.” Irene puts a hand on the detective’s knee and smiles at him. He doesn't smile back but looks at her for a long while. Anora looks uncomfortably out the window.

“I, em, I think I'll go get some air.”

Anora stands and averts their strange looks. She stumbles like some sort of fawn onto the deck and stands at the railing. It's a moonless night but the stars still manage to pepper the velvet black ocean.

What is she supposed to do? Does this end at the grave? And if so, whose? James and Sherlock and Irene have already died once; perhaps it was someone else's turn. Maybe it's hers. And if it came to that, what if she should simply allow it to happen? She could approach France as a gate to hell, James acting as a proverbial Charon. Hell. Anora cannot even entertain the possibility of heaven.

Anora gets lost in the tilt of the sea until the horn blows; they're at the docks. Even from the ship, the lights of Paris gleam. Still, there is no love here, no inspiration or charm. To Anora, it only represents the bitter beginning of the end.

She wonders what the exploded building looks like now. Have they torn it down and left it empty, or rebuilt? What is playing at the opera now? If Anora were anymore of a sentimental person, she might very well compare herself to Don Giovanni, dragged to hell. But while James may have been correct, and she may be foolish, she is no longer the sort of delusional she had been before.

“Ready to go?”

Anora jumps at the sound of Holmes's voice. He has a careful hand on her shoulder. She nods, takes her bag from him with thanks. Irene glances at her with thin concern but says nothing. Anora is grateful.

Fog rolls off the water of the channel and covers their feet as they walk along the cobblestone streets. It is late enough that the roads are nearly empty, but with the occasional carriage, giggling couple, and group of drunks.

“What sort of place is the de Scribe?” Holmes asks. Anora sighs and the sigh comes out in little clouds from her mouth.

“The sort with original baroque artwork and…filagreed wallpaper.”

The wallpaper bit is an attempt at humor, albeit a clumsy one.

“Ah, so that's where your partiality of wallpaper design comes from.”

“No, I know ugly from ugly.”

The three share a laugh. Had she ever laughed in Paris?

Irene jogs ahead in an attempt to flag down a carriage. Holmes makes a slow attempt to catch up with her but Anora is content to meander behind. True, the lights are quite pretty. True, the sound of carriages on the sound is lovely. True and true, and Anora can almost forget. Until she is grabbed about the waist and a hand covers her mouth. She screams but obviously to no avail. She kicks. She knows what she's learned and jabs an elbow back but her assailant seems to predict this. She lurches herself forward to throw them off, but she's suddenly let go and falls to the ground. She makes an honest attempt to stand but her attacker helps her up, pins her to the brick wall of the building behind them. The hand comes to her mouth again. It's too dark; she can't see.

“You know what your problem is, Anora?”

Oh god, that voice. But how? How?

Anora tries to bite his hand but only tastes the leather of a glove.

“See? You were always too predictable.”

It's the last thing she hears before she's knocked unconscious.

#rdj sherlock #sherlock holmes #sherlock Holmes a game of shadows #game of shadows #james moriarty #john watson #mary watson #not a self insert #bc I'm bad at math and science #james Moriarty x oc #shut up #jared harris #hal still has jared harris brainrot

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specialagentlokitty · 2 years ago

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Lestrade x reader - a mystery

- Lestrade x Reader - Sherlock & gang meet Reader, Lestrade's wife, at the Christmas party. Sherlock finds her difficult to deduce - @mxacegrey 💜

You knew Greg had invited you to a Christmas party with a few of his friends, and you felt bad for telling him that you probably wouldn’t be able to make it.

You were on call, and you couldn’t drink, you had to keep your phone on your person at all time and you needed to rest as much as you could.

Laying in bed, you stared up at the ceiling and groan a little bit as you rolled over, looking at the time on your phone and rolled back over.

“Greg?”

No response.

“Greg!”

You sat up and turned the light on, looking around the room as you tried to figure out if he was still there if he’d already left.

You realised there was something on your head, so you reached up and pulled it off, flipping the post it note around so you could read it.

Gone to party, didn’t want to wake you. Be home later, love you.

Smiling, you set the note aside and got up, heading to get a drink before making your way back to the room and looked around.

It was actually still early, and you quickly asked for an update for the overnight vet before you decided what exactly it is you wanted to do.

They told you everything was fine and you nodded to yourself, quickly throwing on a pair of jeans, one of Greg’s T-shirts and a jumper, you grabbed everything you needed along with your work bag.

Picking up your phone you sent a quick message to your husband.

You: on my way to party, I’m bored and can’t sleep.

Grabbing your keys on the way out you took a short drive the the flat and you lightly knocked on the door, waiting for someone to reply.

The door was opened and you smiled at the elderly lady.

“Hi I’m (Y/N), I think Greg Lestrade is here?”

“Oh of course dear come in! I’m Mrs Hudson.”

“It’s nice to meet you.” You smiled softly.

She quickly led you up the stairs and pointed in the direction of where you husband was standing with a drink in his hand and you smiled.

Walking over, you set your bag down at your feet and looked up at him.

“Greg.”

“(Y/N).”

He set his drink on the table and turned around, wrapping his arms around you he hugged you softly and you hugged him back, arms around his neck.

You weren’t aware the pair of you had drawn attention to yourselves.

“Who’s this.”

“This is (Y/N), my wife.”

