#sherlock holmes x maid!reader

[holylulusworld]

Mr. Holmes Maid (2)

Summary: You’re his maid.

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Maid!Reader

Warnings: angst, power imbalance, dub-con (just in case) cuddling/sharing a bed, master-servant relationship, the reader was an orphan, mentions of physical abuse against the reader (childhood/implied), inappropriate behavior

Mr. Holmes’ maid (1)

Mr. Holmes’ maid masterlist

Four months after Sherlock came to your room for the first time, one of his former classmates came for a visit.

Everything was normal. You prepared tea and biscuits. While you followed the strict codes of conduct and were not allowed to speak to Sherlock’s guest, he wouldn't stop asking you questions you didn't want to answer. The man didn’t want to take the hint that you were uncomfortable around him.

His hand brushed against your bottom more than once, and he shamelessly stared at your chest.

“I wondered why Sherlock had a maid all for himself. Now I know,” he grinned and patted his lap. “Why don’t you give me the same treatment you give your master.”

“I-“ you didn’t know how to react. This man was just awful, but you weren’t able to fight him. You were only a maid, and he was your master’s friend.

“What’s going on here?” Sherlock came just in time to save you. He cocked his head and watched you whimper in distress. You never acted like that. Not in front of him, or his brother.

“I only offered your maid to sit on my lap, my friend,” the man patted his big tummy. “Maybe she likes me more than you. You’re always so…strict.”

“We are rather acquaintances, than friends. I haven’t heard from you for years,” Sherlock stepped toward you to stand by your side. “Maid, please retreat. We have to discuss manners you wouldn’t understand.”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes,” you never felt more relieved than in that moment. The man scared you in more than one way.

You curtsied and left the room, walking as fast as your feet would carry you.

All you wanted was to be away from this man and his demands.

Your loyalty belongs only to your master, Sherlock Holmes.

“This person,” Sherlock angrily entered your room. He cursed under his breath, using words you never thought belonged to his vocabulary. Your master was angry. Why, you didn’t know. “How dare he come here believing he can offer me money to get my maid.”

“What?” You sat up on the bed, suddenly wide awake. “I don’t understand.”

“He called me rude and unreasonable because I didn’t want to hand my maid over to him,” Sherlock pushed his locks out of his face. “I haven’t heard of him for years, and he comes here to steal my maid.”

You didn’t understand. Why would a man you never saw before come to Sherlock to get you? Your lips wobbled and you felt like a cold hand gripped your heart.

“Do not fret, my dear,” Sherlock said. “I sent him home, not without giving him what he deserved.”

You glanced at Sherlock, shocked at the sight of his split knuckles.

“Mr. Holmes,” you got up from the bed to take care of his hands. “We need to clean the wounds. Let me help you.”

“I cleaned the split skin,” he said, and gently ran his index finger over your cheek. He hummed and watched your shoulders relax. “He will never bother us again. We should rest now.”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes,” you murmured, already used to sleeping in one bed with your master. “I changed the sheets and got you another blanket. It’s getting colder, and you are not used to the cold.”

“So sweet,” he cupped your chin with his index finger and thumb. “I wonder if your lips taste sweet too.” Sherlock leaned closer. His lips almost touched yours when he dropped his hand and stepped away from you. “I-I should…no…I need to reread a few papers. Have a good night.”

Sherlock left your chamber and didn’t return that night. It was the first night you spent alone, and you felt cold and lonely.

“Mr. Holmes, there is a letter for you,” you shyly glanced at Sherlock. He was engrossed in reading another letter. “I have finished my chores for today. I’ll retreat to my chamber to knit.”

“Wait—” He suddenly got up. “I need your opinion on something.” Sherlock walked out of his office to get a blanket. “I got it for the winter. You said it’s cold in your chamber and I thought of you.”

Sherlock pushed the blanket into your hands and turned his attention toward the letter without waiting for your answer. Your heart fluttered. He got a warm and soft blanket for you, and it meant the world to you.

“Have a good night, Mr. Holmes.”

You woke like any other night with Sherlock’s arms locked around your body like anchors holding you to him.

“You’re awake,” Sherlock murmured your name. “Why?”

“There is no reason,” you whispered, afraid to tell him the truth. You woke because of a bad dream – or rather a memory from the past. This happens once in a while if you allow yourself to think of the past too much.

“Do not lie to me, maid,” he sounded angry, and you flinched. “You were crying in your sleep and tried to get away from me.”

Forced to tell him the truth you took a deep breath. “I had a bad dream,” you sniffled. “I dreamed of the orphanage I spent my childhood at. The children called me names, and the nuns hit me with a ruler.”

“You never told me that you grew up in an orphanage,” he sounded surprised, and his tone softened. “Why did you never tell me?”

“I’m here to serve, not for chatter. That’s what I've been told all my life. I didn’t think it was important,” you murmured. Sherlock never asked questions about your childhood. He only cared about your reputation and your cleaning skills.

He inhaled sharply. A habit when something angers him.

“I need to know every detail. Details are important,” he said. “I want you to tell me everything about your past. Now!”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes,” you hoped he’d lose interest and forget about your nightmare in the morning. “I was all alone, and the other children didn’t like me. No one ever told me why they didn’t like me. I tried anything but…” You wiped your eyes. “No one ever wanted me.”

“You’re here now,” Sherlock whispered in your ear. “Safe and sound.”

The night was shorter than usual. Someone yelled Sherlock’s name and harshly knocked at the door. You woke, startled by the man screaming your master’s name.

“Open the door!” the man yelled even louder. “You dishonored my wife!”

“Y/N, I want you to stay here and try to get more sleep. Let me handle this,” Sherlock slipped out of bed and grabbed his robe. He threw it on and left your room.

You couldn’t go back to sleep. His warmth left your body, and your teeth chattered. Scared you listened closely as the man calmed and repeatedly apologized to your master.

“People these days,” Sherlock reentered your room, closing the door with a loud thud. “He dared to come to my home and scare my—” He looked at you, unsure what you are to him. “Never mind. He came to the wrong house.”

You nodded and lifted the covers. “Are you alright, Mr. Holmes.”

“Of course, Y/N,” he took his robe off and joined you in your bed again. “We will sleep a little bit. Tomorrow will be a busy day.”

“Mr. Holmes, what a pleasure to see you,” the owner of the boutique spluttered, obviously excited that the infamous and wealthy detective came to his boutique again. “What brings me the pleasure of your presence.”

The man smiled widely and almost drooled all over your master. You got ignored, like most of the time. Well, your simple dress and appearance don’t catch the eye of many people. In the end, you’re only a peasant, not a person to most of the people you meet.

“I need a new wardrobe for my—,” Sherlock cleared his throat when you didn’t react, “maid. Y/N, come here.”

“Mr. Holmes,” you were surprised he told the man that the dresses and winter coat he ordered weren’t for Enola, his sister, and ward. “Do you want me to have a look at the dresses for your sister?”

He sighed, exasperated. If Sherlock hated one thing, it was waiting time. “The dresses are for you. I need you to try one on. I don’t want to waste my money on dresses not suiting you.”

“I-“Confused you look at the owner of the boutique. He looked as shocked as you.

“I need her to represent the household, Holmes. I cannot let her run around in a torn dress,” Sherlock touched the back of your dress, gripping it tightly until you heard a ripping sound. “See, the material is the worst. I have a reputation to protect.”

“Mr. Holmes,” the man nodded eagerly. He called for his wife to help you try on one of the dresses. “Of course.”

Sherlock hummed and looked around the boutique. He wasn’t interested in buying another vest or coat. Your master tried to distract himself to not follow you and watch you redress. He was a gentleman after all…

“Oh, look at you,” the boutique owner’s wife cooed. She told you to look in the mirror. The woman in the mirror staring back at you wasn’t you. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

The biscuit and rose-colored silk bustle dress with lace trimmings fitted you like it was made for you. “It’s beautiful,” you replied, but didn’t know what else to say. You've never worn a dress like this before. In lack of words, you remained silent.

“Let me get Mr. Holmes,” she finally said and left you alone with your racing heart. Why would he buy you a dress like this? Maybe it was another test. He’d buy it for his sister, or some other woman and wanted to remind you of your place.

“What do you think, Mr. Holmes?” She came back with your master by her side.

Sherlock looked you up and down in the new dress. He hummed and clasped both hands behind his back while going around you.

“It’s well done,” he said. “I’m satisfied with your handiwork. Let’s try on the others,” Sherlock stopped right in front of you to watch you drop your gaze. “Shall we?”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes,” you murmured, unsure how to react to his behavior. “What do you want me to try on next?”

He cocked his head to glance at the dresses. “The red one. I liked it the most.” Sherlock followed you. Hand brushing over your back. “I hope you like it as much as I do. You will look beautiful in it.” He whispers the last part.

Your heart was beating out of your chest. Sherlock’s hand on your back felt warm and soothing, still, it was inappropriate. He openly showed affection toward a peasant.

This could ruin his reputation, and yours…

Part 3

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[cherryclxud]

Catch me if you can, Lord Holmes pt1

(ENOLA HOLMES)!Sherlock x BRIDGERTON!reader

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

word count: 3.8k

Warnings: none

read below for credits

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

“Did you read what this man has written?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—--------

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Enola”

Y/n raised her eyebrows “Sorry?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good day to you Bridgerton” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I see…”

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

“He's hunting” Enola spoke up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A cat called Minnie…apparently”

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

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

The game was truly afoot.

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I do not own Bridgerton

I do not own Sherlock or Enola Holmes

and I most certainly do not own the abominable bride story

they belong to their rightful owners.

I only own the fic idea.

@frost-queen

[ladylaviniya]

Wails of Wedded Bliss

Chapter 6 || Masterlist || Chapter 8

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

Pairing: Sherlock Homes x wife!reader

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

Word Count: 9k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Lucky, while incredibly resentful.’

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

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

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

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

You couldn’t answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Both Sherlock and Lestrade smiled and stood up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My dear, would you care to have a stroll with me in my garden?” She smirked and jerked her chin, “Knowing how dear Thaddie kept his space organised I suspect the gentlemen might be a while.”

You nodded and quickly made the warning assurance, “Are you in a condition to move great feets Lady Pennicott?”

“Fret not,” She giggled girlishly and waved her hand casually, “The physician told me fresh air is delightful for the health of the babe,” she tapped the top of her belly, “I have a month or so before they come.”

Your eyes widened, she looked huge enough to give birth now, surely she wasn’t a month away!! Maybe she was going to be blessed with a pair of twins. You had such a limited knowledge of pregnancy in women. Your grandmother hadn’t given birthed a child in the last forty years before your birth!!!

She pointed the way out of the main mansion to enter the garden paths. The sun was perfect today amongst the clouds. It was neither cold nor hot nor humid and dank...it was pleasant and you could smell the fresh nature of bushels and flowers.

“How long have you been known as, The Mrs Holmes?” She inquired cheerfully with her shining silver eyes.

“...Not very long,” you replied warmly before risking a white lie, “We recently finished our honeymoon.”

She grinned and waddled passed a wooden bench, she took a quick stop to rest and pat the seat for you to join her instead of standing dumbly.

“Shall I share some words of advise?,” She hummed, “From a woman that has been married for twelve years?”

“I would be ever so grateful,” you said rushed and desperate. You wouldve listened to anything she had to say. A woman of her standing must’ve held adequate wisdom.

She warmly cupped both your hands and squeezed them. And yet there was an ice creepy into her gaze. She appeared to dissociate, her voice losing its youthful lilt. Her lip wobbled slightly.

“Men are visual creatures. While you are so young and beautiful, you must become pregnant as soon as possible,” Lady Pennicott ran her palm across your waist, her eyes like razors cut across the yard to a bush of red rose buds, “It is inevitable that our husbands will stray their gazes to other women, it is in their nature,” those grey stones in her face rolled back and weighed you down, “as I said- visual creatures. The sooner you make a babe, the easier his devotion comes,” A joyous grin returned to her thin lips, she playfully tapped the tip of your nose and stated, “Trust me upon this.”

You clenched your hand behind you and strained a smile, “I thankyou for such wise words Baroness. I will endeavour to do what I must to conceive.”

At this moment in time Sherlock had proved himself a monstrous villain. Would it be possible for you to fall pregnant?

You looked out at the divine lush greenery and exhaled softly.

“Do you garden Mrs Holmes?” the baroness queried.

You chuckled softly and removed your gloves, you flashed her a sight of your palm, “I am afraid my hands have never been introduced. My grandmother preferred I focus on mastering piano and embroidery.”

The grey orbs fluttered back at you with a surprised him, “Embroidery is a lovely skill,” she pat your hand and pointed across the field, “Please help me up Mrs Holmes, let us take a look at my lilacs.”

You stood straight up and leant out your arm, she was surprisingly light for a woman her size. She leant against you and took small timid steps to her flower patches.

She stood and admired the flower patches, pointing to different types and explaining the breeds of flowers she hoped to grow in the future.

You finally bent over enough and cupped the petals of purple to hold up to your nose and took in a wiff “They smell lovely,” from the corner of your eye was a line of crimson, “I see your roses will soon be in bloom.”

She pinched a bud that was peaking to bloom soon.

“Oh yes, the soil is rich and healthy,” she giggled, “I can’t wait for Thaddeus to return, he liked the roses. He would stand here for a while and think. I know he will love the red colour. It is his favourite shade you see...” She sighed dreamily with her eyes scanning the bushes of scarlet rose buds, “I miss him terribly. I hope he’s alright. I want him to come home soon before the baby arrives.”

A fly smacked into your eye and you sputtered, battering it away. When you gracelessly composed yourself, you stood back up to your feet beside the Lady of Groveland.

You could see how her eyes puddles with droplets of mournful tears. You felt bad for any woman that did not know where her husband was. Especially if there was a rumour about him fleeing the marriage and abandoning her in her serious pregnant condition.

Taking the chance, you boldly took both your hands into yours and now squeezed them. Another buzzing from a fly sat on your shoulder.

The day was growing warmer and a bead of sweat rolled down your neck. The fly tickled your neck and suckled along your salted skin.

You tried your best to ignore the annoying creature.

“I am sure he will Lady Pennicott,” you soothed with a soft welcoming grin, “And he will be most happy when he returns.”

She sighed solemnly and glanced back at the rose bushes. You felt obligated for her happiness in that moment. Glancing back to the house you felt a opportunity come to you.

“May I visit your nursery Lady Pennicott, so I may have references for my own in the future?”

Her eyes flickered up, her face shine bright and her hand tightened over your wrists excitedly as though she was still as youthful as a school girl.

“Why of course Mrs Holmes,” she spun on her heel and wobbled a slight, she lifted her hand and called to the maid Martha still packing the china set inside, “Please inform the detective that I am taking his wife up to the nursery.”

“Yes Baroness,” she said with a humble curtsey and scurried off while Lady Pennicott took you totally inside the house and up a grand stair case from the foyer.

9:03am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England. 

Up, up, up you both climbed the stairs. You noticed how the stairs didn’t bother her ladyship once, she was fit and stridden widely whereas you were breathing a little hard by the top step.

She pulled you down a hallway to a white painted door.

She excitedly opened the door wide and practically skipped inside to show you around her future child’s room.

The walls were covered in light blue and yellow paint. There were small peonies covering the trim of the room. There was no carpet but who needed one when you had a newborn.

“Welcome to the resting nest of my baby,” Lady Pennicott proudly exclaimed, spreading her arms out at the room around you.

There was a tall shelf filled with stuffed animals and teddy bears. There was a rocking horse, a doll house, spinning tops, tin cars and rubber balls all waiting, collecting dust, awaiting the arrival of a playmate. There was a permabulator by the window sill. There was a rocking chair in one corner and against the wall closest to the door- you smiled and swaggered over curiously, “Is this the cradle you bought?”

It was made of fine cream painted wood. You chewed your bottom lip in the thought. It was a lovely crib, why was Lord Pennicott so upset by such a delightful purchase? He didn’t have money issues. You put it down as that you didn’t understand the way men thought and men will never know what women think.

“Yes,” Lady Pennicott chirped, “it is from William Whitely department store in Baywater next to the Howard & Co dress department.”

The Baroness sat down into her rocking chair and slowly moved it back and forth, watching you admire the nursery she spent hours and years consistently curating.

You clenched the edge and looked over the railing down at the empty bedding. There was a teddy lamb in the corner, you pinched it’s fluffy white tail and sighed. For a brief moment you let your eyes close and your imagination wander far.

One day you’d have this...with Sherlock. An empty cradle to be filled. You caught the vision of a tiny hand squeeze around your finger and the sound of soft gurgles with the warm pressure of a hand on your waist...was that Sherlock’s hand? Was that your child?

One day you’d have a baby to care for, to provide these things that meant love...yet, was any child of Sherlock’s capable of love? He certainly wasn’t as far as you were concerned.

You bit down a shudder and opened your eyes, feeling hot tears glide down a cheek. You pushed back and sighed, “I am most confident on one thing Lady Pennicott.”

“And what is that Mrs Holmes?” she said softly, she could see the unspoken pain in your face. You swallowed hard and your face fell into a smile, you flashed her a wink.

You laughed softly, “Your child will be spoilt rotten by the love you give.”

She chuckled with you and nodded.

“Have you thought of a name?” you inquired, waltzing over to the chested drawers of baby knick knacks on display.

“Thaddeus Colin if it’s a boy,” she hummed, “or Theresa Grace if it is a girl.”

“Theresa?”

She giggled gently, “That is my name dear.”

Mrs Theresa Pennicott. It suited her. Her old soul eyes reflected her devout name.

