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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 9 months ago

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Unraveled 2

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: A curious man wanders into your dress shop with a lot of questions.

Characters: Sherlock Holmes (Cavill)

Note: thanks for waiting on this one.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The carriage stops outside a brick building. A walk-up in Marleybone, just along Upper Baker Street. An address you couldn’t even dream of living near, let alone within. You peer up at the facade, the orange brick unstained by the coal and smoke of the backstreets.

Gavin appears to open the door and sets a step down before you can emerge. He offers his hand gallantly and you let him assist you down to the road. You thank him as you peer up at the arched front door of 221b.

“You need only knock, miss,” Gavin goes to pat the horse’s haunch as it kicks. “Ask for Mr. Holmes, he is expecting you.”

You grip your bag tight and set your chin. You might not belong but only you are troubled by it. You climb the steps alongside the iron rail and lift the heavy knocker mounted on the thick wooden door. It’s clang rattles even you.

You wait, both hands on the handles of the bag. Gavin appears behind you with the rolls of fabric, breathless as he struggles to keep them from touching the ground. You return your attention to the door as it opens.

“Hello, I’m looking for Mr.--”

“Holmes,” the very man you’re seeking stands before you, “forgive me, my housekeeper... resigned.”

“Not to worry, sir,” you assure him.

“Come in,” he backs up, gesturing you within with his large hand. “And how was your journey? I hope you didn’t come upon any scoundrels.”

“Only upon her destination, sir,” Gavin japes as he steps in behind you.

“Eh,” Holmes tilts his head at the driver, “allow me.”

Holmes takes the rolls of fabric from Gavin. He hugs them effortlessly in on arm as he faces you again, dismissing the driver with no more than a nod. You stand rigidly by the wall, hesitant to go any further. The door closes and the click makes you flinch.

“Allow me to show you around,” Holmes offers, looming in the tight space of the entryway.

“I need only see your sister,” you insist.

“Ah, yes, Enola, you will, but it only polite to get you acquainted with the space,” he rebuffs.

“With respect, sir, I’ve come out of my way and without warning to this appointment. More work does await me at my shop,” you squeeze the leather handles until they squeak, “it is a lovely home, I’m sure, but I’ve come upon business, haven’t I?”

“Yes, but it wouldn’t take very long,” he counters, “yet, if you’d rather keep this formal, by all means, I will take you to my sister.”

“Thank you, sir.”

You bite down, wondering if perhaps you were more curt than you should be. The apartment is rather far from your neighbourhood and the travel time alone will impose upon your ongoing commissions. You don’t expect he considered that. He does seem the type to command rather than ask.

He directs you to the stairs, just across from the door, and waves you onward. He follows as your skirts brush the top of your boots with each step. The wallpaper is tightly decorated with framed newspapers and portraits, cluttered together but not garishly so.

You get to the top and he advises you to go left. You obey as he keeps pace.

“Did you... discover what led to that woman’s fate? Or who she was?” You ask as you take measured steps.

He isn’t demure as he walks next to you, crowded against you as his broad figure allows for little space, “sadly, yes and no. Not her name. Only that she was a factory woman. I won’t say much on the matter as it is ongoing and confidentiality is a part of my contract, I would only gird you to keep your doors locked and yourself alert.”

You chew on his answer. It makes you nervous. You know the woman was found close to your shop and home. The news has been whispered for blocks.

“I will be sure to hede your advice,” you say.

You walk past a door as he stops to knock on it. You spin back, skirts swirling around you, and he glances at you as he plants his hand on the door frame. There is activity from within, scratching and creaking. He sighs and stands straight as he slides his hand down the pillar. He raps with his knuckles again.

“Enola,” he booms through, his voice shaking you. “I told you to be ready.”

You hear furious footsteps and the lock flicks back with similar furor. It opens and a young woman with a slumping bun greets Mr. Holmes. Strands fall loose from the clip and her blouse is half untucked as her sleeves are rolled to her elbows. She has a long oval face, flushed as she shows her teeth.

“I told you, I’m busy--”

“Not so busy that you would waste this good woman’s time,” Holmes insists, “she traveled all this way. We discussed this.”

She flutters her lashes and huffs. Her eyes flit over to you and she softens her expression, “if her time is wasted, it is hardly my fault.”

“Hm,” he hums flatly, “isn’t it? It wasn’t I who fed your dresses to the furnace.”

She smiles, a smug look that pinches her cheeks, “I was cold.”

“Sister,” he warns dangerously, crossing his arms, his breadth wider than ever.

“You know what, I welcome her company. Much preferable to your own,” the woman sneers and turns her shoulder to her brother, “come on, then. Suppose I need a dress for the banquet.”

You inch forward. A flare of resent burns in you at the position Mr. Holmes has put you in. Plainly, this appointment was not upon his sister’s behest. She holds the door for you and her brother exhales deeply.

“All you need do is stand still, I’m certain you can handle that, sister,” he rebukes, “do let me know when you are finished and I will call the carriage.”

“Thank you,” you utter without looking at him. He sets the rolls just inside the door and backs up to watch you.

You enter the bedroom and find it cluttered and cramped. There are books in stacks with more littered around the bottom. A dried-up paint palette and an easel draped over with several jackets and unpaired stockings. There is a four-post bed with scrambled covers and a canopy twisted around the poles. Vials upon vials line shelves and an inkwell stands uncapped over untidy sheets of paper.

“Very well,” the woman shuts the door, “I am Enola, the famous detective’s ne’er do well sister and you are the seamstress who will make me a peacock.”

You stare at her and swallow tightly. You offer your name before you begin, “I’ve only come upon his request--”

“Ah, yes, I’m certain you have. He’s still trying to make a lady of me. I see through his guise, though he doesn’t think it. He underestimates me, see. He lies but I will go along for I will more easily avoid his snare if I do.”

You nod and narrow your eyes. The wealthy can always afford to be so eccentric. You don’t think any woman you know would view a new dress as such a curse. She is young, she cannot know.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll only take your measurements,” you offer, “I can always fit upon the dress form.”

“Do what you must,” she sighs, “shall I strip down?”

You put your bag on a chair as she unbuttons her blouse, “not-- if you--” You look up at her as she reveals a corset and reaches to undo her skirt. You focus on your bag and scoop out your measuring tape.

You approach her as her skirt heaps at her feet. She is tall, her legs on long, her figure lithe. You begin your work silently. She raises her arms as you request and puts them back down.

“Suppose if I wasn’t here, I might’ve become a dressmaker. I always enjoyed stitching,” she muses as you scribble down each number, “it seems lonely work. Quiet work.”

“It’s work,” you say as you take out the envelope and unfold the page to examine the dress again. You hold it up and glance past it at Enola.

“May I see that?” She asks but doesn’t await an answer before she snatches the paper. “Oh, is this really what he chose? No, no, no, this won’t do. I want my shoulders covered.”

You slip the envelope back in your bag, “it is only what I was given. If you prefer adjustments, it is your dress.”

“Yes, my dress and my body,” she crumples the paper and tosses it onto the rug.

You close up your notebook and go to the rolls of fabric, “would it be too much for me to do some piecework?”

“If you insist,” she pouts.

You take out your scissors and turn your back to her. She isn’t rude, per se, but you’re not in the habit of associating with this sort of clientele. You get numbers on a sheet and you sew. A living form is not quite your forte.

-🪡

When you finish, you can sense Enola’s agitated impatience. You don’t blame her. It’s plain she didn’t want the dress or your visit. It is more so upon the shoulders of her brother. Mr. Holmes. You’re similarly irked that he would put you in this position.

Enola is already fiddling with some instrument before you can go. You emerge and pull the door shut after you. You stand in the hallway, bag at the crook of your elbow as you hug the fabric. You move with hampered steps towards the stairs. As the top creaks beneath your weight, your name is called from further down the hallway.

“Ah, are you set then?” Mr. Holmes asks as he stops just outside a door, “I was thinking, to make up for your efforts, you might want to stay for tea.”

You look down at your armful and back to him, “that’s very generous, but--”

“I believe I paid an adequate fee for the appointment,” he strides slowly towards you, “but I am open to a barter if it was not sufficient.”

You feel the heavy sovereign tucked into your jacket. You crook your lips and raise your chin, “no sir, it will do for today and the making of the dress. The fabric... I don’t have any as rich as the style requested.”

“Another service I may require of you. If you wouldn’t mind to select the material, I would be happy to reimburse the expense.”

“Would there be a colour? A fabric preferred? Velvet? Satin? Chiffon?” You prompt, “I solely work in cotton and wool, as I forewarned.”

“Perhaps we might find a fabric seller at Covent Garden? You could accompany me on my next sojourn--”

“I don’t know if I would have the time. I could write down some fabrics which would suit the silhouette we agreed upon,” you offer.

“Mmm,” he hums, “you are rather professional. How about tea, then? Melinda from across the road sent some mutton over.”

“The hour should see me back to my shop,” you shift your bag.

“You are fastidious,” he stops before you and puts a hand on the fabric, “please, allow me, you are overburdened.”

“I’m--”

You can’t argue as he takes the fabric from you. You let him have it if only to avoid disaster you lean back on your heel. He angles the rolls under his arm easily and grins. A curl strays down his forehead.

“I suppose you are right, given recent events, it would be best to see you home before the evening sets,” he says, “I would gladly see you home safe, miss.”

He is overly polite, or perhaps you aren’t used to it. It is his home, he supplied the carriage, and he has paid generously. It makes each denial feel trite.

“If you must, but I would be just fine on my own comportment,” you accept.

“It isn’t any fuss, I will fetch a jacket and the driver,” he extends his arm past you, “after you.”

You spin on your heel and face the staircase. You descend with your hand on the railing. As you come to the bottom, you wander towards the entry way and take in the fineness of the decor. Is much more becoming than your slanted rooms.

Mr. Holmes places the rolls just beside the door and takes a jacket from the rack. He pulls it on and tells you to wait before he disappears outside. You linger as you are, sliding your bag down to your hands.

When he returns, he reaches within to retrieve the fabric first. “Gavin is bringing up the carriage,” he declares and offers his free arm, “shall we?”

You consider him. You wouldn’t want to be unkind. You step through the door, pulling it shut as you accept his bent arm, your hand in the crook. He accompanies you down the narrow steps, each step crowded by his.

Gavin appears in the driver’s seat and reins the horse to a halt. The beast looks miserable. Mr. Holmes escorts you to the door and releases you to open it. He helps you with a strong hand and you sit within with your bag on your lap. He shoves the fabric in ahead of him, his head bowed as he fits through the small door.

He closes it with a snap and settles on the bench on the other side of you. You stare across at the cotton, expecting he’d have taken that seat instead. His leg is on your skirt.

You keep your hands on your bag. He knocks on the ceiling and the carriage rumbles into motion. You rock with it along the street, silent as you wring the leather handles.

“I hope my sister did not cause too much stress. I know she can be a lot but she’s old enough now. She should start behaving as a lady,” he spreads a large hand across his thigh. “Perhaps, once she finds a husband, that will be easier.”

You nod, uncertain of a proper response.

“Not to mean... I don’t mean to assume, I am known however for my observations, and I have concluded you are not married,” he continues, “I gather if it were the case, you might not have a shop to sew in.”

“Suppose not,” you reply dully.

“It is only to say that my opinion of my sister isn’t general. A woman such as yourself is admirable.”

“A spinster?” You supply.

“I didn’t--”

“I’ve chosen not to marry, that is true. I am not bothered by that fact,” you say, “isn’t that what you deal in, detective, facts?”

“Fair,” he shifts on the bench, “but not everyone can detach emotion from facts.”

“And why should I be emotional about that fact? I am much more happier than any woman could be with a husband,” you stare at the opposite wall of the carriage. “And I will assume, sir, as I am no detective, that you have neither taken to the altar.”

He curls the fingers on his left hand, “I have not.”

“And I’m certain you enjoy your bachelor lifestyle in your grand apartment,” you return, “while my own is not so extravagant, I find solace in it. On that, I think you might understand me.”

He takes a breath and lets it out with a thoughtful hum, “I suppose we are similar in some way.”

#sherlock holmes #dark sherlock holmes #dark!sherlock holmes #sherlock holmes x reader #unraveled #enola holmes #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series

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frost-queen · 4 months ago

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Outmatched series

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ─-── ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ─── ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Anthony Bridgerton ✧ Holmes!Reader

🔎 part 1

🔎part 2

🔎part 3

🔎 part 4

🔎part 5

🔎part 6

🔎 part 7

🔎part 8

🔎part 9

🔎part 10 │Final chapter

🔎 epilogue

#bridgerton #anthony bridgerton #anthony bridgerton fic #anthony bridgerton fanfic #anthony bridgerton fanfiction #anthony bridgerton x you #anthony bridgerton x reader #anthony bridgerton imagine #anthony bridgerton x y/n #holmes reader #sherlock holmes #mycroft holmes

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ladylaviniya · 11 months ago

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Wails of Wedded Bliss

Chapter 3 || Masterlist || Chapter 5

Chapter Summary: Sherlock fulfils his husbandry duty and desires to play some more with your weak resolve.

Pairing: Sherlock Homes x wife!reader

Chapter Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Period Sex, Blowjob, Bondage, Pet Names, Fingering, Forced Orgasm, Forced Pubic shave, Humiliation.