“Wife?! You have a wife?” A man asked shocked.

Greg laughed a little at him.

“Yes John, I have a wife.”

Greg quickly introduced you to everyone and it was Sherlock he carried on staring at you, and you stared back at him.

“Sherlock, staring at a man’s wife isn’t a great way to stay on his hood side.” Greg warned.

He walked over to you, wrapped his arm around you waist, pulling you into his side.

“Oh relax Lestrade, no need to be insecure.”

“Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson hissed.

The party carried on, and you got to know Greg’s friends while he just stood in the corner of the room watching you with a smile on his face.

He adored the way the Christmas lights softly lit up your skin, the way your eyes sparkled when you stood in the right place.

“I didn’t know you were dating.” Molly spoke softly.

“I wasn’t at first, then I met her and well… something just clicked, I saw her and she was the only thing on my mind.”

Molly smiled, looking at Sherlock.

“I know what you mean.”

Greg glanced down at her.

“Just talk to him.”

Molly looked up before turning back to Sherlock and she pointed.

“I think you might want to do that first.”

Greg looked over, finding you sat in front of Sherlock, bag on your lap as you looked pretty smug about something.

“Bloody hell…”

Quickly your husband rushed over and sat down next to you, making sure the conversation didn’t get too out of hand.

“Guess again.” You mused.

“You have to be a surgeon, look at your hands, your pinky in fact, a clear sign of a surgeon.”

You looked at the little plaster around your pinky.

“I told you, you’re right, but I don’t work at the hospital.”

“There’s no other place for a surgeon!” Sherlock huffed.

You laughed and Greg smirked and the others started to crowd around.

“Come now Sherlock, it’s not rocket science.” Mycroft said.

“Oh please like you know.” Sherlock spat.

“Of course I do, I think it’s pretty obvious look a little closer.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked back at you again, he looked at your clothes, your hands, and then he looked at your face.

“Oh be quiet! You’re distracting me!”

Sherlock when back to staring at you, and you just rested your head in your husbands shoulder, smirking to yourself.

They told you Sherlock was amazing at this, he could tell you anything about anyone, but when he looked at you he just came up blank.

Sherlock said nothing, he simply just got up and walked away from you.

“I think you broke him.” Greg chuckled.

You grinned a little and pat you husband in the chest and got up to follow Sherlock.

“I’m a vet surgeon.”

With that you walked past him and looked for some food you could snack on.

Greg followed you, a happy grin on his face, your bag over his shoulder.

“My wife bestest the great Sherlock Holmes.” He happily grinned.

Everyone laughed and Sherlock just grumbled in the corner of the room, glaring at you.

Happy with the food you chose, you went to sit back down, Greg sitting next to you, his leg brushing against yours as he stole some of the food from your plate making you pout.

Everyone carried on with the party and you just sat there enjoying the atmosphere, the feeling of being with your husband and spending some time with him and taking in as much as you could before one of you were rushed away to work

#bbc Sherlock #bbc sherlock x you #bbc sherlock lestrade #bbc sherlock imagine #bbc sherlock x reader #lestrade x reader #lestrade x you #gregory lestrade #greg lestrade x reader #greg lestrade #Lestrade imagine

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brokenmagxc · 10 days ago

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♡

send a heart for a pointless mun fact !!

x. ahhhh hello ok lemme spruce up some more facts djkdj

i am half Laotian / half Puerto Rican but i only speak a little of both languages bc i am a heathen OTL

i will have been with my domestic partner for 8 years this year in feb

i started writing / creating artie while in grade school. before that, i had a very brief stint writing various other muses. my first muses on tumblr consisted of: mcu loki, lucifer from the show of the same name, an archangel oc that was supernatural based, a siren oc that was greek myth based, and john watson from bbc sherlock

#( ooc. )#( answered. )#( about abi ! )#techniiciian #( omg hello! lol here are some dumb things abt me )#( also i was today years old when i realized supernatural came out in 05 )#( i am ??? is this what it feels like to grow old OTL )

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my-head-is-an-animal · 2 years ago

Text

The Sitter

Mycroft Holmes x Bethany Wheeler (OFC)

Story Masterlist

Chapter 4 - Austria

Over the next week, Mycroft hadn’t managed to drop by to see Bethany and felt a twinge of guilt over it, but she was in good spirits regardless, having had a very exciting week with Sherlock catching a murderer and feeling like she was a real-life detective. He had phoned her the day before John and Mary were due back to tell him all about it and he’d heard from Sherlock that they wouldn’t have been caught had Bethany not pieced together the motive.

‘I mean, people do crazy things for love, don’t they?’ She said, he could hear her walking home, it was still light out and Mycroft felt slightly comforted that she wouldn’t be in any danger from the men in the house down the road.

‘Indeed.’ He agreed, signing a document that Anthea put in front of him. Mycroft was good at hiding who was calling him by now that his assistant didn’t bat an eyelid. She soon left him alone and he felt comfortable enough to put his feet up before his next meeting. ‘So, you’ve had an exciting week?’

‘Yeah, it’s been great.’ She said, smiling and hopefully enjoying the sunshine. ‘Wish you could’ve dropped by, we would have solved it a lot sooner if you had.’

‘By the sounds of things, you hardly needed me.’ Mycroft said, picturing her in the sun again. ‘I’m sure Sherlock appreciated the insight you have into human emotion.’