A shine of glass pierced a ray of sun into your eyes, you pinched the glass object carefully. You touched a long black tube pulling out of it. You couldnt understand it’s purpose, your eyes narrowed at the rubber end that was shaped like a thumb or a cows udder. There was a second tube attached to the first with a rubber squeeze ball at the end.

“What is this?” you humoured.

“Oh that? It’s a fantastic invention,” The baroness said, “It’s a pump for breast milk with a tube that syphons the milk into this baby feeding bottle. When babies start to teeth they can scar your breasts. This is an effective and modern method I look forward to trying.”

Your eyes widened, scarring!? Babies teeth could scar a breast!?

You placed the bottle bump back and helped Lady Pennicott when she beckoned to stand back up from the rocking chair.

“Have you ever felt the sensations?” She suddenly, “In which they kick within?”

Your face must’ve looked idiotic as you asked plainly, “Kick?”

She giggled and nodded, “Give me your hand, perhaps you may feel them moving.”

She plucked your palm and pulled your glove off your fingers. She pressed your entire hand intimately to her belly. You felt a sense of taboo shame, she was making you touch such a beloved spot.

“Do you feel it?” she then asked.

Felt what? Confusion flooded your mind. Your hand moved around her belly slowly.

“I am afraid I don’t know what I’m meant to be feeling?”

She moved your hand and again you felt absolutely nothing.

“They are very brutal on my body,” Lady Pennicott sarcastically assured, “trust me there is a kick.”

She made a point to push your hand harder, but all you felt was the hard material of her corsetry beneath her main dressing materials.

“Baby’s kick you inside?” you marvelled with stunned horror. This was the first time you’d ever heard of such a notion of a baby beating it’s mother inside.

“Not out of malicious intent Mrs Holmes,” she reassured, “mostly it is the baby using its limbs to move their cramped bodies inside or excitement at the sound of voices, I truly believe they can hear us while still inside. Fear not, to you it will feel like a faint touch like this-”

Lady Pennicott softly tapped your wrist, “Like that.”

And there again was new knowledge you heard from a woman on matters of pregnancy. You moved your fingers around, seeking the supposed feeling of a kick...

Still nothing. You frowned, was there something wrong with you that the baby was choosing not to reveal itself.

“How interesting...”

A soft knock on wood alerted you both to glance at the door.

“Mrs Holmes,” the butler from earlier politely spoke, “the detective is requesting your return, I believe he intends to depart.”

Your face fell. You couldn’t believe it but you’d found this experience immensely enjoyable. You had surprisingly made a friend of the Baroness.

The fair lady hugged your side and sweetly exhaled, “Then I shall escort you back to your husband, Eddie fetch me my cheque book.”

He nodded and walked ahead of you both. You solemnly shut the nursery door, trying to remember every precious detail as possible. It was a innocent place to escape from the crude world.

You returned to the bottom of the foyer and smiled at your husband that stood by Lestrade at the front doors.

By the bottom step you faced the noble woman and curtsied.

“Thankyou Lady Pennicott for your kind hospitality and agreeable cooperation to the case,” you heard Sherlock’s voice float over your shoulder.

“Of course detective, please,” the Butler returned with her cheque book, “find my beloved Thaddeus.”

She scribbled speedily with a modernised ink pen, a sharp tear of paper flashed to his direction, “Here. Thirty pounds. I am sure you are busy with other clients considering your reputation, but I beseech you to seek out my husband quickly.”

Sherlock bowed his head as he deposited the cheque into his pocket, “We shall try our hardest. Good afternoon Lady Pennicott.”

Your mouth might’ve collected flies. Thirty pounds. THIRTY pounds. That was a hefty wage for a year to many men.

Sherlock was granted his coat and walking cane along with Lestrade.

He opened the front door and left slowly, glancing over your shoulder back at the heavily pregnant Baroness.

9:21am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England. 

Sherlock and you walked up the gravel path in silence for sometime. You weren’t in much of a mood to speak to him despite well knowing conversation would need to spark eventually.

The three of you slowed down beside the inspectors horse cart.

Thankfully it was Sherlock who destroyed the silence with a stretched sigh. Lestrade grimly smiled at that sigh and rocked on his heels.

“Lestrade, show a useful skill,” Sherlock slapped a coin purse into his chest, “Find my wife and I a decent ride homeward. You still need to return back to the office and finish writing those reports on the Spring heeled Jack sightings....” he snickered.

The mutton chop male grumbled and left you pair alone to walk down the path into the main parklands to hail a cabriolet or another hackney carriage.

Sherlock pulled out his pipe and lit it quickly, he inhaled fast and asked curiously, “Did you learn anything else from our suspect?”

You squinted and felt a gasp pop from your lips, your hand snapped out and dug your nails into his arm with a scolding hiss, “Suspect? Look at the state she is in Sherlock. She clearly loves her husband. How could such a indisposed woman do anything to her husband?”

He smirked, “Perhaps a jealous one?”

Your brows pulled together. Jealousy wasn’t something you would’ve describe Lady Pennicott as especially with such a privileged life. Such an emotion wouldve been beneath her...but.. ‘It is inevitable that our husbands will stray their gazes to other women, it is in their nature.’

Sherlock pinched out a piece of card from his pocket, a business calling card, he flashed it through his fingers and let you carefully pluck it from his hand.

“it is no wonder Thaddeus Pennicotts name was so familiar,” Sherlocks huffed a puff of air, “He visits a like minded establishment.”

On the front of the card was a single image, a dove holding a olive leaf, and when you turned the card around there was a woman modelled in immodest clothing with text and an address in perfect hand writing.

“The Mayfair Row Dove club.”

You almost dropped the card in the mud at your feet.

He tucked the card back into his breast pocket and hooked his arm around yours, walking you closer to Lestrade waving his hands back at you both.

“I’m curious who his go to bird is there,” He chuckled.

You shook your head and scoffed in disbelief, “but she’s pregnant.”

“Men have needs,” Sherlock sighed, “I thought you’d have learnt that from last evening?”

Your nails dug harder into his arm and grit your teeth. Not everyone was as depraved as Sherlock, surely not. You couldn’t imagine Mycroft or your grandfather practicing such atrocities on women, especially women that weren’t their wives.

You noted snootily, “She said her husband liked to stand out by the roses to think. Perhaps he regretted his choice.”

Sherlock laughed cruelly and hard enough to almost drop his pipe from his lips. He plucked it out of his mouth and kissed you hard and squarely in front of Lestrade and any passing people that shook their heads in disgust at such public affection.

The taste of his tobacco filled your cheeks and floated down your throat into your chest. You could feel how his breath became your breath. Your head grew dizzy from it. His release left you trembling and collapsing against him briefly. His arm grabbed around your waist and held you totally against his chest.

“You see too much good in the worst people,” he whispered wetly into your ear.

“Not true,” you panted, you blinked your eyes hard and tried speaking again. You weakly pushed away from him back onto your own two feet. From the corner of your eyes you could see the inspector standing beside another hackney carriage.

“Not true,” you repeated and swallowed hard, “...I don’t see any good in you Sherlock.”

He grinned devilishly and walked you both to the carriage, He ignored Lestrade entirely except for retrieving his own purse.

“None at all?” Sherlock asked as he helped you step up inside of the carriage. It jostled as he plotted himself next to you instead of opposite.

You thought hard on his question for a time. You shouldn’t have ever been as petty as him. So you kept your silence before you could decide on a eloquent response. You did try to find the good in him. The trouble was you barely knew Sherlock and the side that you’d encounter was nothing short of a blagged, insufferable man that happened to be very experienced in the arts of the bedroom. So you tried to think about qualities you hadn’t seen in him but had at least heard of him.

“You help solve cases and even sometimes restitution, these deeds could be counted as decent and beneficial...perhaps good...”

He smirked until you finished hastily, “However your mistreatment and lustful addiction is nothing short of that than a person that suffers in his sin.”

A long annoyed sigh drew from his lips, however the corners jerked up.

He tug out his pipe and tapped it’s contents out the moving window, “Might I ask Mrs Holmes...” he inquired as he tucked in his pipe, and wiped his lips thoughtfully, “Do you think yourself better than me?”

The silence shared between the horses trotting along the cobblestones allowed you a chance to glare long and hard at Sherlock.

It was a jab, a jibe, a joke, a trick, a trap...

He wanted you to say yes... You could see it in his eyes the way they flicked to your lips and almost drooled with anticipation. He wanted to start a fight.

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking at you, you turned your head away and scoffed, “You may have quick wit and a expansive knowledge Sherlock, but I at least carry myself with the fairest morals.”

And that? The reply was granted a omen of Sherlock’s sickly chuckles and his heavy warm hand to sit over your thigh, running his them over the fabric of your skirts.

“We will see how fair a baker street whore morals really are when we arrive home then shall we?”

You leant against the wall of the carriage and chose to ignore him. You closed your eyes and held Sherlock’s hand to prevent it wandering anywhere else. His thumb rubbed along the back of your gloves hands.

You couldn’t understand Sherlock. And feared you never would.

HELPLINES:

If you are a victim of sexual abuse, assault or domestic violence or know someone who is please reach out to these links that share helpline services, phone numbers or emails. Consent and respect is important in every relationship whether between friends, family or even strangers.

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[cinebration]

What Purpose? (Sherlock Holmes x Reader) [Request]

hellooo, if you taking requests, you could do sherlock holmes (of enola holmes) x reader fic inspired by theo sharpe and eloise bridgerton?? I’d Sherlock to be very in love with the reader, and tells her something like: when I read something new or interesting or provoking, it is you who crosses my mind. It is you I would like to speak with about those thoughts and so I am wondering if you might also have thoughts of me when you think.—Requested by @kelloggs-world​

I slightly modified the quote. I hope you don’t mind!

Warnings: Mycroft

Gif Source: henrycavilledits

“The society papers say you’re cavorting with Lady Thornton’s personal maid,” Mycroft noted dryly, one eyebrow arching in ill-disguised disdain. “A maid, Sherlock, really.”

“A companion.”

“A glorified maid, then.”

Sherlock snapped the newspaper shut and fixed his brother with a stare. “Do you know anything about her?”

“Yes, the heiress to the modest trapping fortune not dominated by Astor. Which makes it all the more disgraceful that she is an old lady’s maid.”

“If her official title were to change to lady’s companion, would that appease you?” Sherlock shook his head. “I forgot to whom I was speaking.”

Mycroft sniffed and plucked up his snifter of brandy. “Really, Sherlock, what purpose does this woman serve?”

Sherlock straightened in his seat, spine dangerously rigid.

Mycroft snorted. “Every person and every thing serves a purpose, Sherlock. So what good does this woman do? I can’t imagine it’s much.”

The words slipped out through clenched teeth, barbed. “She does more than you.”

A brusque laugh tumbled out of his brother. “I highly doubt that, Sherlock. Our own sister isn’t comparable to either of us, and at least she comes from the source.”

Shoving himself out of his seat, Sherlock straightened his suit jacket and shot a glare in Mycroft’s direction. “Enola is more than a match for you, Mycroft. That’s why you failed to bend her to your will.”

A livid flush crept up Mycroft’s neck and into his cheeks. “If I recall, you stepped in as her guardian.”

“Consider that, brother. She convinced me against you.” Sherlock flashed an insincere smile. “More than your match.”

“Here I thought Enola was the problem, scurrying around town like some low-bred urchin, yet I hear you are cavorting with nothing better than a maid.” A sneer curled Mycroft’s lips. “My God, the pair of you. I don’t know why I even bother!”

“No one asked you to bother, Mycroft.”

Sherlock strode for the door, refraining from snapping a goodbye.

“She can’t be worth much,” Mycroft called after him. “Even if she did throw you a bone by sending you on that murder investigation!”

Teeth grinding, Sherlock all but slammed the door shut. Anger radiated in unexpected waves through him, his frustration tantamount to whenever an investigation thwarted him unnecessarily. He couldn’t understand why Mycroft’s words stuck within him. Though his brother was insufferable, most if not all of his barbs passed through Sherlock without so much as an abrasive touch. That he should so infuriate him confused Sherlock as much as it riled up his ire.

Sheets of rain poured down on the city, drowning all light in gray. Hansoms darted down the cobblestone streets, streaming water in their wake, impossible to flag down. The pavement was nearly empty, everyone huddled someplace out of the deluge.

In his haste, Sherlock had forgotten his umbrella. Turning his coat collar up and shoving his hands deep in his pockets, he cut across the street, dodging a hansom he heard before he saw, and stormed in the direction of his flat. The stinging cold of the rain beating into his face and running rivulets beneath his shirt did nothing to cool him of his anger.

“It wasn’t just the murder,” he hissed between his teeth, hands balling into fists in his pockets. Although the death of your last living relative had proven an intricate and thorny case, one that had taken twelve day to solve, it wasn’t as though you were a treasure trove of such cases. In the months since the investigation’s resolution, you had not required Sherlock’s services again.

Lady Thornton, however, had used them in a theft case shortly after Sherlock solved your case, causing you both to cross paths again. Sherlock had taken the time to interview you regarding the theft and any information you might know. As with your own case, you presented facts and evidence in a logical, rational manner, offering up details that surprised Sherlock and gave a glimpse into your perceptiveness, leaving an indelible impression on him.

The theft was resolved in less than two days. Yet Sherlock had returned again to Lady Thornton’s estate to see you. He had recognized a sharp mind desperate to be seen and engaged, and despite himself, he decided he was the man to do it.

The old woman acted as chaperone, but the shrewd and experienced Lady Thornton recognized what was unfolding before even the faintest hint of it brushed either Sherlock’s or your mind. Melding into the shadows as much as possible, a smirk playing on her lips, Lady Thornton contented herself with providing only the barest level of propriety for the sake of the papers, allowing you and Sherlock as much privacy as she could.

Sherlock had found you eager to discuss all manner of subjects. He brought books for you to devour in days so that there was new topics of discourse the next time you met. Your voracious appetite for knowledge and conversation—proper conversation, not the societal niceties that amounted to nothing but superficiality—secretly delighted Sherlock, such that he took great care to select the most interesting of texts to deliver to your door.

What purpose did you serve? The question tasted vile on Sherlock’s tongue, though he hadn’t been the one to ask it. Like a wound, he returned to it again and again, suffering the indignity of it. Did a person have to serve?

As he turned down one street, then the next, he found himself contemplating it. Loathe to admit it, he realized that Mycroft had something akin to a point. Neither Holmes brother wasted time on anyone without reason. For Mycroft, it was blackmail and state secrets, government and high-society connections; for Sherlock, anything to do with a case.

Therefore, why did he spend so much time with you?

The thought spun so quickly through his mind that he grew dizzy with it, pausing to lean against a lamppost. The answer was there, just beyond his reach, and any attempt to grasp it made him ill, the world tilting beneath his feet.

They carried him through the rain until they found a cab unloading an elderly couple. Sherlock flagged the driver and hopped into the hansom, the carriage dipping low beneath his formidable frame. He had to bribe the driver several extra quid to ensure the man drove him out to the estate.

When they arrived, he paid the man and refrained from asking him to stay. Lady Thornton would never allow him to return home in such weather, not without sending him off in her own carriage. Seeing as she wouldn’t subject her own driver to such inclement conditions, Sherlock would be stuck there until the weather cleared.

The staff recognizing him, they let him enter and stripped him of his soaking overcoat and jacket.

“I believe the former master of the house,” the butler informed him in crisp tones, “had trousers you could use.”

“I can dry before the fire,” Sherlock assured him.

He paced in front of the crackling flames for what seemed like an eternity while he waited for you to arrive. When the door opened softly, it took all his self-control to avoid spinning sharply to face you.

“You’ll catch your death, Sherlock, getting caught in the rain like that!”

Suppressing the faint upward twitch of his lips, Sherlock slowly turned to you. The anger at Mycroft’s words melted as he peered into your face.

“What is it?” you asked, reaching up to touch your cheek self-consciously.

“Nothing. I merely…” Sherlock frowned, casting about for words that suddenly eluded him. “Do you believe that every individual in one’s life must serve a purpose?”

Eyebrows arching, you chuffed a quiet laugh. “My, has the weather made you maudlin?”

“No, it isn’t…my brother made an insinuation, and I thought it worth asking you your opinion on the matter.”

Head cocking to the side, you scrutinized Sherlock’s features. “What sort of insinuation?”

“Well…” Sherlock laughed, shook his head. “Mycroft is uncannily skilled at insinuating more than one thing with few words. It would take hours to parse everything he means from what little he says.”

“You are stuck here until the weather improves, so we have the time to spare.”

Sherlock met your gaze, your eyes sincere and curious. Struck suddenly with the urge to fidget, he turned back toward the fireplace and leaned against the mantle, his soaked trousers and collar slowly drying.

“I think,” you answered carefully, “that whom we choose to spend our time with speaks to their importance in our lives.”

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at you.

“For Lady Thornton, my purpose is to be a companion. She may compensate me for it, but I would be her companion for free, because I enjoy spending time with her. Her purpose for me, if it matters to know, is as mentor and friend. That is sufficient.”

The words sunk into Sherlock’s thoughts, quieting them. The flames popped behind him, crackling as the logs shifted.

“Mycroft asked me what purpose you served,” he heard himself say. “He doesn’t understand why I spend my time with you.”

Your throat moved as you swallowed reflexively, your gaze dropping away from his. “Frankly, I’m inclined to agree with him. I don’t understand why you spend your time with me.”

Sherlock frowned, his chest tight. Were there words to explain why? He considered it for several moments, his heart an uneven metronome in his ribs.

