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free-for-all-fics · 4 months ago

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Enola Holmes and Enola Holmes 2 Prompts Part 2! Pls tag me if you’re inspired by any of these and I’d love to read it! 🕵🏻🖤🕵🏻‍♀️

13. You’re the illegitimate daughter of a rich and powerful man, your mother having been one of his mistresses. While in public, your father calls himself your godfather and you his goddaughter and neither of you can ever acknowledge your true relation in public, but he does show that he loves you. With your engagement to Sherlock Holmes, you’re very happy. He loves you, and you love him. You know that. He’s your best friend and your mother used to say that you must marry the man who is your dearest friend. But suddenly, he’s stopped you from going with him on cases. You’re not sure why, as you’ve accompanied him and sometimes even his younger sister, Enola, before. You go to your father for guidance in this situation.

“He was more interested in going on capers than with spending any time at all with me. He used to let me tag along with him, we used to be a team, working on solving cases together, but lately, something in him has changed. It’s only getting worse. He values my insight and my perspective on cases, but he won’t let me help beyond looking over clues in his flat. He suddenly says it’s too dangerous, that it’s better if he works alone. But his sister is still a minor and she’s gone on wild adventures while solving her own cases. Why won’t he let me join him anymore?”

“Y/N, please. Sit. Whatever my issues with Mr. Holmes, I know that he cares deeply for you. That he loves you. And remember, it is you who is to become Mrs. Sherlock Holmes. It could be coming from a fear of losing you. What he does and what his sister does is highly dangerous. I can understand his worry. After what happened the last time…”

He doesn’t even have to say it for you to know exactly what he’s referring to. While investigating a case, you were in a coach with Enola when your driver was shot. The horses whinnied in fright as they were spooked into galloping aimlessly at breakneck speed and the two of you were tossed about the rattling coach like dice in a cup, glass shattering and wood splintering around you as you were shot at, causing the carriage to disconnect from the horses and overturn off a cliff.

“Y/N, are you all right?”

“I don't believe it's hit bone.”

“You need to tie it off.”

While your ankle was wounded, Enola was luckily relatively unscathed and still able to walk, only suffering some non-fatal cuts and bruises. She helped to support you as you walked, panting and grunting the entire way.

“Why do you think we've been followed all the way up here?”

“Because we know too much. Enola, if I don't get away and you do, I need you to give your brother a message.”

“You'll have to deliver that message yourself, as I have no intention of either of us dying today.”

“Y/N, we must hurry. I think it's best if we stick to the woods. Is the pain better or worse?”

“Hard to tell. I think my brain has already habituated to it.”

“What did you want to tell me? Your message.”

“Oh, it's nothing.”

“Oh. I’m not a fool, Y/N. I saw the love between Sarah Chapman and William Lyon during one of my previous cases and I myself am in love with Viscount Tewkesbury. I can recognize that look.”

You grunted.

“‘Dull,’ I think Sherlock called it. But he doesn’t always mean what he says. Does he know how you feel?”

“Not the extent of it.”

“And is it reciprocated?”

“Yes.”

“Of course, I...I suspected it all along, but to actually hear you say it... He’s wonderful. He’ll make you very happy. Look after him, Y/N.”

“I shall do my best.”

“Well, I suppose I can brag that I introduced the two of you.”

“I know it's hard to comprehend. I've questioned my own feelings many times. I told myself it's concern and duty on his part, dependence on mine. And naturally, I realize how inappropriate it is, but...there are certain things a woman cannot control.”

“I told you, love resides in the heart.”

“Nonsense. It's still physiology.”

“Oh.”

“His brain reacts to qualities in me that he lacks in himself... He can be dispassionate and cold, only ever animated and excited during a case. While I am sociable, and exude kindness, warmth…”

“Humility.”

“That, too. And my brain reacts to qualities in him that I lack in myself. Courage, for example.”

“You’ve shown more courage in the last few days than most people do in their entire lifetime. No one deserves love more than you. Come on.”

When you went to hospital, Sherlock was called and told of the incident. Despite you telling him yourself that it was unnecessary and that you and Enola were fine, just a sprained ankle and some cuts and bruises, he still came over to see you.

“You had expectations of me, Y/N. Fair ones. I got caught up in this case…a matter of confounding urgency that…overtook me, and then…I’m sorry, Y/N.”

Sherlock,

The nurse just told me you'd been in to see her. Should've let me know, I'd have made sure I was there. It's been a while. I'm sure she appreciates it. You know she'd tell you that herself if she could. You know she loves you and doesn’t blame you for what happened. And neither do I. Call me when you get this message.

Enola

“If there’s one thing Mr. Holmes and I can agree on, it’s that we don’t want to see you hurt or dead.” Your father says, pulling you back to the present.

“Yes, that very well could be it. He’s never been in love before, and neither have I. I’d understand if he was scared. I’m scared too. But I’m ready to be a wife. His wife. But is he really ready to be a husband? My husband? Have you seen how he gazes at his work during his investigations? How he leaps out of his chair when he’s suddenly had an epiphany? How he hangs onto every word of every person he’s ever interviewed? I love that about him. I know he leads a busy life. I’ve always known that, but his inability to balance his professional life with his love life is so…concerning. I worry for his health sometimes. There are days he barely eats, and nights he barely sleeps. When a case vexes him, he imbibes in alcohol, tobacco, or even other drugs like cocaine. Why does he endlessly push himself? I fear that I’ll be as my mother was to you. An accessory. Papa, I understand the ways of men of your standing, but Sherlock and I haven’t even begun a life together.”

“I promise you I will bring Mr. Holmes to heel. I will not let you suffer.”

“As your wife has? And my mother has? Sometimes, it’s as though the whole of England whispers as I pass by. ‘There goes that poor, unwanted, misbegotten thing.’”

“Oh, Y/N. My girl. You are so dear to me.”

You won’t rely on your father to fix your relationship with your fiancé. You’re a grown woman, you can handle this yourself. You know Sherlock has always worked alone, but you’ll show him that he doesn’t have to anymore. Your marriage, like all marriages should be, will be a partnership. You will be equals. You’ll be very happy. Even if you have to enlist Enola’s help in snapping Sherlock out of whatever funk he’s in, you’ll do what must be done so you can go back to how things used to be. You won’t let him treat you like a fragile, weak thing made of glass.

“I’m sorry, Y/N. It’s been a strange day. There is something I would like to speak with you about which is troubling me.”

“Well, that can’t stand, can it? I won’t let you be troubled when you’re with me. It’s not permitted. Please, look at me. You know I love you, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Then you know that is no easy feat for someone like me, for someone whose family she’s not allowed to acknowledge, who’s always aware of the whispers when she enters a room, who’s never had solace or a name to call her own. And this is why I cannot wait to be announced as Mrs. Sherlock Holmes on our big day. In belonging to you, I will finally belong.”

14. You were once Sherlock Holmes’ friend, but then something happened to you that set off a chain reaction of bad events which led to you doing many odd jobs, including selling your hair and working at a match factory, a tailoring shop, and even becoming a prostitute. You’re well aware of the Jack the Ripper killings that have been occurring, but Sherlock once told you to stay unemotional, and so you do. You have to, to bear going through with the kind of work you do, to let men lay on top of you and do what they wish to you for coin. But then you become pregnant and, after your child is born, they are taken from you against your wishes by the Madame. You wake up in the middle of the night and discover your baby gone. You escape from the hospital you were put in and desperately enlist the help of your old friend Sherlock to find your baby. You couldn’t care less about the man who got you pregnant. He’s dead to you. But your baby…you still want him/her. They came from your body, they’re yours. Sherlock feels terrible and guilty for leading such a busy life that he lost touch with you, and has been unaware of the series of unfortunate events that have befallen you.

“Now what may I observe about you? Shoes a state. Hair’s not much better. You need to wash your clothes every now and again. You are pale…undernourished, and you’ve lost your…”

“Stop!” You point your finger at him.

“And then there’s your fingernails. Why on earth were you working in a match factory?”

“What?”

“Last night, they were dirty with green traces. This morning, they are black. The phosphorus from the match-making has mixed with the oxygen in the atmosphere.”

“How did you…”

“And your neck is red. Someone has gripped it or held a knife against…” Sherlock stops as he looks at you. “Are you involved in something dangerous? Because you are still my friend. If you need my help, my offer remains on the table.”