‘Yeah, I did have to talk to the victim’s sister a bit more than I thought I would, Sherlock wasn’t being particularly sensitive.’

‘No, I’m afraid he isn’t the type.’ Mycroft mused. ‘You have plans though, don’t you? A hiking trip next week?’

‘Are you spying on me, Mycroft Holmes?’

‘I wouldn’t dare.’ He said playfully. ‘Sherlock mentioned something about it.’

‘That had better be the truth,’ she warned, her smile still evident. ‘If I find out you’ve been watching me in the shower, I’ll make your life very difficult.’

‘I have no doubt, Miss Wheeler.’ He agreed, though the image of her in the shower was a particularly desirable one. ‘Where are you going?’

‘I’m surprised you don’t know.’ She laughed. ‘Yeah, me and a few friends are going camping in Austria, a little bit of hiking and maybe rock climbing if we can. It’s good to get out into the world, see what’s there, you know.’

‘Not my scene, I’m afraid, but do enjoy it.’ Mycroft was a little sad that he couldn’t enjoy the outdoors the way she clearly did, but then again, he’d rather she just be happy.

‘Oh, I’ve been looking forward to this for months, there’s no way I’m not enjoying myself.’ She said, he could hear the sounds of a key unlocking her front door. ‘What are your plans while I’m away?’

‘Running the country.’ He deadpanned, making her giggle. ‘Unfortunately, I will be out of contact for the time you’re away, a few meetings that require my full attention, free from distraction.’

‘And I’m a distraction, am I?’

Mycroft was quiet for a moment, contemplating whether he should have told her the truth. ‘A welcome one, but a distraction nonetheless.’

He listened to her entering her room and making herself comfortable. Picturing her on her bed with a smile still plastered to her face.

‘I don’t know whether to take that as a compliment or not.’ She teased. ‘So, come on, tell me all the top secret government things you’ll be working on while I’m gone.’

‘Well, seeing as you asked so nicely.’ Mycroft loved the sound of her laughing, far more than he wanted to admit to. ‘But I would like to hear about your trip when you get back.’

‘Yeah? You want to get some dinner or something?’ Bethany asked fairly casually, diminishing Mycroft’s hopes that it could be considered anything more than a friendly encounter. ‘It’s been ages since I’ve seen you anyway, it’d be good, I think.’

‘Dinner sounds perfectly acceptable. Let me know when you’ve returned and I’ll make the arrangements.’

‘Great, nothing too fancy though, I’m not a woman of class, I am a lowly peasant, remember?’

‘You sell yourself far too short.’ Mycroft said, gently. ‘But I will keep in mind your request.’

‘Good.’ She was still smiling. ‘Right, I’ve got some journals to read and you’ve got a country to run, or maybe the secret service to order around…’

‘Nice try.’

‘Can’t fault a girl for being persistent.’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘Right, I’ll catch up with you before I leave. Have a good one Mycroft.’

‘You too.’

Mycroft hung up the phone, idly wondering what journals she was reading, probably light reading as part of her course, but he wished he knew more, it was infuriating for a moment. He was used to just setting up surveillance on people and finding out what he needed to know, but he wouldn’t risk it with Bethany, he didn’t want to upset her for any reason.

He heard a knock at the door and Anthea reminded him that he had a meeting with Lady Smallwood concerning Charles Augustus Magnusson. He internally groaned and tried to focus on something else that wasn’t Bethany Wheeler and him sitting across from each other at dinner.

Mycroft received a final text from Bethany before she caught her flight to Austria, it was a picture of her in the airport with her friends waiting to board the plane and read:

Off to see the world and have adventures. Let me know if you want me to send photos, otherwise, please don’t start a war that means I can’t get home again! – BW

Mycroft smiled, trying to subtly text back whilst in a meeting with Lady Smallwood.

You’re the anarchist, I’m depending on you not to cause an international incident. My power only extends so far. Have fun. Stay safe. – MH

Mycroft would have loved to spend the next week getting the odd photo from her while she was on her travels, but while he was dealing with the Magnusson hearing, he couldn’t let himself be distracted or give him anything to use against him. Bethany was fast becoming a valuable bargaining chip for anyone who might have wanted to get close to Mycroft and he needed to be careful.

He spent the week trying to put out fires where he could, noting that Magnusson had leverage over Lady Smallwood, something that resulted in his interview being dismissed as inconclusive. Mycroft was furious that he’d managed to worm his way into her life like that, possibly with the intention of getting closer to him. Was it a warning shot? It wasn’t clever and it only served to bring out a side in Mycroft he rarely showed other than when someone irritated him a little too much.

He proceeded to distance himself further from a few situations, handing them off to someone who could just about handle it and hoped that would be enough to keep Magnusson at arm’s length. It worked for a while, but Mycroft was searching for a more permanent solution.

He spent most nights sitting in front of the fire, focussing on the next move he needed to make in several different operations he had going. Some more dangerous than others, but all of them as equally demanding of his attention.

By the time the week was up, he was exhausted and looking forward to everything being over so that he could move onto more pressing matters.

Guess who’s back! – BW

The welcome sight of Bethany’s picture message from the taxi home was all he needed to feel his body relax into something calmer. She was laughing in the picture with one of her friends, he hadn’t realised it was a male friend she was holidaying with and felt an instant jealousy. She was more tanned than she had been in the last message he sent, her freckles were almost hidden and her hair was sun bleached, making her look like some kind of exotic creature completely out of his league. She was stunningly pretty. Those dark eyes stared directly at him and made him feel like someone could really see him. It both calmed and unnerved him. Mycroft sighed and typed out a reply whilst getting into his car to go home.