“When I read something new or interesting or provoking,” he began, the words passing softly over his lips, “it is you who crosses my mind. It is you I would like to speak with about those thoughts. So I come here and I share them, and I enjoy hearing your replies.”

You glanced up at him, your gaze sharp and hesitant simultaneously.

“And I find myself wondering…” He swallowed thickly, the words on his tongue as if they had waited his whole life to be there, his thoughts roiling in confusion but the conviction that this was right, inevitable, felt firmly in his deepest self. “I am wondering if you might also have thoughts of me when you think.”

Your lips trembled, caught between a smile and panic, triumph and anxiety. Pressing your fingers against them, you inhaled sharply and attempted again, this time managing to speak. “I think of you often, Sherlock. How could I not?”

Something sharp buried itself in his chest, but the feeling was not altogether unpleasant. Sucking in a breath, he gripped the mantle with both hands, knuckles white with the pressure. He didn’t know how to proceed, the confession having worn out any social manner he had been forced to learn.

Gently clearing your throat, you offered, “So when next you see your brother, tell him the purpose I serve is…as your other self, as you are my other self.”

Your hand touched him lightly on the elbow. Shifting, Sherlock watched your hand slide down the length of his forearm, fingers gently entwining with his. The touch sent shivers through his arm and down his spine, startling him with their strength.

“He will never understand that,” he managed to say, his voice thick.

“Then we should pity him.”

Meeting your gaze, Sherlock laughed, unable to let the sharp ha! stay buried. You smiled, flashing teeth in a beautiful face. He hadn’t realized you were so beautiful…or perhaps you had been beautiful all along, and it had taken all this time for him to see it.

[starssaroundmyscarssblog]

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

𝐋𝐄𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐈𝐍

pairing: sherlock holmes (bbc) x fem!oc

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

word count: 3.04k

warnings: none

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"you've been talking all day."

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

"i like listening."

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

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

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

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

"no it doesn't."

damn.

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

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

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

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

🪩⁺˚⋆｡°✩₊🔎

[angryschnauzer]

On Your Knees - Part 2

Summary; The morning after part 1, Sherlock wakes with a hangover, and by his own deducing figures out what he did to you the previous night. The thought of you only drives him further into desire, and he has a need only you can assist with.

Fandom: Henry Cavill, Enola Holmes Movies.

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, Smut, Oral Sex (Male receiving), Blowjob, moody Sherlock, Sassy Maid, outdated terminology for housekeeping staff.

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Female Reader

Word count: 2258

Here is my masterlist and AO3

I do not run a tag list, instead please follow @angryschnauzerwrites​ and put that blog onto notifications, you’ll then get an alert each time i post something new. My AO3 also has my entire back catalogue of stories (going back to 2013).

On Your Knees - Part 2

Sherlock woke to the feeling of a bayonet piercing his skull. Or at least that’s what his hangover felt like as he cursed the shard of sunlight coming in through the curtains. Peering tentatively out of one eye he watched dust dance in the golden rays for a moment before he licked his parched lips and a taste hit him like a carriage out of control on Fleet Street. 

He sat up, bringing his hand to his lips as his tongue darted out to double check and that’s when the scent on his finger hit his nose; he’d definitely had his mouth and hand between the thighs of a woman the night before. His eyes quickly scanned the room, nothing was out of place or stolen, and as he quickly checked his wallet it was still in his pocket. Pulling it out he checked it and it still was sizeably full meaning he hadn’t spent any time at the Adler house of ill repute, and he hadn’t brought a whore home with him. 

He stood and immediately regretted it, falling onto his backside on the chaise lounge and his blue dressing gown landing in a crumpled heap on the floor. Just at that moment he heard footsteps in the hallway outside, his eyes moving to his door and that’s when the memory hit him; the maid.

“Oh no” he sighed as he raked his hand down his face. What was it that Lestrade always said? Oh yes, ‘Never piss in your own backyard’, and it was usually when a cheating Lord was caught bringing a mistress to his home, but likewise it was also for those that had dalliances with the help. With another sigh he stood, albeit slower this time, grabbed the crumpled fabric from the floor, crossed the room to press the bell for breakfast, and made his way to his bathroom.

Running cool water into the sink, Sherlock stripped and washed himself down, ridding his skin of the pipe smoke from the Pub, and the lingering scent of her, as alluring as it was. Standing at the basin he peered into the mirror before deciding he needed a shave, and rather than take a trip to the barber he opted to pull out his straight blade himself. Lathering the soap he smoothed it over his jaw, feeling the bones beneath and noting how they ached a little. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he realised why they may ache, as clearer memories of fucking her with his tongue came back. He felt a faint stirring in his loose pyjama trousers he’d pulled on, glancing down and letting out an appreciative grunt as he saw his member swelling slightly beneath the loose cotton fabric. Pride was a wicked sin, but he knew he was generously endowed and had a learned skill for driving a woman crazy in bed. Shaking his head he pushed any thoughts from his mind as he concentrated on his shave, but his mind continued to stray back to her. He had to admit he’d thought of her many times before the previous night. Watching her rounded bottom as she’d swept the hearth whilst he’d been conducting an experiment, admiring her bosom when she’d been in the hallway without her apron and he’d been able to see her womanly shape. 

With his shave finished he rinsed his face and let the water drain away, dabbing his jawline with a soft towel before he heard a knock at the main door followed by a cheerful greeting;

“Mr Holmes? I have your breakfast Sir”

Pulling his blue dressing gown on he rushed for the bathroom door, quickly stepping out and through his bedroom, meeting the maid, her, in his parlour;

“Good Morning Miss. Thank you”

She smiled her usual smile and nodded, setting the tray down on the cluttered table, before nodding to the fire that was slowly dying away to embers;

“I’ll just get that for you then i’ll be out of your way Sir”

Sherlock let out a huff. It was as if nothing had happened, she was breezing about as if he didn’t make her cum on his tongue and fingers not twelve hours before! He crossed the room, standing at her side with his hands on his hips before she glanced and did a double take;

“Sir?”

“Was I not good?”

“I’m sorry, Sir?”

“Did I not bring you to climax?”

She held the iron poker in her hand before setting it down with a soft sigh, lifting her gaze to meet his as he stood over her;

“Sir, yes you did, and very well at that”

“So is there an issue?”

“The issue Sir, with all due respect, that if i act improper around you Sir, Mrs Hudson would have me kicked out for impropriety”

Sherlock felt the somewhat childish anger dissipate from him like a set of bagpipes left to deflate after a parade;

“Oh”

“And i don’t have anywhere else to go, so as good as you were, i have to pretend you didn’t give me the best fanny lick i’d ever had in my life”

“Oh” he paused; “Have you had many?”

“Just a couple. The lad that delivers the firewood sometimes…”

“Ah” Sherlock paused, a memory coming back to him; “I once overheard him talking about a young maid that’d sucked him off and she’d been the best he’d ever had…” the realisation hit him and he looked down again, noticing a smirk on her face as she tended to the fire before setting the poker down.

Wiping her hands on her apron she pulled up onto her knees and set her hands onto his thighs;

“Mrs Hudson has gone to church” she said matter of factly, to which Sherlock glanced at the clock on the mantel and saw it wasn’t even 11am meaning the Sunday service hadn’t finished yet. Pulling his attention to his wanton little maid on her knees before him, he cocked an eyebrow as she parted his blue robe and palmed his generous length through the soft fabric of his trousers.

“We have at least thirty minutes before she returns” 

“You’ll last thirty minutes?”

“Depends how good you are”

With skilled fingers she untied his trousers and let the soft fabric fall to his ankles, an appreciative noise rumbling from her throat as she took in his thick thighs, adorned with dark hair, before she finally turned her gaze to the magnificent cock hanging between his legs, his sack full and ready behind as they nestled in a dark thatch of hair. The whine that Sherlock let out as her warm hand wrapped around his meat was far from dignified, but as she took his soft cock into her mouth he hardened rapidly, growing thick and hot, his girth stretching her grip and filling her mouth as she opened her jaw wider. 

Letting the saliva pool on her tongue she worked as much of his length into her mouth as she could, the crown bumping against her tonsils as she swallowed against the gag reflex.

“OH! Good Lord” Sherlock cursed, one hand flying out to grip at the marble mantlepiece, the other settling on top of her head. His knees shook a little as he struggled to control himself from the sheer delights she was giving with her tongue, until he couldn’t take it any more for fear he’d collapse from sheer pleasure. Pulling away her mouth made an audible pop as he pulled out, quickly scooping her up into his arms as his mouth found hers and he kissed her with a hunger he hadn’t found before. 

She softened in his grasp, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as she clung to his shoulders and returned his affections, the pair finally parting breathless and flushed;

“You are a wicked young woman, and I definitely wouldn’t last 30 minutes still standing” Sherlock said matter of fact, carefully kicking off his trousers as he walked across the room before sitting in a large leather chair. With a smile on her face she slid down until she was kneeling on the floor between his thick thighs, running her palms over the hot skin before she took him into her mouth again.

In an instant Sherlock was taken to the heights of pleasure. He would never have guessed the innocent looking maid was a wicked temptress with her tongue, but dear lord she could do things with her mouth that even the best paid ladies at the Adler house couldn’t even attempt to do as well. 

When she pulled off his shaft he let out a whimper of loss, until she started to pump him with her fist whilst suckling on his heavy sack;

“Uuuuuugggffhhfhfff” Sherlocks eyes practically rolled back in their sockets, and as his maid gave his balls the same treatment as a whole oyster would be swallowed, he feared he would cum right then until she thankfully released him. His respite was only momentarily lived, as she swallowed his shaft whole, surely taking him deeper into her gullet than was in any way possible, but the restriction of her narrow throat around his wide head, all whilst her tongue worked on the thick tendon that ran the length of the underside it was too much to bear. With a shout and a curse he held her head still as he came, pumping thick ropes of his creamy seed down her throat as she swallowed around him, enticing further roars from his lips as the squeezing of his sensitive flesh pushed him to the point of overstimulation. With a sigh he passed out, his head falling back onto the cushion of the chair.

-

Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand you lifted off of Sherlock and set his swollen but softening cock gently on his thigh. For a moment you just watched him, his chest rising and falling slowly as his mind was no doubt buzzing with the sensations you’d just bestowed upon him. You chuckled quietly, pushing yourself to your feet before crossing the room and pouring him a cup of tea from the pot, adding milk and sugar as you knew he favoured, before crossing back to him and gently tapping his cheek with your hand;

“Mr Holmes… I have your tea, Sir”

Blinking and sitting a little straighter, he looked at you and to the teacup, before nodding and taking the cup in both hands, shaking a little as he lifted it to his lips and sipped quietly. Setting the saucer on the small table beside him, you carefully lifted the sides of his dressing gown and covered him, tying the belt loosely.

“Toast?”

He nodded quietly, his dark curls now unruly on his head, no doubt his mind empty for the first time in a long time. You prepared his toast how you knew he liked it, a layer of marmalade with brown sugar sprinkled on top, and returned to him with a plate;

“You should eat, the sugar will help with your head and stop it from spinning”

“How did you…?”

“Know? Mr Holmes, I may not be that experienced, but i have done that before. And I had to give the lad that brings the firewood a slice of dundee cake to stop his head spinning afterwards. Mrs Hudson thought he was just feeling faint from carrying the logs in”

Sherlock nodded, quietly chewing on the toast as you busied yourself tidying what you could and stoking the fire again. When you’d finished you stood in front of him with your hands clasped behind your back, and just at that moment you heard Mrs Hudson return from church;

“Well, unless there is anything else Sir, i’ll have to be going to help prepare luncheon”

“Oh… yes, no. I suppose nothing i could legitimately keep you here for”

A little smile tugged at Sherlocks mouth before a flash of inspiration crossed his face;

“Does Mrs Hudson still attend her Bridge Club on a Monday evening?”

“Yes she does, Sir”

“I may have need for you then, she’s usually gone all evening so will give us time to discuss an arrangement, if you are so inclined?”

“Yes Sir, she leaves at 7.30pm Sir”

“Fantastic”

“Any special requests Sir?”

“Requests?”

“Yes, perhaps a request for a late supper?”

Sherlock stood and crossed the room, only stopping when he was just inches from you. Hooking his finger beneath your chin he ran his thumb over your lips;

“Well there is something i’d like another taste of… wear your uniform, but no bloomers”

Sucking his thumb into your mouth you nodded as your tongue laved over the thick and calloused pad, before releasing him with a pop;

“Yes Sir”

With a low growl he squeezed your bottom with one hand as his other opened the door for you, just as Mrs Hudson was walking past;

“Thank you for breakfast Miss” he turned to Mrs Hudson; “I require a late supper tomorrow night, i’m finding I have a hunger in the evenings”

Mrs Hudson nodded;

“I’ll be a Bridge Club Mr Holmes, but she’ll be able to assist you with whatever you need Sir”

“Wonderful” he beamed, watching the older housekeeper stalk off down the corridor as his young maid followed, a sway to her hips he hadn’t noticed before.

He closed the door and sighed, he really was treading dangerous waters but was fully prepared to submerge himself fully.

[ten-cent-sleuth]

A Galling Yoke, Part 15

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for the “If you walk out that door…” square on my July Break Bingo card

See this post for main info, including a masterlist and synopsis. See this post for warnings.

Word Count: 3.3k

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x f!Reader

Rating: Teen

Voss House was in an uproar when you and Sherlock slipped through the back door. Rounding a corner, Sherlock would have walked right into Lucy racing by if not for your hand shooting out and grabbing his elbow.

“Sorry, sir! Prayin’ ’scuse me!” cried the maid as she scurried off, not pausing to curtsy to Sherlock and evidently missing you entirely.

“She seems to be in a hurry,” he muttered.

“Brilliant deduction,” you quipped as you let go of his coat and straightened out the wrinkles you’d caused. “Lord Coltidge is likely raising Cain to find out where I am and what is going on. I can only hope that nobody has mentioned that I have been at your flat the past few days…”

The kitchen door flung open, and Cook bustled out with a harried expression. Her eyes widened even further when they met yours.

“Oh, Madam, you’re home,” she exclaimed. “Thank the Lord you’re well. Your father’ll be pleased.”

You couldn’t stop the sardonicism from leaping up and quirking your brow. “I suppose that would be the natural reaction of one under the influence of paternal affection, yes.”

Sherlock, very discreetly, choked and coughed.

“Well, I best be moving along,” said Cook. “His lordship’s asking for an account of our foodstuffs, and then, what with dear Mrs Rogers busy entertaining him in the front sitting room, I ought to help Lucy prepare the master’s suite… Oh, Madam, is it true that he is taking up residence in Voss House again? That you are leaving?”

Sherlock stiffened, and you tightened your hold on his arm to reassure him.

“It is not true,” you told her. “Though I am pleased to know you would have matters well in hand if it were. Carry on, Cook.”

She beamed at you, blushing lightly, before going on her way.

Turning to watch her disappear down the hallway, Sherlock commented, “She remarked not on our entry through the tradesmen’s entrance.”

“Please expound not on what that says about how eccentric she perceives me to be.” You hid your wince with a wide sweep of your arm. “To the front sitting room, then, sir?”

Nodding, he gestured for you to lead the way, but you caught the “You said ‘eccentric’, not I” that he said under his breath and shot him a look.

You were still some metres away from the sitting room door when you started to pick up on the raised voices within. Or, rather, the raised voice, and the soothing tones of battle-hardened Mrs Rogers. You and Sherlock shared a look before you swung the door open.

“Father, I apologise for keeping you waiting.”

Whirling around, the Earl of Coltidge blinked a few times at you, caught mid-rant. By the time Mrs Rogers made a discreet exit with a flashing smile in your direction, he managed to gasp, “Daughter. Where in Christendom have you been?” In the span it took you to grant yourself a fortifying breath, he lost his interest in your reply and said, “I have given you nearly a sennight complete. I trust you have taken care of whatever was so important you neglected an affair of the essence?”

You gripped your skirts in tense fists. “I did, but Mr Holmes worked quicker than I.”

Your father’s eyes slid to the detective standing at your shoulder, apparently taking note of him for the first time. “And what do you mean by that?”

Finding strength in the presence behind you, you smoothed out your skirts and spoke evenly. “As we speak, William is at Scotland Yard. He has been arrested for his crime.”

The earl stiffened, but his focus remained on Sherlock. “Crime?” His voice was just slightly too high-pitched. “What crime?”

Sherlock stepped forward, his sleeve brushing against yours. “The crime of soliciting a murder, of course, your lordship,” he said bluntly, not even bothering to handle Coltidge’s fragile anxieties with care.

They shattered before your eyes.

“Confound you, Holmes!” he hissed. “I hired you, damn it, I did! You had a single task, and you could not do it properly?”

Sherlock arched a brow. “My lord, you hired me to investigate your daughter’s husband’s death, and I have done precisely that.”

“Bah!” scoffed Coltidge with such force that spittle flew out of his mouth. “My heir shall be seen as a criminal! My name shall be tarnished—hang it all!”

You grimaced at his poor choice of words and of priorities. “Father—”

He turned his blazing eyes to you. You halted, allowing him to speak, but when he did, he was still addressing the other man. “You have done enough, Holmes. I must deal with my family business now, which has naught to do with your blasted meddling. Leave us.”

Sherlock huffed, muttering something that started with “How many times must I explain…?” before he turned to give you his full attention. “You did not ask me to accompany you here, so I shall understand if you wish to speak to your father in private. Petal, do you want me to leave?”

He was so soft in that moment, in his voice and in his eyes, that you would have lost your heart if you had still been in possession of it. But no, it was already securely placed in Sherlock’s vault of treasures, and for that, you could not let him leave.