“The Madame didn’t want a baby. She didn’t want me to keep it, so she…sent me to a hospital. They took the baby from me. I’m fortunate I bled too much and they left me intact instead of sterilizing me like they do other women. But I want my baby back. Please, Sherlock. I know I’ve fallen on hard times and it seems I’m incapable, but I…I want the chance to try, to be a mother.”

“Having your baby… That made you happy. To feel loved, didn’t it?”

“When my 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. Please, Sherlock. Help me find them.”

“I’ll do more than that. I’ll help you get back on your feet. I promise this will never happen to you again. You’ll never have to go back to that place.”

“Sherlock…I thought I’d lost you. What are we going to do?”

“We’ll find a way. Is that not what you want?”

“I just fear that you love this version of me, your friend, and all the qualities that you like in me as a friend, you would not want in a wife.”

“I love you for your kindness and your courage, your beauty, and your fierce intelligence. You challenge me. What are you scared of, Y/N?”

“Love that is not truthful is not love. It’s only passion. Is it not true that you want a wife, a family, a place to call home? That’s what you want?”

“Is that so wrong?”

“No. But at this moment, I’m not sure that I…”

“You need rest.”

“In the hospital, you asked me, did I want a family?”

“And you said that you did.”

“I have dreamt about it often, but I realize here in this room what it is I value most dearly in life. I was born a gentleman. I have grown accustomed to behaving in a certain, correct way, not quite saying what it is I want and don’t want.”

“What do you want?”

“I want you.”

15. You've always been average, rather Plain Jane compared to your sisters. Unlike your beautiful and multi-talented sisters, you’ve no serious marriage prospects, so your parents often forget you in favor of focusing on securing your sisters’ marriages to men of wealth and social status. You love your parents and your sisters, but you suffer from classic middle child syndrome. Your family keeps asking you to run errands for them which means you can't focus on any one thing for a longer time, and you can’t say no to them. You often run into Sherlock Holmes, the famous detective, among many other accomplishments, while running these errands. Impressed by his many talents, his charm, his devilishly handsome good looks and more, you befriend him. Not an easy feat, since he’s a man who prefers to keep to himself. “Stay unemotional,” and “You’re emotional. It’s understandable but unnecessary,” are two of his favorite phrases to live by. Though he’s hesitant to admit it, even to himself, he enjoys your company, and you always spare him a thought or two, inadvertently helping him with his cases without thinking much of it, failing to recognize your own genius and other attractive qualities. You never thought of yourself as anything much. Not a great beauty, musician, athlete, or artist like your sisters.

Your family even sends you out on errands at night, sometimes without access to a horse or carriage if your sisters need to use them. You’re left to walk, scared half to death by shady characters and wild dogs when you run into Sherlock and his younger sister, Enola, who stop their carriage once they see you. It’s not safe for a woman like you to be out alone at night, especially with money in your purse. There are scary people about. They offer to give you a ride, which you gladly accept. Though Sherlock is in quite an inebriated state. He doesn’t usually imbibe, but he’s on a case, you see. It’s proven rather tricky. Sherlock introduces you and Enola, slurring his words as he does so. Though it’s under less than ideal circumstances, you’re happy to meet her.

You help Enola carry Sherlock, slinging his other arm around your shoulders and supporting his other side as, it turns out, he is medievally heavy. It’s like carrying a dead horse on which sits another dead horse.

“That’s A, and I’m B.”

“I didn’t know you had steps.”

“One should always have steps to avoid people stepping on you. That’s a tip, you should probably write that down.”

You help Enola to get Sherlock up the steps, and though it’s not an easy task, the two of you manage to get him inside his flat and he throws himself onto the couch. While he’s sleeping, you and Enola look around. The place is a mess.

“It’s perfect. Don’t touch anything.”

“What are you investigating?”

“None of your business. I work alone. It’s private. Shh! Don’t go in there. No.”

You stay the night and while Sherlock all but kicks Enola out, (“Dundee cake. Door. You can help by leaving.”) He permits you to stay, using some excuse like you’re an adult and not his sister, so he can’t tell you what to do. You help him clean up his flat just the way he likes it while he’s hungover and indisposed with a headache. While you’re cleaning, you chat about many things.

Soon you’re making excuses to your family so you can go out and see him during both the day and the night. They’re none the wiser, assuming you’re eager to get to your chores. This turns into a secret romance between you and Sherlock. The secret places you meet at are far from glamorous, but you’ll take a flat, a building with a leaky roof, a spot in the woods, or a pub any day. Just to spend hours in his arms while investigating his current case with him. But first, you have to overcome the bane of your existence, the corset: A symbol of repression to those who are forced to wear it. But for you, who chooses to wear it, the bust enhancer and the hip regulators will hide the secret messages Sherlock has given you. And as they do so, they will make you look like that truly unlikely thing: A lady!

“This one is too small.”

“We shall just have to get you a tighter cinch,” your mother says as she comes in.

“I cannot breathe as it is.”

“If one cannot breathe, one cannot eat. Tighter. Tighter!”

“Is she to breathe, Mama?” One of your sisters tries to interject.

“I was able to squeeze my waist into the size of an orange and a half when I was your sister’s age. She shall do the same. How’s it coming?”

“It’s difficult to say.”

“I’m told it’s the latest fashion in London.”

“Well, women in London must’ve learned not to breathe! Ow! I can barely breathe!”

“You must suffer to be beautiful, so say the French.”

“The French are crazy.”

One of your other sisters comes into the room, holding a large box. “Sister, dear, Father has left a gift for you.”

You open it. It’s an evening dress and, unlike your mother’s choices, this dress is to your liking. “Oh, it’s beautiful!”

“Isn’t it?”

“May I inquire as to the occasion?”

“Does Father need an occasion to dote upon his daughter? Go on. Actually, he…he had hoped you might wear it for the ball tonight.”

“Ball?”

“The Match Maker’s Ball.”

“I knew it!” You turn towards your maid. “No, Tessie. I'll not wear this evening dress as I have no need to flatter myself.”

“It’s a charity gala. To combat Typhus.”

“Will there be gentlemen present? I should say, rather, there will be gentlemen present, yes, but not for me. Just for you and our sisters. It’s only a ball, and I’m only there for the food, as Mother likes to say.”

“All the more reason to make an impression,” your mother points out.

“Please, Sister, won’t you wear it?”

“Mr. Clark will be there. He’s a fine gentleman, don’t you think? He fancies you, you know.”

“I can't decide whether they abhor our shape or crave another,” you say to your maid once you’re alone in the room again.

“They believe us to be delicate creatures, miss.”

“Then to hell with them.”

Coincidentally, Sherlock’s case and Enola’s case and your family’s desire to see your sisters married leads the three of you to the same place: The Match Maker’s Ball hosted by the Lyons. You and Enola and Sherlock meet again while going undercover to investigate the case and underneath the fancy dress and sparkling jewelry, Sherlock recognizes you. Even when you were dressed as a kitchen mouse to disguise yourself, he always thought you were beautiful. He puts his name or alias in your dance card and you dance together. You thought those lessons with your sisters teaching you how to use a fan were boring and pointless.

“What are we learning today?”

“We are learning the art of the fan.”

“Fascinating.” You deadpanned.

“Yes. Get up. Get up. We only have about ten minutes in which to communicate this. Now, first of all, one handles a fan very deliberately. It's a tremendous tool of communication. That's it. You can say things like, ‘I'm feeling flirtatious. Come hither.’ You can say, ‘l never wish to speak to you again. Go away.’ You can say, ‘I'm feeling terribly shy today.’ And you...Are you sassing your sister?”

“I would never sass you, Sister.”

“This is also a way of showing you're annoyed.” Your sister hit you with her fan.

Now, you use the fan to your advantage to cover your mouth while discussing the case in hushed tones. You also use it to tell Sherlock, “I love you,” from afar. You’ve been in love for such a long time, but were too blind to see it.

“Picking up any gossip?”

“Mmhm.”

Your family starts to get suspicious, especially when they notice you’ve barely spent any time with your caller and have been seen dancing with Sherlock Holmes. Your caller interrupts you and Sherlock after the dance is over, asking for a moment of your time. You and Sherlock bow and curtsy to each other, then part ways. He takes you to the second floor and you look out at the dance floor below from over the banister.