Word Count: 9k

Author Notes: This chapter involves description of period blood and sex, please be warned!!

Inspiring Song: "Copy Cat." Billie Eillish classic cover

•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•

6:39pm Tuesday 6th May 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.

You had no choice. Not really...he was your husband and you were his wife. His threat of infidelity brought a great fear to your mental strength than your threat to murder him without a solid plan.

Oh how you hated him for this. You despised him with every sense. You weren’t sure how you’d be able to forgive him.

You knew he wasn’t a good or kind or even gentle husband, but a husband is meant to be faithful. And if humiliating yourself to pleasuring him with your mouth kept him straying in sin; by god you would obey.

You crept closer to him and slowly lowered yourself on one knee, then the next. Your eyes could not leave his face. A sick and twisted smile spread over his rosy cheeks.

In his palm was his half hard cock. His large hand made it appear smaller. The memory of its violent entrance had not been forgotten however.

It stared you back in the face. The pink head peaked up and out of his pale skin. His thumb rubbed over the pink head.

You felt cold and strange in comparison to your usual jitters. You fluttered your eyes closed. Your hands sat in your lap on your thighs.

‘He just wanted a kiss. I can kiss it...’

You leant forward and puckered your lips. His skin was feverishly warm. You pulled back fast and blinked up at him with wet eyes.

He chuckled meanly and touched your damp cheek in his other hand before moving his fingers under your jaw and guiding you closer to his cock.

“Lick the top with the tip of your tongue.”

Your lips trembled nervously. You weren’t sure if this was worth it. The thudding of your chest made you forget what he had asked.

Visions of the lewd novel in his chest flashed in your mind.

“P-pardon?”

His thumb pressed against your mouth, forcing its way past your lips and teeth. You knew better than to bite him. You weren’t an animal...you didn’t want a repeat of the night before where you had bitten his tongue.

“Stick out,” he pulled your tongue out with his thumb, “this little tongue.”

He pulled you closer by the chin and held his cock upwards.

“Lick.”

You whined softly and batted your eyes. Did you have the guts to do this? To truly perform fellatio? You didn’t really have the choice. You had to do this.

He let you go and waited patiently. He undid his cuffs and rolled the shirt off his shoulders.

“Are you so dim witted?” he gruffly asked, his fingers grabbed at your jaw after you took too long,

“Need I repeat myself once more?”

You shuddered and shook your head side to side. It was just so scary. Why did you have to have such a cruel husband!?

“No,” you licked your chapped lips, “I am sorry Mr Holmes.”

His eyes widened, his face softened but his lips smirked, “So polite, little lamb...”

Your lower half tingles with delight at the warmth of his sudden praise...

‘Little lamb, how do I despise it...yet feel warmth within?’

You pushed your face closer. You stuck out your tongue again and this time, glided it over his hot red tip. The gleam of your saliva and his desire shone in the soft candle light of a kerosene lamp on his bedside table.

You tucked your nose quickly back to your chest. You flushed.

Fluttering his eyes, Sherlock clenched the covers. His gasp on his breath was a sound of pain you originally believed.

“Again,” he said clearing his throat, “Come now, I grow tiresome to your reluctance.”

You wanted to spit at him. He knew you didn’t want to do this and yet still made you do it. You licked him again. His hand clapped on the back of your neck, forcing you closer and blocking you from pulling away.

You fell into him slightly, forced to need to grab his pant covered knee and thigh. Your fingers squeezed his trousers to stabilise your balance on your knees.

You looked back up into his eyes. Perhaps it was easier to look him in the eye instead of looking at the brutal beast between his thighs.

You opened your mouth and licked his cock little by little...his thumb pushed up your nose, opening your mouth wider. He pushed his cock into your mouth. His eyes were glued on you. He appeared relaxed.

His skin lacked any flavour. It was like licking your palm...but after a while there was a hint of salt in the taste buds.

You kept your mouth open, you kept your tongue out as he moved his hips in and out. His hand pushed you down and pinched you back up.

Your eyes remained only on him. He was grunting and sighing. A twinge of triumph tickled your heart. You were pleasing him! He would not want to seek out the unsavoury company of whores or any other woman overall.

He paused and leant down. He grabbed at your wrist and picked up his hand and rested your fingers around his length of his cock.

Your blinked and stared at the placement.

“Squeeze, and rub me up to the tip, down to the sack.” You nodded, his cock still rested on your tongue.

He chuckled and rested back on his hands. He waited for you to take over.

This was it. This is what would bring him pleasure. You cupped his shaft and moved the way you were instructed. You did it at a pace where he appear to struggle how to breathe. His words were nothingness under his breath.

He looked to the ceiling and moaned.

The skin was hot and twitched under your finger tips.

He let out a choking groan. The back of your mouth felt that harsh slapping squirt of his release.

You pulled back in horror. Your bottom slid across the rug. You weren’t sure what it was really. In fact you feared he had the audacity to piss in your mouth. You spat on the floor and coughed.

“Ugh!”

He cackled at the mortified look you had written over your sweet face.

He sighed and chewed his bottom lip. He slowly clapped his hands.

“Well done... Forgive me, I had intended to finish myself over your sweet breasts, little lamb.”

He cocked his head to the side and hummed, “Take off my shoes.” He lifted his foot to your direction.

You thought he was entirely despicable! You wiped your mouth with a growing glare. It didn’t go unnoticed by him, in fact, he took glee in your narrowing look..

“You wish to be a wife? Act as a wife. You want my loyalty? Well, you must be my whore...and whores suckle their johns cream with pretty smiles on their painted faces. Wives help their husbands undress from long days of work.”

You felt...weak and disgusting. You felt like an idiot. In your grumpy defeat you crawled back to him and began to unlace his shoes. In the corner of your eye you saw his hand reach back to his front and touch his thick meat. The looser the laces, you lifted your hands and rocked his heel out of his shoe.

Demurely you sat both his shoes aside. His socks smelt of his sweat and the filth of London street ways. You gagged and pinched the wool socks away from his calves and flung them from his toes.

A cramp waved through you and forced a grimacing groan out of your quiet misery.

Sherlock stopped laughing, his smugness dissipated. His face fell. He tucked his cock away with an annoyed sigh.

His hands unexpectedly tucked beneath your armpits and lifted you off the floor. He pushed you lightly onto his mattress onto your front. You felt your breath hitching, worrying what he would do to you. It wouldn’t be right for him to have sex with you during your menses.

He palmed his giant hand over your bottom. Hoisting your night dress up your thighs and over your back. He slapped one cheek lightly and chuckled at your cry and hiss. He grabbed your shoulder and held you down slightly. Your fingers gripped the covers of his top blanket. You had washed and changed this set. They smelt of a sweet lemon citrus.

His lips touched your bare shoulders. His hot breath tingled in your ear.

You flushed and squeezed your eyes shut. God it felt strange and ticklish.

“Look at this perfect little arse,” he admired, groping at the flesh, “Plump and ripe for a needed disciplining. Your grandparents let you get away with far too much.”

He slapped you harder. A scream bellied from you. Your spine curled up and you desperately reached back to scratch his bare arms.

“Stop it! Or I will bite you again!” you shouted.

The detective smacked his lip and hummed, “Ah that reminds me, thankyou little lamb.”

In two fingers he held in front of your eyes his cravat. He stuffed the material deep into your mouth and slapped you swiftly when you tried nipping his hand. Tears poured like boiling water.

He tied the rest of the fabric tightly behind your head. You violently shook your head and fought against him, you tried pushing away only to be shoved down by his strong hands.

He rolled you into your back and used your nightgown to tie your wrists together, over your hands. Your claws were contained from clawing his eyeballs out.

The bonds were pushed above your head. He attached a loose part of the arm of your clothes to the headpost.

He smacked your thighs apart hard. You shrieked behind the gag.

He tore the sanitary apron away and tossed it across the room. You turn your nose into your arm, too embarrassed to look at your husband who played with your body.

You twitched and tried to kick at Sherlock as his hand tickled down your side and between your thighs. The wicked man smirked as he watched your pleading eyes water. He pushed two fingers inside your red hot messed cavern. You felt ill. This was an abomination! He fingered you and held your upper body down, watching you like a hawk as you struggled.

His digits within you flexed and curled. You felt them touch along the top of your walls while his thumb rubbed down into your forbidden button. You whined and shook your head. He removed his hand all together. You clenched your legs back together.

“Oh my, Mrs Holmes,” he purred, glancing down, “You secret slut...this isn’t blood,” he held his fingers up to the light, “Why...this is arousal...”

His lips curled, flashing those pearly white gnashers.

Your eyes widened with horror. You were humiliated. Surely it wasn’t possible that you could be enjoying this? Why did he have to be so handsome. Why did your fear mix in with attraction so easily.

With the clear gleaming on his hand, with little pink streaks, he kissed your cheek and pinched

your nipples.

You shook your head and whimpered. Your legs were buzzing at the pain inflicted increased a desperate certain warmth within you.

“My was that a moan? Interesting,” he whispered cheekily.

“and if I...do this...” he asked as he shoved his hand back onto your snatch, rubbing in fine circles ontop of your clit. Your hips lifted and your thighs trembled. Your toes curled hard and your head rolled back. God it felt delicious and evil.

Amongst your lustful whines, Sherlock chortled happily, “How perfect you might be dear wife...I had no little hope for this morning, but now,” his nose shoved into your ear, “...oh you’ve just gone and damned yourself for good.”

He tugged at your pubic mane lightly, it didn’t matter, it made you squeal and howl in pain.

Your husband sat up and left the bed. Your arms were still bound above your head. You lifted your knees protectively to your chest.

“All this hair...” He tutted, “it shall not do.”

You heard him wonder across his bedroom. Out of his personal drawers he found a straight razor. He also brought forth the basin of water he had near the door way. With a cloth napkin and tiny sliver of soap, he returned and forced your legs down on to the bed. He knelt on your spread ankles and lathered your nether curls.

It was when the soap started to foam that you realised what he was intending to do. It was impossible to word the begging but he knew...you knew he knew what you were pleading out.

You knew how sharp a razor could be. What if he mutilated you!?

He glided the cold metal over your wet sensitive skin.

He licked his bottom lip as he scrapped away your mass of pubic hair.

“Hold still wife or I will cut you,” he scolded sarcastically as he went through the white bubbles.

Cleaning the razor in the water before returning it back between your thighs he hummed, “I am displeased you didn’t confer with me about the states of my accounts before deciding to pay them all off yourself. That dowry was meant for dresses, and necessary accessories such as calling cards...” he tapped the razor on the basin bowl, “now we must both rely on Mycroft and my cases for wages...stupid girl.”

The way he stared into your eyes as he held the blade up to the light...was he threatening you...was this...a warning.

You squeezed your eyes shut and took a deep shuddering breath. Tied to his bed and at his whim you were significantly helpless.

His hands took the towel and wiped your cunt clean of the hairs and soap still left behind. He whistled dramatically and smirked.

“My, my, what a pretty pussy you have.” He mused as he tossed the razor into the basin and moved the water bowl under the bed, out of the way.

His middle finger pushed inside. You gasped. The stretching intrusion took you off your guard.

“So tight still. I might need to train you to take me.”

He tore it back out and touched your naked clit lightly.

You gasped and choked behind the cravat. With deep moans, you wept pathetically.

“Oh look at that reaction,” he cooed condescendingly, he caressed the skin with his knuckle, “and all I’m doing is touching your clit. So sensitive.”

He licked his bottom lip and smirked, he pulled his hand back and slapped his palm across your labia. You squeal as the hot fiery pain rose up under your skin and spread out a dark shade with the rushing of your blood.

“Splendid responses to the nerves,” Sherlock noted before running the stinging flesh, you whined and turned your face into your arm.

“Bit sore I gather?” The man mocked, “Poor Lamb. All mine and bloody for sacrifice.”

A horrid in taking sound came from him. He spat on his fingers and pushed the wetted digits against your labia, dragging them down before sliding in home.

“There we are, squeezing so tightly around my finger, feels filling?”

He paused and listened to your heavy breathing behind the man made gag he had over your mouth. Listening to your ragged gasps and wheezes made his cock stir. You were so innocent and confused, he could see through your prudish and proper demeanour so easily. He fingered you until you were on the brink of insanity. Your eyes were becoming hazy, strained and almost crossed.

He thought it incredible...a true virgin. Not some pretender whore that his friend Miss Adler supplied. You were the authentic innocent.

“Now that you are properly tied up and without risk to harm me,” he whispered wetly, “-And decently groomed... I will complete our union.” He removed his fingers slowly out of you.

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath. You needed to compose yourself. You wanted to pretend you were back home with your grandparents. You imagined yourself in the gardens with your cousins playing balls. Oh back then life was a struggle but comparing to this...it was truly childsplay.

You yearned for your girlhood once more before you felt him move off the bed a moment only to shove your thighs wider apart and sit the head of his cock on top of your naked hairless lips.

Here the devil had come to steal all girlhood for good and inflict the agonising curse of

womanhood.

He entered slowly. Clearly he had learnt from yesterday that this task would only be accomplished with patience.

Indeed yesterday would’ve been considered a consummated marriage...so why he cared so much to refer to this as a completion of union alluded you.

You whimpered softly and peaked through your wet lashes to see his invasive entrance breaking into you.

To say you were full was placing it lightly. This man stole all possible space inside. He left no pocket of air as he pushed along and settled within.