“If you walk out that door,” you whispered, “I shall be alone against my tormentors once more, and I refuse for that to be so any longer. For too long have I been made by either external forces or my own fears to bear my burdens alone, so from now on, if I can have you by my side…” You tilted your head to regard him in the afternoon light streaming through the window. “I would have you by my side.”

Sherlock stared back at you, not smiling but still somehow drawing you in—the very promising way his eyes were darkening or the very thrilling way his tongue wet his lips, perhaps. But the moment was broken when, out of the corner of your eye, you noticed your father sneer and remembered that you had an audience.

“Is that what this is about, then?” said the earl. “You would sacrifice your brother to throw yourself at the first man to show you any hot-blooded interest?”

You were briefly stunned speechless—nobody had ever dared speak so crudely in your presence before—but Sherlock reacted without hesitation.

He whipped around. “How dare you?” he said, tightly, darkly, thundering but not like the crack of a nearby strike: like the low rumbles on the ground from a faraway storm rolling closer. “How dare you speak to her in such a manner? Do you honestly believe you are superior to her in any way? You are a poor excuse of a man—and a still poorer excuse of a father.”

“Speak not of superiority to me, Detective,” jeered your father before focusing on you. “Edmund might have preferred his mistress to you, Daughter, but at least he was the son of a peer and a respectable gentleman at that—Holmes is little better than a tradesman with the way he makes his living! Would you truly toss your honour on someone so beneath us, so unworthy of the Voss connexion?”

Your surprise gave way to fury. “There is no one worthier,” you bit out, stepping into your father’s space. “Peers, sons of peers, gentlemen, tradesmen—to me, they are merely the outside world.” You waved one arm at the window, and reached the other out to Sherlock. “He is the only one who knows me, who has seen the disarray that is my interior and has stayed by me. How can someone beside me be beneath me?”

Pulling his shoulders back, your father said, “Spare me your melodrama, it is—”

You barked out a laugh. “My lord, need I remind you that it was you who brought Mr Holmes into this? If not for your melodrama, your production of a case, you could have gotten exactly what you wanted.”

“What…?” He was pale, his voice shaken.

“If you had simply told me your plan to frame me for William’s sake, you would have succeeded because I would have gone along with it,” you explained, surprising even yourself with how patient you sounded. “By bringing Mr Holmes into the matter, you ensured that, instead, I came to see that my future is as bright as anyone else’s.”

“Blame this not on me,” he spluttered. “You do well to recall that though I had been prepared to let you answer for your brother’s mistake, I had hoped the case could be steered away from my progeny at all. The scandal of a murder in the family would have been distressing enough.”

You crossed your arms over your chest, and he glared at you.

“It is because you never fail to involve yourself in men’s business that we could not all be freed from this mess. After all, it was you who led Holmes to that tail-wagging hussy, Miss Allen or Miss Ayles or…” Flapping his hand in a dismissive motion, he narrowed his eyes at you. “Do you deny it?”

A cold sweat passed over you, and for a moment, you were frozen. Those years-old, not long vanquished fears of being a botch-up, of deserving nothing better than blame, crept up on you. But William’s kind eyes and gentle words warmed you. It was no evil to help and be helped.

“I do not,” you said, squeezing your forearms to ground yourself. “But you cannot make me regret working with Sherlock. We both were better off for letting each other in, and I shall not be persuaded otherwise. Indeed, there is naught you can expect to accomplish here, Father; your time would be better spent trying to convince William to recant or Scotland Yard to release him.”

Shadows fell across the earl’s face as he brought himself to his full height. You had not seen that expression on him since you were a misbehaving young girl under his roof, and you braced yourself for the patronising lecture that was about to come. But you were not prepared for the quiet words that came from him.

“Would that your mother had survived her third confinement and we had lost our first babe instead.”

Your mouth fell open as your thoughts ground to a halt. Their first child…

Towering over you, Lord Coltidge snarled into your face, “Or would that your brother had left you to your fate with Edmund!”

“Father,” you choked out.

He waved you off, shouldering past to get to the sitting-room exit. “At least then, I would not be the one burdened with you and your impertinence,” he sniffed as he turned around to look you up and down. He had never sounded so bitter, looked so vicious. “It matters not to me how; I would merely be grateful so long as I was free of you, you senseless girl.”

Staring at him across the room, you felt small and silly, shame prickling at your skin as though you deserved his contempt despite logically knowing you didn’t. Helpless, you didn’t know how to make the humiliation stop burning in your chest and feared it would flay you alive right there.

But then a tall, wide frame stepped in your line of sight, blocking your view of the source of your pain and mortification but above all shielding you from that which was doing you harm. Staring, now, at Sherlock’s back, tension rippling from his shoulder blades down, you recalled the thunderclouds that had been gathering on the horizon and—oh, now came the crash.

“What fitting idiocy from an addle-pate,” said Sherlock, his voice as sharp and dangerous as the cliff’s edge it teetered on. “Since you wish to avoid senselessness, my lord, these are the facts: Your daughter is here—has been here all this time, you myopic ingrate—and after all she has already made it through, there is little that could stop her from continuing to be here. And while she lives, you shall die, wifeless, friendless, and at this rate childless. While she prospers, you shall sink deeper into the realisation that you have wasted your years.” He jabbed a finger in his direction, just barely restraining his volume and the vehemence of his movements. “Do you think I cannot recognise the rumpling of your clothes from lying sleeplessly in them night after night, cannot detect the perfumes for hiding the diminished energies of a miserable tyrant?” Hands shaking and chest heaving, he caught his breath before snapping, “You reek of desperation, your lordship, and it is not the victory you think it is to be leaving us in a huff before the stench can settle deep.”

Coltidge simply stood, eyes wide and mouth unmoving.

Sherlock jolted him out of his stupor with a roared “Get out!”

Tail between his legs, Lord Coltidge yanked open the door and scurried out. Blinking away your shock, you hurried over to the threshold and peeked through. You spotted Mr Rogers standing in the hallway, and for the first time you felt gratitude that the butler had taken to hanging around when you were entertaining guests. You trusted him to handle getting Lord Coltidge out of the house without the earl destroying the property in a fit.

Shutting the door behind your father, you leaned against the knob and took a deep breath. “Oh, dear, that went terribly. Sherlock, I must apologi—mmf!”

The rest of your words vanished as you were whirled around, pressed back against the door, and descended upon by the full force of Sherlock’s tenacity.

With one hand gripping your waist and the other cradling the back of your head, he held you still under his unrelenting lips, stealing your breath, criminally, mercilessly, but so lovingly that you gladly gave up more and more of it to him. Although you could hardly move while pinned between the door and Sherlock’s insistence, you did what you could with your hands and mouth to give as good as you got.

When he coaxed your mouth open and pushed his tongue inside, you groaned and gave a particularly zealous tug on his bowtie. As you felt it come undone, a heated thrill shot through you: the levees of decorum Sherlock had valiantly put up against the storm the earl stirred up were decimated by this flash flood of passion, passion unprecedented, and you were the one to witness it.

He swallowed your whimper as your knees gave out, not letting up, only holding even more of your weight with even more tenderness. More and more control slipped out of your grasp as he continued his siege on your senses, but you let it slip—you had seen how he’d strained to keep a hold on courtesy in the face of Lord Coltidge’s utter discourtesy, and would happily let him be ungentlemanly now.

He broke away with a ragged gasp. And even as you fought to rein in your breathing, he dusted kisses across your face.

“I thank God that you are alive and well, darling.” His voice was gravelly, your head was light. “I pray you listen not to his lordship. He is a doddering fool and—”

You turned your head to catch Sherlock’s mouth on its way to your cheek. After another minute or five of bliss, you eased away and whispered, “I know, Sherlock. His words got through my defences because I was shocked by them, not because I believed them. Distress yourself not.”

He shook his head, gazing on you in such a way that you felt pierced, like your lungs were losing more air than they were making use of. “Consider me distressed until you know that… You must know that… Dear heavens, one’s world is better with you in it. Bigger, brighter. The earl deserves you not. He is a dunce to think he would be happier without you, flaws and mistakes and all, for I have lived ten and five years in your absence and hold it as indisputable proof that losing you is the worst thing that can happen to a person. Though, blazes, I deserve you not—”

“There is no one worthier,” you reminded him, arching an eyebrow.

After a beat, the anguish on his face fell with a startled laugh. “Heaven help me, you are an impertinent thing.”

Grinning, you looped your arms around his neck and pulled him back down so that you could hug him close and bury your nose in his collar. When he said that, you didn’t feel mortified: you felt seen, and you felt loved.

His hands drifted down to your hips, at once primally possessive and profoundly gentle. “Are you certain you are all right?” he asked softly. “I had never seen that expression on you before, and it disturbed me—gutted me—to see it then. I had tried to let you handle your father as you saw fit, but when I saw that look on your face… I could not stand by, my lady.”

Nodding, you squeezed him tight. “I am certain.” If you had been terribly overwrought, you would be calming down quickly now, with Sherlock’s arms around you and his light swaying back and forth. “And I thank you for stepping in, Sherlock. I thank you for staying.”

“You may depend on my doing so for the rest of our lives.”

“Sherlock…” You nosed his chest, burrowing even closer to his comforting warmth and familiar scent, and pecked his clavicle through his shirt. “I love you.”

His sudden stillness was your only clue that he had heard you.

Trying to mollify his apparent agitation, you dropped another kiss onto his shirt, a little higher this time, near the wrinkled fabric of his undone bowtie. “I love you,” you said again, knowing repetition often grounded him. “I love you.”

Still there was no response. He had not stiffened or cringed away, so you did not think he was uncomfortable. Startled, then—taken aback. You could picture the quizzical frown that had surely overtaken his expression, could practically hear the churning of calculations in his head. And who knew what conclusions he was arriving at? Who knew how long it would take him to share them with you? Flushing with sheepishness, you more resolutely hid your face in his chest.

“You need not say it back, of course,” you rushed out. “It is only that you mentioned love earlier, and it made me think, ‘Could he mean that he loves me?’ But— But of course, I know it is more complex than that. You could hardly be blamed if you are still hurt and cautious from my marrying another man without warning you, and surely you had the right of it to reprove me before for expecting you to trust me blindly…”

Much to your chagrin, he held you away from him and pulled back from the embrace. Your anxiety mounted with every passing second of his scrutiny.

“Sherlock?”

“This is the ‘something you had to tell me’, then?”

Disoriented, you nodded mutely.

“Definitely should have done yours before mine,” he muttered.

“Sherlock?”

“I beg of you, let not love be your second thought and my rashness your first. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant. In short, this is the answer to your question: yes, he could very well mean that he loves you.”

A smile wormed its way to your face as you leaned back against the door to take in as much of Sherlock as you could.

“Its being complex makes it no less certain,” he said firmly. “I love you. I have loved none but you.”

“I as well,” you breathed, reaching out and resting your palm over the left side of his chest. “I have been married, heartbroken, alone, and free; through it all, there has only ever been you. I love you, Sherlock.”

He smiled then too, and it was the brightest sight you’d ever laid eyes on. Oh, yes, you had your life ahead of you, a future gold and aglitter indeed.

Can you tell I was reading JAFF before writing this? xD Thank you for reading, and feedback is always welcome! (You never know, you could end up like @marveldcmistress and inspire a line like “You are a poor excuse of a man—and a still poorer excuse of a father” with your lovely suggestions. ;P) Attention, readers: please be aware of this announcement about upcoming chapters.

Taglist [comment below if you’d like to be added!]: @livisss @theyaremorethanjustfictional @wonderlandfandomkingdom

[frost-queen]

Outmatched //Part 8 (Reader!Holmes x Anthony Bridgerton)

Forever tag: @missmelodramatic, @merlin-dahlia @alex--awesome--22, @elllie-does-the-posts, @floatlosers, @merlieve, 

@queen-of-books, @glimmering-darling-dolly, @denkisclown, @harleyquinnswifeyfrfr,    @meyocoko, @bubblybrianna, @october-leaves, @m-rae23,@kazbekkarluvbot, @freyathehuntress,

@kneelforloki, @mamaj-right, @queensgirl718, @abaker74, @thescooby-gang, @readers-posts, @randomstory56, @aureolinb, @fictional-hooman, 

@nyenye,  @loliakeoghan23, @heyheyheyggg, @aizawash0e, @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy, @novas-dreamworld, @preciousbabypeter, @magical-spit, @heyheyheyggg

Summary: A new truth reveals itself as family bonds together with a plot to perhaps allow Lord Bridgerton to open his feelings up to you. Will he do so or will you remain unloved and unmarried?

Read part 1  & part 2 & part 3 & part 4 & part 5 & part 6 & part 7 & part 9 & part 10

“Father… when… when did you return?” – Mycroft asked nervously, stepping forwards. Sherlock took you by the wrist, subtly pulling you behind him. – “This very morning.” – Your father answered delighted. Mycroft aided father when he coughed loud trying to reach for his handkerchief. – “Father please, you should not be here.” – Mycroft insisted, holding him firm by the arm. Father waving his handkerchief around like a flag. – “It is only briefly…” – he coughed out, straightening his posture. – “Father.” – Mycroft turned his father towards him, making clear with his eyes he requested a private gathering.

“I’d like to have a word about.” – Mycroft motioned with his head to the unknown suitor in the parlor. He was observing the fineries in the parlor, hands folded behind his back. Mister Holmes’s smile faltered. – “Ah yes him.” – he spoke in a low tone. Mycroft quirked his eyebrow up, waiting for an explanation. Your father took a deep breath, coughing a bit. – “It was not intended I swear.” – he tried to explain, looking over at you. – “The truth papa!” – Mycroft insisted. Sherlock stepped forwards.

“As I like to know as well, father.” – Sherlock interrupted. – “That includes me too!” – you came standing between your brothers, arms crossed. All three scowling in your father’s direction. He swallowed nervously. He gestured for a member of the staff to enter. – “Will you be so kind as to escort the gentleman to his carriage.” – the maid nodded with a bow. Asking for the lord to follow her out of the parlor, outside. – “Father!” – Sherlock spoke loudly with furrowed brows.

Mister Holmes got in motion with a deep breath. Your brothers and you following him out of the parlor into the hallway into the study. You shut the door behind you. Mycroft and Sherlock positioned close to the desk. Your father revealed a letter from his inside pocket, laying it down on the desk. Both Sherlock and Mycroft reached for it, but Mycroft was the one to snatch it up first. – “I received it yesterday.” – mister Holmes started while Mycroft unfolded the letter. – “Your aunt was very specific in the matter.” – he added making you widen your eyes.

The mention of your aunt send a shiver down your spine. Mycroft desperately moved his grip on the letter while his eyes read down quickly. Words whispering out of his mouth. – “With none of my sons married…” – he sighed out coming to sit down behind the desk. – “The prospects of my health unclear.” – he continued pressing a hand against his forehead. You swallowed already having a feeling of where this was getting.

“The chance of losing your dowry.” – he leaned forwards, palms pressed against his eyes. Mycroft gritted his teeth, moving the letter away from his eyes. – “That deceitful woman!” – he hissed out. – “Mycroft!” – Sherlock called out. – “She is still your aunt.” – he made clear that Mycroft should not curse her despite her character. Mycroft puffed loud, tossing the letter onto the desk.

“She’ll have our dear sister engaged to Lord Hill.” – Mycroft made clear. – “Engaged. To be married?” – you repeated in disbelief. – “Yes of course Y/n. What other kind of engaged is there.” – your brother replied slightly annoyed. You turned your gaze towards your father. He lifted his head up, feeling your stare pierce right through him. – “Oh for heaven’s sake Y/n, don’t look at me like that.” – he breathed out with pain in his heart. – “It is what your aunt requires of you. She requires my daughter to be wed to this man for else she’ll take you away for proper preparations of finding a suitor.” – your father explained.

“I barely know him.” – you called back, getting in defense. – “Oh hush!” – he breathed out, silencing you. – “None of us can afford your aunts meddling. The prospect of this family relies on you Y/n. With Sherlock and Mycroft not wed, nor do I see them wed any time soon. It is up to you to do so. You are getting older my dear Y/n.” – you gasped silently knowing how he was close to comparing you to an old spinster. A woman unsuitable of finding a husband. – “He’ll offer you a comfortable home and protection.” – Mister Holmes continued. – “There is a lot to be thankful for.” – he made clear despite not liking his sisters proposal much.

“Father!” – you called out as he cut you off. – “You are five and twenty of age Y/n!” – he jumped up, slamming his fist on the table. In doing so he started coughing loud. Sherlock coming to his aid to assist in sitting down calmly. – “You’ll have no money and I’m…I’m frightened…” – he said after a deep breath. – “So please… don’t judge me daughter… don’t…” – his body started to shake from the intense feeling coming up. Sherlock wrapping a comforting arm around him.

“Papa please… you cannot allow this.” – you begged. Mister Holmes taking a deep breath. – “What if she were to marry someone else?” – Sherlock interfered. – “Sherlock!” – you called out, stepping towards him. Sherlock ignored your call, kneeling before his father. – “What if Y/n were to marry someone else. Someone she truly has a heart for would it please our aunt? Would it settle her with the comfort of knowing our dear Y/n is not lost. That she’ll have the prospects of a good home, money, and protection.” – he pleaded trying to offer you a way out.

A way out of a settlement set long ago by your father and your aunt. When the loss of your mother came, they set up an arrangement that your aunt would be in charge of your engagement when you would not be married within the first few years since your debut. Your father exhaled loud and deep. Mycroft setting his hands on the desk, looking over it. – “Would it father?” – he asked hopefully. You smiled with teary eyes at how well your brothers thought about you.