“May I have a moment? You look lovely, Y/N.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“I apologize if I seem forward, but I must speak my mind. This promotion throws into sharp relief that which I have not yet achieved. A marriage to a fine woman. You have become a fine woman, Y/N.”

“I can’t breathe.”

“Yes, I…I’m a bit nervous myself.”

You fall from the second story balcony, landing on a table. Horrified gasps and screams fill the room, causing a commotion as Sherlock pushes his way through the crowd and towards you. Focused on getting you to breathe again, he cuts open your dress and corset, ripping the damned death trap off of you. You greedily gasp for air, your lungs desperate for it. You look up at Sherlock with dazed eyes. After you recover, he gets you alone to ask you some questions that have been weighing on his mind.

“When I teased you and said that perhaps you're in love with him, you said that you were. Did you mean it?”

“I imagine I was teasing you back.”

“I think I'm in love with you.”

“There you go again, Sherlock Holmes.”

“I know it's embarrassing to speak of such things, that we should keep them to ourselves and abide by the codes that keep us civilized, but how can we be civilized when we've experienced something like this? Turn me down, by all means...but don't pretend I have no feelings for you.”

Sometime in the future, Sherlock is your husband. He is the softest, most doting husband you could ever ask for. Whenever you can’t decide what you should wear for the day, he picks out a dress for you. He’s the one to help you put on your dresses and take them off. With so many things to lace and button, and so many buttons being tiny, close together, and often in hard-to-reach places in the case of undergarments, and the goddamn corset that is the bane of your existence. Sometimes you curse women’s fashion for being so complicated and coming with so many layers, but Sherlock is always ever so patient in helping you get ready. It’s probably one of his favorite parts of the day. It’s no wonder that many women relied on the help of a lady’s maid or an obliging sister for help getting dressed. But you have no maids, and your sisters live elsewhere with their own husbands, so you must rely on your husband to help you get ready for the day and prepare for bed at night. He buttons and unbuttons the back of your dress or ties and unties your dress laces for you while you brush out your hair. He doesn’t force you to wear a corset if you don’t want to, uncaring if it isn’t proper. He values your comfort above your appearance.

“Good heavens, that corset looks painful. Might I help you off with it, my love?”

He holds the hand mirror for you while you fix your hairdo or makeup, though he may not be able to resist kissing your neck and getting distracted. You, of course, return the favor by tying his cravats for him when his fingers seem to fumble and he just can’t get it right, helping him with his cuff links, or buttoning up his vests and coats. When your corset and/or dress has trouble closing, that’s when you and Sherlock suspect that you might be pregnant.

16. “I tried to stop her but she’s full of this fight.”

“You can’t control Enola Holmes. She’s a force of nature, a law unto herself.”

“Yes, she is. And I fear she will hang.”

Even long after the case of Sarah Chapman is solved and Enola is safe and sound, Sherlock occasionally experiences nightmares in which he couldn’t save Enola and she was hanged.

Grail pounces on Enola, and the two tumble into the shadowy backstage of the theatre. Onstage, Lord Tewkesbury duels a corrupt officer with a sword hidden in a cane, tossed to him by Sherlock. Backstage, Enola crawls behind a stack of flats as Grail limps around looking for her. Enola is beneath the workbench, when it flips over! Tools and paint brushes scatter across the floor. Grail stands there, with a fire extinguisher raised above his head. He brings it crashing down. Enola dives from its path. His veins bulge, his blood bubbles thinking of Enola like a slippery little rat or fly to be crushed, a pest to be rid of. He whips around to find Enola ascending a ladder to the catwalk above. Grail follows. Above the stage, Grail pulls himself onto the catwalk. He limps across the raised platform as Tewkesbury and Sherlock come close to incapacitating their opponents below. But where is the damn girl? Just as the thought enters Grail’s mind, Enola drops down from the lighting rig above. She lands on Grail’s back, wrapping a length of rope around his neck. Grail flings himself forward, flipping Enola over him and the catwalk’s handrails. Enola hangs, holding on for dear life. Grail smiles down at her and inches his foot toward Enola’s hand. Stomp. He jams his heel down, breaking three of her fingers. Enola pulls her hand from under Grail’s foot. Now she’s dangling by one arm. Far below is the stage floor and certain death. Grail places his shoe just above her hand.

“You insolent little girl, I want you to die knowing I’m going to be Commissioner. I’m going to rule this town with an iron fist, and after I’m through with you, I’m going straight for the rest of your family.”

“Yes, Superintendent Grail. Your career is on the rise.”

Just as Grail’s about to bring down his foot, Enola swings her free arm onto the catwalk, grabbing hold of a large sandbag. She yanks it with all of her might, pulling it over the edge. It hurtles toward the stage below, pulling the rope it’s tied to. The rope that’s wrapped around Grail’s neck. Thwip, when the bag’s only halfway down, the rope snaps taut. Thrown over a beam in the lighting rig, it pulls tight, lifting Grail into the air. He reaches up trying to free himself, but it’s no use. His neck is caught in the tangles. His eyes bulge, then roll back. He chokes, twitches, spasms twice more, and finally goes limp as Sherlock watches. Grail sways softly in the rafters of the theatre, dead as a door nail. Grail’s face shows signs of strangulation. His death was not a pleasant one. Enola pulls herself onto the catwalk.

Sherlock tosses and turns, kicking his blankets off and talking in his sleep while he sweats profusely. You’ve often woken him up from these night terrors, but it’s not always easy. Sometimes it’s as if his body and mind are trapped somewhere between wake and dream, and he has to fight against himself so that the paralysis that has taken over his mind and body will relinquish their hold on him. You rub his back and hush him as you hold him, combing your fingers through his damp hair. Sometimes the nightmare changes, and instead it’s Enola who gets murdered by Grail, her limp body left swinging from a rope in the rafters. Other times, it’s you on the noose instead. But in your case, it’s not just a nightmare, but a memory. Sherlock mentioned to Enola that he and Grail had a history. This was part of it. You were part of it.

In his younger days, he thought he would never fall in love. He led far too busy a life. He never got involved with people, unless they were clues. Until one day, he met you, a breathtaking woman. You were more than beautiful, you were intoxicating, mysterious, clever, everything he’d ever dreamed of. He felt his heart would burst if he couldn’t have you. And Sherlock, the poor idiot, he married you in secret. You honeymooned in secret. He took you to his flat and you were happy for a time, as happy as a man and a woman can be as they solve cases together and end up in wild, unpredictable, sometimes highly dangerous adventures in the pursuit of answers and the trail to the true culprits. Then one day, you were riding through the woods, and you were thrown from your horse, and knocked unconscious. When Sherlock rushed to your side and hurried to help you, your dress was torn and he noticed a mark on your body... Something he’d never seen before, something you’d managed to keep hidden all this time, even while making love. You’d been branded. Given a mark that is only reserved for those who are to be executed for murder. Sherlock was confused. How could you, the woman he loved, his bride, betray him like this? You’d lied to him, but there must’ve been more to the story. In his line of work, he knew not everything is as it seems. When you came to, you swore that you’d been falsely accused of these crimes, and he believed you. From then on, he took your case, convinced he could find the truth of what really happened in your past and who really committed the murder you’d been tried and convicted of. Both he and you used the utmost discretion. But then, despite how careful you and Sherlock were to keep what you were doing hush hush so that nobody else in London would know your business, the police came to take you away to be put back on Death’s Row and executed, and you…you were still professing your undying love. While Sherlock was working on the case from the outside, you were held in a cell, but still able to investigate from the inside. Unbeknownst to the guards, you’re an expert lock picker and snuck in and out of your cell to snoop in the Commissioner’s office or other forbidden areas to uncover files and private records, anything that would help your case. Sherlock came to visit you often, and when he did so, you told him in hushed whispers of what you’d found.

“Sir—”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Sherlock held up a finger while passing the gate and going back to the cells, where you were. When you saw him, you got up from your spot on the bench and ran up to the bars, stretching your arm out through them to hold and kiss Sherlock’s hands.

“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Holmes.”

“Grail. I wish to speak with your prisoner. In private.”