Glad to see you made it back without causing too much trouble. Homeward bound? – MH

Pub. We’re meeting a few friends to celebrate our triumphant return. – BW

And so you should. Stay safe on the way home and please do call if you need anything or if you actually run into trouble. – MH

I will. Thank you, Mycroft. – BW

Mycroft took a deep breath and allowed his mind to finally relax properly after a week of worrying about everything under the sun. Bethany was back and she was in good spirits, Magnusson was being kept at a distance and every operation he was watching seemed to be settling right where he needed them to. There was nothing to worry about.

Well… there was one thing that had his mind racing. Dinner with Bethany. He promised they could spend an evening together once she was back and he wasn’t a man to break a promise.

If you liked this, please consider supporting me ☕ thanks for reading!

#Mycroft Holmes #mycroft holmes x ofc #mycroft holmes x reader #mycroft holmes x original female character #bbc sherlock

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meltingpenguins · 1 year ago

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Funny thing happening in ofmd fandom where people are saying parts of the season were written bad on purpose. It feels like I've heard this before...I shouldn't be surprised since there's a lot of overlap between the ofmd and good omens fandom, but when will people learn that if they think something is written terribly, it isn't part of some genius plan that will pay off if they stick with it and trust the writers. Almost nothing is written terribly on purpose and certainly not with shows like these. If they think something sucks, it probably just sucks

So I've heard.

Now, when things look 'written bad on purpose' there's usually three options:

The writers are simply not good and screwed it up.

The writers are competent but something else is messing things up.

It IS written bad on purpose.

Let's start with the latter. There's two flavours to this. Either it's written bad on purpose because it -is- part of a plotline OR it's written badly because the writers want to sink the story(franchise).

When it's the latter it's a really nasty call most of the time. maybe the studio sucks but demands more seasons/faster produced scripts etc (this overlaps with point 2 from above), OR you might have a writer etc who was brought on board because of their name, but who HATES the franchise.

The other flavour requires a capable writer who knows what they are doing, and usually these writers will hints and pointers in the background (when it's a visual medium) or little oddities in the text pointing towards 'yep, something's going on here'.

For example:

Imagine the heroes have this big portrait painting in their HQ, that's usually in the background when they are doing their briefings etc. now, this season has been odd, and what do you know, when you freezeframe on the painting and look closer, you notice it's not exactly the same painting. this is NOT the real universe/timeline/etc.

Something like that is part of the planning that a story that's 'bad on purpose because there will be a big payoff'. If there is nothing there, only 'but maybe x happened' musings from the fans, then no, there's no plan.

which brings us to point 1:

Far more commonly this kind of thing happens because the author is, frankly, a bit of an incompetent hack.

Either cause they think themself to be the best thing since sliced bread, have no regard for the audience, or, commonly, both.

you know the type. the writer who will relentlessly, even in-story mock the fans, talking down to them. these writers usually have no plan cause their ego doesn't leave the space for inspiration.

So commonly they'll just throw into the mix what seemingly sells (usually stealing the most common fanon bits and bobs), steal blatantly from fanfic (because hey, you the fan can't actually prove that the whole sneaking into heaven dressed as an angel to take a look at important files is stolen from your sequel fanfic which you definitely had up since s1, and which did a much better job addressing all the loose ends of s1... but I digress) and so on.

The result is a disappointing if not infuriating mess, which could easily be salvaged in the hands of a competent writer.

For example, I'd argue you could have BBC's sherlock make sense again, even though it'd come at the cost of the mainship (mainly cause 'john watson' is not the actual watson and it's been a sinister twisted ruse all along because Mycroft who's actually moriarty is so rottingly jealous of his brother that he'd kill to let his brother think he's the genius their parents always took him for... but again, I digress)

But yeah, TL:DR, with GO and flag I think it's simply a case of arrogance being proportional to incompetence.

/shrug

#good omens critical

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benevolentgodloki · 1 year ago

Note

“Date?” (strangefrost and starloki and sherloki if you're up for it) 👀

Stephen Strange

Who asks for it:

[x] Your muse asks mine

[x] My muse asks yours

Type of date:

[ ] Platonic Date

[x] Romantic Date

[x] First Date

[x] Double date with: @araedi & @forevermuses (your Quill :P)

Location for the date:

[x] Movies • [x] Romantic Comedy (so they can laugh) • [x] Adventure Movie • [ ] Animation (Pixar/Disney) • [x] Horror (maybe) • [x] Drama • [ ] Buddy Movie • [x] Thriller, mystery, anything really

[x] Restaurant • [x] Expensive/High Class • [ ] Small and familiar • [ ] Fast Food

[ ] Nature • [ ] Beach • [ ] Park • [ ] Forest • [ ] …and having a picnic

[ ] Visiting a Museum

[ ] Visiting an amusement park

[ ] Visiting a haunted location

[x] Staying at home • [x ] Watching movies • [ ] Playing Video Games • [x] Reading

* [x] Magic battling >:)

[x] Kamar-Taj, another planet/dimension, an Avenger's house while supposed to be doing something else

The date might hopefully end with…

[ ] …holding hands

[x] …a kiss

[x] …in bed

[x] …knowing each other better

[ ] …sleepover between friends

[ ] …a marriage proposal

[x] neither of them dead, Loki learning more magic? 👀

Should you reblog this?:

[ ] Yes. I want to send you one.

