#sherlock x you smut

[holylulusworld]

Mrs. Sherlock Holmes (5)

Summary: Your marriage starts rocky.

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Wife!Reader

Warnings: angst, shy reader, fluff, innocent reader, protective/possessive Sherlock, fingering, smut, unprotected sex, first time, creampie, breeding kink (a hint), degrading (namecalling)

A/N: A collection of drabbles on how you became Mrs. Sherlock Holmes.

Mrs. Sherlock Holmes (4)

Mrs. Sherlock Holmes masterlist

His large hand pressed against your untouched petals. You whimpered, in need, an unknown heat spreading through your abdomen. You felt hot and started to rock your hips, rubbing yourself against his fingers.

Sherlock watched you desperately moving your hips, faster, and faster until he took his hand away. You cried out, hands grasping for his wrist to keep him from taking away his touch.

He purred your name and teased you for turning into a whore within a few moments. Your eyes watered because he didn’t give you what you wanted. Your lips wobbled and you choked out a sob.

“Do you want to fulfill your wifely duties now,” he whispered and nipped at your earlobe. Sherlock tugged at your ear shell, making you whine. “Say it, wife.”

“I want—” you sniffled. What you wanted; you didn’t know. In the books you read there wasn’t more than kissing and waking next to their lover the next day. What happens in between, you didn’t know for sure. “I want you to fulfill your husbandly duties.”

Sherlock growled before he rolled on top of you. Just then you realized he was bare. His chest pressed against your heaving breasts, and his lips, those dangerous pillows pressed against yours. He shoved his tongue past your parting lips to lick into your mouth.

Your eyes widened. This wasn’t the way a gentleman kissed his wife. No. It was so much more. He devoured your mouth while shoving your nightie up to your waist, baring your most precious secret to him. Sherlock settled between your legs, spreading your quivering thighs for him.

“Your mine to devour, and claim. No one can have you,” he growled the words as you stared up at the beast your husband turned into. His lips claimed yours again, a little softer this time. “I’m going to fulfill my husbandly duties now, wife. You’re going to come on my cock only.”

Your eyes widened. For months you wished he’d take you like the lovers in the books you read, but suddenly you panicked a little.

What if he didn’t like touching you? What if you did something wrong? What if you couldn’t make him fill you with his seed?

His eyes bored into yours when he kneeled between your legs. He smirked before pressing one finger against your untouched opening.

“Husband,” you breathlessly whimpered. You didn’t know what he was up to until he slowly pushed his finger into your cunt.

“This is mine,” he started to move back and forth, eyes never leaving your face. “Say it.”

“It’s yours…”

“Again…” Sherlock slipped his finger out of your cunt, only to press two inside, now scissoring you open. “Say it, wife!”

“It’s yours…Sir,” you whimpered, earning a deep guttural growl. “Only yooours….”

His fingers left you empty and wanting. He was suddenly back on top of you, his mouth stealing another kiss. You didn’t know if you should do something or lie still.

“You are mine, that’s right,” he growled, his eyes black with lust. You could only nod because you felt something bigger than his fingers poke at your entrance. Holding your breath, you looked up at him, feeling his shaft slowly slide into you.

“Sher-lock,” you babbled his name. “It’s too much.”

“I know, my love,” he whispered and kissed the tears running down your cheeks away. He slowly moved back and forth, but it still hurt when he tried to push further. “It will only hurt for a moment.”

His lips soothed your discomfort. Sherlock murmured gentle words while pressing into you. He panted against your lips when he was finally fully sheathed inside your cunt.

He gently cupped your face with one hand to kiss you deeply, and softly. Sherlock gave you time, to just feel his cock inside of your now spread-out pussy. “There you go, my love. You’re doing so well for me.”

You didn’t know if he told the truth. His huge shaft pressed against your wall, and all you could do was trust his words.

He smiled, before kissing you again.

“This is the tightest and sweetest cunt I ever ruined,” there was a smirk on his lips, and his eyes full of mischief. “You will scream my name tonight, wife. And tomorrow night, and every night from now on.”

You shuddered under his hungry gaze. His grin almost wolfishly he dug his knees into the mattress and started to rock his hips. Back, and forth, back and forth.

His thrusts were powerful enough to make you scream at the sheer force. It still hurt, but something else joined the pain. A pressure built in your abdomen, and warmth spread through your body.