“By all means, do so while you still can. The Commissioner likes you, and has ordered a stay of execution. Unless you can find new evidence that proves her innocent or Mrs. Holmes miraculously finds herself with child, she’s still set to die in thirty days.”

“What exactly is my wife in prison for?” he asked.

“This I did not know. But when I heard that you were coming, I asked my fellow officer here that myself.”

“And what did he say?”

“He said his brother was just looking for a good time. When your wife murdered him. Eyes front and keep your nose clean, Holmes - a noose and a short drop is how we deal with troublemakers. Murderers, pickpockets - doesn’t matter what you do. All you lot will end up swinging from here.”

Grail never once scared or intimidated you. He was a repulsive man, slimy and smug. But nothing he could say or do to you would get you into giving a false confession. Even as your time ran out and you were walked to the gallows, you weren’t afraid.

Wind howls. Sherlock’s grip on you starts to give.

“Don’t lose me, darling. Darling? Sherlock? Sherlock!”

Your hand slips from Sherlock’s fingers. You’re pushed to the ground by a gust of cold air. You tumble through briars and thickets of dry-brush, till you land with a thump on the floorboards of an old wooden courthouse. You look up to find a village worth of angry townsfolk leering over you. Two men grab your arms and yank you to your feet.

“No! Let her go!”

You’re dragged to the bench of a decrepit, old judge. He points to you with a spindly, spotted finger.

“Y/N Holmes! You vile creature! You have been found guilty of the crime of murder. This crime being sinister in nature. For this crime, you are sentenced to be hung by the neck until dead. May God have mercy on your soul.”

The villagers pounce on you. You’re suddenly in a clearing, the heart of what will one day become a forest. You’re staring at a rickety platform. A noose hangs down from a beam up above. The townsfolk take hold of you and push you toward the gallows.

“Kill the murderer!”

“Kill her!”

You’re thrown onto the scaffold. In the back of the crowd gathered to watch the execution, one man stands out. You can make out his hair and his tall stature. It’s Sherlock, calling to you. An executioner pulls a rope around your neck as the judge cries out.

“Never shall she plague this land again! This land which we paid for with blood! Her immortal soul shall rot here. And the roots of the wood we plant shall ensnare her forevermore. Any last requests?”

“Yes. Loosen the knot and let me go.”

“Of course we don't let her go!”

Sherlock desperately claws his way thorough the mob.

“Darling, you have to take control! You’re giving them the power! With it, they can kill you!”

But the illusion is too strong. The nightmare has Sherlock caught in the memory of your almost death. The executioner takes hold of the lever, ready to release the trapdoor beneath your feet.

“The innocent must suffer.”

“Sherlock!”

“The guilty must be punished.”

“Sherlock!”

“You must taste blood to be a man!”

At the judge’s signal, the executioner pulls. The floor beneath you falls away. Sherlock hurls himself at you, catching you midair.

“Her neck did not break. Oh, I'm so sorry. Now, we must watch her strangle to death.”

The two of you go crashing through the confines of his mind. Lights flash. Bulbs burst.

“Sherlock, wake up!”

Then quiet. You and Sherlock land on a dusty, dirty carpet in a large, dark room. Your flat at 221 Baker’s Street. You both sit, brushing yourselves off.

“Sherlock! Are you all right?”

“I got scared. You’re…you’re really here? I’m not still dreaming?”

“Yes, I’m here. You’re awake now, and everything is fine. Was it…that nightmare again?”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, but his actions speak louder than his words as he wraps his arms around you and holds you tighter, sobbing as he lays his head on your chest so he can listen to your heartbeat. It and your voice whispering to him sweet nothings are the only sounds that can calm him down and keep him grounded in this situation.

In reality, Sherlock caused a distraction, which allowed him to make his way towards the scaffold where you were. The platform below you dropped as the lever was pulled but Sherlock threw a sword beneath your feet, saving you from dying. But it was still difficult to keep your balance as your feet kept slipping on the metal of the cutlass. A bullet was fired, cutting the rope and causing you to drop from the noose. You ripped off the torn rope. Sherlock interrupted the proceedings by coming in with all the evidence necessary to prove it wasn’t you who committed the murder, flawlessly going through step-by-step the series of events. Society demands swift justice, and he gave it to them. Sherlock informed Inspector Lestrade of who the real culprit was and to arrest them at once. With that, a mistrial was declared, the old trial was thrown out, and you were free to go and Sherlock took you home. Ever since suffering that public humiliation that cost him his reputation and most coveted promotion to Commissioner, Grail hated Sherlock and you even more than he already did, because your innocence being proven at the last minute and the failure of having you executed put a major black mark on his image and a wedge in his plans of climbing up in position through any means necessary, even corruption.

In present day, Grail is dead, killed by Enola while he tried to kill her in a conspiracy to cover up corruption. His head cracked like an egg. You’re alive and here, and so is Enola. You’re both safe. Grail can’t hurt any of you anymore. It’s over. All Sherlock said was that he and Grail had a history, and Enola still doesn’t know the full extent of it. You and Sherlock are still undecided if you’re going to tell her or not, as the past seems not to matter now that the man is dead. As you make the both of you a cup of tea (or maybe something stronger) to calm your and your husband’s nerves, Sherlock knows that these night terrors will pass. Eventually. For now, all he needs is reassurance that you’re still here and won’t be going anywhere without him.

17. Nanny McPhee-esque AU: You’re the scullery maid to Eudoria Holmes, the matriarch of an upper class family. She’s a widowed woman with two grown sons who left home shortly after her husband died, and Enola, a young girl of sixteen who you’ve looked after as she was growing up. While you’re very intelligent and intuitive and have a keen eye among other qualities, you’re an orphan who’s never had a proper education. When you were hired, you were uneducated and couldn’t read or write, so Eudoria helped you to learn alongside Enola when the day’s work was done.

“What’s this word?”

“Lovingly. ‘He took her lovingly by the hand’.”

Eudoria was not an ordinary mother. She didn't teach Enola to string seashells or practice her embroidery. They did different things. She also taught you everything she taught Enola: Reading, science, all sorts of exercise, both physical...and mental. She said you were free to do anything at Ferndell...and be anyone. She was Enola’s whole world. You’ve befriended the young girl over the years as she grew up. Enola’s like a sister to you, in a way. You are the same to Enola. When Eudoria leaves the night before Enola’s sixteenth birthday, she instructs you to look after her daughter and give her these presents. While Enola goes to meet her brothers at the train station, you prepare yourself by dressing like a powderpuff or “proper lady” with a hat and gloves. When they return home and ask if Enola has had a governess, (“Enola, you at least had a governess? Tell me, she at least saw that you had an education?”) you step in, pretending you’re her governess. When Mycroft grills you with questions, you answer all of them sufficiently and confidently, maintaining your composure and eye contact. When they point out the state of the house, you reiterate you’re a governess, not a housekeeper.

Despite your exemplary performance, Mycroft is a stubborn old mule and doesn’t think you’re good enough, so he brings in Miss Harrison, who “offers” to take away Enola to a finishing school for girls so she may receive private tuition in literature, history, deportment, and elocution. After witnessing Miss Harrison strike Enola across the face and her desperate display of pleading to her brothers, you and she hatch a plan in the night so you go instead while she escapes to find her mother. At first, Enola couldn’t possibly ask you to make such a sacrifice, but you let her know that, despite realizing what it’d mean for you, you want to go. It could be good for you, since your background means you have no prospects. You’re in your late twenties or early thirties and are already considered an “old maid” by society. By the time Enola’s brothers and Miss Harrison realize a switch has been made, it’ll be too late. You’ll never tell them where Enola is. She doesn’t have to be miserable and you can get your much desired education, even if it’s repetitive and monotonous lessons in how to be a proper lady. After all, Sherlock wouldn’t love you if you couldn’t read or write. He’d think you stupid, uneducated, and beneath him. When you absentmindedly say this thought out loud, Enola hums to herself and begins brainstorming to play matchmaker and set you and her brother up. When Enola is caught and brought to the school, you’re taken out. You confront Sherlock and talk some sense into him about Enola. You know he cares for her, he’s just been too afraid to admit it, so accustomed to living the busy life of a bachelor and detective, where he never forms attachments or gets emotional in his line of work.

“You overstep.”

“She is your sister.”

“She is Mycroft’s ward, and thus his responsibility.”