How they would take your opinion into matter. Something not so long ago seemed unattainable. Mister Holmes looked at both his sons. Then his gaze moved towards you far behind Mycroft. Standing quietly with your hands folded in front of you. Head lowered to the ground. – “I’ll… I’ll give it a chance.” – he told them. – “If this gentleman is willing to engage himself to her.”

Sherlock motioned with his head to the door. Mycroft and you nodding. – “I’ll request some tea to be delivered to you father.” – Sherlock spoke squeezing father’s shoulder tightly. Mister Holmes exhaled weary, clear it was weighing down on him. Mycroft and you were already making your way to the hallway. Sherlock joining after. He addressed a maid to deliver tea to his father before joining the two of you. – “What will we do?” – Mycroft asked. – “Not here.” – Sherlock responded, grabbing his brother and you by the elbow.

Pushing the both of you into the library. He shut the door firmly, even closing the curtains. – “I am under no circumstance to marry Lord Hill.” – you outed, crossing your arms. – “You won’t.” – Sherlock breathed out. – “What the did letter say.” – Sherlock asked his brother as the three of you joined together in a circle. For the first time in a long time agreeing on a matter. – “Simply that Aunt Mathilda has set in writing that our sister is to wed Lord Hill. The suitor of her choice because she is becoming of age of the agreement she made with father.

If she does not agree or is still unmarried by the end of the season, she’ll come for Y/n. Taking her away and comfort herself over her as a proper parent should in her words.” – Mycroft explained. – “She’ll take me away to mother me and force me into more matchmaking.” – you repeated to be clear. The panic slowly worrying you. Sherlock noticed it, taking you by the arm. – “She won’t take you away from us Y/n. You are a Holmes, and you are to remain here with us.”

Sherlock pulled you against him, wrapping an arm around you. – “What will we do?” – you asked frightened of your own future. – “It is quite easy.” – Sherlock responded. – “Anthony Bridgerton will have to marry you.” – he outed as you pushed yourself off him. – “It is undeniable how much you care for him dear sister.” – Sherlock continued as you had turned yourself away from them. – “All we want is for you to marry for love, I will not have you have a relationship like our aunt and uncle.” – Mycroft interfered. – “I am nothing like my aunt!” – you said snappy.

Sherlock and Mycroft moving their hands down. – “We know…” – you slowly turned back towards them. – “What if he does not propose?” – you questioned out loud. Sherlock took a deep breath, laying a hand on your shoulder. – “Then we’ll make him.” – your brother made clear. – “Can we even ask such a thing of him? I never want to force him… no matter the value of my future.” – Both your brothers approached, wrapping an arm around you.

“You are too kind for this world.” – Sherlock whispered. – “Witty and stubborn too.” – Mycroft added, receiving a slap against the back of his head from Sherlock. You laughed loud, hugging them tightly. – “I promise I’ll do my task as matchmaker perfect Y/n. No more slip backs.” – Mycroft spoke pinching your arm.

Birds were chirping loudly. The sun leaving a warm glow upon this very earth. Tents set up around a large garden estate. Suitors walking closely to their hoping beloved. The Bridgerton’s were present as well. You arrived arms in arm with both your brothers. At the sight of Anthony, you looked down at your own dress. – “You look lovely Y/n.” – Sherlock commented. Looking up to him, you smiled. – “Shall we?” – Mycroft proposed. Suddenly the doubts started kicking in. – “What if he does not want me in return? What if I make a fool of myself… perhaps it wouldn’t be that bad if Auntie would take me away.

It would certainly rid me of everlasting shame.” – you tried to stay humorous about it, but deep down you feared it might become truth. – “Hush!” – Mycroft breathed out. With each step closer to the Viscount, your heart thumped louder. It would take one more step for it to fall out of your chest. Swallowing nervously it felt as if you couldn’t think properly. Then you spotted Lord Hill. You signaled to your brothers with a head motion. Sherlock and Mycroft both nodded.

They let go of your arms, walking steady over to Lord Hill. You watched as they grabbed him each by an arm, pulling him away before he could even reach you. Alone and frightened you made your way over to the tent where Lord Bridgerton was. Palms sweaty as you moved them behind your back. – “Miss Y/n.” – Anthony bowed as you curtsied. – “How… how… are you feeling?” – he asked nervously.

Curling up a nervous smile you replied. – “Much better, my lord.” – Anthony smiled hesitantly, letting his gaze settle down. Hands behind his back. Blinking quickly before settling them upon you once more. Was he perhaps feeling nervous as well? You looked briefly away, unsure how to act around him so suddenly. Before it was quite easy. Whatever came out of his mouth, you responded to it. Not afraid to insult the man if he needed a proper lesson in keeping his ego in check. Now that things have changed, you were more hesitant to speak.

Not wanting to scare him off. A wave of relaxation washed over you when his mother approached. The same seemed to be the fact for Anthony. – “Miss Y/n what a delight to see you.” – Violet spoke. – “Anthony has spoken many times of you.” – she confessed as you watched Anthony’s expression tensed. – “Mother.” – he hissed out, trying to keep up his smile. – “Is that so?” – you teased with a chuckle. – “I do pray only good.” – flashing a smile at the Viscount. – “Oh most certainly he did.” – Violet responded as Anthony looked nervously away.

“He told me all about how good of a shooter you are Miss Y/n. Although I did not expected a lady such as yourself to exile in the matter, but my son had high praises of you.” – she continued to compliment you and her son. You smiled. – “Lord Bridgerton is an excellent shooter himself and player of cards too.” – you responded. – “He bested me once.” – Anthony cleared his throat, meddling himself into the conversation. – “Twice.” – he smirked, holding the amount up with his fingers.

You held up the number of three with your fingers. – “Shot three birds.” – you clicked your tongue with one eye closed. Anthony started chuckling. – “Do remind me Miss Y/n how many points was shooting a peacock?” – he asked. You started laughing. – “I do not know, perhaps we should ask lord Enfield.” – Anthony and you were smiling at each other. Violet observing with a smile of her own. She was not needed anymore. She left quietly as Anthony and you moved closer, loosening up.

Anthony took in a deep breath, almost haven forgotten how delighted it felt to laugh in your presence. He noticed his younger siblings running over. – “Please excuse me.” – he said meeting them half-way. Your smile faltered reminded once more of your future that seemed not so bright. You tried picking up hints of lord Bridgerton’s mutual affection. Trying to see if he would be in character to propose any time soon. Yet it didn’t seem like it. You took your leave from the tent, coming to sit down at a bench.

Watching Lord Bridgerton play around with his younger siblings. It made you breath out short with a smile on your lips. Seeing how tentative he was around his siblings. Exhaling deep, you fidgeted with your fingers on your lap. Till the end of the season you had. If you declined Lord Hill. The very suitor your aunt set you up with. Perhaps you had taken all the chances at love that you deserve. All declined to be left with nothing more.

You got back up, slowly approaching the crowd once more. Remaining in the background, not participating in any games or conversations. Your eyes became teary when you saw your brother Sherlock approach. – “Any luck?” – he asked. You shook your head with a forced smile to stop yourself from crying. – “Then I simply will have to do more.” – Sherlock spoke out to reassure you. – “Brother please… you cannot force him… he does not love me… not romantically. Not good enough to propose.” – you told him blinking your tears away.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around you. – “I know you are frightened sister, yet I promise you I won’t let you go down the path set out for you.” – you hugged him tightly, closing your eyes. Mycroft joined moments later to escort you inside. The sun had begun to set as it announced the ball. Everyone entering with loud chatter. It didn’t take long for dance cards to be filled in and dances to begin. Violet furrowed her brows, gathering with her other sons by the candles.

“Benedict why is Anthony not dancing with Miss Y/n?” – she asked confused. Benedict pulled his shoulders up. – “I do not know mama, was he supposed to dance with her?” – both of them watching Anthony dance with another young lady. Clearly getting annoyed and agitated by how unsuitable his dance partner was. She was rather clumsy in her dancing and too short for his height. The dance had the visual of being clumsy and sloppy rather then graceful.

Violet looked around for any sign of you. The dance came to an end as she clapped mindlessly, occupied in looking around. She found you in the crowd, moving to the dancefloor with a gentleman. You had accepted Lord Hill’s request of dance as he led you up to the floor. Anthony who was just finished stepped away from his dance partner, coming face to face with you. His eyes widening at the gentleman holding your hand. He stepped back but kept following your movement with his eyes.

He joined his siblings sight still staring in disbelief. You curtsied as Lord Hill bowed. There was no smile on your lips when you danced. Hands held against each other as you circled around with him. They lowered as you stepped in a circle around. Your eyes falling briefly on Lord Bridgerton. He gasped silently at how pitiful you appeared. As if all the sunshine had been sucked out of you. Lord Hill placed your hand on his shoulder, moving a hand to your lower back. Waltzing he let the music take over. Performing the steps numbly as if someone else was operating for you. Lord Bridgerton keep his gaze constant on you.

Violet noticed it how yearningly her son was staring at you. How infuriating it was for him to see. A loud rumble outside startled you. It snapped you out of the pitiful dream you were having. – “Miss Y/n is everything alright?” – Lord Hill asked having come to a stop. You were breathing loud, looking over your shoulder to Lord Bridgerton. To his mother and his siblings. Turning your head you looked at your own family. Then back to Lord Hill. This was not what you wanted. Far from.

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[wordywarriorwrites]

Mystery

Title: Mystery A03 | Master List | Rating: E Summary: A spoiled Duchess, a famous Detective, and a bathtub built for two. Written For: Milestone '23 Prompt: Sleepy/lazy, Sherlock, Bath or Shower Sex Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Female Reader Warnings: Smut. PWP.

As a Duchess in your own right, as well as the sole heiress to a vast fortune, you had access to the very best. Clothes, jewelry, theatres, art, food, even stationary. You catered to your own whims and spoiled yourself whenever you saw fit - which, to be honest, was quite often.  

One of your most recent indulgences was your newly remodeled bathroom, with a waffle ceiling, tile-covered walls, a custom toilet, and a separate shower. There was also a double sink, with a mirrored, multi-drawered vanity that housed a variety of towels, robes, scents, oils, sponges, and brushes, but the crown jewel was the custom-made bathtub.  

Instead of having it tucked away into the wall, the porcelain-lined, pool-like behemoth was the centerpiece. It offered a perfect view of the estate gardens, was deep enough to submerge yourself in, and the swaths of fabric bolted to the ceiling could be pulled around it for additional privacy.

You chose to leave the curtain open and observe a late afternoon storm build along the horizon. The clouds rolled in and darkened the skies, which prompted the gardeners to head for cover and the servants to light the lamps. Once your hair had been washed, you refreshed the water, dismissed your lady’s maid, and ensconced yourself in the bath’s rose-scented depths.

Finally, you were alone, and able to have a private moment with your thoughts. And there were many things on your mind - after all, you were solely in charge of your household and had a lot to attend to before the London season got underway. You intended to host a ball next month, and there were several details to iron out, but the combination of steam and heavy rainfall quieted your racing mind and soothed you.

Sleep beckoned, but just as you began to nod off, a soft knock roused you. Perturbed by the disturbance, you opened your mouth to send whoever it was away, but then, the door creaked open without your permission, and you knew of only one person - one man - who had the audacity to do such a thing.

“Detective,” you murmured.

“Duchess,” he greeted as he bolted the door. 

You were fortunate. Privileged. Your title alone commanded respect, but you didn’t always behave as a lady of well-breeding should. Unmarried, with no children, and no guardian to watch over you? An independent woman of wealth and breeding who wasn’t a widow? It was unheard of, even obscene in some circles, but you were determined to retain your freedom for as long as you possibly could.  

There were many suitors vying for your hand, but none who genuinely cared for you beyond your position and wealth. It was why you’d decided to forego the marriage market and take a lover instead. But only someone who understood the necessity for absolute discretion could be considered a candidate, and Sherlock Holmes certainly fit the bill.

But being alone with a man who was not your husband or familial relation was forbidden. Enjoying a man’s company was unseemly. Being naked in a tub, while watching a man undress and ready himself to join you, was also a wicked offense - one that would surely result in damnation should anyone learn of it.  

Sherlock lowered himself in across from you and sighed, “Forgive me for my tardiness.”

You quirked a brow and dropped your foot between his pectorals, “Why should I?”

He grinned. Pressed a kiss to your ankle. Massaged from heel to arch while he shared his good news. Another case successfully closed, this time by his extensive knowledge of perfume and pipe ash. You laughed and reheated the water as he washed and regaled you with the tale. After a while, Sherlock fell silent, which prompted you to sit up and press a hand to his chest.

“Hungry?” you wondered. 

“Famished,” he replied.

“Tired?”

“Exhausted.”

You straddled his lap and cupped his face in your hands, “Let me make love you?”

Sherlock sat up and brushed his lips across your chin and cheeks, “Please.”

For all the dangerous, social landmines the two of you navigated, what you and Sherlock had was surprisingly uncomplicated. Your impeccable reputation and his unshakable honor afforded you both a lot of privacy and leeway. You also shared mutual acquaintances and occasionally saw each other at the same soirees, but neither of you made any overtures or public displays other than simple politeness. No flirting, no dancing, and absolutely no calls or gifts or letters. You were also friendly with his sister, Enola, and her close connection with Viscount Tewkesbury squashed any potential rumors and prevented tongues from wagging.

Besides, you were aware that Sherlock was married to his work. And he knew you wanted to remain independent for as long as possible. Yet, you also recognized the loneliness in each other.

And the desire for connection, too.

“You smell wonderful,” he observed gruffly between kisses. “Taste good, too. Like strawberries and hazelnuts.”

You grinned and dipped your tongue into his mouth, “You taste like beer. And cheddar cheese?”

“Such powers of observation, Duchess. You’ll put me out of a job.”

“Oh, I doubt that very much, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock’s chuckles morphed to contented groans the moment you wrapped your hand around him. You stroked him with the firm grip he preferred, with a twist of the wrist at the tip, and felt his hips lift slightly with every tug. Your front row seat to the beginnings of his undoing excited you, and when you took him inside, he moaned and gripped your waist tight.

This wasn’t the first time - far from it, in fact - but it still managed to stun you both. You took a moment before you allowed your head to fall back and your body to move. You used his shoulders for leverage as you built a steady rhythm. You weren’t sure how long you had. Didn’t know if he was staying the night or taking off right away. How long it would be until you saw him again? If your lady’s maid came searching…

“Slowly, Duchess. We have time.”

You met his eyes and frowned slightly, “Of course. I’m just--”

“I know,” he interjected quietly, reassuringly. “Me, too.”

Another kiss was all it took to distract you both. The water sloshed with every movement and threatened to spill onto the floor. You watched his pupils expand and his tongue dart out to lick wayward droplets from his lips. His nipples were pebbled, and the spread of his thighs beneath yours ensured you remained wide open and able to take him to the hilt. As you languidly sought your peak, he helped you along - slipped his hand beneath the water, right between your legs, and used his skilled fingers to stroke and pat at your clit.

Sherlock was massive and warm and beautiful beneath you. Plump mouth and flushed cheeks and curls even more riotous from the movement and heat. His shoulders rolled and his arms flexed as he maneuvered your legs around his waist and twined your arms over his shoulders. Once you were settled, he splayed one hand on the small of your back, planted the other on the bottom of the tub, and drove up and into you with considerable force. Still drawn-out, of course, but much sharper than you were capable of, and precisely what you needed.

You came undone embarrassingly fast. So fast, in fact, that you were dumbfounded into utter stillness. Sherlock was delighted, perhaps even charmed, because he laughed into your slack mouth and made a low, pleased sound deep in his chest. The spark in his eye was akin to the one you’d often seen when he’d unraveled a particularly difficult riddle, but it wasn’t smugness or male pride. He was satisfied simply because he’d satisfied you, and that was one of his most endearing and appealing qualities.

Sherlock hummed and nipped at your breast, “Another?”

You moaned against the crown of his head. Gripped the sides of the tub with both hands. Allowed him to give you more of what you both wanted, however he wanted, because it felt good.

Sherlock Holmes made you feel good, and even though you knew the two of you were well on your way to getting a bit too carried away, you had no desire to stop. You muffled the sounds of your pleasure in the crook of his neck, and each of his ragged exhales were interspersed with throaty growls and pointed thrusts that made you delirious.

Some time later - after you’d fed him, made love again, and put him to bed for the night in the guest room across from yours - you put on a nightgown, and slipped beneath your own sheets.

Sherlock would be gone before daybreak. You’d be up early, too, because you also had things to do. You’d enjoyed a rare night with him. You’d indulged in each other and made tentative plans to see each other once more before your time was taken up with early morning callers, afternoon teas, and balls that ran late into the night. 

You were happy - even if weren’t sure how long your affair with Sherlock would last.

But then again, you supposed it was just another mystery yet to be solved. 

[anonymousewrites]

A Study of the Heart and Brain (Book 4) Chapter Five

Father Figure! Sherlock Holmes x Teen! Reader

Chapter Five: Unmissed Enemy

Summary: Once again, the Bride seems to rise from the grave, and she is not the only ghost Sherlock must face.

            Sherlock, John, and (Y/N) raced towards the alcove they’d seen Emelia Ricoletti’s “ghost” floating.

            “Mrs. Ricoletti, I believe,” said (Y/N), facing the “specter.”

            “Pleasant night for the time of year, is it not?” said Sherlock.

            “It cannot be true, it cannot!” exclaimed John, shocked.