[x] Yes, if you want to and my memory's not crap that you've already done one

[ ] No.

(Rest of muses under the cut ;P)

Peter Quill

Who asks for it:

[x ] Your muse asks mine

[ ] My muse asks yours

Type of date:

[ ] Platonic Date

[x] Romantic Date

[x] First Date

[ ] Double date with: ____ & ____

Location for the date:

[x] Movies • [ ] Romantic Comedy • [x] Adventure Movie • [x] Animation (Pixar/Disney) • [ ] Horror • [ ] Drama • [x] Buddy Movie • [x] Sci-fi/Fantasy or Thriller, especially if it makes Peter jump so Loki can smirk (and he'll probably jump at times anyway)

[x] Restaurant • [ ] Expensive/High Class • [x] Small and familiar (Loki likes expensive but it really doesn't suit Peter XD) • [x] Fast Food

[x] Nature • [ ] Beach • [ ] Park • [x] Forest • [ ] …and having a picnic

[ ] Visiting a Museum

[x] Visiting an amusement park

[x] Visiting a haunted location

[x] Staying at home • [x] Watching movies • [x] Playing Video Games • [ ] Reading

[x] Visiting other planets, getting drunk at bars and fooling around in the nightlife

The date might hopefully end with…

[ ] …holding hands

[x] …a kiss

[x] …in bed

[x] …knowing each other better

[ ] …sleepover between friends

[ ] …a marriage proposal

[x] Peter still being alive

Sherlock

Who asks for it:

[ ] Your muse asks mine

[x] My muse asks yours

Type of date:

[x] Platonic Date

[x] Romantic Date

[x] First Date

[x] Double date with: John & Mary

Location for the date:

[ ] Movies • [ ] Romantic Comedy • [ ] Adventure Movie • [ ] Animation (Pixar/Disney) • [ ] Horror • [ ] Drama • [ ] Buddy Movie • [ ] ___ (other options)

[x] Restaurant • [x] Expensive/High Class • [x] Small and familiar • [ ] Fast Food

[x] Nature • [x] Beach • [x] Park • [x] Forest • [ ] …and having a picnic

[ ] Visiting a Museum

[ ] Visiting an amusement park

[ ] Visiting a haunted location

[x] Staying at home • [ ] Watching movies • [ ] Playing Video Games • [x] Reading

[x] Solving a case, Loki inventing a case for him, going out dancing, fencing, horse riding

The date might hopefully end with…

[x] …holding hands

[x] …a kiss

[x] …in bed

[x] …knowing each other better

[ ] …sleepover between friends

[ ] …a marriage proposal

[x] Sherlock changing his mind about romance not being a thing for him

#date meme #forevermuses #strangefrost #sherloki #starloki

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bccksmarts · 2 years ago

Note

☆ Put this star into the inbox of your favorite blogs. It's time to spread positivity! x 100000000000

Listen, I know I sent you this earlier but this coming from YOU means so much more???

We've got so much together and I JUST,,, it means so much to me because getting to write with you generally is a treat and I ADORE all of your muses to pieces?? Draco, Harry, Sherlock, John ( no doubt all of your other Sherlock esq muses are going to follow suit ), every single one of them are just MWAH and I hold them all in such high regard!!

That and Hermione & Molly are smitten so there's that too 👉🏻👈🏻

#✦ 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐈𝐔𝐌 𝐋𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐒𝐀 ➜ ｢ Out of Character ｣#✦ 𝐄𝐗𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐎 𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐔𝐌 ➜ ｢ Answered ｣#⦗✦| samhlaiocht |✦⦘#⦗✦| I LOVE YOU NESSA SM I DO |✦⦘

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fairytales-and-folklore · 9 days ago

Text

Logic and Lore

BBC Sherlock x Doctor Who

Title: Logic and Lore

Prequel: Mad and Magnificent (AO3 | Tumblr)

Author: fairytalesandfolklore

Fandoms: BBC Sherlock (Masterlist) x Doctor Who (Masterlist)

Relationship: Amelia Pond x Sherlock Holmes

AO3 Rating: Teen & Up (a complete collection of author's notes, inspiration credits, content warnings and tags can be found on AO3)

Summary: It's been three years since Amelia Pond first met Sherlock Holmes, nine months since the tragic death of Amelia's husband, Rory Williams, and six months since the alleged suicide of London's only consulting detective. Amelia Pond has lived one hell of a life, so it really shouldn't surprise her when she receives a text from a dead man, asking her to meet him at midnight.

Amelia Pond walks across the silent plaza at twenty-seven minutes to midnight, the flames of her hair licking the night sky as the wind swirls a delicate flurry of snow around her. She finds Sherlock instantly, casually leaning against the brick building of a café, a perfect replica of the way he'd looked the night she'd first met him. Three years for him, eleven years for her. The life of a time traveler…it's difficult to follow, but Sherlock promises himself that he will try his damnedest to keep up with her. Together, the two of them stand there in a comfortable silence, shrouded in a cloud of cigarette smoke, mirroring that fateful night on New Year's Eve, content in one another's company, enamored by the complicated catastrophes of each other's history.