“Responsibility?”

“You’ve done more than enough. Do not make this any more difficult than it already is.”

“I wish to know something, Sherlock. Tonight, when you leave this study that you continue to keep at your family home, are you to return to your bachelor lodgings at 221 Baker Street, or will you pay a visit to a certain woman of the night that you pick up in a bar on the other side of town? If your father was still here, Enola wouldn’t have so much pressure put on her to be matched. The man would have let her pave her own path and find love in her own time. The man, who already had two grown sons, would’ve never seen a need to push his daughter to be a wife and mother when she’s just barely a woman, because it’s his eldest son’s responsibility to have a wife and child, not yours and not Enola’s. And yet here Mycroft is, unmarried and childless, relying on your younger sister to one day do the job that he and you will not. You sound just like him. You and he like to speak of responsibility. My dear Mr. Holmes! Of duty? Pray tell, what should you know of it? What should Mycroft know of it? When you both went away, I came to be employed here since I was but seventeen years old, not much older than Enola is now. For at least twelve years, I’ve been by her side. For twelve or so years, neither you nor Mycroft ever wrote, nor visited. And yet it took your mother’s disappearance to bring you home. Now you think that because you’re older, that because you’re men, you can just waltz back in this house and dictate how your sister is to act? What she is to do with her life? I sat with her in that drawing room for years and do you know what I saw when those women manhandled her and measured her, when Mycroft spoke to her in such a detestable manner, all of them treating her like a horse to be trussed up and sold off to market, while you said and did nothing? I saw a young woman who is terrified because she knows what kind of life, what kind of future awaits her should you and Mycroft continue to get in her way. Mycroft only sees her as an object to be beaten down and molded into what society wants. He only seeks to use her to further his position. ‘You have to go to school, Enola!’ ‘But I don't want to go to a finishing school, Mycroft.’ ‘Well, what else are we going to do with you? You're a girl!’ But I see her as an unusual and independent person, capable of her own thinking, dreams, ambitions, and paving her own path. She’s still a minor. She’s not even of age yet. It’s perfectly normal for her to not want a husband. She doesn’t need that ‘educated out of her.’ You don’t get involved with people, unless they’re clues. So you must ask yourself, Sherlock, are you merely the world’s greatest detective and all the rest of your accomplishments, or are you Enola’s older brother? Will you be her legal guardian and the man of this house or won’t you?”

Throughout your speech, he tried to interject, to object, but you wouldn’t let him. You swiftly turn and leave the room, leaving him to think on what you said. But even without your interference, Enola still escapes from Miss Harrison’s finishing school with the help of Lord Tewkesbury. You’re proud of her for finding the true culprit and getting there before Sherlock, so you and she go out to celebrate. Meanwhile, Sherlock is also very proud of his sister and starts to realize that he may care for you. That he may love you.

While Enola turns down his offer of a Holmes and Holmes partnership, she points out that she likes this new version of him and that no one should be alone all the time. A friend would do him well. So he asks you to work with him, (not for him, he made it very clear you’d be equals) and you agree, on the condition you can dedicate some of your time to Enola and her cases, should she need your assistance. You’re the only person to not filter yourself around him. You’re not starstruck or intimidated by him in the slightest, despite his fame and reputation as the world’s greatest detective of the time. He keeps you on because you’ve got brains and a keen eye, able to see things in the tiniest of details that others don’t, just like he and Enola do. Enola likes you a great deal, and your sincerity is refreshing when he’s surrounded by fake smiles and major suck ups. The constant fawning and groveling gets old. You whip him back into shape whenever he’s being difficult. When he gets himself drunk and is wallowing in self-pity and frustration at getting stuck during a case, you’re the one to pick him up. “Remind me again why I should feel bad for you? You’re a famous and accomplished detective, scholar, chemist, virtuoso violinist, expert marksman, swordsman, singlestick fighter, pugilist, and a brilliant deductive thinker. You got all of English society practically worshipping the ground you stand on and always asking for your services, and while you choose to live in a flat, your childhood estate is among one of the most expensive and beautiful houses on the planet! C’mon, Mr. Holmes. You’re famous, handsome, and rich. So chop, chop, fix your hair, put on some clean clothes, drink some water, and let’s get going.” God, he loves you. He hasn’t admitted it to you yet, but he’s been thinking of courting you. He has everything. Everything…except someone to share it with.

18. Nanny McPhee inspired: For an alternate telling of events for the above prompt, Instead of Enola, it’s you who goes to Miss Harrison’s finishing school, posing as a Holmes sister even though in reality, you’re just a scullery maid. Mycroft isn’t there to make sure it’s Enola that gets in the carriage, which makes this switch possible. Thinking it’s Enola that’s being taken away in the carriage, Sherlock chases after it, calling her name.

“Enola! Enola!”

“Now then, you better tell me your name, little girl.”

“Enola!”

“Don’t be shy, my dear. What is your name? Sit up straight and tell me your name.”

“No! Enola!” Just as he yells out her name in desperation, he hears Enola’s voice calling his name.

“Sherlock! Sherlock!”

She runs to him, and he embraces her in relief.

“But if… Then… Then who’s…”

“Y/N. My name’s Y/N.”

“And what a pretty name it is too.”

“Y/N. Oh.”

Later, It’s Sherlock’s wedding but, unbeknownst to everyone except him, it’s all a ruse so he can bring a culprit out of hiding for one of his cases. You hide your heartbreak at what you believe is the man you love marrying another when you return to see Sherlock and Enola again.

“Delectable to see you again, Mr. Holmes. And how nice to see the young lady, Miss Enola.”

“Welcome back, Y/N. You look well. Are you well?”

“I am most content.” The smile you give him is noticeably forced. “You must be very happy to be marrying.”

“Yes. I’m…I’m… How did you put it? Most content. Of course.”

“I am so glad. Pray, excuse me.”

“I’m concerned you’re being bought on the cusp of your true independence, on the finding of your own powerful words. I fear you’re being seduced.”

“Well, I fear you’re behaving like an irritating sister. How about, ‘what a lovely party, Sherlock. Please extend my thanks to your generous bride-to-be.’”

“Generous? She humiliated you.”

“She did not humiliate me.”

“She laughed at your expense.”

“It was a moment or two of teasing.”

“That debased you.”

“If I’m not fussed by it, then why should you be? You don’t care about me particularly. You made that quite clear when I asked you to marry me. You said no, if you recall.”

“She’s unkind to you, in public, no less which isn’t right for you, Sherlock. Don’t you see? You deserve someone who is adventurous and curious and—”

“Someone like you?”

“Yes. Someone like me. But not me.”

“A yahoo tributary.”

“What?”

“It’s an Indian name for a tributary that runs beside a main river. It flirts with joining it. It comes very close, but it never does. A woman exactly like that, untied to the suffocating social mores, the very opposite of any number of women down there. And the opposite of you too. So full of judgment yet trussed up like a turkey in your corset and your fancy dress. I decided, unlike you, that I want not to be alone, childless, lonely, corseted. You’re no taxi tributary. In fact, you’re swimming right down the middle of the stream.”

“Sherlock, wait. I— In my mind, it was easy enough to tell you how I felt, what this has meant, but…but words fail me. All I want is to be worthy of you.”

“I am to be married, Y/N. Within an hour, I’m to be a husband. It’s just not that simple.”

“It could be.”

With help from Enola, when the time is right, he sabotages his own wedding.

“Enola, Tennis practice.” Sherlock uses a violin (not his own) to bat and Enola pitches a mini cake, but when he hits it, it flies in your direction, and hits you in the face and/or chest. Sherlock is embarrassed, until you stand up and throw a cake back at him, hitting his sleeve. Your laughter encourages him to throw cake back at you with the violin as a bat as you participate in the ensuing food fight or other disruption, ignoring Miss Harrison’s scoldings of, “Y/N! Where are your manners?”

“Sod my manners, you old trout! This is the first fun I’ve had in weeks!”

Until the bride and/or the bride’s family gets so angry she/they call it off. They try to leave, but, whether the bride is guilty or not, Sherlock stops her and her family when he reveals in front of everyone the true culprit of the crime and how they did it.

“As for your youngest sister, a lengthy spell in a corrective institution is long overdue. And you, Y/N, I can see you’re as wild as her.”