            “No, it can’t,” said Sherlock as Emelia’s “apparition” faded and disappeared.

            Crash!

            The sound of glass breaking broke through the night.

            Sherlock, John, and (Y/N) turned and darted towards the door, and Sherlock tugged on it.

            “Is it locked?” said John.

            “As per instruction,” confirmed Sherlock.

            “That was a window breaking, wasn’t it?” said John.

            “There’s only one broken window we need concern ourselves with,” said Sherlock.

            He ran to a ground floor window and slammed his elbow through the glass. He clambered in and lifted (Y/N) through after him to ensure they didn’t get cut on the glass. John climbed through last.

            “Stay here, Watson,” said Sherlock, lighting a candle.

            “What? No,” said John.

            “All the windows and doors are locked. This is the only way out, I need you here,” said Sherlock decisively.

            “But the sound was so close, it had to be from this side of the house,” said John.

            “Stay here,” repeated (Y/N), and they and Sherlock ran off into the house.

            They ran up the stairs, searching for signs of shards of whatever had broken.

            “Stop! No!” cried the voice of Lady Carmichael.

            As they ran, Sherlock’s torchlight found splatters of red—blood. It led to a corridor where Lady Carmichael stood, sobbing. She swayed, and maids caught her.

            “You promised to keep him safe! You promised!” she sobbed.

            Sherlock pushed (Y/N) behind them, and they lowered their eyes. They stepped out of her room and turned to face a small hallway. Lord Carmichael lay dead with a letter opener stabbed through him.

            A scream pierced the air behind them, and Sherlock and (Y/N) turned back. They ran back down the stairs and bumped into John at the bottom, who was stumbling out of a nearby room.

            “She’s there, she’s down there!” said John, alarmed.

            “Don’t tell me you abandoned your post,” said Sherlock.

            “What? Holmes, she’s there, I saw her,” said John.

            Sherlock charged down the hall, keeping (Y/N) behind him protectively. Unfortunately, all that was left was the window they’d destroyed. There was no bride to be seen.

            “Empty, thanks to you,” said Sherlock.

            “No!” said John.

            “Our bird is flown,” said Sherlock.

            “No, Holmes, it wasn’t what you think. I saw her, the ghost!” said John.

            “There are no ghosts!” snapped Sherlock.

            “What happened? Where is Sir Eustace?” asked John, unused to Sherlock losing his cool.

   ��        “Dead,” said (Y/N) simply. They hadn’t saved him.

l

            “You really mustn’t blame yourselves, you know?” said Lestrade, the inspector in charge of the case.

            Morning had come, so Scotland Yard had finally arrived to begin looking into Lord Carmichael’s death. In the sunlight, his body was still and pale, and (Y/N) observed him carefully from where they stood.

            “No, no, you’re quite right,” said Sherlock.

            “Glad you’re seeing sense,” said Lestrade, nodding.

            “Watson is equally culpable,” said Sherlock. “Between us, we’ve managed to botch this whole case.”

            “I was there, too,” said (Y/N). They hadn’t managed to save Lord Carmichael, either (though they weren’t quite sad as much as frustrated at failing a part of a case).

            “Yes, but Watson and I made the decisions,” said Sherlock. He didn’t want (Y/N) to blame themself for people’s deaths. It was never their fault. “We were given an undertaking to protect that man, now he’s lying there with a dagger in his breast.”

            (Y/N) paused. They were given the undertaking. Yes, but not by Lady Carmichael. Mycroft told us to take this case. And he told us this is a battle we must certainly lose. Is this part of losing? Is this part of what the mysterious force is doing rightly? (Y/N) felt their mind palace trying to carve out the solution to the mystery, but all they could summon were vague shapes, still nothing concrete.

            “In fact, you took on investigating his murder,” said Lestrade.

            “In the confident expectation I would not have to,” said Sherlock.

            As the men spoke, (Y/N) slipped forward and crouched by the body. Curious now that their thoughts had circled back to the bigger picture and nebulous others—the enemy and the allies of Emelia Ricoletti in hiding her death (or were they the same? Too many questions)—they wanted to examine Lord Carmichael’s body.

            Beside them, John stood, and Lestrade looked at him.

            “Anything you can tell us, Doctor?” he asked.

            “He was stabbed with considerable force,” said John.

            “It was a man, then,” said Lestrade.

            “Possibly,” said John.

            “It was a keen blade, so it could have conceivably been a woman,” said Lestrade.

            “In theory, yes, but we know who it was, I saw her,” said John stoutly.

            “Watson,” said Sherlock.

            “I saw the ghost with my own eyes,” said John.

            “You saw nothing. You saw what you were supposed to see,” said Sherlock.

            That much (Y/N) was certain of as well. There was only one suspect. They just needed to understand how it fit into the bigger picture—and how it fit with the sound of glass breaking.

            (Y/N) tilted their head. “Dad.”

            Sherlock looked at them. “Yes?”

            “There was no note when we found the body.” It was a statement since (Y/N) had catalogued every part of the wound when they’d found the corpse, but they were checking with Sherlock.

            “No,” confirmed Sherlock.

            “There is now,” said (Y/N). Carefully, they held it through the edge of their coat and lifted it.

            Sherlock stared. Upon the note, in a familiar script, read two words—“MISS ME?” He took a step back as the world turned, and he couldn’t help but walk away from the corpse, his mind leaving him behind as it ran through all the possibilities of those words—with one terrible, terrible thought coming to the forefront.

l

            “Do you?” Mycroft spoke as Sherlock stared into space in the Stranger’s Room.

            “Do I what?” said Sherlock.

            Mycroft held up the note with the two terrible words.

            “How did you get that? I left it at the crime scene,” said Sherlock.

            “Crime scene?” remarked Mycroft. “Where do you pick up these extraordinary expressions?” He folded his hands. “Do you miss him?”

            “Moriarty is dead,” said Sherlock, for those were his words. He felt it in his chest.

            “And yet…” Mycroft raised a brow and allowed Sherlock to finish.

            “His body was never recovered,” said Sherlock.

            “To be expected when one pushes the maths professor off a waterfall,” said Mycroft. “Pure reason toppled by sheer melodrama. Your life in a nutshell.”

            “No. It was not sheer melodrama,” said Sherlock. “I killed Moriarty to protect (Y/N).” He had refused to let them be used by that monster who wanted to use Sherlock’s kid—not Moriarty’s, never Moriarty’s—for his own gain. If Moriarty was back, they would be in danger, and Sherlock couldn’t allow that to be true. “I had to protect them. I have to protect them.”

            He stared at the Reichenbach Falls painting. It seemed to move before his eyes, and he frowned. Why did it seem so familiar? Why was it in this room? He sniffed and turned back to Mycroft. “Have you put on weight?” He wanted to get away from discussing Moriarty.

            “You saw me only yesterday. Does that seem possible?” remarked Mycroft.

            “No,” said Sherlock slowly.

            “Yet here I am, increased,” said Mycroft. “What does that tell the foremost criminal investigator in England?”

            “In England?” murmured Sherlock as the light seemed to bend strangely.

            “You’re in deep, Sherlock,” said Mycroft. “Deeper than you ever intended to be. What would (Y/N) think? I rather think they’d be disappointed.”

            Sherlock winced, and the light felt blinding. His head ached, and he shook it to clear it, but the weight of Mycroft’s words were heavy. (Y/N) would be disappointed.

            “Have you made a list?” said Mycroft.

            “Of what?” said Sherlock.

            “Everything,” said Mycroft. “We will need a list.”

            Sherlock held up a paper from his pocket.

            “Good boy,” said Mycroft. He held out his hand.

            “No, I haven’t finished it yet,” said Sherlock.

            “Moriarty may beg to differ,” said Mycroft.

            “He’s trying to distract me,” said Sherlock. “To derail me.”

            “Yes. He’s the crack in the lens, the fly in the ointment, the virus in the data.” Mycroft looked at Sherlock. “The interloper in the family. I suppose we should count ourselves lucky Moriarty is haunting you and not (Y/N) for now. It turned out quite badly last time.”

            Sherlock despised the reminder. “I have to finish this.”

            “If Moriarty has risen from Reichenbach Cauldron, he will seek you out. And (Y/N),” said Mycroft.

            “I’ll be waiting for he can,” said Sherlock. He would always stand between his child and danger.

            “Are you ever afraid, Sherlock?” said Mycroft, raising a brow.

            “No,” said Sherlock.

            “Don’t lie to me. You’re the emotional one,” said Mycroft. “You’re the most emotional out of all of us.”

            Sherlock’s head buzzed.

            “But I’ll ask again. Are you afraid?” said Mycroft.

            “Of what?” said Sherlock.

            “Who (Y/N) is,” said Mycroft. “Do you wonder just how much of his blood runs through them?”

            Sherlock looked at Mycroft and was silent for a moment. “(Y/N) is my child.”

            “And yet you’ve seen them cut men down with mere words and all with a smile,” said Mycroft.

            “They are my child,” said Sherlock. “(Y/N) is a good person. They aren’t Moriarty’s in any way.”

            (Y/N) was his kid. Even if they were capable of so much harm, that wasn’t part of who they are. Sherlock himself wasn’t even as capable of good as they were. They were every bit of light that the world hadn’t given him and Moriarty. They were good and they were a Holmes.

            Mycroft leaned back in his chair and didn’t reply to the statement. “I suppose we should be grateful they do not wish to cause harm. Those with such intelligence…it hardly ends well for anyone.”

            A soft dog whine echoed in Sherlock’s head, and he shook it.

            “Be careful, Sherlock. You’re going quite deep. He is waiting. It’s all waiting.”

l

            Sherlock sat, meditating, on the floor of the sitting room, going through every possibility of Lord Carmichael’s death and how it fit with Emelia Ricoletti’s death and Mycroft’s mysterious foe. He was tempted to confer with (Y/N), but due to Moriarty still haunting him, he couldn’t yet. He needed to know he wasn’t involved somehow before he could face (Y/N). If they were in danger…Sherlock couldn’t live with that.

            And so he sat on his own while (Y/N) was forced to eat and sleep by John between their own meditation sessions (because when Sherlock was in one of his trances, it was up to John to keep (Y/N) from running into the ground). Two days had passed, and Sherlock was still left with questions.

            Sherlock looked down in front of him, hesitated, and pushed a newspaper off a familiar box. He opened the box and stared at the needle within it. His fingers twitched to pick it up and use to get to the answers he needed.

            (Y/N) would be disappointed.

            Sherlock froze at the thought and swallowed. He needed answers. (Y/N) was out getting food with John. And if Moriarty was involved, (Y/N) was in danger, and Sherlock would risk anything to stop that.

            He closed his eyes and lifted the needle. A few moments later, he felt himself sinking further into a state of concentration.

            A floorboard creaked.

            “Everything I have to say has already crossed your mind,” drawled a familiar voice.

            “And possibly my answer’s crossed yours,” said Sherlock.

            “Like a bullet.”

            Sherlock opened his eyes, rose, and turned to face Moriarty.

            “It’s a dangerous habit to finger loaded firearms in the pocket of one’s dressing gown,” said Moriarty with a snakelike smirk. “Or are you just pleased to see me?”

            The drugs clouded over Sherlock, and he couldn’t help but see the similarity of Moriarty’s expression in comparison to (Y/N)’s. Moriarty’s smirk widened as he felt Sherlock’s gaze, and he rolled his neck, letting his bones crack.

            “You’ll forgive me for taking precaution,” said Sherlock.

            “I’d be offended if you didn’t,” said Moriarty. “Obviously, I’ve returned the courtesy.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a gun. He cocked it and spun it around his finger playfully. “I like your rooms,” he said.

            “I’m sure you’ve acquainted yourself with them before now,” said Sherlock.

            “Well, you are always away on your little adventure for The Strand,” said Moriarty. “Does the illustrator travel with you? Do you have to pose? During your deductions?”

            “I am aware of all six occasions you have visited theses apartments these apartments during my absence,” said Sherlock.

            “I know you are,” said Moriarty. He smirked. “Have you told (Y/N)? I mean, their room is my favorite. I like understanding my child’s interests. It’s important to bond with your kid, isn’t it, Sherlock? Well, you wouldn’t know. You don’t have children.”

            Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “(Y/N) is my child.”

            “Are they? Are they really?” said Moriarty, leaning forward playfully. He spun the gun again and caught it properly. “I think they’re becoming more and more like me.” He tilted his head, mocking (Y/N)’s way of thinking. He smirked and held up the gun. “They even shot someone.”

            Sherlock stiffened. “(Y/N) did it to protect their family. You do it for fun.”

            “Really? Let’s see,” said Moriarty, leveling the gun at Sherlock.

            Sherlock raised his own and faced Moriarty, who began to chuckle. They both pulled back the guns, and Sherlock tossed his aside.

            “Exactly, let’s stop playing,” said Moriarty. “We don’t need toys to kill each other. Where’s the intimacy in that?”

            “Sit down,” said Sherlock.

            “Why, what do you want? To discuss co-parenting? How surprising,” said Moriarty.

            “No,” said Sherlock. “You decided to come here.”

            “Not true, you know that’s not true,” said Moriarty. “What do you want, Sherlock?”

            “The truth,” said Sherlock.

            Moriarty hummed. “That. Truth’s boring.” He paused and strolled away. “You didn’t expect me to turn up at the scene of the crime, did you? Poor old Sir Eustace. He got what was coming to him.”

            “But you couldn’t have killed him,” said Sherlock.

            “Oh, so what?” said Moriarty. “Doesn’t matter, stop it, stop this. You don’t care about Sir Eustace or the bride or any of it. There’s only one thing in this whole business that you care about.” He tilted his again, again mocking (Y/N). “Maybe you should ask them about this case.  You know, I think they’re cleverer than you.”

            “I know what you’re doing,” said Sherlock. Moriarty was trying to upset him.

            The room trembled, and the decanters clattered against one another. Sherlock closed his eyes against the ensuing headache.

            “The bride got the back of her head shot off, and then she came back,” said Moriarty. “Impossible, but she did it. And you need to work out how. How?” The room shook. “Don’t you? It’s tearing your world apart, not knowing.”

            “You’re trying to stop me,” said Sherlock. “To distract me, derail me…” He blinked slowly.

            “Because doesn’t this remind you of another case?” said Moriarty conspiratorially. “Hasn’t all this happened before? There’s nothing new under the sun. What was it? What was it? What was that case?” He watched Sherlock shake his headache away. “Huh? Do you remember?” He stepped closer to Sherlock and wrapped his hand around the gun. “It’s on the tip of my tongue. It’s on the tip of my tongue. It’s on the tip…” He placed the gun on his tongue. “Of my tongue.” He spoke around it and closed his hand around Sherlock’s finger, which hovered over the trigger.

            “For the sake of Mrs. Hudson’s wallpaper, I must remind you that one false move with your finger, and you’ll be dead,” said Sherlock, trying to regain control as the world shook around him.

            “Dead is the new sexy,” mocked Moriarty.

            “I’m sorry?” said Sherlock, blinking.

            “Dead.” Moriarty held Sherlock’s hand securely around the gun. “Is the new sexy.”

            Moriarty squeezed, and Sherlock inhaled as his finger pulled the trigger.

            Bang!

            Moriarty stood and shook his head as if waking up.

            Sherlock stared in shock. “How can you be alive?”

            “How do I look?” said Moriarty. He turned around to show off the gaping wound in the back of his head. He turned back to face Sherlock. “You can be honest. Is it noticeable?”

            “I blew your brains out. How could you survive?” said Sherlock.

            “Maybe a good back comb,” said Moriarty, ignoring Sherlock. “Do you think (Y/N) would care? I think they’ve seen enough death. This shouldn’t bother them.”

            “I saw you die,” said Sherlock. “I killed you. Why aren’t you dead?”

            “Because it’s not the fall that kills you, Sherlock.” Moriarty took a step closer. “Of all people, you should know that. It’s not the fall. It’s never the fall. It’s the landing!”

            The entire room shook, and Sherlock fell back into a chair as everything blurred around him.

Taglist:

@stilesstilinskiforlife-blog

@im-making-an-effort

@ilse235

@schrodingers-intelligence

@awsedrftgyhujikol

@lxserthxngzzz

@forever1313

@mentallyunstablemanlover

@roo024

@ohimjustagirlidrathetnotbe

[simestandswithtaylorswift-blog]

if I’m crying that means I am alive (henry!sherlock x reader)

 warnings: angst and my bad english.

You have never thought that Sherlock would marry with another woman. other woman besides you... it was impossible to think, but here you are standing front of him, tears in your eyes and a pain in your throat. ‘’I need to be strong’’ you said to yourself, but how can you. He was the love of your life, your childhood friend, your savior. You were going to lose him to another woman.  ‘‘Hey... you okay?’‘ he said ‘‘Well of course I am! So happy for you and for her. I’m just suprised, I never tought you were seeing another woman besides me and your maids.’‘ ‘‘Oh... That was by an accident actually. I was gone to London for a case-’’ You didn’t pay attention to his words. Just looked at his face blankly. How couldn’t he notice that you were dying inside? The greatest detective sherlock holmes. Maybe he was really bad at emphaty like others said.  ‘‘I want you to meet with her, if it is okay with you. That would be nice for her to meet my best friend, what do you say?’‘ ‘‘Sherlock...That would be nice. I’m curious about her already!’’ You sounded nice and kind. That is what a best friend does when her crush says he has a crush on other you said to yourself. ‘‘Good... Now I have to go, I need to deal with a case. See you later, princess’‘ He smirked. Princess... that was your nickname, he always called you princess. But what is a princess gonna do when her prince prefers another?  ‘‘Alright, goodbye sherlock’‘ you turned around and just walked away from him.  Little did he know you will be crying after all that dreams you dreamed about him, your future? But that’s fine, you were just a best friend after all.