His hands were tightly holding each ankle apart.

You now understood why he touched you with his hands before...your slickness welcomed and slid him deeper into you.

“Oh, my poor little lamb, taking in her masters thick cock so bravely,” he praised and then laughed as you struggled against your own nightgown binded to the headboard, “unable to nip or kick back at him.”

You grew silent in defeat. You submitted to the chance of zero hopelessness. Your legs fell limply.

He released your ankles.

You were plagued in your own paralysis.

You felt like he was pausing before pushing more inside. He was huge. There’s not many you could compare it too as a recently deflowered woman but you were confident his size must’ve been abnormal. Even he winced every so often at the tight squeeze.

When his pelvic bone pressed against your cunt, he sighed, “There...truly man and wife...at last...” A small scoff was heard.

You said something behind the gag that caught his ear. It was too muffled.

He pulled the gag harshly down your chin.

“What was that?”

You narrowed your eyes at him and huffed stubbornly, “Hu-husband and wife. Not man and wife.”

You wanted to remind him exactly who he was doing this to and why he could do it...because you allowed it.

“Correct you are, my darling,” he let a laugh escape him before he moved back, “Now if I just pull and twist my hips like this.”

He re-entered and this time he put his thumb on your clit as he went inside. Your eyes blew wide and you began to babble.

“Oh oh oh! Wh-what wait, please!” You started to moan and whine.

Your husband cackled proudly, “It feels good doesn’t it?”

You foolishly nodded in truth. Something sparked a flame that flooded your insides.

He did it again and again. He repeated and rubbed down into you. The filling of his member rubbing against all parts of your inner skin made you clench and groan.

You felt increasingly needful to collect the same high feeling he had delivered on you before. You were climbing an imaginary hill. The urge to release your bladder made your eyes widen.

Desperation took you into the most needful begging, “N-no! I need to use a bedpan please

Sherlock, please, I am going to make a mess! Stop! I’ll do anything.”

Your little gasps and desperate moans spurred your husband on.

His hips were making a fast speeding pace that made you dig your knees into his sides.

You wanted him to stop. You were scared of pissing over him, especially in his bed.

“I want you to let go,” he moaned and shoved his nose against yours. His breath entered your mouth as he raggedy groaned, “Release, trust me...it will feel good.”

You didn’t trust him. You didn’t know what he meant. How could this behaviour be acceptable.

“No, no, no, no, ugh, ugh, stah-, Sher-, ugh, pl-please!”

He slammed himself harder and licked at your chest, “Such a pretty beggar, dear lord, I predicted you to be a homely creature, I have been proven wrong. In this light, you are rare gem of the seas of Venus. Oh sweet lamb, give me your release.”

You couldn’t hold yourself in containment any longer. You let your lower half go. You clenched hard down onto him.

You found your spine curl and your mouth wordlessly wailing.

“Breathe dead, breathe,” you heard Sherlock call above your silent choking before unleashing a brutalising scream. It was like taking your first breath, being reborn.

When the air released, your chest burned. You gasped and cried out as some mighty string was torn within and drowned you in a flooding dam of pleasure.

Sherlock followed your desirable agony and let his mind go. His grunting was feral and full of need.

Your muscles released and you cried with the feeling of warm melted gold ran through you.

You weakly called out, “Sherlock...”

His hot lips kissed against your sweaty skin. He kissed your neck up to your chin and cheek and engulfed your own mouth in a sloppy sensation of saliva and soft lips.

When your eyes focused and found a semblance of sane sight, you beheld a pleased man. You felt his fingers touching along your arms and wrists.

“I am going to untie you, hush you are safe...”

You shut your eyes. The last tears to come derived from pleasure and a overwhelming sense of joy that was foreign to you. You trembled, still drinking in the vibrations of your body.

You were stuck in a blanket of bodily pleasure. You had never been so relaxed and warm in your entire life.

You enjoyed what he had done and you didn’t know why especially since you heavily disliked your own husband.

Was this what Mrs Hudson referred to? Screaming followed by smiles?

‘Oh’, you thought, ‘never again will a woman have what I just claimed. This is mine and always shall be.’

“I...need...um...I...words...I...you’ve...I can’t think...I am spent,” you mumbled dumbly.

A part of you wanted to thank him and have him leave you alone to wallow in sleep. Another wanted him to do it all again.

“Pretty Lamb,” he cooed in your ear as your hands limply fell to the mattress, “I am going to carry you now.”

He had tucked himself away and scooped his hands under your legs. He moved your arms around his shoulders and pushed you to sit up before clamping his arm beneath your back. His nose tucked into your neck where he left another kiss.

Carefully he lifted you off his bed and stepped out into the dining parlour where he turned and took you to your room beside his.

He pulled the blankets and sheets away before sliding you down beneath them.

He pulled the cover up to your chin and you whimpered, “I...am sore.”

His hard face softened, he pressed his lips to your cheek and asked, “You are?”

You nodded your head, “I...feel...light...tired.”

He left your side to shut your door. The light disappeared completely. Only the moon that casted light over his face helped you see as he faced you again. He wondered over and invaded your bed space.

He climbed in along side you. The wood creaked with his added weight. You were slightly alarmed he was coming into your bed and not returning back to his room.

You were drowsy and moaned.

“Sleep, in my arms,” He said as you weakly tried rolling away.

You turned back and stared at the shadows of his face. His eyes were black with only small specks of the light reflecting.

His skin was sticky and hot... But tonight it was cold and windy...you needed him...he wanted you...you succeeded.

In the darkness, you decided to reclaim some small pride...you pushed your face up and kissed his lip. Breathing him in you could finally smell him and taste him. Chalk, blood, and tobacco.

You shut your eyes and imagined the joy of your grandmother if you could tell her how you finally became the wife of Sherlock Holmes before the rites of Godly flesh.

He was silent and still. He said nothing. Did nothing.

When you pulled back from the kids he rested his head softly back on the pillows with a light hum. His fingers tickled up your naked back, holding you close. You rubbed your cheek into his bicep and listened to his heart beat and breathing until you passed into the dreamlands of sleep.

•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•

6:04am Wednesday 7th May 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.

You dreamt of your father and mother. Two people who never married, but at some point were in love. You never had the chance to see them together in happiness.

They were well dressed and strolling in the park pushing a perambulator. And as you followed them it had not struck you that this was a dream. Inside the baby carriage was nothing at all...it was odd.

Yet your parents smiled and both leant in to kiss each other....their hands both held wedding bands.

If you had never been born, you suddenly thought, would they have been able to marry and be happy?

Your mother as she loved upon your father shoved the perambulator away. It rolled fast down the path and you followed it for a moment before hearing a terrible wail of a baby inside. A baby that wasn’t in the carriage before suddenly appeared, pulling back a blanket that covered it.

You chased after the carriage as it sped up and went down a hill. Your heart ached with terror. You struggled to keep up and reached out your hand to the handle bar. It was rolling just out of your reach!

You sobbed as the carriage crashed into Tree and fell to its side. Out rolled...a bleating lamb...the creature rose up on its four wiggly legs and bleated again. It’s long wagging tail flickered around anxiously.

You landed on your knees before the lamb and kept crying. Not even you knew the reason for your tears. You held the small animal to your torso, checking it over for any broken limbs. The baby sheep was fine.

A tap on your head made you look up and standing above you was a dark faceless shadow of a man. The shadow sucked you in and you screamed at the darkness before waking up.

Above you was a face you did know...your husband’s. His eyes danced around your features. His lips curled into a smirk, “Good morning Mrs Holmes, how did you sleep?”

You blinked and peered up at him warily before slowly you sat up and away from him. His hand touched your shoulder, your hand grabbed his wrist.

What was he doing in your bed? Why were you nude!? Ah the revaluations if the previous evening re-established back into your memory. He had fully fucked you. He had claimed you...and in your drunken sleepy state, you kissed him. You flushed.

“I slept fine...” you lied, “Please let me up,” you glanced between him, the door of the bedroom and your wardrobe, “I need to start my day.”

You swallowed hard as you looked over his broad chest.

“Nonsense,” Sherlock stated before dragging you closer to him by your waist, his hands were huge and warm, it would be too much to say even comforting.

“We have plenty of time before Mrs Hudson climbs up the stairs.” His lips touched your jaw and peppered down your neck..

“Mr Holmes...please,” you cleared your throat as your hand pushed his chest to force a pause. You flushed with embarrassment. He noticed very quickly at your strained tone.

“Oh...I see...you recall the events of last night...your self deduction?”

His hands under the blanket slid downward to your thighs. He touched the soft shaved skin of your pubis. You felt twice as sensitive...

“H-humiliated, st-stupid and angry,” you shuddered.

You had let him hurt you again...and yet this time it came to a pleasant conclusion. You were disgusted in yourself for obeying him so quickly, so willingly I’m regards to giving him fellatio.

His fingers pressed your clit and he smiled at your gasp.

“And now?”

You gulped and turned your face into the pillows away from his eyes.

It was hard to deny how much you enjoyed the jumping buzz in your lower belly.

His laugh was crude to your ears, “See how easy it is to feel that sweet entrapment?” He rubbed his hand between your legs and marvelled at your heightened reaction, “My goodness look at you, your cunt is pulsing against me, hot and hard in my palm.”

Your breath hitched and your hips accidentally rolled into his touch. Your body craved the addictive buzz. Your thighs parted for him...he accepted the invitation and moved a finger inside while he ground his palm against your bundle of nerves.

“Oh, are you going to release again?” he whispered proudly.

He chuckled at your shaking head. Your pathetic attempts to mentally deny it. You were close by how tightly you fluttered around just his lone finger. Your knees shook and clamped together. His finger continued jerking in and out.

“Oh ride the sweet death, come to be me, come, come, come to me little lamb.”

His mouth ducked down to your nude chest. He licked across your nipples and suckled them into his cheeks loudly.

Your hand grabbed the blankets and his wrist. You rolled your head back and sighed as whatever that spell was took over you.

“Did you know,” he smacked his lips across your breasts, before tonguing a single nipple, “you’ve the most delicious teats?”

You groaned and blushed. You were trying to catch your own breath.

He pressed his cock against your leg before taking your hand and forcing you to hold him.

“Touch me, hold it and slide your hand up and down like a silk pole.”

You did as he asked while he kissed your mouth openly. Your eyes fluttered shut and jerked him off until you felt a wetness glide down your hands, he moaned.

This is the kindest he has ever been to you presently.

You pulled your hand away and up to the light of the morning. Your eyes widened at the white goop stuck on your fingers and back of your hand.

“Wha-what is this?”

He chuckled and kissed your cheek proclaiming, “My seed.” Seed...to make children...but it was so...

“Its...liquid,” you disagreed, “and wet and sticky...it’s like mucus.”

He raced his fingers along your hip and patiently explained, “When drained inside of you,” his hand touched your lower belly, “it goes up and impregnates. But you are still bleeding so it washes out and won’t catch in your womb.”

You blinked and let your dirty hand fall back on the top of the covers.

“Oh...”

You felt him sit up and you mirrored him. You slid out of the bed as his warmth left you. Watching him pull his trousers properly back up over his hips and waist made you fluster from the sight of his bare arse.

It was such a plump bottom.

He pulled away your blanket, unveiling your nude self to the cold morning.

He turned around and brought back your water basin and a cloth. He soaked the material in and pressed the wet cloth to your thighs.

“Stay still,” he said softly, “I’m just washing you.”

You paused before you spread your legs for him and awkwardly nodded, “Thankyou...husband.”

Surely you could’ve cleaned yourself. You hissed as he scrubbed the dry blood and release from you thighs. The cold water on your hot dirty skin was soothing.

You stood out of your bed finally and hurried to your dresser to find either some padding tubes or a sanitary apron.

Your rolled the bandage up quickly and turned away from Sherlock as you inserted the material.

You felt...strange doing this in front of him. A part of him you were sure might be repulsed at the sight.

Except he had his back turned to you, he was washing himself in the basin while he asked, “How did you find the carnal pleasure?”

You froze and felt your mouth dry up. Had he forgotten that he had tied you up?!

It was hard to meet his eyes. You wrapped your arms around yourself. Your husband turned to you.

You felt the need to cover your privates with your hands.

“Strange, it...felt correct...but...wrong...” you cleared your throat, “forbidden, despite our vows.”

He smiled and nodded to the bed while he passed you to your wardrobe and investigated the contents, “Many young ladies new to it have expressed the same condolences...that is sex. That is coitus. That is what husband and wife do. To make babies, and to feel pleasure.”

Your nose wrinkled. Sherlock was significantly older than you. You trusted this wisdom. He was clearly an experienced man from the prices spent at Mayfair.

“Why did it hurt so much the first time?” you asked.

No one had prepared or explained why having sex with your husband would hurt. He was so brutal the first day. And last night it hurt but not as much...

He sighed and pulled out dark navy blouse and a skirt to match. You felt the urge to correct his choice as he held them up. It was an outfit for outside outings. You weren’t meant to leave the home during this delicate time.

He asked over his shoulder, “Have you ever ridden horses?”

“I have,” you answered honestly.

“Side saddle?” His left brow raised.

“Sometimes,” you pursed your lips and watched him lay out your clothes on your bed, “It was easier for balance when riding as men do.”

He nodded and went to collect a pair of your boots, “And that hurt your thighs the first time?”