“And proud to be. I love Enola, Miss Harrison, which is more than you do.”

“Insolence! Come away now!”

Enola tries to grab your hand, but you let it go as you follow Miss Harrison. Enola then gets a bright idea. Why waste a good wedding?

“Wait! Wait! My brother will marry today.”

“What?” Sherlock asks incredulously.

“What?” Miss Harrison asks incredulously.

“Who?” The officiant asks.

“He’ll marry Y/N!” She says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You and Sherlock look at each other.

“Incest?” Miss Harrison asks, disgusted and aghast.

“No! No, Miss Harrison! Y/N isn’t our sister!” Enola is quick to clarify.

“Not your sister?”

“Of course she’s not our sister!”

“Well, who is she then?”

“I’m the scullery maid.” You admit, finally.

“What?”

“Y/N, do you love Sherlock?” Enola asks bluntly, cutting straight to the point.

“Of course not. I know my place. That wouldn’t be right. I mean… Yes.”

“Sherlock, do you love Y/N?”

“What are you saying? That would be totally improper. I mean, anything like that could never happen. I mean, obviously… Yes.”

You and Sherlock smile at each other, while Miss Harrison exclaims, “He’s marrying a scullery maid?” and faints.

“What I said, I did so because I needed to hurt you. They were watching. I had to uphold the charade or else they would’ve suspected something was amiss.”

“I know.”

“I’m deeply sorry.”

“I know that too.”

“Too often, things said in anger come from a place of…of affection. And what should be spoken out loud is left unuttered. And life is too short for that. You will feel quite comfortable here.”

You and Sherlock are happy as husband and wife, and Enola loves you as her new sister-in-law.

19. You have an identical twin sister who works as a secretary or other for Mycroft Holmes. Your sister respects him as her employer, but she can’t stand him as a person, believing him odious, too much of a stubborn old goat who hates the very thought of any microscopic change in the word around him, and all around dull and exhausting to be around. He lacks practicality and is completely dispassionate. While he’s talented like his siblings, he’s far too lazy and is unwilling to ever use his gifts or put any physical effort into working. Something unexpected happens in your sister’s life that makes her ask (more like beg) you to switch places and pretend to be her just for a few weeks. Nobody will even notice, and the Master of the house especially won’t since he’s so busy and traveling all the time, she assured you. But doing what she does daily is much harder than you thought it would be, and things get more tense when his younger brother, Sherlock, keeps running into you while on a case.

At least for Sherlock, he’s never met you or your sister before, so he’s none the wiser. And as for Mycroft, he just thinks your “behavior shift” is because you’re a woman and acting hysterical or ridiculous. He’s completely disinterested in you/your sister, so long as you get the work done. The longer you pretend to be your sister, the more you get entangled with the case Sherlock is investigating. Turns out, your sister is involved in something that may be very dangerous. A conspiracy of some sort to reveal corruption or some other crime. She’s something of a spy. The more you and Sherlock bond, you break down his walls as he opens up to you. He never gets involved with people unless they’re clues, but you’re different. You develop a friendship which may turn romantic. When it comes time for you and your sister to switch back, the situation becomes complicated as Sherlock is left wondering why he’s suddenly getting the cold shoulder and strictly professional treatment as if nothing’s happened between the two of you the next time he sees you in public. Why won’t you let him hold your hand or kiss you? He thinks he’s in love with your sister, but it’s you. It’s always been you. And the woman in front of him now is not you. And he isn’t aware of what you and your sister had done. An already bad situation is made worse when the bad guys your sister has proven herself to be a worthy adversary against mistake you for her and kidnap and/or try to kill you by poison or drowning in an attempt to silence you. They may use you for leverage to draw out your sister’s group. Whatever the case, your sister goes to Sherlock for help, revealing to him what you and her have done. After the bad guys are killed and/or arrested, he saves you, carrying your unconscious or nearly unconscious body bridal style into the hospital. You’re laid up for many days or weeks, and he and your sister both watch over you the entire time.

20. You’re a journalist who’s been tasked by your chief editor to get an interview with Sherlock Holmes, the world’s greatest detective, and one of the country’s hottest bachelors on the market due to his many, many talents and accomplishments, not to mention his devilishly handsome good looks and family house. Every time you think you have a good story, a competitor gets to it first, so your workplace has been on your ass about getting this exclusive interview. Too bad Holmes is a very elusive and private man who works alone and doesn’t do interviews or anything like that. He’s the one who asks the questions, not the one who gets asked the questions. He keeps to himself, outright refusing and slipping away from any news outlets no matter how hard they try to corner him. Your boss pitches a new idea: Sherlock has never met you, so he has no idea what you look like. If you can go undercover, gain his trust, and find out everything you can about his personal life, then you’ll be promoted. A man like him must have secrets. You’re very attractive, intelligent, and clever, so if anyone can do this, it’s you.

“Get a load of my next piece. ‘Ugly Fall Sweaters of the Stars.’ It's gonna be brilliant, I tell you.”

“Excuse me.”

“Uh, not now.”

“No, this'll just take a second. I just had a couple of questions about your article, the Fashion Week piece that I'm editing.”

“Uh... go.”

“Well, see, the thing is that the boss wanted 300 words, and this is 650. And one of the designers you quoted wasn't even on the floor, so...”

“Y/N, I don't have time for this right now. Just clean it up.”

“It's not just a clean-up, it's a major rewrite.”

“What are you, the executive editor now?”

“No, I'm just trying to explain that...”

“Just fix it, okay?”

“That went well. Let me guess. You're gonna rewrite his stinky old article and save his butt. Just like you always do.”

“Well, it is my job.”

“You could tell him where to put it.”

“I'm not telling him anything.”

“Y/N, we're junior editors, not writers.”

“Well, how else am I supposed to become a real journalist?”

“You'll get there. Of course you will.”

“Five rejection letters in a month. Hardly killing it on the freelance writing market.”

“Y/N, big boss man wants to see you in his office, now. Have fun.” They then answer the ringing phone. “…Magazine, how may I help you?”

“If this is about the article about Fashion Week...”

“Forget Fashion Week. I got something else for you. Sit. So, what do you know about the Holmes Family of England?”

“England? Wait, their father died, and the boys left home not long after. They have a younger sister, Enola, but I don’t know much about her. The eldest son, Mycroft, works for the government, the younger son, Sherlock, is a scholar, chemist, virtuoso violinist, expert marksman, swordsman, singlestick fighter, pugilist, and a brilliant deductive thinker, one of the world’s most famous detectives. Enola is being courted by a young Tewkesbury who’s a Lord or Viscount, but both sons are unmarried and unattached. People say Sherlock is a playboy, and the mother, Eudoria, never remarried and is a scandalous socialite fighting for women’s suffrage or equal rights.”

“Playboy Sherlock Holmes took off after Daddy died, which wouldn't be a problem, except he leads a busy life, so it’s near impossible to get close to him. When he’s not working on a case, how does he spend his days? Why is he not attached to a woman or married despite being thirty years of age? Who is he underneath the public persona he puts on for his clients and admirers?”

“Right…” you trail off, trying to see where they’re going with this train of thought.

“That's exactly what you're gonna find out. Mr. Holmes is due back this weekend. But just in case he absconds, I need somebody there to follow his trail. I need boots on the ground.”

“I don't mean to shoot myself in the foot, but why me?”

“You're talented, hungry, smart. And none of my regular writers can go this week.”

“This guy is your assignment?”

“He thinks he's so hot. Mm, another secret girlfriend, possibly?”

“Gross. What a creep.”

“Chill out. He's like a 12.”

“Not my type.”

“Honey, he's everyone's type.”

“Not mine.”

“If I set you up with one more hot, successful guy who you blow off I'm gonna punch you, girl.”

“Ouch. I'm just not on the market.”

“You and your beau broke up, what, a year ago? You can't let him make you gun-shy.”

“Can we just not talk about my love life right now?”

“Seriously, this assignment could jumpstart your career.”

“What? What is it?”

“My editor has given me a story to cover.”

“Your own story?”

“It's about the Holmes family of England. The younger son, he's a bit of a playboy.”

“This sounds like it's gonna be your big break.”