Read On AO3 | Read On Tumblr:

Sherlock Holmes stands in the very same place he'd stood nearly three years prior. It's a decent little hideaway, a quasi-claustrophobic alley cradled in between two brick buildings and shrouded from a crowded plaza by shrubbery and a rusting, wrought-iron gate. The last time he stood here, it was New Year's Eve, and he had been all on his own, staring hatefully into the sea of tourists queuing up around the clock tower in the middle of the plaza. Sherlock slides his hands into the inside pockets of his black pea coat and withdraws a lighter he'd stolen from John a few years back.

He slips a cigarette in between his lips and shifts into a more comfortable position, reclining against the brick-embellished spine of the little café and trying to look as indifferent as he can possibly manage, a perfect imitation of the way he'd looked the night he first met Amelia Pond.

She was mad and magnificent, a perfect stranger who had asked him for his very last cigarette, and had become, much to his surprise, quite lovely company in the twenty-seven minutes that they had known one another. The two of them had stood there, hidden away from the rest of the world and cloaked in cigarette smoke, content in each other's silence, broken only by occasional musings.

At midnight, without the slightest hint or warning, Amelia had kissed him, leaving Sherlock utterly bemused, the mere memory of her burning into his mind, burrowing into the secret crevices of his mind palace and haunting him, despite the fact that he'd tried his damnedest to forget her. The years ticked past and Sherlock lost himself in other distractions, solved case after riveting case, found a family of truly wonderful friends in Dr. John Watson, Mrs. Hudson, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, and Molly Hooper. But that was ages ago, back when his life was very nearly perfect. Back when his life made sense.

It's been six months since Sherlock had enlisted the help of Molly Hooper to fake his suicide. Six months since he had last spoken to John. Six months since the local newspapers had fabricated lies about his competency, poisoning the minds of all those who had trusted and believed in him with doubt and disapproval. Six months, twelve days, and eleven hours since he had started living with Molly in the spare bedroom of her flat, driving her absolutely mad.

Sherlock lives as a ghost amongst the unobservant residents of London, haunting cafés and bookshops and unoccupied street corners with his collar turned up against the wind. Though he'll never admit to it, he misses John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson terribly (and possibly even Sergeant Donovan, at times…but not Anderson…never Anderson) and will occasionally check in on them, disguised as a novice postman or takeout delivery employee, to make certain that they're still safe. The moment he thought that his life couldn't possibly become any more complicated than it already was, Sherlock discovered that Amelia Pond had moved to London.

One morning, three months into his afterlife, Sherlock had spotted Amelia locking up and leaving her flat, coffee in one hand, purse and keys in the other. She drove off in a little red car, and didn't even notice that Sherlock had been standing only a few paces away.

Desperate for a distraction from his all-consuming guilt, depression, and boredom, Sherlock commandeered a laptop and began researching Amelia's history, what she'd been up to since they last met. He scrolled article after article, perused professional and candid photographs, promotional posters, and interviews with local television stations, evening talk shows, and a number of modeling agencies, none of which provided him with anything of immediate value or interest:

Amelia Jessica Pond. Approximately twenty years old the night Sherlock had met her on New Year's Eve, according to her birthdate. Married at twenty-one to Rory Williams, Leadworth Nurse. Disappeared for an extended honeymoon on the night of her wedding, claiming to have been traveling with a man who called himself "The Doctor." Lived in Leadworth for several years, intermittently traveling with her husband and their scholarly tour guide. Sources indicate that she and her husband had last visited Manhattan, New York.

Returned to Leadworth for three months after the sudden death of her husband. Tragic accident, according to Amelia's brief disclosure and the opinion of the local news columns. Rory Williams, having achieved the status of a medical physician, had been traveling abroad for a seminar, when his plane had unexpectedly crashed into the ocean. Widowed Pond relocated to London shortly thereafter to continue her flourishing career as a model, and had been living in a modest flat in downtown London for nearly six months.

While it had sounded like a relatively normal life, there was one little detail that had relentlessly clawed at Sherlock's curiosity: Rory and Amelia's sudden, seemingly random disappearances with this mysterious "Doctor." Odd, Sherlock had mused, considering the fact that both Amelia and Rory lacked medical histories of any notable diseases or debilitating ailments that would require the accompaniment of a professional physician.

Therefore, it could only be assumed that this man either acted as their tour guide (curiously opposing professions, though Sherlock supposed everyone had their hobbies) as Rory's mentor (both in medical professions, after all, though why he would accompany the couple on extended holidays, particularly during their honeymoon is beyond him) or was simply a close family friend who did not mind accompanying a married couple as the perpetual third wheel.

However, there was another, much more disturbing possibility — that this man had been directly involved in the late husband's death. Perhaps there was more than just friendship between them. Perhaps the Doctor had, at one point in time, entered into an arrangement with Mr. and Mrs. Williams of a sexual nature (which would explain his accompaniment on their honeymoon) and grew tired of sharing Amelia's affections.

Or perhaps the Doctor had only been a friend, but the reason he constantly hung around a married couple was because he had developed a romantic attachment to Amelia, and in a fit of jealousy, had arranged for the engine failure that had caused Rory's plane to go down, assuming that, with her husband out of the way, the Doctor could finally have Amelia all to himself.