“First few ride like that yes,” you agreed, huffing impatiently, “Where is this conversation leading?”

He pulled you closer by pinching your hip. He pushed a chemise over your head. Your eyes widened, this wasn’t his role...to help you dress. It was your responsibility and Mrs Hudson if you were inclined to ask for her assistance.

“How did the pain go away?” he asked.

You rolled your eyes and answered the obvious explanation, “Because my body accommodated and my muscles for the riding evolved to accept the saddled position.”

He passed you a pair of open crotch bloomers. You pulled the material over your legs and tied the strings to your waist over the corset.

He smiled and pinched your chin, “The same is said for sex. The more you practice, the better it will be for you and...your health.”

You flushed and turned your face away from him...you felt foolish with the way his eyes ran over your bare body. He turned you around and helped pull a corset over your head and began fighting the strings in the back.

“I...it hurt and felt good...I felt...suffocated...I thought I saw a bright light,” you grunted as he tugged.

Your husband shut his eyes and with a smile he hummed pleasingly, “La petite mort.” “The Little death?” You gasped.

He flicked his eyes open. He sounded amused, “ah you know French little lamb?”

“of course I do,” you scoffed lightly, “any self respectable lady must learn French.”

Not his sister, “I suppose so.”

He pulled more of the ties closer. The corset grew taunt and supportive of your chest. His fingers tugged down further.

“Why did you go to Scotland yard yesterday?” You asked him as he finished tying the laces together.

“And who did you have a fight with?”

You tapped your face with a soft finger. He passed you a hose suspender belt. You clipped the hooks behind your back while the belt sat on your waist.

“There’s now a bruise under your chin that I most certainly did not cause Mr Holmes...” A part of you wished you had. He would’ve deserved it from you. He rubbed the dark spot and smirked.

Your husband sat on your bed and plucked your stockings. He pat his thigh and opened the stockings up. You lifted your leg and rested it on his thigh. You clenched the wooden canopy pole to steady your balance.

You were embarrassed. At this angle he would be able to see your cunt stuffed with the white fluff soaking up your menstruation.

He showed no care or disgust. He slid the soft cotton up your leg and kissed your knee cheekily.

He clipped your stocking to the suspension strings.

“I inquired upon the Pennicott case,” he claimed,” his thumb rubbed dangerously over your thigh...

God, you felt a spark at the touch.

“I thought you said it was obvious,” you stuttered, “He ran out from his wife.”

“I did, and...I rethought it,” he admitted, he slid the other stocking up your other leg, “Pennicott is a Baron and a owner of many warehouse factories. His wife comes from a well off family too and she is pregnant last heard, baby number six now. Why would he disappear off the face of the earth?...”

He stood up straight and forced your arms above your head before he slid a petticoat across your waist.

“A lover?”

He smiled as he tied the strings at your waist and shook his head, “No, men like Pennicott would just keep their arm candy and refer to them as a niece of a distant cousin. And if he was attached so lovingly, he would just move to another country but to completely eradicate and leave all his finances? To leave his wife in her state? It makes not much sense. He was making a fine quarter profit! So why is he missing?”

He passed you the blouse and skirt.

“Well,” You pulled the skirt over your arms and buttoned the buttons up to our neck “Perhaps he’s been kidnapped, for ransom?”

Sherlock hummed, “Maybe Watson, but I do wonder still.” You blinked...

“Pardon?” you gawked.

He raised his brows to your exclamation.

“You called me Watson.”

“Oh dear god,” he chuckled and passed you your skirt, “it’s already happening.”

You slid on the final layer and wrinkled your nose at him, “What is happening?” Sherlock stood up from the bed and clapped his hands.

“Come with me,” he softly begged, “Today I will be visiting his wife. The Baroness. I am investigating the case.”

Your eyes fluttered. Your thoughts couldn’t keep up. You sputtered as you tried to find sensibility. “Sherlock, it is our honeymoon and I am bleeding,” you whispered, “It is improper. I need to conduct laundry. Both our bedding must be soaked in...” you cleared your throat, “the blood.” He winked at you and pulled you close to his nude chest by your covered waist.

“Isn’t it marvelous that we have a housekeeper for such things?”

You narrowed your eyes... “A housekeeper is not a maid and I would not subject Mrs Hudson to cleaning that. She has told me herself that linens is not of her department.”

The tall man bent down and offered, “Mrs Hudson will clean the laundry, trust me..”

Despite his assurance, It wasn’t right for you to be out and about in public like this.

“And what would I be doing,” you tested, “Running after you as you speak to the Baroness?”

“Sitting pretty,” Sherlock stated, “And looking for clues.”

Your eyes sharpened, “Clues?”

Your husband tapped your nose, “Yes, you seem to have a hint of talent in that department. You just don’t know where to deduce the end results for the clues.” You blinked....

With a soft mutter you stated, “I suppose it would allow me more insight to your profession and a chance to bond and learn about each other...”

Before you could continue anymore questions you heard a soft knock on your bedroom door.

“Mrs Hudson,” you both whispered, glancing to one another.

Helplines:

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

Australian Helpline Services

UK Helpline Services

American Helpline Services

India Helpline Services.

#dead dove fic #dead dove do not eat #sherlock holmes x y/n #sherlock holmes x female reader #sherlock holmes x poc!reader #sherlock holmes x you #sherlock holmes x ofc #sherlock holmes x reader #sherlock holmes #enola sherlock #henry sherlock #henry cavill x female reader #henry cavill x y/n #henry cavill x ofc #henry cavill x you #henry cavill x reader #wowb

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imyourbratzdoll · 2 years ago

Note

Hi Cheleah😌❤️

drunk sex with Sherlock(Henry) pls👀👀

hi baby! another request done, hehe. I hope you like it even with how short it is.

summary - your husband fucks you after a few drinks.

warning - smut, intoxication, swearing, creampie.

18+ only please, the gif I use isn't mine, divider by @newlips

You moan, feeling his slow but rough movements against you. Sherlock moves inside of you, whispering slurred drunken words into your ear. “So fucking tight and warm, my best darling.” He groans, gripping your hips roughly, thrusting harder and deeper. Your mind is fuzzy from the intense pleasure mixed with the alcohol. The feeling of his thick member sliding in and out of you feels excellent. Everything felt so electrifying, so raw and passionate. Your husband looks deep into your eyes, smirking as he notices your glazed-over look matches his. “My precious little darling, letting me have you even while intoxicated.” The scent of whiskey on his breath causes your eyes to roll to the back of your head and your walls to clench around his throbbing member.

Sherlock cups your cheek, instructing you to wrap your legs around him as he picks up the pace, slamming into your sweet spot deep inside. You cling to him, not daring to let go of the man you love, the man currently splitting you open over and over again. You feel shivers roll through your body, a bliss washing over you as your back arches and your juices flow out of you. Sherlock snaps, becoming feral in his drunken state, pinning you down into the mattress and pounding you into it. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream.

He buries his face into your neck, grunting when his balls tighten and his cock throbs wildly, thrusting as deep as he can before he lets go. Thick spurts of cum fill you to the brim, leaking from your full cunt. You whimper, trembling underneath him as his cum continues to shoot out of his mushroom tip. “Good girl, such a good girl.”

thank you for reading!

feedback and reblogs are greatly appreciated.

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ellieslittleburrow · 10 months ago

Text

Masterlist 🌹🌹🌹

Hi there, welcome. I'm reposting the masterlist on my other account, rusty's lodge and adding the fics i wrote on this one as well.

enjoyyyy 💕

MASTERLIST P.2

4am Masterlist

Writing conditions

Fandoms : Supernatural, Walker, The society, Hannibal, Peaky blinders, Sherlock Holmes, The Punisher, The Witcher, and many more!

Open to requests from other tv shows i might've watched, so request away 🖤🖤

Supernatural :

One shots :

Sam and dean and John

Coming home late..doesn't keep Dean okay P1.(Angsty Dean x sister reader)

Coming home late..doesn't keep Dean okay P2.(Angsty Dean x sister reader)

Arguing siblings(Sam/Dean x sister reader)

Graduation (Sam/Dean x sister reader)

Broken heart (Dean x sister reader)

Cakepops (Dean x sister reader)

Motorcycle accident (Sam/Dean x sister reader)

Tummy ache (Fluffy Sam/Dean x sister reader)

Arrested (Angsty Sam x sister reader)

Distant(Sam x sister reader)

The best dad (Sam x daughter reader)

Heartbroken (Sam/dean x sister reader)

I'll do it for you (Sam/Dean x sister reader)

Sleep paralysis...Part1(Sam/Dean x sister reader)

Witchcraft (Sam/Dean x sister reader)

Fun evening...Part 2(Angsty Dean x sister reader)

Fun evening..Part 1(Fluffy Dean x sister reader)

Social anxiety (Dean/Sam x sister reader)

Eating disorder part 1 (Sam/Dean x sister reader)

ED part 2, Dean(Dean x sister reader)

ED part 2, Sam (Sam x sister reader)

Periods (Dean/Sam x sister reader)

Staining the Winchester car (John x daughter reader)

Hungover Dean ( Fluffy Sam/Dean x sister reader)

Non-binary little winchester(Sam/Dean x sibling reader)

Dean realizes his sister’s lesbian( Dean x lesbian sister reader)

Forever love you, no matter what(Sam/Dean x lesbian sister)

I'm here now, kid (Dean winchester x daughter!reader)

Too young to go on hunts(Sam/Dean/Bobby x sister reader)

Sick (Sam/Dean x sister reader)

Pretty girl (Sam/Dean x young sister reader)

psychic abilities (Sam/Dean x sister reader)

Homeschooled Part 1 (Sam/sister reader)

Homeschooled Part 2 (Sam/sister reader)

Sir mister judge (Dean x sister reader)

Bites pt1 (angst Dean winchester x daughter reader)

Bites pt2 (fluffy Dean winchester x daughter reader)

The hairdresser (Sam x young daughter reader)

Short hair (Sam/Dean x sister reader)

Panicky..(Sam/Dean x sister reader)

Hurtin' kid.(Sam/Dean x sister reader)

Family breakup. (Angst Sam/Dean x sister reader)

Sentimental sister (Sam/Dean x sister reader)

What's that you're wearing?(Sam/Dean x sister reader)

Siblings : sleepover (Sam/Dean x sister reader)

Siblings : periods (Sam/Dean x sister reader)

Singer sister meets Dean after a long time apart(Dean/Sam x sister reader)

Other characters :

The little secret (Castiel x reader)

I promised i’d keep you safe and i broke that promise(Platonic jack x sister reader)

Savior castiel (platonic castielx sister reader)

Charlie's girlfriend (Romantic fluff charlie x sister reader)

Siblings (Dean/Sam Winchester x sister!reader)

Christmas time (Dean winchester x sister!reader)

Motorcycle accident (Dean/Sam winchester x sister!reader)

Protective John(John Winchester x daughter!reader)

Texts 📱 :

Sam and Dean :

Are you sure you’re feeling better ? (Sam x sick sister reader)

Prank time. (Sam/Dean x sister reader)

Night terrors (Dean x sister reader)

I crashed baby...(Sam/Dean x sister reader)

Other characters :

Blackmail Part 1(Claire novak x winchester sister reader)

Blackmail Part 2 (Claire novak x winchester sister reader)

I will never leave (Jensen Ackles/ Danneel Ackles x daughter!reader)

Hannibal :

Poor behaviour Pt1 (hannibal x daughter reader)

Poor behaviour Pt2

It is but a little cold. (Fluff Hannibal x daughter reader)

Anger issues (Hannibal x daughter reader)

Protective family(AU Sherlock Holmes/Hannibal Lecter x daughter/sister!reader)

Peaky Blinders :

Final night in Soho (shelby brothers x sister)

Sherlock Holmes :

His ward. (Sherlock Holmes x sister reader)

His ward. PT2, choice 1

His ward. PT2, choice 2

The detectives (Sherlock/Enola holmes x sister!reader)

Big Sky :

Hurt but safe.(Beau Arlen x daughter!reader)

The Last Of Us :

A father like no other (Joel Miller x daughter!reader)

From stranger to father..(Joel miller x daughter!reader)

Fainter reader(Joel miller x daughter!reader/Ellie x sister!reader)

Home late(Joel miller x daughter!reader)

The witcher :

Geralt headcanons (Geralt x daughter!reader)

Top Gun Maverick :

Balls of fire (Rooster Bradshaw x sister!reader)

Elvis :

I own you. (Smut Elvis Presley x girlfriend!reader)

Classic case of jealousy (Elvis Presley x girlfriend!reader)

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trinittyy · 1 year ago

Text

fic recs

just a little assortment of my favorite works to keep track of them and also show love to the respective writers.

note - a majority, if not all, of the following works contain dark content that some could find triggering. tread carefully.