“Yeah, but the thing is, I'd have to be away for weeks, possibly even months. And I know that you'd be alone. I just—”

“Sounds like you need a bit of Fatherly Advice 101. When me and your mom opened this place, there were a million reasons why not to, but your mom said, ‘Honey, you gotta take a chance.’”

“So you're telling me to open a bakery?”

“Ha. No. I'm telling you to stay true to your dreams, all right? And success will follow. Huh? That's good, right? Sounds like a fortune cookie. All right. Anyway, the point is, you gotta take a risk if you're gonna win. So don't worry about your old man. I'll be fine, all right? You go over there to English-whatnot--“

“England.”

“England, that's it. And you make us proud.”

“All right.”

“Still $4.95, though.”

When you do meet Sherlock for the first time, it’s not at a big fancy event like a rich person’s house party or a concert, but rather a coffee shop, a dog park, the street, or somewhere else that’s common. Maybe he saves you from being trampled by a runaway horse/carriage or steals your cab. For the case Sherlock’s currently investigating, he’s cleverly disguised himself so he looks nothing like Sherlock Holmes and so forgettable that nobody even recognizes him. The little gray man.

“Excuse me!”

“I'm sorry, I really have to go.”

“No, but this is my cab!”

“I apologize.”

“You can't just do that. Selfish jerk!”

“That man just took her cab. Seriously, can you believe that guy? Who does he think he is?”

“First time?” Another reporter asks you while you’re surveying your surroundings and taking notes for your piece.

“Hm?”

“First time covering the Holmes family?”

“First time covering anything. Any words of wisdom?”

“Pick a new career.”

“May I help you?”

“No. No, I... Yes. I was supposed to be...”

“Ah. American.”

“Excuse me?”

“You must be the new American tutor for Miss Enola.”

Seeing an opening, an opportunity, you decide to go with it and play along. “Yes. That's me, the tutor.”

“Very good. Follow me, please. Miss Edith? Miss Enola’s new tutor has arrived.”

“[fake name]?”

“That's me. Pleased to meet you.”

“Oh. I thought your agency said you weren't available till the first of the year?”

“I wasn't, but then my last assignment ended early, so...”

“So you thought you'd just show up...here. Two weeks early.”

“Sorry, I know that it... I can leave, if it was a bad idea.”

“Mrs. Holmes did mention that she wished she had someone to occupy Miss Enola over the summer months. Her last tutor left rather abruptly.”

“What happened?”

“That's no concern of yours. Something about a mouse in her bed. Come with me, please. Where's your luggage?”

“At the inn.”

“I'll have somebody fetch it for you.”

“No, no, that's okay. I can get it.”

“I'm surprised you were able to find a room with all the press in town. Parasites, the lot of them. Scum of the earth. Mr. Holmes will want to meet you.”

“The elder or the younger?”

“It’s Mr. Sherlock Holmes who is Enola’s guardian now, so he will be the one to talk to. I trust you're familiar with our English etiquette.”

“I needed some time to think.”

“You've had time, Sherlock. You may be the younger son, but you can't keep missing these official engagements.”

“Yes, Mycroft.”

“Not anymore.”

You then enter the room and Sherlock’s and your eyes light up with recognition at the same time.

“You.” You both say simultaneously.

Mycroft looks between the two of you. “You know each other?”

“Our paths have crossed. Selfish jerk, at your service.”

“I am so sorry. I had...”

“No, no, no. It's I who should apologize. And you are?”

“Mr. Holmes, may I present Miss [fake name], Miss Enola’s new tutor.”

“Sherlock!” Enola yelled, running into the room and towards him like a bat out of hell.

“There you are, my little imp.”

“I am not an imp.”

“Yes, you are. You're a little imp.” He picked her up and swung her around.

“Sherlock, put her down. Sherlock. Put her down, Sherlock.” Mycroft keeps pestering.

“As you wish.”

“I am not a china doll, Mycroft.” Enola huffs in annoyance.

“No, but you’re a lady. And a lady doesn’t run indoors.”

Enola rolls her eyes and turns her attention towards you. “Mycroft doesn't let me do anything but study and go to the loo.”

“Well, now I do feel sorry for you.” You smile.

“Beard looks awful, by the way.” Enola says to Sherlock.

“Yes, you do look like a derelict Santa Claus.” Mycroft agrees with a crinkle of his nose.

“Yes, I only grew it so I wouldn't be recognized. And it appears to be doing the trick.”

“Who are you and what are you doing in my house?” Enola asks you bluntly.

“Enola, manners. She's your new tutor from America.”

“I'm... I am [fake name]. So pleased to meet you, Enola.”

“You are supposed to call me Miss Holmes or Miss Enola. Don't they teach you anything at tutor school?”

“You'll be starting your lessons right away, Enola.”

“But it's summer.”

“I hope Miss [fake name] lasts longer than your previous tutor. Place your bets.”

“I actually like mice.” You say awkwardly, trying to get Enola to warm up to you.

“Mrs. Lane, would you show Miss [Fake name] to her new quarters, please?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you. Good day.” With that, Mycroft puts on his coat and top hat and left, leaving you with Sherlock and Enola.

Later in the afternoon, while Enola and Sherlock are out, you sneak away to make a long-distance phone call to your friends and coworkers.

“I'm actually inside the Holmes house. Undercover. I love it. This is better than an exclusive. But I had to lie to get in here.”

“Who cares?”

“Could I go to jail for this?”

“Two, maybe three weeks tops.”

“Oh. Not helping.”

“Listen, just play this out as long as you can. Get lots of material, whatever you can grab. Can you do this?”

“Absolutely.”

“I trust you have the curriculum and lesson plan I sent your agency.” Sherlock tells you.

“I, uh... No, they must have forgotten.”

“My experience with US agencies could best be described as loosey-goosey.”

“Not to worry, Mr. Holmes. There is nothing loose about this goose.” You want to hit yourself for saying something so stupid.

“Enola. You remember Miss L/N.”

“Good morning, Miss Enola.”

“Go away.”

“Now that's no way to treat your new tutor. Please, be seated.” Sherlock pulls out your chair for you at the breakfast table.

“Thank you.” You nearly want to scream when you see a small mouse on the chair. Instead you pick it up and put it outside.

“I thought you said you liked mice.”

Sherlock gives Enola a pointed look, but she ignores it.

“Not as a seat cushion. Now if you've finished with the excitement for this morning, I suggest you start on your lessons. I started with Modern Art. What do you think?”

“Delightful. I'll leave you to it.” Sherlock is soon out the door after that.

“So, how did I do?”

“Looks good to me.”

“I got 92 on the state exam.”

“Well, seeing as you're already so good at math, why don't we do some writing? English is my best subject.”

“You're a writer?”

“Yes. No, no, but I studied it at school in New York.”

“I thought you're from Minnesota.”

“I am, but I went to college in New York.” You quickly cover.

“Morning.”

“Good morning.”

“What are you up to?”

“Just catching up on some letters. Are you ready for your lesson?”

“No. We're going to bake cookies instead.”

“You're gonna get me in big trouble if we don't start your lesson by 9:00.”

“Not nearly as much trouble as if I told my brothers your real name. Miss Y/N L/N. Don't even bother denying it.”

“But, how—”

“You don't know the first thing about tutoring, for one. Also, I looked at your journal yesterday while you were in the loo.”

“It's locked.”

“Yes, but you put the key in plain sight. Big mistake.”

“I'll pack my things.”

“Wait. No one has to know.”

“You're not gonna tell anyone?”

“Not as long as we have a deal.”

“What kind of a deal?”

“You write the truth about my brother, and I'll keep your secret.”

“You mean the things that are written about him, they're...”

“They're not true? Not even close.”

“So he's not a playboy or a philanderer?”

“You've seen him. His idea of fun is working a case or playing William Tell with a bow and arrow. So, do we have a deal?”

“Deal.”

“Good. Now, about those cookies...I hope you have a big appetite. We are making a lot of cookies.”

“So, what's going on with your brother and Irene?”

“Is this for your story?”

“I need to know the truth if I'm gonna write the truth.”

“He used to love her, but that was a long time ago. Now she's back, so who knows? Mycroft’s into her. Mycroft’s wanted everything Sherlock had since they were boys. Seems like everyone wants what we have.”

“You are the Holmes family.”

“Things used to be different before my father died and my mother left. And now that they’re both gone...”

