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free-for-all-fics · 6 months ago

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

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

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

“Good day, Mister Holmes, I—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Right. How?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Honorable?”

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

“So you broke her in?”

“She didn’t understand the rules.”

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

“I thought her child had died.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Old habits," he conceded, smiling faintly.

"Indeed."

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

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

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

“Leeches?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You will know when you know.”

“What does that even mean?”

“I cannot tell you.”

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

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

“At night? What happens at night?”

“When you are alone.”

“When I am sleeping?”

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

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

“Sister, what a question!”

“I thought one needed to be married.”

“What are you talking about?”

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

“Sister, that is enough.”

“I take it you know?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sherlock Holmes!”

“A round of fencing.”

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

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

“Y/N Holmes.”

“Go on, then. Chastise me.”

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

“Suppose I desire something different.”

“How do you mean?”

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

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

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

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

“Keep your voice down!”

“Please come and join us.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Or three.”

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

“Really I don’t…”

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

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

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

“We hardly had time.”

“One makes time when one wants to.”

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

“Bessie is counting on me to find Sarah.”

“I meant in my seeing my ex-fiancé.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe I can help.”

“You can help by leaving.”

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

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

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

“Can I get you anything, darling?”

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

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

“All right?”

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

“What did you have in mind?”

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

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

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

“It is very intimate.”

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

“As do I. To what shall we drink?”

“Let us drink to getting drunk.”

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

“To lose control?”

“Behave indelicately.”

“Your message sounded urgent.”

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

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

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

“She surprises you?”

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

“A colleague.”

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

“To collaboration.”

“It is a fascinating case.”

“What disturbs you about this one?”

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

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

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

“From a woman?”

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

“Has that been your experience?”

“Sorry?”

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

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

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

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

“It’s interesting, I agree.”

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

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

“For what purpose?”

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

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

“Someone?”

“A woman.”

“Oh.”

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

“A kindred spirit.”

“Perhaps. Yes, I think she is.”

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

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

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

“Believe what?” Enola asks.

“That I don't have feelings for her.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Both apply.”

“If you’d like to talk about it…”

“I would not.”

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

“I’ve not refused.”

“You have. And it’s unbearable.”

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

“Expressing?”

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

“Are you saying you regret it?”

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

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

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

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

“I meant what I said before.”

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

“Aren't you?”

“Yes. I suppose I am.”

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

“I'm perfectly safe, thank you. Cab!”

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

“Sherlock Holmes, you just took my cab!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A breakthrough you made for yourself?”

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

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

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

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

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

“But there’s more?”

“I feel pulled every which way.”

“You should abide by your own advice.”

“What of you?“

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

“I should step purposefully, then.”

“Yes.”

“I shall miss you, Laszlo.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Will you come over for the wedding?”

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

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

“I love you too, little sister. Bye.”

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

Sherlock,

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

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

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

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

“Oh...very happy. And very busy.”

“We should tell them tonight.”

“I thought you wanted to wait.”

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

“Enola, I - we have some news.”

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

“Y/N is in a delicate condition.”

“Dare I ask?”

“I'm the father.”

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

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

“What do you mean, ‘you know’?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Now?”

“Mm.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It's really over now, isn't it?”

“You sound disappointed.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

“And he agreed?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She was offered a ride.”

“Though perhaps you might have insisted.”

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

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

“You find that amusing?”

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

“I was speaking metaphorically.”

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

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

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

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

“Oh, Sherlock, isn't she a vision?”

“You look…wonderful.”

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

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

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

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

“Oh, my!” Mrs. Lane exclaims.

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

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

You smile at hearing that.

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

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

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

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

“I’m a detective.”

“As am I.”

“You’re teasing me.”

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

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

“I’ve read all your work. I’m Enola…”

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

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

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

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

“What’s on your mind, Enola?”

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

“But you do here.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Indeed, he did.”

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

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

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

“What do you know about her?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I would have a glass of burgundy.”

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

“I will have that.”

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

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

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

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

“What I meant was…”

“I know what you meant.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Enola.”

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

She nods.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you spying on me now?”

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

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

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

“Sherlock…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Love. What it does to people.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My mother had her reasons.”

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

“She cared for me.”

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

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

“Is that the way your mother was?”

“Yes.”

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

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

“I'm sorry, Y/N.”

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

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

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

“What will make you happy?”

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

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

“Then she is wise. Goodnight, Enola.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How old was she?”

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

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

“She's no longer a child.”

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

“Certainly you have.”

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

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

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

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

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

“That doesn't sound foolish.”

“It doesn't?”

“No. Sounds beautiful.”

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

“Of course. It’s a wonderful idea.”

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

“That's a lot of thinking.”

“Look at this.”

“Ah, it's an old society column.”

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

“You were looking for something on your father?”

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

“You seem to be obsessed with the man.”

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

“I’m sorry, Y/N.”

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

“Cheers.”

“I hope she’s makes you happy.”

“Thank you, Enola. She does.”

“Proud of you, Brother.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Mm.”

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

“You are already mistress of all this.”

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

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

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

“Then let her resent.”

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

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

“Mr. Holmes.” You curtsy.

“Mrs. Holmes.”

You laugh as you exit your bedroom.

The phone rings. Sherlock answers it.

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

“Watson, I am on my honeymoon.”

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

“Very well! If I must.”

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

“Well, is there anything I can do?”

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

“How much?”

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

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

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

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

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

#sherlock holmes x reader #sherlock x reader #henry cavill sherlock holmes #enola holmes #laszlo kreizler #Laszlo Kreizler and sister reader #the alienist #crossover fic #crossover #fic prompts #fic ideas #random fic ideas #pls tag me if you’re inspired by any of these #I’d love to read it

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