divider by @firefly-graphics

toxic affection - @love-toxin

warnings: harassment, bullying, some violence, forced relationship

pairing: yandere!bakugou x reader

literally unashamed to say that BNHA fanfiction is what brought me to Tumblr

but this was one of the first I found and it's epic

what's your escape - @gotnofucks

warnings: obsession, possessive behavior, non-con

pairing: dark!sherlock holmes x reader

the man is disastrously down bad for the poor reader

she was so witty and clever but in the end, he got what he wanted in the most satisfying way

infatuation - @darkficsyouneveraskedfor - masterlist

warnings: mentions of stalking, obsession, non-con

pairing: dark!clark kent x reader

poor girl didn't have a clue or a chance in the world to escape this man

sidenote: I can't add Roo to the recs without mentioning just how talented she is. She was the first proper introduction to dark fics in the Marvel fandom and I've been hooked ever since. The amount of detail and dedication that goes into her work is noticeable and she's a talent that deserves recognition. It's one thing to make me like a fic or two of my favorite Marvel men but another to have me thirst over shit I didn't think I'd like.

naughty ransom holiday tales - @jtargaryen18

warnings: kidnapping, non-con, dub-con

pairing: dark!ransom drysdale x reader

guilty pleasure series

hate to love ransom but I can't help it

what the king has - @sincerelythedarkside

warnings: dub-con, character death

pairing: soft!dark steve rogers x reader

royal au

love me a good jealous steve

plot twist shocked the shit outta me

smut was out of this fucking world

love bites - @cherienymphe - masterlist

warnings: character death, jealousy, non-con

pairing: dark!steve rogers x reader, peter parker x reader

modern vampire au (what's not to love there)

this actually made me cry like a bitch

ongoing series

sidenote: Seeing as Cherie will be on this list many times, I have to say it's difficult not to add every piece of work on this list because while some writers have a magnum opus, everything she writes is a work of art. Her range and the backstory she puts in her characters make each story feel like a movie I just can't get enough of. Will forever love her writing.

kryptonite - @cherienymphe

warnings: non-con, obsession

pairing: dark!bruce wayne x reader

the build-up and tension gave me actual chills

trailer park babydoll - @mypoisonedvine

warnings: dub-con, infidelity, age gap

pairing: wayne munson x reader

guilty pleasure fic

absolute filthy smut

wrath of the dragon - @straywords

warnings: non-con, chasing

pairing: dark!daemon targaryen x reader

yet another down bad man

overdue - @darkficsyouneveraskedfor

warnings: creepy curtis, non-con, obsessive behavior

pairing: dark!curtis everett x reader

there's little to nothing i love more than a good ole broody man with attachment issues

anxious - @syntheticavenger

warnings: stalking, kidnapping

pairing: dark!peter parker x reader

tasm peter

cutest in a way lol little fic

the dream that got away - @dotieeee

there's not nearly enough dark fics ft my fave peter so I love this one

warnings: dub-con, non-con, manipulation, controlling behavior, obsession

pairing: dark!morpheus x oc!mera

probably the first dark fic about morpheus

each chapter was a masterpiece

and i still haven't seen the show lol

thanks for the invite - @syntheticavenger

warnings: non-con, bitchy friend behavior, implied drugging (i think), oral (f receiving), slight bondage

pairing: dark!lloyd hansen x reader

a funny little unhinged lloyd fic

rsvp - @syntheticavenger

warnings: dub-con, hide and seek, exasperated bodyguard, exhibitionism (a bit)

sequel to the fic listed above

lloyd is still unhinged and reader is still suffering

#fic rec #dark fic #dark!clark kent #dark!peter parker #dark!steve rogers #dark!lloyd hansen #dark!morpheus #dark!curtis everett #dark!sherlock holmes #dark!daemon targaryen #dark!bruce wayne #dark!bakugou #dark!ransom drysdale #x reader

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libraryraccoon · 8 months ago

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Okay, but just y'all imagine Rook being bff with a Sherlock!Reader. Imagine the menace they will be together and the pure fear that the students would feel when they see/hear this duo.

The school after Rook Hunt and Sherlock!Reader duo.

#twisted wonderland #twst mc #male reader #gn reader #twst x male reader #twisted wonderland x male reader #twst x gn reader #twisted wonderland x gn reader #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #rook hunt #sherlock holmes #Sherlock!Reader #Raccoon is chatting #Futur Raccoon fic #possible

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starks-hero · 2 years ago

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what a lovely inconvenience

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader

Summary: Sherlock Holmes pushes your buttons like no one else. So when a case leaves you stranded in a hotel room with only one bed you worry that Scotland Yard might have a new murder case on their hands.

Word Count: 1.0k

authors note: Writing a different dynamic between Sherlock and the Reader for a change to acknowledge the fact that irl I wouldn't be able to spend more than ten minutes with him before attempting murder.

“Would you please just go to sleep.”

“If you quit taking up half of the bloody mattress maybe I would,” you bit back, pulling at the covers defiantly.

It wasn't often Sherlock left London for a case but when he did he rarely went alone. And given how you were currently sharing a bed with said detective in an oh-so-unflattering hotel in rural Scotland it would seem apparent that you were the unfortunate soul he'd chosen as a sidekick for this particular outing.

The hotel was dull, exceedingly so. The wallpaper seemed ancient, peeling away at the corners and the aged furniture was placed in such a way that it swallowed up the dismal amount of space the room already offered. The entire setup was worsened further by the hotel's location; unpleasantly sandwiched between a bar and a flat complex whose tenants were... vocal, to say the least.

Not to mention the fact that Sherlock wouldn't. stop. moving.

He pulled the cover back harshly, leaving you defenseless against the cold. “Bold words coming from the one that hasn't gifted me with so much as an inch of blanket. Not to mention you've hogged all the pillows.”

“Hogged all the–” you swiveled to face him. “How many pillows do you need?”

“Another one.”

You blinked twice, already calculating how long you'd spend behind bars if you resorted to murder. “Why? Can't fit your ego on the one you've already got?”

At that, Sherlock turned so you were face to face. His glower contended with your own.

“If you must know I need another to block out the sound of your insufferable talking.”

“I can't deal with this.” You tossed back the covers, begrudgingly snatching up a pillow and thin bed sheet, and strode across the room. Sherlock watched as you sprawled out on the sofa, sinking so far into the poorly made furniture it was almost comedic.

There was a beat of quiet. Then another.

“If you're waiting for me to apologize or rush to trade places you'll be waiting all night.”

"I'm sure I'll survive.” you quipped bitterly.

Sherlock, as he'd promised, didn't argue. He grabbed the spare pillow somewhat victoriously, bundled the covers around him, and turned on his side.

Meanwhile, you were already struggling not to admit defeat. Metal springs dug into your back in three separate places, the fabric caused your skin to itch and it was beyond freezing without the bed cover. You would never have described yourself as a particularly proud person, you could admit when you were wrong. But when it came to Sherlock, you'd rather stay on the couch.

Time crawled by agonizingly slow. The red italic numbers of the alarm clock across the room shone through the dark almost mockingly. You'd given up on sleep, the moment the first light of morning seeped through the poorly hung curtains you were out of there. You'd take sitting in the dingey hotel reception alone and tired over watching Sherlock waking up satisfied with his extra cushions and soft mattress as his spoils of war.

“You look ridiculously uncomfortable,” the detective's voice cut through the quiet of the room.

You pulled your excuse of a blanket over your head. “I'm fine.”

You heard Sherlock sigh, followed by the shifting of the mattress. “I can see you trembling from here.”

“I'm sure I'll soldier on through.”

“If it was a point you were trying to get across then consider it made. Now, will you please just get over here and get some sleep before the sun comes up.”

At the offer, you reemerged from your makeshift cocoon like an easily bribed butterfly. “Relax Holmes, if you wanted me in bed that bad you should have just said so.” You spoke the words into your pillow, slurred from exhaustion and dripping with sarcasm.

Regardless, Sherlock was thankful of how well the darkened room hid his blush. He cleared his throat and turned back on his side. He'd been doing an admirable job at keeping whatever it was he felt about you to himself and he wasn't about to undergo the embarrassment of having you find out simply because he spent more than twelve hours in your vicinity.

Briefly noting to never be the bigger person again, Sherlock closed his eyes and prepared to leave you to your self-inflicted misery. Then he heard feet padding across the floor.

The covers pulled back and the mattress dipped as you silently joined him. You stretched out and sighed in relief when the mattress pressed softly against your aching muscles rather than biting into your back. You pulled experimentally at the covers and Sherlock let you gain an inch. But only that.

“Was that so hard?” He asked.

“Extremely.”

Turning over as quietly as he could, Sherlock noted how your back was to him, how the plane of spare mattress between you was so wide you could easily fit another couple there. How you almost hung from the side of the bed. Sherlock wouldn't have called what he felt in that moment guilt, but it was very similar.

“You know, if it truly makes you uncomfortable I can sleep on the sofa for the night.” His offer was genuine and he hoped you picked up on it.

There was a long moment of quiet, Sherlock giving in to the fact that you'd probably fallen into sleep the moment your head hit the pillow.

“I was kidding, you know.” Your voice came as a surprise. “It's more of a hindrance than anything, sharing a bed with someone that kicks in their sleep."

Sherlock smiled in the dark. “Not as much a hindrance as sharing one with a degenerate blanket stealer.”

There was an unfamiliar tone to his voice, one that, had you not been two blinks from sleep, you would have mistaken for humourous.

“You know, you're kind of endearing when you're sleep deprived,” you thought, too tired to have realized you'd said the words aloud.

“Funny,” Sherlock watched as you turned on your side and rolled towards the middle of the bed. Your nose twitched adorably and with the security the dark offered, Sherlock let himself smile over it. “I was just about to say the same thing to you.”

He was certain you were gone now, chest falling rhythmically and lips parting to make way for quiet snores. He didn't blame you, your alarm had woken you early this morning.

You didn't know he'd noticed, of course, just as you didn't know how he noticed many little things about you. Not things of importance, nothing essential he would have to file away in his mind palace. Just simple everyday things that were unmistakably you. Things he recalled not because he needed to but because he wanted to.

There was something about you, Sherlock simply couldn't shake it. But that was a dilemma he needed at least a good night's rest to solve.

He closed his eyes, not so much as complaining when you stole the covers in your sleep.

thank you for reading!

Sherlock tag list: @miraclesoflove @ilovefanfictions @mylovelysnowflake @quentawewe @bakerstreethound @andreasworlsboring101 @doozywoozy @xxinvisiblexx @the-worst-critic @the-queer-dungeoneer @jellyfishbeansontoast @starrykitn @starryeddie @ladymercury8 @themorningsunshine @evelynrosestuff @mywellspringoflife @simp-for-scammanders @Xhz17x @allieberries @kealohilani-tepise

#*gasps* there was only one bed #clichè but ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ツ⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯#also two fics in one night? who do I think I am?#sherlock x reader #sherlock holmes x reader #bbc sherlock x reader #sherlock x you #bbc sherlock imagine #sherlock imagine #sherlock holmes x you #bbc sherlock

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inknopewetrust · 2 years ago

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#🫡 in solidarity for all my hoes with so many promises #writer #fic writer #fic woes #x reader #stranger things #bridgerton #shadow and bone #sherlock #eddie munson x reader #aleksander morozova x reader #steve harrington x reader

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iguana-eyanna · 1 month ago

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To Break A Frozen Heart

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader

Summary: Sherlock loses the meaning of Christmas since he was a boy, but maybe he just needed a certain warmth to melt his frozen heart.

The frost-painted windowpanes scattered the shops illuminated the scene of bustling cheer as the distant songs of carolers echoed through the streets of London. Carriages were passing through the snow roads as young couples looked lovingly in each other's eyes.

Sherlock Holmes, on the other hand, observed the merriment with a distasteful frown as he was riding in the icy streets in a carriage. He adjusted his scarf, though the cold air was creeping in his lungs.

He hated Christmas with a passion. Since he was a child, his family was estranged to "affection" and "spirit of the holidays".

His mother did try to care for them but his father was a strict man, barely uttering a word to him and Mycroft as they were sent to reform school with no warning. No Christmas present was sent to the boys and Sherlock often escaped to the roof of his school and stared up in the stars, hoping that a shooting star could grant him just one Christmas to be spent with someone who cared for him.

But alas, his father later passed when Enola was a babe, Mycroft decided to be a stern government official, his mother shut off herself and Enola from the world, and Sherlock was forced to figure out life himself.

And now against his beliefs of staying at home and relearning Mozart's Symphony on his violin, he was forced to ride with a special heiress to one of the biggest landowners in England: You to be in fact. You were both traveling to Saint Jerome's orphanage as you often came to do acts of service and spend time with the children.

“I still don’t understand your enthusiasm for this season,” he muttered, looking at you with unamused eyes.

You, on the other hand, were glowing—dressed in a rich yet simple gown that complemented the joy dancing in your features, too gleeful to notice Sherlock's demeanor.

“Sherlock,” you said, placing a gentle hand on his lap.

“Christmas is a time to give, to bring warmth to those who need it. Surely, even the great detective can see the value in that.”

He huffed but said nothing as you wrapped your scarf tighter and prepared for the day’s itinerary. It was your first holiday with Sherlock, and you wanted to help warm up his cold heart. You thought maybe if you put things into perspective, he could find the child like joy he once forgot and take your courtship to a new beginning. But for now, you were grateful to take this one step with him.

Soon, you arrived to the St. Jerome's as Sherlock assisted you out of the carriage alongside a few sacks of treats and toys that you bought for the children.

"Oh Madam! It is so lovely to see you again." Mary, an elderly Scottish woman who was the main guardian said as she walked up to the two of you.

"Mary! It is lovely to see you again. I want to introduce you to a very special someone in my life, Mister Holmes."

Sherlock takes off his hat for formality and nods his head.