“You will take me any time of the day from now on,” he growled against your already kiss-swollen lips. “That’s where you belong, wife. Underneath me, full of cock like the tainted whore you are.”

Something snapped in you. You instinctively wrapped your legs around his waistline and your arms around his back. Holding tight onto him for dear life. He was relentless and got faster and faster.

“Fuck, this cunt is going to be the death of me.”

You whimpered at his crude words. He called you whore, slut, and something you didn’t understand while ramming into you harder.

“I want you to come on my cock. Now! You’re my wife, my whore, and I will paint you with my seed.”

“Sir…Sherlock,” you mindlessly babbled while raking your nails over his back. And then, something happened. Pleasure. Pure pleasure forcing tears to spring free. “SIR!”

“That’s it, my love, my whore…my perfect wife,” he growled before kissing you hard. Warmth filled your cunt, and you whimpered against him, fearing you did something wrong. “Fuck, my child will grow inside this perfect womb, and I’ll fuck another into you while you carry it.”

Sherlock buried his face in your neck and collapsed on top of you. His cock remained inside, still spreading you wide.

“Sherlock?” You murmured.

“Perfect, my love. You were so good for me, wife,” he whispered against your sweaty skin. “I can’t get enough of this cunt, I’m afraid, you got me addicted.” You sighed when he finally pulled out to wrap you in his arms, allowing you to rest. “Sleep, my love. I’ll run you a bath.” He softly spoke to you and kissed your temple. “My beautiful wife.”

You soon find out that Sherlock’s hunger is insatiable.

Only hours after he took your flower, he had you again. This time he bent you over the desk at his study, telling you to hold tight onto the old furniture.

He shoved your skirts up, and slid into you from behind, growling your name as you wiggled underneath him. His thrusts were as powerful as ever as he pushed into you.

“This is mine,” he growled and leaned over your body to whisper filthy words in your ear. To your shame, you got wetter with every crude word. Your mother would’ve been ashamed of you for enjoying being called a whore, and that you’re only a slutty hole he can stuff. “No one is going to touch you. You’re mine.”

“Husband—” you whimpered, mortified because his brother Mycroft stepped inside the study. Your brother-in-law covered his eyes and retreated in a hurry.

“He needs to learn his place,” Sherlock whispered in your ear, a smirk in his voice. “You’re my wife, and he won’t interfere with our marriage ever again.”

Lips quivering you gave in to the pleasure your body greedily accepted. Your eyes filled with tears you feared your brother-in-law would now believe you’re no better than the painted ladies offering their service in dark alleys.

“Brother, that was more than inappropriate!” Mycroft yelled loud enough for you to hear his words at the library. “How could put your lovely wife in such a position.”

“That’s right,” Sherlock possessively growled. “She’s my wife, and I take her in any position I want to.”

“Sherlock, you know that’s not what I meant. I know about wifely duties, and that you always had a stronger libido than it was good for you. But she’s a lovely and innocent flower. You cannot…”

Sherlock only smirked.

“My beautiful flower is not of your concern.” He stepped closer to his brother to glare down at him. “You will only address her as Mrs. Sherlock Holmes from now on, and only when I’m around. I saw the way you looked at her. She’s my wife, my love! I love her, and you cannot threaten our luck!”

Your heart fluttered at Sherlock’s words. It was the first time he admitted he loves you in front of someone else.

“Brother, I only want you to treat her with respect and love!”

“I do,” Sherlock bit back. “How I fulfill my husbandly duties to produce an heir is none of your concern either. Not everyone only wants to put their seed in a woman’s womb. I want to hear her scream, whimper, and moan because I make her feel so good. This is nothing to discuss with my brother, though.”

“Just never mention it again,” Mycroft lowered his voice. “Sherlock don’t overdo it. She’s still an innocent flower. You cannot mount her like some animal.”

Sherlock smirked, remembering how you begged him for more and praised his name before his brother stepped inside the room.

“Husband.” You get up from the chaise longue and put the book you read aside. “How was your brother’s visit.”

“Short-lived,” he replied, eyes drifting toward the book you read. “The Romance of Lust.” He mused, making your heart drop. “I see you have developed an appetite too.”

“I’m sorry, husband…”

He chuckled, deep and rich. “What did arouse you while reading this book?”