(Though he didn't necessarily condone murder, Sherlock could, perhaps, have a unique understanding of the motive — he'd challenge anyone to kiss Amelia Pond and not at least consider doing the same. Erm. But that was neither here nor there. Anyway.)

As expected, Sherlock's mind had gone into overdrive with countless theories and possibilities. Regardless of the truth, it sounded like a promising cure for Sherlock's endless anger and boredom, with a potentially macabre, wonderfully intricate twist. Delighted to have a new case to distract him, Sherlock took to practically stalking Amelia Pond. Well…it wasn't actually stalking, Sherlock had reasoned, not in the literal sense of the word.

Amelia Pond was simply the strongest link that Sherlock had to uncovering the truth about the Doctor's identity and current whereabouts, which could have, in turn, lead to unmasking him as a cold-blooded murderer with terroristic tendencies…and wasn't that exhilarating? It was not, obviously, due to the fact that Sherlock couldn't keep the memory of New Year's Eve from constantly playing, over and over again, inside his mind. That would imply that Sherlock had enjoyed Amelia's company…that he hadn't long ago deleted the sensory-infused memory of her kiss…that was a thoroughly illogical, preposterous notion.

One evening, Sherlock had followed Amelia home from work, watched her park outside of a nearby café, and embrace a tall, voluptuous, older woman with curly blonde hair, whom Amelia had called "River." Sherlock had assumed, of course, that River was a distant relative who hadn't been able to make it to Rory Williams' funeral…though it seemed unlikely, considering River's air of lighthearted joy, the brilliant smile stamped across her lips at the sight of Amelia. The two of them sat opposite one another at a little wooden table at the back of the café, and the woman named River had pulled out a dark blue diary with baroque designs and indentations adorning the cover.

"Let's see, now," she'd said. "Where are we at in your timeline, mum?"

Amelia forced a smile, absentmindedly stirring her tea.

"I've just turned thirty-one, and…Mels, your father, he's…" Amelia sighed, stumbling over her words and cradling her forehead in the palm of her hand. "Rory is dead. Has been for six and a half months now, at least in our time. Two thousand years ago, his time. He was taken by the Angels when we went to Manhattan. Displaced in time. I never found him, never got the chance to say goodbye. The Doctor, he…he still visits…whenever I'll allow him to."

Amelia smiled sadly, her features contorting into a combination of anger and sorrow. In an instant, River's smile had faded, twisting to match her mother's, and the two of them had spent the rest of the evening quietly crying into their tea.

Three details revolving around what Sherlock had overheard that evening had bothered him to no end. First of all, how could River, a woman who appeared as though she either matched or exceeded Amelia in age, have possibly been Amelia's daughter? Second of all, if her birthdate was indeed listed correctly on her certificate, then Amelia Pond should have been twenty-three years old, and yet she had informed River that she had recently turned thirty-one. Third, and possibly most troubling of all…for the very first time in his life, Sherlock had failed to understand the meaning behind their conversation. The phrases "two thousand years ago" and "displaced in time" had him reeling in confusion and self-doubt.

Obsessed with the mystery of Amelia's age contrasting with her appearance and personal records, wondering if this "Doctor" character (perhaps an incredibly efficient plastic surgeon and identity forging specialist?) had anything to do with it, Sherlock dove deeper into her history, all the way back into her adolescence and childhood. He pilfered her psychiatry records, discovered that "the Doctor" was, according to her physicians, a figment of Amelia's imagination, an imaginary friend, a fairy tale man from another world who apparently traveled through time and space in a blue police box. It was nonsensical, illogical, and completely ridiculous…and yet…somehow, it all made sense.

Desperately trying to convince himself that he hadn't gone rogue from investigative withdrawal, Sherlock began researching the theoretical and conspiratorial possibilities surrounding time travel and the existence of aliens, stringing together mad, impossible theories from subtle hints and rumors, worked his way into top-security files from private institutions called UNIT and Torchwood, and discovered the truth: the Doctor was real, and Amelia Pond was a time traveler.

Enthralled and enamored, he found himself desperate to speak with her, to hear the truth of what he had discovered straight from her lips. He considered calling her near constantly, but always found reason to stop himself, most notably being that he was supposed to be a dead man.

He wondered if Amelia had ever been curious about him in return, if she had researched his past as he had done with her, and if she had discovered the report of his suicide. And then, assuming Amelia knew that he had allegedly died, would she have even cared? Would Amelia even remember who he was, or was Sherlock Holmes merely a blip in her timeline compared to the brilliant, captivating phenomena she had undoubtedly witnessed traveling the realms of time and space that would likely outshine the corrupted monotony of humanity, himself included.

It took Sherlock several weeks before he finally arrived at a decision, curiosity winning out in the end. And so, six months into his afterlife, Sherlock sent Amelia Pond a text message with a set of coordinates marking the place where they had first met, and a signature that simply read SH.

• • •

Everyone thinks that Amelia Pond has gone mad. Ever since the sudden, tragic death of her husband, Rory Williams, the night he'd flown abroad to America for a seminar and his plane had crashed into the ocean, she hadn't spoken a word to anyone about him. After all, if she had told them the truth, no one would have believed her. In reality, Amelia Pond and Rory Williams had run away with the Doctor on their wedding night to explore the universe, to travel through time and space.