"It is a pleasure to meet you." He says respectfully.

"Come, come. Let us talk inside before you meet the children." She ushers you inside.

"We're going to meet the children?" He asks, not expecting to mingle.

You give him a stern look, ushering him to keep his snide remarks to himself as he reluctantly agrees to stay silent.

"Have any of the young boys and girls gone to new homes yet?" You ask as you settled in her office with Sherlock.

"A few have found homes, but some weren't so lucky. But we try to give them a good foundation here."

"I know Mary, you do so much work here. Never doubt that." You said as you gave her an enormous hug. Sherlock notices your deep connection to the guardian and ponders the relationship until a younger woman arrives in the office.

"Mary, the children are eager to meet the Madam as they saw her carriage by the front."

You smile widely, looking at Mary for permission. She couldn't help but smile back at you and cross her arms.

"You know what to do, love. Have fun."

Sherlock had to race after you with the leftover bags as you went into the dining hall where the children yelled out for joy at your presence.

You started to give fresh fruits, sweets, miniature wooden horses, trains, dolls to the young boys and girls. Sherlock saw how you embraced the children with such a free spirit, not fearing of ruining your dress or pick pocketing your personal items. You trusted these kids and they trusted you.

"Excuse me mister," a young boy says as he pulls the partial fabric from Sherlock's coat.

"I like your watch." He points out to the pocket watch that Sherlock sported.

"Oh... Thank you. It was my father's." He said, slowly kneeling to the boy's eye view.

"My father died last winter. Me and my sister couldn't keep any of his things." he said, bowing his head.

Sherlock felt a sudden pang in his chest. Was it remorse? He couldn't recognize the feeling but his eyes soften.

"I'm sorry to hear. My father died when I was younger too." Sherlock said.

"It's okay to cry. My sister, Florence, says it's okay to cry sometimes."

"Elias, where are you?" A voice cried out as the young boy in front of him whipped his head.

A girl who looked about 12 years old went up to the boy and Sherlock.

"Elias, I told you not to walk off without me knowing. I thought you ran off again!" The sister, Sherlock presumed, said as she held Elias tightly.

"Sorry, Florence." Elias said as he looks down.

Florence looks at the man suspiciously as she held Elias' hand.

"I'm sorry for the trouble mister. It won't happen again." She said as she ran off with Elias in tow.

Sherlock rose up, seeing the two siblings escape in the flow of children that were now eating or playing with their toys. He brushed himself off as he sought out to find you. He was bewildered to see you outside in the snow field as you were kicking a ball between the children in your velvet gown and heeled boots. You were smiling ear to ear, and saw how your nose was red like a cranberry. It made Sherlock chuckle a bit as he watched from afar.

“Mr. Holmes,” Mary said softly, approaching him with a cup of tea as Sherlock gratually took it.

“You’re lucky to have her. She’s a treasure.”

Sherlock beams with sudden pride. “I’m well aware.”

Mary looks and sees you tumble down accidentally from a sheet of ice. Sherlock almost ran out to help you, but you just broke into a fit of laughter. He even saw Florence and Elias nearby as they tried to help you up and saw how you talked to them intently.

"How often does she visit here?" He asks curiously.

"Since she became a young woman. Sure, high society would throw a coin our way to help them feed their reputation but not her. She comes every Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter. She's an angel whose soul cradles a mother’s love, though her body cannot.”

Sherlock whips his head to her, knitting his eyebrows.

Mary frowned. “Did she ever tell you?"

The conflicted man turns away and looks down at the ground.

"No, she did not."

As the sun began to set, you bid a sad farewell to the children as they waved you goodbye as you left with Sherlock. Along the ride to your estate, you were confused of Sherlock's silence.

As you two shared a tense Christmas Eve meal together, you could sense his mind was elsewhere. It wasn't until you had enough and spoke aloud.

"Sherlock."

He blinks repeatedly, realizing he never touched his dinner.

"Is everything alright?" You ask with concern.

He looks up to you, feeling his emotions get the best of him.

"You lied to me." He says in a small voice.

"What do you mean?" You ask again.

Sherlock tried to lock eyes with you, but he couldn't face you.

"Why didn't you tell me you couldn't bear children?"

Your eyes rounded as well as your lips, but you set aside your cutlery as you placed your hands in your lap.

"Mary told you..." You said, not surprised.

Sherlock rose from his seat and started pacing around.

"I should have seen the signs. You showed no symptoms of your courses when we were together-"

"Sherlock..."

"-and when we pass new parents with their baby you wipe a tear from your face-"

"Sherlock-"

"-and all of these trips to St. Jerome's. You're just trying to fill this hole in your heart-"

"ENOUGH!" You stood up as he stopped. You couldn't believe what he just acclaimed, and you knew you had to put him in his place.

"This is why I didn't tell you, Sherlock. Firstly, I am not a case to be deduced and secondly, I dearly love those children. What you accuse otherwise is a distasteful remark."

You sit back down, feeling your words choke but refused to make eye contact with him.

"I was 17 when I found out. All my hopes to become a mother just... faded away. But then I see all of these children alone and cold during this time of year. That's when my purpose changed, that's when I wanted to become something bigger than myself."

Sherlock looks at your somber state, feeling the guilt rise up his throat. He tries to get closer to you.

"I... I didn't mean-"

You raise your hand in between you and him to create space.

"You have been nothing but cold and small minded today, Sherlock. I don't want someone like that in my life. And for that, I ask for you to leave, now."

Sherlock was stunned by your words but you were right. He has hurt your honor, and he was only making things worse with his presence.

He rushes out of the dining room and collected his coat and hat, as he heard soft cries behind him.

Sherlock just decided to walk back to his apartment to make sense of your past secret.

Why did you not tell him? How did he not notice all these clues?

His thoughts grew louder until a small figure bumped into him and ran away.

Sherlock looks down to see if anything was missing until he realized his pocket watch was missing. He whips his head back and forth until he sees the same figure by a lamp post.

"You! Stop there!" Sherlock yells as he raced the fast figure.

They were at an arm's length and Sherlock grabbed them by the arm and turned them around, wanting to confront his burglar.

"Alright young man, why did you do such a-"

Sherlock's words get swallowed as he realizes he found Florence, whose hair was tucked in a hat as she held the clock firmly in her other hand.

"I'm sorry sir, I had to! Please don't turn me into the police. I'm the only family Elias has!"

Sherlock's face slacks as he unfurls his brow and gives a solemn look.

"I won't turn you in, but we are going to St. Jerome's to have a chat with Miss Mary."

Sherlock returns back to the orphanage with Florence as Mary shares fruitful words to the young girl.

"How dare you steal this man's watch, Florence. After everything him and the Madam did for us today... what do you say to him?" She scolds.

Florence looks back to the tall man and lowers her head.

"I'm sorry again Mr. Holmes." As she began to almost tear up.

Sherlock kneels down and gently smiles at her.

"It's alright Florence. My only hopes is that you never steal again."

"Go to bed, my dear girl, we will discuss your punishment tomorrow morning." Mary says.

Florence runs off, and Sherlock suddenly feels another pang in his chest.

"I do hope you don't give her a heavy punishment. She only had good intentions for her brother." He says as Mary sat by her table.

"We do not give rash punishments, but she will help around with chores around the building. But her heart is in the right place. Elias was sought for adoption, but he refused as he didn’t want to be separated from his sister since they didn’t have enough money to have the two of them. Florence must have thought if she could find the funds, they’d still be with each other.”

"That's a shame. They look very close to another." Sherlock responds, still thinking of his time here during the day.

"Do you have any siblings, Mr. Holmes?" Mary asks.

"A younger sister and an older brother." He says.

"Are you close to them?" She asks.

"I... try." He says, recollecting when was the last time he has been with Enola and Mycroft in the same vicinity.

But his thought fly elsewhere as his fixation of you grew.

"How did I not know of her condition?" he mutters to himself.

"We are often blinded from certain truths when one falls in love." Mary said as she goes up to the detective, who looked like he was carrying the weight of the world.

"When I first met the Madam, I knew from the start that she had an ache in her soul. But she pushed her problems away cause she there was so many others who faced more struggle than her. She may not mother children, but she's the reason why young boys and girls are given a childhood. Shouldn't that count for something?"

Sherlock stiffened, his sharp mind piecing together every memory, every fleeting comment you’d made about your past. He realized he’d never asked deeply, never probed. You’d shared your wealth, your kindness, and your heart, but not your history.

That shouldn't be the reason he should lose you forever.

"There's something I must do... but i acquire great help."

Mary beams proudly.

"Let's get to work."

You look out your window, seeing the snow fall down in the streets. It was Christmas evening, and it was silent in your estate. Although it was adorned with decorations and your staff grateful that they have been given bigger income for this time of year, your heart still felt heavy. You tried to move on and forget what Sherlock has said to you.

You then gotten dressed for the day as you were to return for the orphanage to help cook a Christmas dinner for the young children.

As you soon arrived, you knit your brow as many carriages lined around the streets of St. Jerome’s. Many status of class arrived with high spirits as you saw them holding boxed gifts or pantries of food. Once you entered the building, you gasped at the sight.

The building you we’re once in just the other day is filled of working class and upper class that mingled together as they entertained the children with songs or shared a meal together. Little boys and girls circled around a man who was carrying them or throwing them up in the air as they yelled for joy.

The man then resembled to…

“Sherlock?” You question yourself.

“Isn’t he a sight for sore eyes, love?” Mary asks as you whip your head to her

“Mary, what is going on?” You inquire.

“Sherlock happened. He stayed up all night decorating and spreading the word that that every child deserves a home. I was afraid there wouldn’t be enough children to go to new families but Mr. Holmes assured me otherwise.”

“That is correct. I contacted my family and they were quite moved to make sure no one was left behind.” Sherlock walks up to the two of you as he was smiling ear to ear.

You look around and you see a group of girls huddled around a group of women who were teaching them a sort of defense class as the young girls looked bewildered. An older woman winks at you before she returns her lesson.

You see Sherlock’s older brother, Mycroft, as he was reading A Christmas Carol to young children and adults. He looked so at ease, you almost didn’t recognize the man.

You then saw Enola as she was holding a young boy’s hand, as she introduced him to a distant relative that lived in the country side. They had a joyful reunion as you couldn’t help but wipe a tear from your eye.

“Sherlock, this is so wonderful.” You said.

Sherlock holds you in his arms as you felt the warmth radiating from his chest.

“Darling, you started this. Once I told others your name and how you devoted your time and wealth at St. Jerome’s, they found it in their hearts to do the same. I know I did.”

He brought you to a quiet corner as he held both of your hands.

"I have been unfair and unkind to you. The words I exchanged... they were out of insecurity. I hope that you can forgive me."

"Of course I do, Sherlock..."

"No. It's not enough. You've given so much to me in the time that i've known you. Your generosity, your ambition, your character... it makes me want to be a better man for you."

He kneels down with one knee and you gasp silently, slightly shaking your hands.

"Sherlock..." You knelt down as your eyes grew wide.

"I want to grow with you. I want us to build our life in an abundance of love and generosity. I want us to grow our family-"

"But you know I can't give you that." You said, your eyes watering.

"That's why they have something to give you." He said, motioning behind.

You saw Elias and Florence smiling widely as the young boy held the paper for you to grab. You reach over, confused until you open the seal, gasping loudly as you switch your head between the siblings and Sherlock.

"You're going to adopt them?" You ask.

"We are going to adopt them. You've shown me that family lies deeper than blood and bone. I want us to experience everything in this world, if you have me."

"And us!" Florence said, as she and Elias neared the two of you.

Sherlock laughs as he grabs a ring from his pocket and offers it to you.

"Will you make me the happiest man on Christmas Day and marry me?"

You nod your head as you smile ear to ear, grabbing Sherlock's face as you kiss him tenderly. An echoes of "ews" were exchanged between the siblings until you and Sherlock locked them in an enormous embrace.

"So we're going to be a family?" Elias asks you.

"Yes, my little Eli... we will together every Christmas, birthday, and every other day." You said

"I like that very much." Florence commented, smiling between her parents.

"Me too," Sherlock concluded, as he gave you one last kiss before you four walked back to the festivities where you shared the news and cheer.

These were the moments you cherished the most with your future husband, as life became a little more merry.

#sherlock holmes x reader #sherlock holmes enola holmes #sherlock holmes fic #sherlock holmes henry cavill #sherlock x reader #sherlock holmes #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill #henry cavill fanfic

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 10 months ago

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Unraveled 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: A curious man wanders into your dress shop with a lot of questions.

Characters: Sherlock Holmes (Cavill)

Note: I hope you all enjoy this random idea.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

One hand guides the fabric as the other turns the wheel. Your work is slow but steady, every stitch perfect, every seam precise. Your fare may be modest and your product simple, but its quality cannot be contested. Your labour as yourself is honest and plain.

The noise of the machine is your only company. The one-room shop nestled behind the butcher’s rarely sees a customer through its door. Instead, the orders are sent from the factories, returned with the printed adverts you disperse outside their doors. The writs are sent along with an envelope of pence and shilling and you complete each with equal diligence before sending them back bundled in paper and twine.

The operation isn’t especially fruitful but the profit is enough to subsist. Enough to guarantee your independence; a small apartment just above and a pot of stew to last you through each week. This humble existence is preferable to any marriage you’ve witnessed.