“He—” You shook your head, unable to tell him about the young man kissing a woman’s cunt with his lips.

“I read the book a long time ago.” He lifted your chin with his index finger. “Would you like me to put my mouth on you too?”

You nodded eagerly, already tugging at his trousers. “Please, Sir.”

“Sherlock. You will call me Sherlock from now on,” he purred and claimed your lips in a soft kiss. “Let’s get you comfortable and see if your other lips taste as good as these…”

Part 6

Tags in reblog.

[maximsdeadwife]

The Experiment

Sherlock Holmes x reader

Masterlist

Summary: When you married Sherlock, you discovered a side to him that you would never have expected. A side that was only for you.

Author's notes: See if you can spot the line I included from a Sherlock Holmes story as a nod to Victorian Sherlock… I used a few Victorian terms in this to make it authentic, so on the off chance that you're an historian specialising in Victorian dirty talk, please be kind 😉. This is written with any Victorian Sherlock in mind, but leaning toward Henry.

Warnings/content: nsfw, shameless smut, 18+, f!reader, reader has a vagina, dirty talk (but make it Victorian), first time, marriage, breeding kink, fingering, cream pie, cunnilingus, overstimulation, discussion of safe word, mentions of blow jobs, dom Sherlock if you squint, mentioned aftercare

Marrying a gentleman like Sherlock, there was no surprise that when it came to matters of the marital bed, he was technically as inexperienced as you.

You had been delighted to learn that he had a tendency to live slobbishly from time to time despite scrubbing up exceptionally well; neglecting his hair, sleeping in, wearing his dressing gown all day, not bothering with trifles like what time you ate dinner or who was calling in when his organised chaos took over your home (especially if it was his brother Mycroft).

You were also pleased that he wasn’t a prude — in his line of work you supposed it would be difficult to be completely prudish — because you felt you could comfortably be yourself around him, which seemed such a rare treat for a woman living in these days.

But the one thing you were utterly surprised by, was the way he spoke to you about sex. And even more surprising; how completely crazed he seemed for you. It went against everything you expected of him while courting, and definitely against everything that the general public would ever imagine of him.

Always treating you entirely properly, you’d expected an awkward and perhaps uncomfortable encounter upon consummating your marriage, sure that he would not have time or care for physical affection, especially since he usually displayed such an obvious aversion to the touch of others.

On the contrary, he seemed to have a great deal of confidence as well as an intricate insight into the topic, even upon your first time together. His approach set every nerve in your body aflame before sating you completely and providing a generous offering of his pearly seed to establish itself in your belly.

When you found yourself atop your newly shared bed, at first you worried your ankles may be revealed as your dress lifted above your boots, but he didn’t seem at all phased. You supposed people did see one another in the nude once they were married, and although the thought had been eating away at your nerves, but Sherlock didn’t seem nearly as on edge, which went a long way to soothing your worries.

You’d seen this look of his before. His sparkling eyes devoured you as though you were a new and exciting mystery to be solved, and knowing him as you did, he would no doubt be filled with drive fit for a thorough investigation.

‘Do not worry, darling, I shan’t strip you of your beautiful dress just yet,’ he soothed, caressing your cheek before shedding himself of his jacket and loosening his ascot. ‘Let us start slow, we do have all night after all.’

He moved down to sit beside where you laid upon the bed, and his fingers worked to remove your boots, sending shivers tingling up your legs as his flesh eventually brushed against yours.

You watched him carefully as he rolled his sleeves up, wondering what on earth he was preparing for. You began to feel entirely like one of his experiments, and you supposed that in a way, since this was his first time too, you were. The thought made your lips curl in amusement and your heart race.

‘Have you researched sex, Sherlock?’ you asked bashfully as he lifted your skirts further and ran his fingertips, featherlight and only slightly shaky, up along the contours of your inner thighs.

Gently, he pushed your legs apart, fingers hooking under the soft fabric of your bloomers as that gorgeous curl loosened to fall over his forehead.

‘Of course I have,’ he said simply, still entirely focussed on contributing to your growing arousal. ‘One cannot possibly get something of such delicate balance down to an exact science without sufficient data… just like one cannot perform an exact art without practise. And practice, we shall…’

Your cheeks flushed a deep shade of crimson at the imagery of him studying indecent books with your pleasure in mind. You were overcome with an unusual desire to squeeze your thighs together, but ignored it in favour of feeling entirely safe in his apparently capable hands. Hands that were slipping your bloomers down past your knees and dropping them unceremoniously to the floor.