“Hey. They’re not gone. You'll always have your father in your heart and your mother is always nearby, watching over you from afar so she can keep you safe. Now, come on, we've gotta get these in the oven.”

Over the course of your stay, you and Sherlock catch feelings for each other and what started off as pretend becomes real. When Sherlock uncovers the truth about why you got close to him and that your “fateful meeting” was actually all a set up for your new piece, and realizes who you really are and why you’re here, he’s not as hurt as you thought he’d be. A part of him is hurt, but the other part of him is impressed you were clever enough to be able to get past him. Still, he can’t in good faith allow you to stay.

“Sherlock, wait!”

“What for?”

“You have to know that I didn't mean for this to happen.”

“I don't know anything anymore. I don't know who you are. I don't even know who I am.”

“I'm Y/N. Y/N L/N. That is my real name. And I didn't come here to— Things just got so out of hand.”

“Well, you've got a grand story to tell now. I wish you well in your aspirations.”

How can you ever hope to make it up to him? Maybe Enola will have to be brought in to talk some sense into her brother and get him to see reason.

“So, what did you think?” You ask your boss as he reads over your story about Sherlock.

“It's a thoughtful, mature, well-written story that will never see the light of day.”

“What?”

“It's a puff piece, Y/N. Pure schmaltz. Not our brand.”

“But it's honest and it's the truth.”

“You were at ground zero. You were living under the same roof as Sherlock and Enola. He let you into his flat! You had personal papers and case documents written by Sherlock himself in your hands. You might as well have had his private journal in your possession, and you did nothing with it. You really blew it big time.”

“But this is who he is. This is what happened.”

“I really don't care. In the meantime, I need you to jump back on the copy desk. There are articles that need a polish.”

“You know what? Find someone else to do your mop jobs.”

“Excuse me?”

“I'm done.”

“So, what are you gonna do?” Your friends and former coworkers ask you as you pack up your stuff.

“Time to focus on my own work. That's what I've been saying all along. I'm gonna start with a column about Sherlock Holmes, the real story.”

“What are you doing here?” You ask in surprise as you go outside to meet Sherlock, who is standing in the street right outside your dad’s bakery. You thought he was an illusion at first, a trick of the mind. But no, he’s here in the flesh.

“I never had the chance to say goodbye. Or thank you.”

“You don't have to thank me. I'm responsible for this whole mess in the first place.”

“No. You opened a door that needed to be opened. That's what a great reporter does. Enola showed me your columns.”

“She did?”

“Why didn't you publish it in your magazine?”

“Too much schmaltz.”

“Schmaltz?” He’s clearly unfamiliar with this American phrase.

“It means it was too sentimental. I wrote the truth about you, that you're kind, compassionate. That you stole my cab, and that you're gonna solve cases from the heart as well as from the mind.”

“Enola misses you terribly. So do I.”

“I miss you too.”

“A flat is a lonely place for a man without a flatmate. But a home is an even lonelier place for a man without…a wife.” He gets down on one knee.

Your brain doesn’t know how to process this. Your mouth opens and closes like a fish for a few seconds before you stammer, “But my whole life is in America.”

“Well, we can come back as much as you want.”

“But my career, I'm not ready to—”

“I don't want to make you give up anything, Y/N.”

“I could never leave my father.”

“I can give him his own wing at the main house. There’s plenty of rooms since Mycroft, Enola, and I moved out. We only go back there for special occasions now. Or I could buy him his own flat in London. Or we could just pick this building up and move it to any corner or any street he wishes. How long do you plan to keep a detective on his knees?”

“You haven't thought about this. I mean, we barely know each other.”

“I've never been more certain of anything in my life. And I've been known to be indecisive. Look, I know it's sudden, but… Is that a yes?”

“Yes. Yes, yes, yes.”

21. Spy AU: Something major has been going on in the underground crime world, and you’re asked to intern under Agent Holmes and go undercover to find out what it is. You're a tailor, spy master and survivalist who has both designed and worn state of the art disguises/outfits that allow you to conceal microphones, cameras, weapons, and anything else you may need according to the mission. Holmes is your boss and senior agent/director by night, and his cover as a dorky American news reporter named Kent by day works well. He provides you with only the latest and best in spy gadgetry, both for everyday and espionage. The latest tasks of which is impersonating a celebrity/socialite and designing devices that can be small and inconspicuous enough to be worn under or with a designer dress that was originally supposed to be worn by a female spy at the World Summit as a bugging device so they can get very important intel.

The trouble is, the intended agent can’t perform the job for whatever reason. And you’re the only other woman with a close enough resemblance. So it looks like it has to be you, or else the whole operation is a bust. The closer you seem to get to uncovering the truth, the weirder things get. Holmes begins acting very strangely, when he starts receiving threats from anonymous persons - Magazine cut out notes urging him to work faster, untraceable phone calls with modulated voices, dead flowers, etc. You and he begin to piece the mystery together, but will either of you live long enough to see it through?

22. Spy/Crime/Political Espinoage AU: You work for a cute little boutique as a seamstress. You are highly skilled, best known for your high-quality evening/formal wear and handbags. You typically cater to affluent businessmen and the like. But what nobody living knows about you is that you were the youngest member of a secret society of women that schemed and plotted for social reform, even if it was through violent and illegal means. The very secret society of women that Eudoria Holmes and Edith are part of. You were eighteen when you joined, only two years older than Enola was when she discovered her mother’s secret. You used to work as the Secret Service's Secret Seamstress. It was your responsibility to protect the President from any possible wardrobe malfunction (ripped trousers, food stains, sweat marks, etc.) while in the public eye, as well as protecting him. You had to take precautions before and during any large event and, despite leaving that career behind and “retiring”, you still have habits that you learned and kept with you, such as discreetly eavesdropping and people-watching. Recently, an atypical customer stops into your shop with a strange request and a LOT of money. You’re on guard, as always, but how can you refuse? You’re closing up the shop for the night when you see five men walk in through the front door and lock it behind them. You’re very surprised when one of the men go to an inconspicuous framed picture hanging on the wall. It’s just a picture of flowers or something generic, what’s so special— oh. He turns it counter-clockwise, revealing a secret passageway behind a one-way mirror. After he performs the typical complex unlocking mechanism, you’re ordered to follow. Turns out this “cute little boutique” has been a front for special operatives for many years. In their secret meeting place, they give you your new alias and the run down of your first assignment. You've been tasked with a special project: 12 poison-laced suits to go with a poison-laced dress. You unwittingly cross paths with Sherlock Holmes, alias “Sherrinford Hope”. He’s a special kind of agent, a man who not just provides disguises but also weapons for assassins and wet workers. He’s now getting ready to send new suits to the men who are about to start a revolution, lined with poison and concealed weapons to use on their targets. This is part of a conspiracy plot of assassinating world leaders and other prominent individuals of power and social status. Other key players among this revolution are John Wilson, alias “Ormond Sacker” and Irene Adler, alias “The Woman”. And since you were in the wrong place at the wrong time and are now a witness, the only way these people can keep you alive is if you become involved in the conspiracy and join their team. Perhaps they’ll fake your death and give you a new identity to go along with their newest round of aliases. You could be a sparrow, a secret agent trained in the act of seduction. Later, You receive a knock at the door and an important looking man in a black tailored suit hands you a sealed envelope with your name on it. You open it to find a check written to your name for English pounds that equal to about $65 million USD with the note, "Let's do this" in the memo.

23. A group of would-be criminals kidnaps you, the sister or wife of Sherlock Holmes (platonic or romantic, up to you). They plan on holding you for ransom in an isolated location while sending Sherlock on a wild goose chase or running him around in an endless dance, but their plan starts to unravel when they discover that you, their captive, are actually so much more than what you seem. Their first and last mistake was in underestimating you and your abilities. You escape from them quite easily, but that’s just the beginning as you’re still on the run and need to find a way to either send a message to Sherlock and Enola (the latter may or may not be your twin sister) and to find your way back to them. The people who kidnapped you won’t stop hunting you until they’re dead. Whatever their motive, whoever’s paying them, it must be good for them to go through all this trouble.

#sherlock holmes x reader #sherlock x reader #henry cavill sherlock holmes #enola holmes #random fic ideas #fic ideas #fic prompts #random prompts #pls tag me if you’re inspired by any of these #I’d love to read it

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