The letters from your sisters reaffirm your spinster’s fate. You’d rather a hand wheel and a needle than a brood and broken back. A husband seems to provide several jobs at once, you’ll happily settle for one.

As your hands work from memory and your head wanders from tedium, the bell above the door gives a single sharp toll. You ease the wheel to a halt and leave the seam unfinished. You peer up above the black iron machine, reminding yourself to fix your hunch as a client enters. You can’t but wonder if he may have come to the wrong shop.

By his attire, he is a class above the factory women who require gray skirts and simple stays. His waistcoat is embroidered and his jacket is pressed and clean. He is tall, locks part tidily so his curls lay gracefully. His face is fresh-shaven, square jaw with a cleft, and shoulders broad and strong. He does not share the same sinewy gauntness as the labourers with the coal-dusted noses.

He carries a fine leather bag. Another clue to his status. His shoes, another. Polished and without creases.

You stand to greet him, “good afternoon, sir. Might I help you with something?”

His answer is not prompt. He takes in the finished dresses hung by the east wall and turns to examine the rolls of wool and cotton. At last, he returns his attention to you.

“Afternoon,” his deep timbre fills the small space, “you are the dressmaker.”

It isn’t a question, but you answer, “I am.”

He narrows his eyes as he approaches your desk, the sole fixture in the space. From without, the shop is just as bare. The blackened windows offer not insight into the business, its only suggestion the sign hung above the door, though the paint requires a fresh coat.

“And the shop owner?”

“That is me as well, sir,” you assert. The presumption is not uncommon.

“Ah,” he accepts your explanation without comment, “so, you will have sewn this.”

He puts his bag on the desk, nearly knocking your shears from the corner. You try not to flinch as they teeter near the edge and he pulls open the top of the leather bag. He pulls out a swath of grey. You recognise it and he rolls the cuff to show your initials sewn within.

“Sir,” you say precariously, “is there some issue with it? Is it your wife’s dress?”

“Wife? No, no,” he dismisses, feeling the fabric between his fingers, “rather I am in search of the dress’s owner. The initial must belong to them, yes? So you would have a name for the buyer.”

“Mm, no, those are mine,” you point at the letters, “as it is my handiwork.”

“That makes sense,” he frowns in disappointment. “So you wouldn’t know who would wear it?”

You rub your chapped lips together. You find your tongue sliding over them often when you work, turning them raw with the habit. The man’s lips are rosy and smooth, as well-kempt as the rest of him. He is no factory worker’s husband.

“I might… would you take it out?” You ask.

He obliges as you pluck up the metal cylinder from your desk and unfurl the tape measure from within. He shakes out the dress, holding it by the shoulders to reveal salt stains along the skirts and unleashing a dingy smell in the shop. You wiggle your nose at the stench but worse roils in from the butcher’s on hot days.

You take the measure of the sleeves and the waist, then to the hem. You scribble the numbers on a scrap and take that to compare with your ledger. The measurements are in now way defining but might narrow it down. He keeps the dress aloft and you return to him to check the thread along the seams. A few months ago, you changed the thickness as the factory workers complained of splits under the arms.

“Hm, it is a recent purchase,” you assure him and return to the ledge.

He lowers the dress and approaches. You snap the book closed and turn your face up to consider him once more, “why do you need to know, if it is not your wife?”

“You are very discerning,” he remarks as he folds the dress and drapes it over his bag, “I’m certain then you can surmise the woman who wore this dress did not meet a kind fate.” He tugs up the hem and shows a tear trimmed in scarlet, the colour not obvious from a distance. “Holmes, Sherlock Holmes. I’m a detective and I’m trying to identify a poor woman found not far from here. I believe it is in your own interest that I discover her assailant.”

“I cannot say for certain which she is,” you turn over the scrap and re-open the ledger. You write down three names which match the measurements and hold the paper out to him. He takes it, his thick fingertips brushing yours. “Those are the ones which align with the dress.”

“Mm,” he hums as he tucks the paper into his chest pocket, “and your name? I couldn’t make it out on the sign.”

You recite your name flatly, “it isn’t on the sign.”

“It requires new paint,” he admonishes, “I could hardly find you.”

“I am aware,” you reply. “Thank you for noting.”

He’s quiet, “being a detective, however, I did indeed put together the clues.”

Is he making a joke? You cannot tell. He folds up the dress completely and puts it back in the leather bag. The smell persists.

“What are you prices?” He asks abruptly.

“Sir, I sew dresses for factory women, sometimes a few communion pieces, but I’m afraid I don’t do much suit work.”

“My sister requires a dress,” he sniffs, “as simple as it is, I can see your work is fine.”

“I have only wools and cottons,” you counter.

“Do you always turn away business?” He challenges.

“I wasn’t, sir, I’m only clarifying what I currently do. My prices are set for those fabrics,” you explain.

“I will pay for the muslin and velvet,” he waves his hand staunchly, “you will be paid for your labour. Can you sew with more than wool and cotton?”

“I can, sir, but you could find a ready-made dress in a market boutique if the dress is required promptly.”

“I can afford the time and coin,” he insists. “You are not a talented advertiser, are you?”

You’re taken aback by his bluntness. Often, his ilk have that demeanour. It’s why you’d rather the factory workers and the fish sellers’ wives.

“I suppose not,” you agree, “I would need measurements before I begin. You may send the numbers along with the fabric, then. And I would require a style. Perhaps your sister is a purveyor of fashion magazines?”

“I will send a messenger,” he shrugs. “Thank you for your time. I shan't get in your way any longer.”

“Good day, sir.”

“Good day to you,” he takes the bag from your desk and the shears fall to the floor with a clatter.

You skirt around to grab them as he bends and swipes them up first. You recoil as he closes the blades with a snap. He examines them before placing them back on the desk.

“Apologies,” he says, “and miss,” he looks at you, “take to heart what I’ve told you today. Keep away from the allies and perhaps you may consider locking your door.”

“Thank you, sir, your concern is appreciated.”

“Rather you might just keep those close, eh,” he points to the shears and his cheek dimples.

Again, you can’t be certain of his humour. You keep a placid expression, neither smiling nor scowling. He clears his throat and runs his hand down his jacket, gripping the lapel.

“Very well then, I’ll be off.”

He turns on his heel and marches to the door. You stay by the desk as the bell rings with his departure. Once the door closes, you cross the shop. You turn the lock into place, his foreboding lingering with the stale scent of dirty water.

🪡

Despite the unusual visit, your days roll on like a hand on a clock. The thought of the woman’s tragic fate looms like a shadow but fades. You have too much stitching to do to fret over that man and his ominous words. You assume his interest in your work thereafter was wholly feigned as he does not return.

That day, you pass off six parcels to Eustace, the driver who takes them down to the stacks to hand off to the floor bosses who will parse them out to the women they’ve been cut for. You pay him his toll before he climbs back into the seat of his cart, his horse kicking impatiently.

“Excuse me, sir,” another driver clops up along the other side of the street, a narrow squeeze between the slanting buildings. “I’m in search of a dressmaker. I believe the store is tucked behind the butcher’s and…” the man’s voice drifts off as his eyes flit to the meat sellers marquee.

“Right here, good sir,” Eustace responds, “wouldn’t ya know, she’s right here.”

You lift your chin to see past the cart and spy the driver. He removes his cap as his gaze meets yours. Eustache dips his chin as he adjusts his own hat and snaps his old mare into a canter. As you're left alone with the carriage driver, a vehicle rather lofty for a block like this, you fold your hands behind you.

“Sir, you hardly look in need of a work woman’s dress,” you say.

“Miss,” he ties the reins off and jumps down from his seat, “I am sent for you, not a dress.”

“For me?” You echo.

“Mr. Holmes has sent,” he crosses the muck and nearly slips. “He said he made an appointment for a seamstress.”

“An appointment? I wasn’t informed of the time,” you rebuff. “I’ve a shop to run, orders paid for. I can’t simply leave.”

“Ah, yes, Mr. Holmes made mention of a fee,” the man feels around his striped coat, “he said a deposit would be needed.”

He takes out a brown envelope and hands it over. You take it, a small weight within. You look at the driver before you pull back the flap and peek inside. A large gold sovereign sits in the corner of the paper; a whole pound. That’s at least three days work.

You hold your breath, trying to maintain some composure. If that’s the deposit, what is he offering for the rest? You slip out the folded paper within, a page torn from a fashion journal. The dress is elegant if not extravagant. You don’t often do off-the-shoulder or ruffles like that but it isn’t beyond your skill.

You fold the flap closed again and lift your chin to face the driver, “I must lock up, you see?”

“Take your time, miss,” he says kindly. “Mr. Holmes isn’t expecting you to hurry.”

“Thank you, sir,” you bow your head and turn away.

You measure your steps along the facade of the butcher’s shop and curl around to the alleyway. You let yourself into your shop and tuck the envelope into your apron pocket. You take your sewing bag from under the desk and shake off the dust. You don’t often have reason to use it.

You open it up and pack away your shears, a measuring tape, pins with a cushion, your notebook, and a few other bits and bobs. Just in case. You grab a role of linen from against the wall. It’s heavy but you can manage.

You take the key from your desk drawer and switch off the overhead light. You lock the door and continue back out to the street. The driver puffs smoke from a pipe as he waits.

“Miss, allow me,” he snuffs out the pipe and puts it in his pocket. He nears and reaches for the roll of linen.

“It’s quite alright, sir,” you say.

“I insist, miss, can’t have a lady doing all that,” he takes it, not forcefully, and you let him.

As he goes to the carriage and opens the door, you give pause. You don’t know if you should be so easily swayed on a gold coin. Mr. Holmes hadn’t been entirely pleasant and you do prefer your simple work. Still, you can hardly turn your nose up at a pound. Not with the summer fizzling to a finale.

You lift your skirts and cross the street to the open carriage, “sir, might I have a name?”

“Gavin,” he answers, “and I have yours. Mr. Holmes made sure of it.”

“Yes, very good,” you say as you approach, another sliver of doubt trickling through. Mr. Holmes claimed to be a detective but is that really the reason he was strolling around with a dead woman’s dress? You gulp and look at Gavin then the carriage, “might I keep the window open?”

“Surely you can,” he agrees amiably. “Mr. Holmes lives quite a ways, shouldn’t mind the air. I’ll be certain to stay away from the stacks.”

“Thank you, sir,” you accept his proffered hand and he helps you up into the carriage.

You settle on the bench as the door shuts and you open the window from within. You lean back, your hand grasping the top of your bag. You unclasp it as you feel Gavin climb up on the driver’s seat. You dip your hand inside and clutch your long shears.

You don’t forget all of what Mr. Holmes said.

#sherlock holmes #enola holmes #dark sherlock holmes #dark!sherlock holmes #sherlock holmes x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #unraveled

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frost-queen · 1 year ago

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Outmatched epilogue | (Reader x Anthony Bridgerton)

Requested by: @noirrose21-blog, Forever tag: @missmelodramatic, @merlin-dahlia, @alex--awesome--22, @elllie-does-the-posts, @floatlosers, @merlieve,

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

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

@nyenye, @loliakeoghan23, @heyheyheyggg, @aizawash0e, @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy, @novas-dreamworld, @preciousbabypeter, @magical-spit, @heyheyheyggg, studioreader, @wonderlandfandomkingdom, @misscaller06, @dracoflaco, @nikithepuff, @child-of-of-the-sunshine

Summary: Anthony and you are married with kids. Something has reached your ears for you and your husband to be interested in meeting the lady who appears to have caught Sherlock's eye. Not only do you meet her, but you meet another interesting gentleman as well on the tracks. Read part 1 & part 2 & part 3 & part 4 & part 5 & part 6 & part 7 & part 8 & part 9 & part 10

You squealed soft whilst stretching your arms. They bumped against the frame of the bed making your effort unsatisfying as you wanted it to be. The matrass ducked in when a body came rolling over closer to your side. You squealing ended up in chuckling when Anthony moved his upper body over yours. – “Morning Y/n Bridgerton.” – he said in his deep sleepy voice. You lowered your arms, flicking your finger against his cheek. It startled him for a moment.

“I told you, you can only call me Y/n Bridgerton when you are utterly cross with me!” – you reminded him. Anthony’s brief look of surprise and worry faltered into a smile. – “Apologies love, it just feels so right to call you that.” – he replied as you wrapped your arms around his neck. – “Are you cross with me?” – you teased him tilting your head a bit. – “Not the slightest.” – Anthony answered with a smirk.

“Then kiss me Anthony Bridgerton.” – you spoke seeing Anthony tilt his chin a bit down. Looking at you with an expression that you really went there. Copying his words simply to tease him. Laughing loud you loved it how easily he was teased or offended.

Anthony silenced you by pressing his lips hard on you. Making your head disappear into the folds of the pillow as he laid half on top of you. Smothering you with his kisses. You weren’t complaining. His kisses made you smile against his lips, feeling flustered by his passion. Anthony brought his hand up, touching your chin delicately as he let his lips brush carefully against yours.

Taking it slow to enjoy every little detail of your lips. The loud tripling of footsteps in the hallway made your eyes widen. Anthony stopped kissing you, lifting his head up. – “One… two… three.” – he whispered with half a smile. Just as he pointed towards the door it opened. – “Mommy, daddy!” – Charlotte busted into the room. Anthony removed himself from you as your daughter stood happily and jumpingly at the side of your bed.