His fingers began to explore your slick folds, not at all helping to cool the red hot blush that powdered your cheeks.

‘Oh, how I’ve dreamed of bedding you, my darling,’ he breathed, settling properly beside you on the bed. ‘I’m going to satisfy you in ways you cannot fathom. Don’t be shy, you’re doing so well for me.’

Your unexpected cry of pleasure tore through the otherwise silent room, his finger now slowly pumping in and out of your heat. You gripped his arm as if holding on for dear life, fearful that you might otherwise float away in this unexpected haze of bliss.

‘You feel like silk,’ he praised, voice weakening slightly. ‘That’s it, hold on to me, you’re safe. You’re going to come on my fingers first, my needy little minx. Focus on how they fill you, how they caress your inner walls. Does it excite you as it excites me?’

You nodded. Your mind was fuzzy with pleasure like you’d never known, so much so that answering verbally seemed a certain impossibility.

‘I have fantasised about taking you on my fingers,’ he whispered, low and deep into your ear, ‘how divine you would sound as you give in to your pleasure, my name slipping hungrily from between those pretty lips.’

He removed his finger then, and a whine of protest erupted from somewhere within you. You just felt so empty without his elegant digit sliding in and out of your swollen entrance, dragging against something inside that made you absolutely ravenous for more — but a new sensation soon took over and you felt disappointed no longer.

His slick coated fingers dragged up through your folds and you shuddered, all the nerve endings in your body, it seemed, set alight at once. But when he reached the throbbing nub at the apex of your sex, there was suddenly ten times the bliss you’d felt before and your body jolted upward as your scream pierced the room.

‘Ah, it seems it’s not so hard to find after all,’ he said casually, ‘I summised that most men were simply to lazy to bother with this little trick, and perhaps I was onto something. But look at you darling, how you tremble for me while I massage your pretty, soaked flower. What man wouldn’t want to witness their love so utterly wanton for their touch? To feel her blatant arousal at his very fingertips?’

Your mind had turned all but blank, the sensations shooting through your body overwhelming you as his fingers danced with perfect pressure against your clitoris.

‘Sh-Sherlock- I- oh!’

‘I know, darling, I know, you need to come for me, don’t you?’

Swiftly, he pressed his thumb to your clit and slipped a finger easily back inside, fucking you harder and faster than before, watching with delight as you unravelled beneath him.

As the lewd slapping of his fingers fucking into your sopping sex filled the room he, quite pragmatically albeit with a much darker voice than that which he uses during his usual experiments, talked you through your release.

‘This pleasure will soon overwhelm you, culminating in your orgasm. If all goes to plan, your quim will rapidly clench around my finger and there’ll be something like sparks at your clitoris, then you’ll feel a few moments of indescribable ecstasy...’

Your own fingers snapped around his wrist, feeling his steady yet vigorous movements, and you wondered how on earth anything could feel better than this, right now.

And then it hit.

‘Ah, yes, there it is. That’s it! Yes, come for me! Come for me!’

His name did indeed tear from your parted lips, shaky and breathy and desperate, and then his fingers began to slow, easing you down from your high until he gently withdrew them.

Your eyes closed as you relaxed back against the pillows, your legs shaking. You heard a humming sound that pulled you back to the present, though, and glanced across at your husband to see him gleefully sucking your slick from his fingers.

‘It is frankly a disservice to the entire human race to consider that act depraved. Mmh. And you taste like the sweetest nectar, darling... tell me, did it feel good?’

You nodded, biting your lips together.

‘There’s no shame in it, my love. Especially if it feels good.’

‘It felt exquisite,’ you breathed, punctuated with a blissful sigh, and Sherlock smiled broadly. A rare sight. ‘But what about you?’

‘I do not wish to rush you. I will be truthful, however — after watching that beautiful display, my root is as solid as a rock. Whilst I've no intention of pressuring you, I will not turn you down if you’re sure you feel sufficiently ready for me.’

‘I… I think I do,’ you whispered, and you loosened your grip from the layers of your skirt to rest a hand delicately on the broad expanse of his chest.