[holylulusworld]

Mr. Holmes' Maid (4)

Summary: You’re his maid.

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Maid!Reader

Warnings: angst, power imbalance, dub-con (just in case cuddling/sharing a bed), master-servant relationship, the reader was an orphan, inappropriate behavior

Mr. Holmes Maid (3)

Mr. Holmes’ maid masterlist

Morning came without a visit from your master. After you arrived home, he told you to get some sleep while he took care of all the things he bought for you.

You barely slept that night, waiting for Sherlock to visit you in your chamber. Even under torture, you’d never admit that you missed his closeness. It’s out of the question that Sherlock could be more than your master.

If only you weren’t a mere maid, a poor orphan without any possessions. A lady could hope to get his attention. Not you. Never you.

“Maid.” You hear Sherlock call from outside your room. “My brother will come for tea today. I want you to wear one of the new dresses and shoes.”

A new dress. He wants you to wear one of the new dresses in front of his brother.

You touch your burning cheeks. How can you wear one of the dresses in front of your master’s brother? Whimpering, you glance at your usual clothes.

You’d feel much more comfortable wearing your old clothes. They are appropriate for a maid, not the expensive ones Sherlock bought for you.

“Master, I can’t—” You sniffle and hide your face in the palms of your hands. You’re rocking back and forth, unable to think clearly. “I can’t… I can’t.”

Sherlock hammers against your door. “Maid, I’m coming in.” He swiftly enters your room to find you panting. You’re shaking in fear and whimpering when he crouches down next to you. “Maid, you need to breathe with me. In and out.”

“I—I can’t wear the dress,” you choke out. “Your brother. He'll know... he'll know.”

Sherlock sighs. He gets up to sit next to you on the bed and bring you on his lap. Your master easily manipulates your body, forcing you to hide your face in his chest. He runs his hands over your back, murmuring soothing words.

“You’re mine,” he confidentially says. “Mycroft holds no power over you or me. I can buy you all the dresses I want.” Sherlock whispers your name as his large hands press you closer to his firm chest. “I want you to wear the green dress, Y/N. My maid won’t wear torn dresses.”

“Torn?” You lift your head to look at Sherlock. “Master, I stitched the dresses up. They are fine now.”

“They are old and torn. You won’t wear a dress looking like a rag,” he demands your obedience. “Say it, maid.”

“I won’t wear a rag,” you sniffle. “Master.”

“Good girl,” he praises and leans closer to press a kiss to your temple. His lips linger for a moment before he clears his throat. “Now get dressed before I lose all control.” He growls the last words.

You start to squirm in his hold, finally understanding the meaning of his words. You’re still in your worn-out nightgown and nightcap, not dressed to serve your master. If anyone found you in his arms, wearing your nightgown, his reputation would be ruined, and your life would be over.

“Go, get dressed. I’ll be waiting for you,” he kisses your temple again before allowing you to slip off his lap. Sherlock hastily gets up to leave your room, repeatedly tugging at his trousers.

You set your steps carefully. One after another to not slip in your new shoes. Eyes trained on the tray in your hand, you pray that you won’t embarrass your master in front of his brother.

“Ah, pastries and tea,” Mycroft chirps. He even smiles, and you wonder what happened to the reserved and strict man. His eyes follow your every step as you drop your gaze while serving the tea. “I must say, brother, you’ve got a well-behaved maid.”

“Mycroft,” your master glares at his brother. You know the tone. He only ever uses it when people irritate him. “Please tell me why you honor us with your presence.”

“Sherlock, I came here to talk about the man you welcomed at your home some time back. A friend of yours.”

“Not a friend,” Sherlock makes a face. He scrunches up his nose, making you giggle. While Sherlock looks amused, Mycroft furrows his brows at your inappropriate reaction. “An acquaintance at best. He’s not welcome at my home.”

Mycroft doesn’t look surprised. He didn’t mention the man wanted to force you to sit in his lap for no reason. Something seems to be off with his brother’s acquaintance, and Mycroft is burning to find out more about the man.

“Oh,” Mycroft pretends to be surprised. “What happened? I thought you used to be friends.”

“Not friends,” Sherlock exasperatedly says. “I told you he’s barely an acquaintance, brother. Now, tell me about your reason to disturb my peace.”

“That man,” Mycroft smirks as he tells Sherlock about his reasons for coming here today: “he came to me to ask questions about your lovely maid.”

Sherlock’s features darken. He already punched the man’s face, but it seemed he didn’t get the message. “Why would a man his stand be interested in my maid? Brother, you are talking in tongues. This doesn’t make sense at all.”

Mycroft smirks and says, “I could ask you the same thing, brother.” He enjoys the struggle on Sherlock’s face. It’s one of the rare times he made his brother squirm. “Why would a man his stand be obsessed with a maid? Sweet and obedient, or not. She’s not of a gentleman’s interest.”

Sherlock gets up, almost knocking his chair over. You whimper at his angry expression. He clenches and unclenches his fists while glaring at his brother. “Watch your tongue, brother. I decide what’s of interest to me.”

Your master slams his hands onto the table, making you shriek as the cups tip over at the impact. “Master,” you murmur his name, silently begging him to not cause a scene. Mycroft seems to already know about your master’s intentions when it comes to you. “Please.”

“Brother, I didn’t come as a villain or an enemy. I came here to warn you,” Mycroft says as he slowly gets up from his chair. He cleans his chin with a napkin and chuckles. “Your temper always got the best out of you. Maybe we should revisit this topic if you’re not in a sour mood.”

“Warn me?” Sherlock huffs. “You didn’t come to warn me, but to lecture me. All my life, you tried to do so.”

“Sherlock, my brother. I mean no harm to  you." Mycroft softens his voice to not scare you even more. You’re cowering in a corner, watching your master turn into an angry beast ready to devour his brother. “You should be aware that this man won’t give up so easily. All the questions he asked about your maid and her past picked my interest. You should be careful whom you let into your home.”

Mycroft gives you a curt nod before brushing past his brother. “I know you’re smart enough to solve this mystery on your own. If not, you know where to find me.”

“Maid,” Sherlock carefully tries as you are hiding under the covers. “I apologize for losing my temper in front of you. It wasn’t for you to see or hear. I promise this will never happen again.”

He takes his usual spot in your bed, sighing as you whimper in distress. “My sweet maid,” he says, and wraps his arms around you as so often before. You know it’s wrong, forbidden even, but you can’t help it. You go lax in his arms and sigh. “Please forget what happened today. Tomorrow is a new day.”

Tags in reblog.

[cherryclxud]

trial post ...

this is trial fic really, the story by Marcus Bradford is quite literally 'the abominable bride' episode from the BBC sherlock so its not mine.

this is a sherlock holmes (enola holmes) x bridgerton!reader.

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

“Did you read what this man has written?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[mysteriouslover1516]

Sherlock Holmes (Part 1)

(X-reader story based on the BBC version of Sherlock and characters [character name is chosen, but the pronoun you is used]. This is my take on what could happen in season five of Sherlock. I also shipped John and Molly in this version.)

"You have a sister?!" The tall man asks, completely astonished.

Your brother, John Watson, laughs. "Caught you there, didn't I?"

The man looks at you from under his black curly hair, and his blue eyes meet yours. "He has a sister!" He states.

You chuckle while blushing slightly, "Yes, I would know. I am Syrena Watson, the younger sister of John by three years."

"How did I not deduct this?!" The man shakes his head with a smile.

John clears his throat, "Shouldn't you introduce yourself now?" He says giving the man a meaningful stare.

"Sherlock Holmes," he says. "What brings you back to London?"

You feel your heart rate rise,"I'm getting away from a bad relationship."

"Your eyes hold a certain sense of sorrow in them, betrayal perhaps? And I can't help but notice your clothes have been repeatedly worn, meaning you left as soon as you could without any other supplies or belongings." Sherlock says and then looks away as if bored.

John sighs, "Sherlock, I warned you about this. She is still sensitive about this." He says as he wraps an arm protectively around you.

You try to smile, "Wow, Mr. Holmes. You certainly live up to your reputation of being a great detective." 

John was right, you still were hurt and frightened in a way about your break-up, but you hated letting people besides your brother see your emotions.

Sherlock sighs, "I tried my best, John. But so long has gone by before I could deduct something worthwhile, besides the butler who murdered the maid." He shrugs absent-mindly.

“Sherlock!” John reprimands. “What did I tell you?”

“You solved a murder?” You ask, stupidly.

Sherlock sighs, “How dull is your sister, John? She is almost as bad as you.”

John frowns, “Please try to be civil!”

“Mr. Sherlock, tell me more about the case.” You ask, anything about mysteries was interesting to you. You were a novelist and real life mysteries were always good inspiration for your books.

Sherlock stops, “Oh, great. Another blogger, are you going to over dramatize my work, too?”

“That’s it, come on, Syrena.” John scowls at Sherlock. “We don't have to listen to his degrading comments.”

You smirk and walk off, arm in arm with your brother, “He doesn't seem all that bad.”

John smiles, “You haven’t had to spend twenty-four hours with him.”

“Mom and dad send you their hellos,” You say, randomly.

Your parents lived in the United States and tried to come to London at least once a year to see John. Now both of their kids were gonna be living here. Your parents were sad you decided to leave the states, but they were glad that John and you would be there to look out for one another.

John smiles at the thought, both of you were extremely close to your parents and you loved them dearly. “I mean to call them more often, gosh I’m forgetful.” He berates himself.

“They understand you’re busy, John. Maybe we can call them tonight, maybe even on skype?”

“Great idea!” John smiles, then he wraps his arm over your shoulders. “I’m so glad you’re here, Syrena. I’ve missed you so much.”

“Thanks for letting me move in with you.” You grin.

John’s face suddenly falls, “Um, Syrena, there’s something I forgot to tell you.”

“Oh?” You ask in a slightly suspicious tone.

“I live in a flat with another roommate.”

“Is there enough room for me then?” You ask, confused.

“Well, of course, but he doesn’t know you’re staying with us. I haven’t told him yet.” John smiles, sheepishly.

“Is he nice though?” You raise an eyebrow, unsure of why John was being so mysterious.

“I think you should decide that yourself. You already met him.”

You immediately rack your mind for all the new faces you’ve seen and the people behind them. Was it the worker at the coffee shop? John had called him by name and the man seemed friendly. The cab driver also was nice though and John had talked to him almost the whole way to where you met Sherlock in the park……..

“It’s Sherlock,” You state more than ask.

“Please don’t hurt me,” John teases as he hides his face behind his arms.

You crack a smile, “Well, at least I’ll have some inspiration for my mystery novel!”

John laughs and drops his hands to his sides, “Just don’t copy my blog. I have a lot of followers on it, but Sherlock doesn’t approve.” He rolls his eyes.

“You haven’t told him that I’m moving in with you?!” You ask with your mouth wide open from shock.

John shrugs, “He won’t mind. There are three rooms and the third one is rarely used.”

You shake your head at your brother, “Oh, John. I hope this works out.”

You and John head over to 221b Baker Street and John leads you up the staircase and to an apartment door. “Welcome to our flat!” He unlocks the door and pushes it open.

You walk inside, carrying the backpack that held the only possessions you brought.

The living room was the first room you walked into when you came in. On the right was a hallway leading to four rooms. Three of them had the doors shut and the fourth one you guessed to be the bathroom, and you were correct. On the left was a wide rectangular arch that opened into the kitchen area. The living room had two windows that let in the sunshine that showered on a desk full of papers and files. Two chairs were arranged in front of the fireplace and the shelves surrounding it were full of books and decorative objects.

“Wow,” You say. “It’s actually pretty spacious.”

“Yep, here’s your room, Syrena.” John says, walking over to the first room down the hall.

You followed him and looked into your new living quarters. The walls were a nice blue color and a bed was pushed against the wall. A nightstand stood on the right side of the bed and a lamp was set upon it. A comfortable chair was in another corner, along with a desk. On the bed were some pillows and a green comforter. Propped against the pillows was a concert-sized ukulele.

“You didn’t bring your ukulele,” John says sorta sadly. “Luckily I have mine. You can have it.”

You smile happily, but sadly at the same time. Your old boyfriend had broken your ukulele out of anger, and that's why you didn't bring it, but you didn't tell John that. "Thanks so much, I seem to find some sort of peace when I play." You try to laugh, but the memory holds you back.

“Sherlock does too, he’s a violinist.” John offers. “Maybe you two could play together sometime.”

You laugh at the absurdity of the thought, “He doesn’t seem like one who would do that. I think he prefers to be alone.”

“Oh, he does. I just think that you’ll be able to snap him out of his cold demeanor.” John smiles hopefully.

"Why me?" You look at your brother playfully.

"You'll see," John smirks. "Oh, I think you and Mrs. Hudson should meet. I think she'll like you well enough.”

“Who’s she?”

“I’m not your housekeeper,” an elderly voice calls from the outside of the door.

“Mrs. Hudson, come on in!” John calls out cheerfully.

The door opens and an old lady with short, curly, light brown hair walks in.

“How long were you eavesdropping?” John asks with a smirk.

“Only long enough to know you were talking about me, dearie.” The woman says.

“Mrs. Hudson?” You hold out your hand and smile.

“Syrena Watson?” She asks and instead gives you a hug.

“She knows that I’m staying here, John, but not Sherlock!” You turn to him.

John winces, “Relax, Syrena, he’ll be fine.”

You shake your head and cross your fingers that John will be right.

You and Mrs. Hudson get to know each other over cups of tea and biscuits and before you know it you are giggling so hard that you feel like you’re gonna cry.

“What is that, John?” You hear Sherlock’s voice come from the doorway.

“It is Mrs. Hudson and Syrena laughing.” John answers, smiling.

“They sound like they are torturing an owl,” Sherlock’s voice holds a tone of annoyance. He walks into the dining room/ kitchen and barely glances at you. “When is she going?”

“I’m leaving in a few minutes, Sherlock.” Mrs. Hudson looks up from her cup of tea.

“Not you, her. She is ruining my concentration.” Sherlock states simply as he opens the fridge.

“Pardon me?” You ask.

“When is she leaving?” He turns to John, expecting an answer.

“She is staying with us,” John states.

“When is she leaving to stay somewhere for the night?”

“She is living with us.” John clarifies. “And she has a name, her name is Syrena.”

“Silena can not stay with us, she is too distracting, more difficult than you even.” Sherlock says, nonchalantly.

“Excuse me, Mr. Holmes, I understand if you want me to go, I can find a small apartment of my own.” You say, not even bothering to correct Sherlock's mistake.

"No, Syrena, you are staying with us!" John says exasperated, "Sherlock! Her name is Syrena, and she is not going to live somewhere else!"

“Thank you,” Sherlock says, completely ignoring John. “Now you should be going, I have a case to solve. Goodbye, wait, why are you still here?” His eyes meet yours finally and he looks at you expectantly,  “Goodbye,” he says more slowly like you are dumb.

“No, Syrena. You are staying with us.” John glares at Sherlock, “She is staying with us, for gosh sakes, Sherlock, she is my sister!”.

“She is not staying!” Sherlock argues.

“She can stay with me until she finds an apartment, John?”  Mrs. Hudson offers. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, but Sherlock is going to have to deal with this, he is not going to control how I take care of my sister!” John raises his voice.

Sherlock sighs, “Fine, you win. But she must know that she is not allowed to play loud music, laugh so much, in fact I would prefer if she stayed absolutely silent.”

Mrs. Hudson, who is now standing next to the door, gives Sherlock a disapproving face, “Now Sherlock-”

“Shouldn’t you be going now, Mrs. Hudson, oh is that the downstairs door? Goodbye!” He pratically pushes her out the door and slams it behind her.

“John, where is my file? Nevermind, I’ll get it myself. Shush, don’t breathe so loudly, I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole street heard you! Now be quiet, I need to enter my mind palace.”

“His what?” You whisper to John as Sherlock sits in a chair, cross-legged, hands held up to his face, fingertips touching, and eyes closed.

“A normal person would call it his brain,” John says.

“QUIET, I am thinking!” Sherlock says, still in the same position as before.

You yank on John’s hand and pull him into your room, shutting the door behind you guys. “I don’t think this will work, John. I think I should find somewhere else to live.” You smile sadly, you had looked forward to staying with your brother, but now it seemed like it wouldn’t work.

John sighs, "Syrena, if you want to get away from Sherlock's degrading comments, I understand. But if you do, let me find a flat for us to share, just the two of us. I promised you a place to stay, and I'm not going to let my sister live in an unfamiliar place if I can be with her and help her adjust."

You laugh, "You certainly are a different sort of brother, most brothers would want to push their little sister away and ignore them."

John shrugs with a smile, "I don't have many friends, so that makes me lonely too."

"No friends at all?" You ask, surprised.

"Well, Mrs. Hudson and Molly Cooper are acquaintances and I like them, they are good people. But I have only one real friend here, and as surprising as it is, it's Sherlock."

You laugh again, "You act annoyed with him all the time, though."

"Trust me, he is annoying and irritating, but fascinating at the same time. He helps prevent my life from being boring with all the cases we run around to solve."

"Do you think he'll let me come along?" You ask.

John smiles, "Sure, all you have to do is bat your eyelashes and give him your best puppy dog eyes, then-"

You wack him in the head, "You're so evil! You know I don't do that and besides, that would never work on him!"