Her maid appearing in the door opening out of breath. – “Apologies Viscount and Viscountess.” – she said with a low curtsy. Anthony reached to grab little Charlotte and hoist her up in the bed with them. – “It is alright.” – you told her. – “Will you check on Edmund please?” – you asked of her.

The maid curtsied again before taking her leave. Charlotte was jumping on the bed, Anthony holding her under her armpits to make sure she wouldn’t fall. – “Mommy! Daddy!” – she called out overexcited. Charlotte jumped down landing with her feet on your stomach as you flinched from the pain. – “Oh no! Mommy is hurt.” – Anthony said calming Charlotte down.

You dramatically pretended to faint, laying with your hand on your forehead. Anthony gasped playing along as he looked at Charlotte. – “We must heal mommy with kisses.” – little Charlotte nodded as she leaped onto you. Having her full weight on you made you groan softly from the impact. She then threw her arms around you, kissing your cheek repeatedly. – “Alright, alright mommy is healed.” – you called out laughingly as she had her arms tight around your neck.

“Is she now? I think she needs more kisses.” – Anthony teased resulting in you casting him a glare. Anthony joined in changing his kisses from your forehead to Charlotte’s. Charlotte laughed loud. You pulled yourself up to get some breathing area. Your cheeks flushed with heat from their smothering.

“Time to get up.” – you announced, throwing the covers away. Both Anthony and Charlotte groaned. Anthony held his hand up, mouthing five more minutes. You laughingly shook your head. – “Charlotte needs to get dressed. In case you forgot my brother is coming over.” – you reminded your husband off with a teasing glance. – “Uncle Sherl?” – Charlotte said making you laugh. You had always found it funny how she couldn’t fully pronounce his name yet.

Resulting into Sherlock being Sherl for her. Something you loved to tease him with. – “Yes Uncle Sherlock.” – you told her picking her up from the bed. Charlotte laid her head against your shoulder as you turned around with her. You opened the door seeing her maid having returned. You set Charlotte on the ground, telling her to get dressed. You were about to set a step when you got pulled back by your nightgown.

You bumped against Anthony’s chest as he wrapped an arm around your waist. With his other hand he closed the door. – “Five more minutes.” – he whispered bringing his head down to kiss the fold of your shoulder. His touch fluttered, his body swaying against yours. You spun around, jumping at him. Wrapping your legs around his waist as he stumbled back, directing himself back to the bed before falling backwards on it with you on him.

Soon you were all in the Parlor. Charlotte playing on the ground with her dolls. Her one year old brother sitting on your knee. Anthony was reading the newspaper in await of your brother. – “Let’s not bring her up immediately.” – you told your husband. Anthony lowered the newspaper. – “Why not?” – he asked with a teasing smile. – “Because!” – you made clear letting Edmund bounce a bit on your knee. – “You are far from subtle.” – you finished.

Anthony rolled with his eyes. – “I am subtle.” – he defended himself. Anthony looked down at his leg. Charlotte had been tugging his pants. She held up one of her dolls to him. Anthony placed his newspaper away, taking the doll from her. Charlotte got up to her feet, leaning a bit against his legs. – “Her hair isn’t nice.” – she said holding a tiny brush up to him. – “Let us lay it neatly then.” – Anthony answered taking the tiny brush from her.

He started combing the dolls hair as Charlotte laid her head down on his knees, watching him. – “There.” – Anthony said after finishing. Charlotte squealed excited taking the doll from him. She then showed the doll to you. – “She looks beautiful.” – you told her. Charlotte sat back down, taking a second doll in her hand to play with.

The door to the Parlor opened. – “Lord Sherlock Holmes.” – the man announced. Sherlock appeared in the opening with a grand smile. Charlotte gasped loud. – “Uncle Sherl.” – she called out. Sherlock lowered himself when the little girl came running over. – “Ahh look at you, how’ve grown you are.” – he told her, having picked her up and hugging her. – “How old are you now?” – he asked as you knew it was to test her intelligence.

Charlotte looked down at her own fingers, hesitating a bit to show the right amount. She then held up two fingers. Sherlock laughed overjoyed hugging her tighter. – “And six months.” – you reminded him. Charlotte your oldest was two and a half. While her brother Edmund was but one. Sherlock set her back down as you had gotten up, holding Edmund in your arms. Sherlock went over to you, kissing your cheek. – “Sister.” – he greeted. – “Sherl.” – you greeted back with a teasing smile.

He gave you a playfully annoyed glance in return. Hating it but secretly not minding it. He then went to Anthony bowing at one another. – “How are you?” – you asked sitting back down. – “Nothing unusual. How are you dear sister.” – Sherlock responded. – “Nothing unusual are you sure about that?” – Anthony spoke as you shot him a glare.

Sherlock frowned. Observing the glances between Anthony and you, he came to a conclusion. Anthony turned to look over at you with a hint of trying to hide his smile. You glaring at him for teasing the snippet then also unable to hide your smile. Sherlock had picked up a spyglass to occupy himself. – “I’m assuming by the look of you two that Mycroft has spilled something.” – he spoke lowering the spyglass. – “How so? Is there perhaps something we should know?” – you asked as Sherlock saw right through your façade of trying to sound oblivious.

He took a deep sigh. – “It was only once.” – Sherlock released. – “To our account two.” – Anthony replied holing up two fingers with a smirk. Sherlock looked up with a heavy sigh. – “Fine two.” – he corrected himself. You set Edmund on the ground with his sister. He immediately slapped his hand towards one of her dolls, interested in the toy in front of him.

“Sherlock! As your married sister I am deeply wounded that you did not consult me on this matter.” – you spoke with a hint of teasing. – “It is not like that.” – he made clear. Anthony and you shared a smirking glance. – “Sherlock a lady came over by our house not once… but twice.” – you had gotten up joining Anthony on the sofa.

The two of you quirked your eyebrow at him. Sherlock pointed the spyglass back at you. – “I don’t like how the two of you are conspiracy against me.” – he spoke. – “Well it runs in the family.” – you replied moving your hand down on Anthony’s lap. Anthony took your hand, giving it a soft squeeze. – “When can we meet her?” – you questioned.

He saw the delight in your eyes, making him regret ever engaging in the matter. – “What is her name?” – Anthony wanted to know. – “Is she polite? Well-mannered?” – he continued. – “Is she intelligent? Resourceful?” – you asked knowing the right questions. Sherlock looked at the two of you, seeing how truly you two were matched for each other.

He took a deep sigh. – “Her name is Irene Adler.” – he explained. Anthony and you looked at each other teasingly. – “Who is Irene?” – Charlotte suddenly asked out of the blue. It made Anthony laugh loud. – “Uncle Sherl is in love with her.” – you told her. – “I am not!” – Sherlock protested. Sherlock’s cheeks puffed up with annoyance as it made you laugh loud.

Charlotte ran up to Sherlock. – “Uncle Sherl do you like her like mommy and daddy do?” – she asked making Anthony and you have the time of your life. Sherlock glared over at you. – “See what your foolishness brings.” – he bit at you. – “Oh Sherlock we are only teasing you.” – you told him getting up. You went up to him, wrapping your arms around him and kissing his forehead. – “I’m only doing you a favour.” – you whispered to him. – “I rather have it that you do not.”

━━━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━

Anthony and you walked arm in arm onto the grass. Both of you were holding a pamphlet. – “I told you to bet on Lucky boy.” – Anthony said. You rolled your eyes on him. – “Lucky boy is overrated. All you men do is bet on that horse because of his heritage.” – you told him. – “Lucky boy comes from a family of winners!” – Anthony made clear. You laughed loud making Anthony quirk his eyebrow annoyed at you. - “Who have you betted on then?” – he wanted to know snatching the pamphlet from out of your hands.

He quickly read down the name you had betted on. – “High flag?” – he called out. – “He is but a youngling.” – Anthony went on. – “Oh darling Y/n you have made a mistake there. There is not a chance High flag can win this race from Lucky boy.” – he finished with a smug face. You ripped the pamphlet out of his hand. – “Let us see then!” – you threw a witty glance at him removing your arm from him. Anthony gaped at you as you went on without him.

“Y/n.” – he hissed out lowly as he came jogging after you. You went towards the stands at the side-line of the tracks. – “Excuse me.” – you said wanting to get passed some people already sitting down. – “Y/n!” – Anthony shout-whispered after you. He smiled uncomfortable at a lord who raised his eyebrow at the intention of his voice. You went further down the line, blinking surprised upon seeing your brother. – “Sherlock?” – you said. Sherlock got up in a haste.

“Sister.” – he responded, his voice a tone higher. Was he perhaps embarrassed of seeing you here? Or was he hiding something? A man’s posture came in vision from behind Sherlock. It made you shift your gaze to him curiously. Sherlock cleared his throat, turning his posture more so you could see the fellow better. – “Mister John Watson.” – Sherlock introduced.

“Watson, my sister Viscountess Y/n Bridgerton.” – he introduced you with a smile. You felt a warm on your shoulder followed by a loud breath. – “Don’t run…” – Anthony began before he noticed your brother. – “Oh Sherlock, how pleasant to see you here.” – Anthony breathed out tipping his hat to him. – “Sherlock was just introducing me to his friend.” – you told your husband. – “More like business partner.” – Sherlock corrected you.

Sherlock introduced Anthony as well to Watson. Anthony and you sat down along with the others. John Watson sitting beside you. You were looking at the tracks, lowly arguing with your husband about the horses. A lady came in view making you stop your friendly bickering. Sherlock jumped up, straightening his jacket. – “Miss Irene.” – he said taking a bow. Anthony and you looked at each other, first surprised then full of mischief.

“Is that seat taking?” – she asked pointing at a spot near Sherlock. – “Of course not!” – Sherlock declared making more room. Which resulted in John being pressed closer to you and you to your husband to make room for her. Irene sat down as you watched Sherlock be out of himself. Fumbling nervously with his hands. He was so smitten with her, she had made him default.

The bell got rang as it announced the start of the race. You got on the edge of your seat looking to the left from where the horses would come. Their hooves trampled the grass, gripping out earth as they ran. They came closer as you got up out. – “That’s it Lucky boy!” – Anthony called out beside you. – “Come on High flag, steady!” – you said loud. – “Yes!” – Anthony declared. – “Steady! Steady!” – you shouted loud cheering on for High flag.

The horses came racing almost right in front of you, sprinting for the last few yards. Everybody else on the seats were getting up as well. – “Come now High flag!” – you yelled followed by loud whistling. Having put your fingers between your lips to whistle. You kept whistling as it caught Anthony’s attention, making him stare bewildered at you.

Irene furrowed her brows, looking at Sherlock. – “All in the good of sport.” – he told her giving an explanation for your enthusiasm. The horses passed as Anthony was getting agitated. – “Come on! Come on!” – he kept shouting over at Lucky Boy. – “Yes! Yes!” – you cheered over his words to High flag. The horses neared the finish as you were beyond yourself.

Jumping up and down knowing you have won. There was no way Lucky boy could gain on High flag now. The flag swirled in the air the moment the horses ran over the line. You cheered loud as Anthony wanted to throw his hat on the ground out of frustration. You took a hold of your husband, continue to jump and cheer. It made him turn his head to you with a grand smile. This was what made him love you so much. You weren’t afraid to show your enthusiasm and never back down for any man.

“How does it feel to be a sore loser.” – you told him. Anthony breathed out a laugh wrapping an arm around your waist. – “I may be a loser in betting, but I am certainly a winner with having you.” – he expressed. You smiled at him before kissing him. John beside you took a deep breath. – “The adrenaline is high here.” – he chuckled out. Slowly you all descended down the seats joining your brother and his business partner. Irene still standing near him.

“Miss Irene Adler I presume?” – you asked her. – “Yes.” – Irene spoke. Anthony came by your side keeping his hand on your lower back. – “A pleasure to finally meet you. I am Sherlock’s sister.” – you told her. Irene curtsied before you. – “I am very excited to see how this season will end.” – you said with a chuckle. Looking over at your brother, you winked at him.

Sherlock rolling with his eyes. Anthony kissed your cheek before speaking to your brother. – “After all we have experience of scheming. How does a carriage ride sound darling?” – Anthony spoke looking over at you. – “Thrilling.” – you responded with a smile. Sherlock swallowed nervously afraid of what you and your husband would be cooking up. Perhaps a way of revenge on what he had inflicted on the both of you. Irene and John both looking confused at each other. For only the three of you knew the story behind the words.

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Read more of my fic’s on my Masterlists!

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ladylaviniya · 11 months ago

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Wails of Wedded Bliss

Chapter 6 || Masterlist || Chapter 8

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

Pairing: Sherlock Homes x wife!reader

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

Word Count: 9k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Lucky, while incredibly resentful.’

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

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

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

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

You couldn’t answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Both Sherlock and Lestrade smiled and stood up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She pinched a bud that was peaking to bloom soon.

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

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

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

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

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

You tried your best to ignore the annoying creature.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She chuckled with you and nodded.

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

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

“Theresa?”

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

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

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

“What is this?” you humoured.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you feel it?” she then asked.

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

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

She moved your hand and again you felt absolutely nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How interesting...”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He smirked, “Perhaps a jealous one?”

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

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

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

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

“The Mayfair Row Dove club.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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