He gasped at the simple affection, and the reaction caused your lower lips, still throbbing with the after effects of your climax, to quiver.

‘May I?’ you asked carefully, and he nodded. Your hand trailed down gradually, until it reached his lower stomach.

Sherlock’s breath quickened, and you pushed lower still, cupping his erection.

‘Ah- ohhh-’

His eyebrows raised and his eyes fell closed as you stroked his length softly and slowly, but before you could find a proper rhythm, he quickly snapped his hips away, grabbing your hand firmly in his as he leant in to kiss you with fierce passion.

As he pulled away from your lips, he muttered, ‘I hoped to inject you with my seed, but I fear that if you continue touching me for a moment longer, the only thing filled with it will be my undergarments.’

‘Then please, Sherlock, take me-’

And take you, he did. Within a second you were pushed onto your back, and he was settling between your legs, hurriedly unfastening his trousers to release his steadily leaking arousal.

As he carefully pushed himself into you, your warmth enveloping his length, an expression of sheer bliss relaxed his handsome features.

‘Am I too big, darling?’ he panted. ‘Does it hurt?’

‘No- please, don’t stop, Sherlock, I want to be filled with your cock- filled to the brim with your blow-’

He smirked at your words. You mustn't be quite so innocent if you were using words like that.

Sherlock began to steadily roll his hips. Your core burned with an unusual pain, a pain that made you crave more.

His forehead pressed to yours, your hot breath mingling with his each time he thrust gently into you and let out a sweet little whimper.

‘I told you I’d- fantasised about- pleasuring you- ha- ahhh- I can’t deny- I’ve thought of many acts, some of which you might consider- mmh- indecent- but each flood of bliss I give to you is- ha- simply the perfect result of an experiment I’ve been dying to carry out since I met you, and- ohhh-’

His voice was so breathy and shaky now, you knew that he wouldn’t last much longer, but you wanted to give him a taste of how he’d made you feel. You wrapped your legs around his waist and dug your heels into his back, pulling him closer and signalling for him to go harder.

‘Do you- ohh- do you w-want my children, darling? Do you want me to- ah!- unleash my potent seed within these t-tender walls and- give you a child?’

‘I want nothing less,’ you breathed, thrilled at his words, and at that he snapped his hips unrelentingly, snaking a hand between your writhing bodies to massage your sensitive clit once again, and Sherlock relished in the moan his touch elicited.

‘Clever little- ohh- trick, isn’t it?’ he just about managed, and less than a second later, came with force inside you.

Your walls tightened, contracting around his thick cock to milk him of every last drop, your tightening walls taking him to a plane of existence he’d never before explored.

This orgasm felt different for you, you noted, and if either of you had been coherent enough to discuss the matter you were sure he would ask you to write it down and keep a record detailing those differences.

Nevertheless, your second peak was just as strong, and you fell weak once again as Sherlock’s seed dribbled onto your thighs and he rolled off you, panting.

‘Darling- that was- oh, it was-’ he muttered, half delirious. ‘You feel- good god, you feel-’

‘I came again,’ you admitted, proud this time, knowing it would please him.

‘I know. I felt it,’ he smirked, and then, almost as if he read your mind, ‘did it feel different?’

‘Yes,’ you chuckled.

‘Oh how wonderful! I should write a monograph on the matter. Only for your eyes of course — although it could benefit at least half of the population if there were more literature on women’s pleasure.’

‘So, a filthy love letter just for me, with a touch of the scientific?’

‘You understand me so well,’ he cooed, stroking your cheek. ‘This is precisely why I adore you.’ And suddenly, there was a sparkle in his eyes that you’d seen when he reached a breakthrough. ‘Tell me, have you ever heard of cunnilingus?’

You shook your head. ‘Not… really. I may have gleaned a… basic understanding-’

‘It’s precisely the act I mentioned may be considered indecent, but I would very much like the opportunity to try it with you.’

‘Tell me about it?’ you breathed excitedly.

‘Perhaps it would be easier to show you. Do you trust me?’

‘Yes. Do it,’ you said eagerly, hungry for as much as he was willing to give you.

‘Consider this another experiment… if you dislike it, you must tell me and I shall end it, however my understanding is that if it works, you will not be entirely in your right mind so we must set a code in place.’