John laughs, "It was worth a shot. But I think he'll be open to letting you come along at least once, he is a show off."

You think for a second then say, "Ok, I'll stay here. But if Sherlock gets too irritated, I'm leaving!" You joke.

John smiles, "That's the spirit, now we have to go meet Molly."

"When? And who's that?"

"Right now! I promised that we'd meet her for dinner." John says, getting up from the bed.

"Are you two dating or something?" You ask, quizzically.

John laughs, "No, she actually secretly likes Sherlock. But she is a kind person and I think you'll like her."

“Why would she like him?” You ask, you weren’t trying to be rude, but it came out like that.

“He may seem cold and standoffish, but he is a good guy.”

“Not as good as you,” You smile cheekily.

John smirks, “Hurry up and get ready. We have to meet her in fifteen minutes.” He leaves and shuts the door behind him.

You sigh and plop onto your bed, there wasn’t much to do to get ready. You pulled out the only other clean outfit you had brought, it was some dark blue jeans and a basic green colored shirt.

After putting the outfit on, you brush your hair and decide to leave it down instead of putting it in a ponytail.

“You ready, Syrena?” John knocks on your door.

“Mhmm,” You nod and open the door. “Ready!” John looks at your choice of clothes, “Hmmm, Molly will know some good places for clothes shopping here.”

You look at your appearance, then back at John. “You think I look terrible?” John laughs, “No, you look beautiful as always. I just know how a girl thinks and that you’d want to go shopping soon and I’d rather not accompany you.” You roll your eyes and smirk, “I see how it is.”

“We should probably be leaving now or we’ll be late,” He said looking at his watch.

The two of you walk out to the livingroom and you are surprised to see Sherlock in the same position as you left him.

“We’ll be back later, Sherlock.” John calls and shakes his head in annoyance as he receives no reply or even an indication that he was heard.

“Bye,” You say as you follow John out the door, little did you know that at your voice Sherlock opened his eyes slightly and watched you as you left, a small smile on his face.

John waves a taxi down and you two get in and John gives the cabbie the destination place.

When you arrive at the small cafe, John leads you to a table where a woman who looks to be a year or two older than you is sitting.

The woman is wearing a reddish-pink blouse and white pants, her long brown hair is in a style where a braid runs from one side of her head over the top to the other. She smiles as she recognizes John and stands up when you near the table. “Hello, I am Molly Cooper. John has told me so much about you!”

You laugh, “Good things I hope?”

Molly chuckles as you sit down next to her, “Absolutely, he practically adores you.”

John hides his face in his hands, “Molly…...don’t, just don’t.”

Molly laughs, “He has told me lots about you, I’m sure he’s happy that you moved here. I am too, there’s not a lot of interesting people here to hang out with besides your brother, Sherlock, and Greg.”

“My brother, interesting?” You smile mischievously at your brother.

John groans, “I’m thinking I shouldn’t have even come now.” A waiter comes to your table and you take John and Molly’s advice of ordering the cheeseburger, fries, and shake combo.

“You won’t regret it,” John promises, “this is one of the best meals here.”

Molly smirks, “He basically eats this every Tuesday.”

“Every Tuesday?” You inquire.

John clears his throat, “We always have dinner together on Tuesdays, Sherlock comes every so often, but he usually just dampers the mood.” He chuckles.

You nod, quietly taking in all the information and forming conclusions in your head.

The waiter comes back bringing you all your meals and shakes, a caramel one for Molly, chocolate for John, and strawberry for you.

The rest of the evening goes by in a blur full of laughter and lots of teasing concerning your poor brother.

“It was so nice meeting you,” You smile at your newfound friend.

Molly nods, “Clothes shopping tomorrow then, say around two?”

You laugh, “I don’t really have anything else to do. Do you approve of me going, John?”

John sighs and shakes his head, “You brought out the worst in her, Molly!”

Molly only laughs then hails a cab and says goodbye, a second later she is gone.

“Want me to get a taxi or want to walk home?” John asks, “It’s not a very far walk and it is fairly warm.”

“Let’s walk, I need the exercise.” You laugh and put your arm through John's.

John smiles and then sobers, "Syrena?"

"Yeah?" You ask.

"What happened back in the states?" He asks quietly.

You sigh, you knew he was gonna ask one day about your ex, but you were never gonna be prepared for the question.

John notes your hesitancy and quickly says, “You can tell me when you’re ready, I know it still hurts, but I’m here for you whenever you are ready to talk about it.” He gives you a smile and then asks as casually as he can, “What did you think of Molly?”

You quickly look up at him, giving him a cheesy smile. "Is my brother in love?"

John playfully pushes you away, "Sisters, so presumptuous."

You laugh, "Brothers, so obvious all the time about who they like."

John drags his hand over his face and gives you the funniest, tired expression you had ever seen. "Ok, but for reals. Do you like her?"

“She seems sweet,” You say thoughtfully. “Sweet but sad, she seems like she’s hiding slightly, like she’s insecure. I do like her, John. But why does my opinion matter on this? If you like her, go for it!”

“I can’t,” John sighs, “she’s in love with Sherlock.”

You laugh, “Don’t get all depressed on me now. Keep up the good faith, don’t lose hope!”

You two make it back to Baker Street and quickly run up the stairs.

“Watcha want to bet Sherlock is still in the same position as we left him?” John smirks as he puts his hand on the door knob.

“Really?” You ask, totally thinking your brother is being overdramatic.

John pushes the door open and sure enough, there is Sherlock in his chair, cross-legged, fingertips in front of his face touching, and eyes closed. “Told you.”

Sherlock opens one eye and gives you two a quizzical look, then he resumes exploring his mind palace.

“He’s really extreme,” John informs you, like you haven't already figured it out.

Sherlock gets up and says, “Get your adjectives right, John. I am not extreme, a psychopath, or whatever else people label me. I am a high functioning sociopath.”

“Like I said, he’s extreme.” John crosses his arms. “Figure anything out yet concerning the case?”

Sherlock ignores him, walks into the kitchen and then pours himself a cup of tea. “What is it like inside your funny little brains? It must be so boring.”

You laugh at him, then realize it wasn’t a joke, Sherlock had honestly insulted you, again.

“Mine’s like an engine, racing out of control. A rocket tearing itself to pieces, trapped on a launching pad.” Sherlock says.

“Not again,” John sighs, “I’ve heard this before.”

“Of course you have, John! Your tiny little brain can only grasp the real meaning though, how I truly feel.” Sherlock glares.

“My mind is like a cat spying on its prey, then the cat gets hit by a lightning strike and gets fried.” John mocks him, clearly improvising on what to say.

“That doesn’t even make sense, John. You’re such an idiot.” Sherlock slurps his tea.

John gives him a face and Sherlock sighs and pulls the cup away from his lips.

“Don’t look like that, practically everyone is an idiot."

"At least other people are more sensitive," you mumble. You usually were a cool and collected person, but now Sherlock was starting to annoy you with his constant degrading comments.

"Did that thing say something?" Sherlock says calmly, referring to you as a thing.

You frown and say in a low voice, "Goodnight," and then head to your room, shutting the door behind you.

You sit down in the chair and eagerly grab the ukulele. You knew Sherlock would be annoyed, but part of you wanted to annoy him now.

You smile at the familiar feel of your fingers pressed against the ukulele strings and you happily use your thumb to strum a G chord. You start to think about what to play and suddenly your fingers start to play the familiar and somewhat sweet, longing tune of Edelweiss.

"You play beautifully." you hear a voice say and you jump and look up at your brother who was standing amused against your doorframe.

"Gosh dang it, John. Don't sneak up on me like that." You shake your head with a smile and randomly pluck a few strings.

John laughs, "Sorry about, well, you know who. He is a bit of a jerk."

"A bit?" You smirk.

"Fine, a lot of a jerk. But he'll come around soon, he's not so bad once you get to know him."

“Promise?” You ask dramatically.

“Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.” John recites, it was one of the things that he always used to say to reassure you when you were kids.

You laugh and then lean your head on John’s shoulder, “Thanks for being such a good brother.”

“No problem,” John says, then rips the ukulele out of your hands and starts playing really badly.

You giggle and steal the ukulele back, “Watch and learn,” you tease.

Hey lovelies ;) I started this story a few years ago, I hope some of you can appreciate it still, lol. Depending on how many reviews and likes I get, I might post more in this series. Thank you for giving me a chance!

[angryschnauzer]

Yeah that would be good;

The Watcher - Vampire Sherlock

The Watched - Vampire Sherlock x Reader x Vampire Geralt of Rivia

Always Watching - Vampire/Werewolf Hybrid Geralt x Succubus Reader

On Your Knees - (Enola Holmes universe) Sherlock Holmes x Female Maid Reader

HENRY CAVILL as SHERLOCK HOLMES  Enola Holmes 2 (2022) | Dir. Harry Bradbeer

[angryschnauzer]

On Your Knees

Summary: As general maid for 221 Baker Street, you assist most of the residents. However on one quiet night when most of them are out, only one resident returns to his home... a little worse for wear. He thanks you in the easiest way possible.

Fandoms: Enola Holmes 2, Henry Cavill

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+, Smut, NSFW, Drunk Sherlock, Oral Sex (Female Receiving).

Here is my masterlist and AO3

Wordcount: 1854

I do not run a tag list, instead please follow @angryschnauzerwrites​ and put that blog onto notifications, you’ll then get an alert each time i post something new. My AO3 also has my entire back catalogue of stories (going back to 2013).

On Your Knees

The cold wind rattled the fragile glass in the frame, a chill advancing into your room even further as the dark night continued. The building of 221 Baker Street was colder than usual, most of the apartments empty for the night due to various parties and festive events happening this time of year meaning the tenants wouldn’t be back until the morning. 

As the scullery maid of 221 Baker Street you were in and out most of the apartments each day, tending to the fireplaces and delivering meals if required. The housekeeper who supervised you telling you where to go and what to do wasn’t around either, though her instruction was rarely needed anymore, you knew the routines of all of the tenants and could read the calendar hung in the kitchen showing who was home and who wasn’t.

At that moment the wind rushed against the window again and you pulled your dressing gown further around your body, shivering beneath your quilt. Glancing at your own laundry you’d hand washed that evening, your bloomers hung on the wooden airer where the chimney breast rose through the building. With every pair you owned doing little to dry in the cold attic room, you cursed your schedule for not giving you time to do it earlier in the day when the sun had been coming through the window. Now you just had your thin nightgown and woollen stockings to keep you warm beneath your dressing gown.

You were drawn from your thoughts by the sound of movement in the hallway far below your room. Freezing you wracked your brain to try to remember if any of the tenants were due back tonight, but none were. Through the eerie quiet of the house there was another bump and a quiet curse. You reached for the large floor brush that still sat beside the door to your room with its dustpan, lifting the brush as a weapon as you opened the door and carefully stepped out onto the old floorboards to peer down through the stairwell. Clinging to your brush you leant forwards over the bannister and peered through the darkness, a single lamp in the hall four floors down barely illuminating the entryway before you suddenly saw a shadow move. Letting out a small gasp you clamped your hand over your mouth as you watched, but that tension evaporated when you recognised the wide shoulders and curly dark hair of the tenant in apartment B;

“Detective Holmes!” you called out, the figure below swivelling rapidly before spinning and looking up.

“Ah. There you are…” a soft hiccup followed as he swayed on his feet.

“I’ll be right down Sir”

Just last week Mr Holmes’ sister helped him into his apartment having had too many drinks at the pub, and it would seem he’d done the same again tonight. Padding on stocking clad feet you descended the stairs quickly, soon arriving in the hallway as Mr Holmes swayed a little on his feet;

“Can i help you to your apartment Sir?”

“Oh that would be *hiccup* wonderful Darling”

Hooking your arm around his back and pulling his own arm over your shoulders, you started to help him up the stairs one at a time, before arriving at his apartment. 

“I have a… I have my… dammit” Mr Holmes cursed as he fumbled for his key, and as you glanced down you could see that the bunch of keys in his pocket had caught on the fabric and were stuck. Without even thinking you batted his hand away and slid your much smaller hand into his pocket, moving the keys around until they were no longer snagged on the fabric. You tried not to think of the heat radiating from Mr Holmes thigh, barely separated from your touch by a thin layer of cotton, nor the firm muscle beneath the fabric that flexed as your delicate fingers brushed against it. He answered your silent thoughts with a grunt, before you pulled the keys out and unlocked the door, all whilst he had his arm around your shoulder.

His body was firm and heavy, a welcome weight against your cold frame, and as he swayed you did so too, before he finally pulled his arm free of your shoulders and started to shuck off his coat and scarf, struggling as he went about the task.

“Mr Holmes, Sir, please let me help…”

He swung around, shrugging his shoulders, his coat now held on his arms around his elbows, his wide shoulders only accentuated by the white shirt and silk waistcoat that clung to his torso. Whilst distracted you didn’t spot his flailing, one stray arm of his coat socking you around the chin, and although not hurting you, caught you by surprise and knocked you back where you lost your footing and fell on your bottom. 

“Ta-da! Done it!” he proclaimed proudly, before spinning around; “Where did you…?”

Climbing to your feet you took the bundle of coat from the floor;

“Ah, there you are Darling, didn’t get you did i?”

“Just a little Mr Holmes. Let me hang this up for you”

As you hung the coat onto the hook near the door you heard a gasp and a soft thud, turning to see Sherlock on his knees before you;

“Mr Holmes!”

“My Darling, i am so sorry, so very very sorry”

He had big puppy dog eyes as he looked up at you, his drunken state obviously accentuating his normally muted emotions; I should have been more careful… a heinous crime I have committed to sock a young lady around with my coat, please… please forgive me…”

You tried very hard not to laugh, for this was so far removed from what Mr Holmes was like normally, but also it stirred something within you, to see this big man on his knees before you, his face mere inches from your stomach. 

“Please Darling…” He edged closer, wrapping his arms around your bottom and pressed his cheek to your stomach; “Please forgive me…”

At first you were frozen with fear, this was not only completely out of character for Mr Holmes, but wholly inappropriate, but the long days and lack of sleep perhaps clouded your judgement and you cautiously rested your hand on the top of his head;

“It’s… it’s ok Mr Homes, Sir”

He turned his head and peered up at you;

“Let me make it up to you”

You could only watch in shock as he moved his hands to rest them on your stocking clad ankles, before he started to inch those warm palms up your legs. When he reached your knees his fingertips rubbed soft circles against the backs of your thighs, your nightgown bunching at his wrists. For the whole time you kept eye contact, unable to draw your gaze away until his fingertips reached the top of your woollen stockings and he let out a small grunt of appreciation. He ducked his head forwards and pressed a single kiss to the skin just above the tied ribbons that secured the stockings in place.

“You smell divine” he muttered softly, inhaling deeply before he bunched your nightgown up in one hand and pressed his nose to the apex of your thighs.

“Oh! Sir!”

He pressed a kiss to your soft mound, before his fingers stroked softly along your seam. Never breaking eye contact he lifted one leg over his shoulder, opening you up like a spring blossom. A warm puff of breath warmed your skin before he leant forwards and his tongue found your silken pearl. If it wasn’t for his firm shoulder your leg was hooked over you would have damn near fallen to the floor, you did lose your footing a little, your back falling to rest against the door behind you and your hands found their way to his dark curls. 

The slight tug on his hair seemed to spur him on, his wicked tongue parting your folds, and the appreciative murmur that came from his muffled lips only excited you more. Sherlock knew exactly what to do, and you can’t believe you had never even considered that this fine specimen of a man would be skilled in the art of lovemaking, but because of his cold demeanour it just hadn’t been something you’d thought of. 

You tried to concentrate on the look of bliss on his face, but the way his long tongue was pushing at your secret canal, his nose rubbing against your pearl, it was almost too distracting. Your head slowly fell back until it rested on the wooden door behind you, your eyes fluttering shut as pleasure grew in the pit of your belly. It was only when he moved a little, his lips finding your pearl again and he slid a thick finger into your tight channel did your eyes spring open;

“Oh lord!”

A quiet chuckle came from between your thighs, looking down to see the mischief in his eyes and he winked at you just as he slid a second finger in alongside the first. He crooked them just so as he moved them slowly but firmly, stroking at your velveteen walls, his lips and tongue increasing their efforts until you felt a surge of pleasure, a white hot fire bursting forth from your core and you climaxed with a loud cry of his name;

“Sherlock!”

As your body trembled he slowed his fingers, before pulling them free and holding them up to the faint candle light, inspecting the stickiness on them with a learned curiosity, before he sucked them both clean. He looked up at you as you trembled above him, slipping your leg off of his shoulder and he went to rock back onto his feet, but unfortunately losing his footing and topping back onto his behind;

“Oouf!”

As your nightdress fell back around your ankles and on unsteady legs you rushed forwards to help him to his feet, his eyes a little glazed from his drunkenness. He was like a lead weight, swaying on his feet until you managed to half carry half drag him to the chaise lounge and unceremoniously drop him on the soft cushion, watching as he twisted his body until he was on his back;

“What was i saying? I’m sure i should have thanked you for something…” he was already nodding off to sleep, oblivious to the rich smell of your sex now hanging in the room. 

You let out a sigh before turning and to the quiet background noise of his snores you lit a fire in the hearth to warm the room. Making sure a heavy yew log was placed in the centre of the grate to ensure a long slow burn, you set the fireguard in place. Spotting his long blue dressing gown hanging over a chair, you carefully laid it over his sleeping form, and with one last glance back at him you exited the apartment. At least with the fire in his apartment now going a sliver of warmth would seep into your room that cold night.