Amelia craved adventure, adored the sensation of adrenaline swimming through her veins, heart thundering in her chest at the possibility of danger and mayhem. She knew that it couldn't last, she knew that her days were numbered, but she hadn't ever expected that it would end the way that it had. One time, one fateful adventure, the Doctor, Amelia, and Rory had been surrounded by a swarm of Weeping Angels, and Rory had been taken from her. Displaced in time, the possibilities of where he could have been sent endless.

She had found Rory in history books. The Lone Centurion, he'd been called. Brave and courageous and boundlessly loyal, a hero killed in battle. Immediately after he had been taken, Amelia had wanted to find Rory, would have spent the rest of her life searching for him, would have rewritten time and torn apart the universe to rescue him from his violent, battle-scarred fate as a Roman soldier…but the Doctor had told her that it was next to impossible, that the gap in his history was far too wide, that events recorded during that time period were vague and unreliable, and that they would likely never find him.

After that night, Amelia had demanded that the Doctor take her home, for good this time. She had told him that she was through with fairy tales, and that she had no desire to see him ever again, told him that she couldn't stand to be be around him anymore, that his continued involvement in her life would only serve to remind her of Rory, and of the fact that she had lost him. If he couldn't bring Rory back to her, if he couldn't even try, then what was the point of him? If he couldn't understand how much she loved Rory, how much she desperately needed to find him, had he ever truly known her, or cared for her at all?

She knew that it was selfish, knew that it was wrong of her to assume, but Amelia couldn't help placing the weight of Rory's death on the Doctor's shoulders, couldn't help but wonder if Rory would become yet another death in the Doctor's timeline, another notch in the Doctor's guilt-ridden conscience, the blood of another companion, forever staining the Doctor's hands. From time to time, she wondered if she would ever be able to forgive him for everything that he had done, everything that he had taken away from her.

Three months following her return home, after she had gotten well used to the tedium of time passing in the right order, she had decided to pack up and move to London, leaving her history with Rory and the Doctor behind her in Leadworth. It's been nine months since Amy left the TARDIS, and her life still doesn't make any sense. One evening, Amelia Pond nearly faints in the middle of a crosswalk when she receives a text message from Sherlock Holmes. Of course, she'd already had his number, but she hadn't been expecting to hear from a dead man.

From the moment she'd moved to London, she'd heard rumors about Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective — the odd, arrogant genius of a man with a beautiful mind and a cold, calculating disposition. (Amelia had, of course, actively ignored the endless list of parallels linking Sherlock Holmes and the Doctor.) Desperate for a distraction, she'd immersed herself in research, followed most of his cases, followed his blog, The Science of Deduction, and his colleague, Dr. John Watson's blog, investigated the James Moriarty scandal, and cried the night she'd discovered that Sherlock had committed suicide.

She'd often considered contacting John Watson, sought comfort in their coincidental connection to creatures with brilliant minds and a proclivity for danger and turmoil, in a man who had suffered a loss comparable to her own, but thought better of it. After all, she was probably just a blip in Sherlock's timeline, an amusing anecdote at best. A story that probably hadn't even made an impact on Sherlock's vast, expansive memory, one that probably hadn't been enthralling enough to share with anyone, in comparison to Sherlock's endless collection of riveting detective tales.

It's been eleven years since she first met Sherlock Holmes, (three years for him, of course) and Amelia still hasn't forgotten that kiss on New Year's Eve, especially since it had technically happened twice. The first time it had happened, they had been living in the original universe, and Amelia had been alone and her life hadn't made any sense. The second time around, after the universe had been rebooted, three weeks before Rory had admitted that he was in love with her, she'd been out with Mels (who had taken off with some bloke in a navy blue pea coat who called himself "Captain Jack") leaving her all on her own.

She remembers that night happening in two completely different ways, remembers that, both times, in both universes, they had shared the same conversation and the same cigarettes. In both realities, Amelia had kissed Sherlock Holmes at midnight. It's oddly unsettling, and just a tiny bit terrifying, and Amelia finds herself wondering if certain events are simply meant to happen. If the paths of two seemingly different people are meant to collide.

If, despite a massive shift in reality, fractures in time that have the power to erase people and galaxies alike from existence, despite a second chance at the creation of the universe, forever changing the way history was lived and recorded, certain events simply cannot be rewritten, and certain people simply cannot cease to exist. Fixed points in time, the Doctor called them.

Amelia finds a quiet café, orders her favorite tea, and spends the rest of the afternoon pondering the mad, impossible message she'd just received. For the first time in nine months, Amelia smiles.

• • •

Without even needing to be asked, he lights it for her, lips quirking into a curious smile as he studies this guilt-and-sorrow-plagued version of the woman he'd met three years prior. (Of course, for her, it's been eleven years since they'd last spoken.) The life of a time traveler…it's difficult to follow, but Sherlock promises himself that he will try his damnedest to keep up with her.

Together, the two of them stand there in a comfortable silence, shrouded in a cloud of cigarette smoke, mirroring that fateful night on New Year's Eve, content in one another's company, enamored by the complicated catastrophes of each other's history.

#bbc sherlock #doctor who #sherlock holmes #amelia pond #amy pond #bbc sherlock fanfiction #doctor who fanfiction #logic and lore #fairytalesandfolklore #fairytales-and-folklore #fairytalesandfolklore fanfiction #fairytalesandfolklore doctor who #fairytalesandfolklore bbc sherlock

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