‘How about a word that we don’t associate with sexual activities?’ you suggested.

‘Precisely. “Mycroft” it is.’

You burst into a simultaneous fit of laughter, until he silenced you with another, fervent kiss.

‘You might need to loosen your corset for this one. Providing three orgasms in restrictive clothing is no way to treat one’s wife. And what if there are four, or five? I would never forgive myself.’

Taking his advice, you began to strip, soon revealing your breasts to him.

‘Oh, darling, what a perfect start...’ He wrapped his lips around a nipple and sucked lightly, his fingers toying with the other. He was pleased to feel you squirm beneath him and jolts of pleasure shot from your chest to your core and back again.

‘Oh- I never knew they could- mmh- feel like that…’ you groaned, but once again he left you cold to move onto something new, shimmying lower to settle his face at the apex of your thighs.

His tongue lashed warm and wet against your sex, circling your nub, exploring your folds and lapping at your entrance to collect your combined juices.

The way you shuddered had him fighting off a second erection. Not now — he needed to concentrate, and was hoping that with this new method he could give you multiple orgasms in one sitting. His own pleasure could wait.

He hummed into your quim as though he were enjoying a long awaited meal, and you quickly fell apart once again as his hums of delight vibrated through your core.

‘Sherlock,’ you whined, ‘Oh, Sherlock…’

‘One more?’ Came his muffled response, his deep growl reverberating through your weakened body. It didn’t take long for another peak to take over, your mind completely clouded in a haze of overstimulation.

‘I think it’s time for a break now, my love,’ he muttered softly, coming up to hold you, his pretty lips coated in your juices. ‘I rather think that this has been an experiment I would take pleasure in repeating regularly, if you’ll allow me.’

‘I’d be delighted,’ you sighed dreamily, already feeling the pull of sleep.

‘I will also mention that, as soon as you’re comfortable enough, I would rather like to experiment with my own orgasms. See how they feel inside your hand… or your mouth…’

‘Yes, yes I would… I would like…’

‘Shh… for now, it’s time to sleep. Rest, my darling wife you’ve done so well for me.’

You nodded, and that was the last you remembered of the evening.

A thin blade of warm sunlight woke you in the morning. You found yourself comfortably wrapped inside his shirt. He’d cleaned you up after you drifted off to sleep, and you rose feeling refreshed and relaxed.

Creaking open the bedroom door, you heard his handsome voice floating through. He had a client, and when you peeked through the gap you could see that your husband looked impeccably well put together. Unlike you; if anyone saw you like this… you dreaded to think. You smiled to yourself, though, wondering what his stoic looking client would think if he knew what Sherlock had spent all night doing before meeting with him. You bet Sherlock could teach him a thing or two.

You could only hope this case would be too boring for him so he would return to your bed, for you entirely planned to take Sherlock into your mouth the moment you were able. To taste him. To give him as many releases as he had given you. To see him entirely, blissfully weakened by pleasure…

[milfloveer]

Proof of love ♡

Sherlock Holmes x fem!reader

Prompt: After y/n gets a little stressed about her and Sherlock's relation and— Well, Sherlock shows her how he really loves her ;)

Warnings: smut 18+ minors DNI, age gap (reader is in their 20s and Sherlock in his 30s), p in v, unprotected sex, fluff, creampie

A/n: I need Sherlock in my life so badly 😩

‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚ ⊹ ‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹

Sherlock and I just arrived home after attending a high society party so we could unfold more information about this recent case. Enola and Tewkesbury were there too, the first working on her case as well and the later was there on work behalf as he is a Lord and has his duties as one.

Enola was clearly bothered with all the feminine attention Lord Tewkesbury was given. I couldn't censure her as I was feeling the same towards Sherlock and all those ladies around him asking for a dance, their hands all over my man. Enola and I just rolled our eyes and focused on our cases ignoring each woman who approached the men.

•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•

Sherlock opened the door to his apartment and we walked in, I was clearly frustrated and it didn't slip Sherlock's gaze "You alright, darling?" he asks tenderly and cautiously.

I turn to him and see his concern "Yes, love, everything's alright." I say, even though I was lying. Those interactions all night long made me feel easily discarded and replaced.

Sherlock and I relationship was somewhat recent, we were only together for half a year and yet none of us dared to say those three simple words.

I can say that I care for him deeply, I got really attached to his personality, behaviour, the manner he works and thinks, his papers all around his apartment in a perfectly messy way, the way he played the violin when wanted to relax and get lost for a moment.

I truly fell for this exquisite detective, but I didn't dare to say those words to his face as I was afraid he wasn't feeling what I was. So I kept it to myself until now.

Sherlock frowns and follows me to our shared room "Darling, I know you and I can tell something is up." he says with concern in his voice as I try to unzip my dress, ending to ask him for help on it. He gladly does "Please talk to me." his voice wavering a bit making me look at him worriedly.

I sigh seeing his saddened face as I've never seen him like this. Getting closer to him I lay my hands, one on each side of his face and look deep into his eyes with tenderness "It is nothing important of concern, honey." I say softly, trying to brush it off.

But then again, Sherlock Holmes wouldn't be Sherlock Holmes without discovering the truth "It is concerning you and if it is concerning you, it is concerning me." he says pointing between us as he talks "Please, don't leave me in the dark, dove." he says while holding my gaze and I gave in and told him everything I was feeling at the party and when all the female attention is on him, how replaceable I feel, how dischargeable, how ridiculous.

I was now sitting at the end of our bed with my head hanging as my eyes freely released tears while looking at our hands interlocked on my lap "Oh, dear, why haven't you talked about this with me?" he asks caringly, I sniff and he brings his index finger and thumb to my chin, lifting it so I could look into those blue pools "I didn't want to overreact." I say barely above a whisper, he smiles softly "It's not overreacting dear and I assure you here that I have only eyes for you, my beautiful girl." he says as he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, caressing my cheek afterwards and cleaning the remaining of my tears with his thumb.

"Prove it then." I blurt out shocking myself with my boldness, but nonetheless Sherlock chuckles darkly making me shiver "With pleasure, darling." he says as he leans over me making me lay down on the mattress behind me.

Now hovering over me he caresses my sides teasingly as his lips brush mine. No words were said as he connects strongly and lovingly his lips to mine eliciting a moan from me. He starts lowering his hands as his lips move to my neck and collarbone, teasing and marking all the soft spots.

I was already on my undergarments making me start to take off his clothes as he's still fully clothed, first his jacket, then his tie and vest, his shirt and belt were now off and he pulled down his pants discharging them somewhere in the room.

"Please, I need you." I say tugging at the waistband of his underwear, he chuckles "Eager are we?" he asks making me flush as I nod. He frees himself as I take off of me the remains of my underwear.

Now both fully naked we scan each others body "You're so beautiful." he growls caressing my side with his fingertips before capturing my lips while aligning himself with my entrance. As he enters me my mouth falls open and a moan echoes through the room "Oh dear." he says against my ear, his arms each on either side of my body, his hands behind my back, flat on my shoulder blades as he moves lovingly in and out of me.

My legs wrap around his waist pulling him closer as my nails dig into his back certainly leaving some scratches over it. Both breathing heavily and moaning into each other's ears; I love this man so much.

Sherlock speeds up his pace hitting a wonderful spot inside me over and over "Yes, honey, don't stop!" I say gasping sensing the tension building up each time he pounds into me. He then gets on his knees bringing my legs up to rest on his shoulders, I cry out in pleasure as he groans pounding strongly "I'm so close, Sherlock." I say, my legs start to tremble with the feeling.

With a few more pushes and I'm taken over the edge, Sherlock following, spilling his seed into me "Ah, Sherlock!" I say pushing him down and kissing his lips eagerly and then softly. As he pulls away he brushes against my lips, whispering "I love you." I froze and look up at him "What?" I breathe out starstruck about his confession, his eyes widen as he realized he just confessed his feelings for me out loud.

I bring my hand to his cheek and caress it, I smile before letting out a soft chuckle as my eyes fill with happy tears. I lift my head so I could reach his slightly trembling lips and close the gap, the kiss is slow, tender and filled with love, as we were telling without words 'I love you'.

Slightly I pull away and whisper against his lips "I love you too." his eyes widen slightly hearing the words slip like honey from my mouth making me smile lovingly at the man still above me.

[artyandink]

𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐮𝐬

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: You were the only one Sherlock ever truly loved, and it was true. No lady ever caught his eye, no woman stole his attention the way your wit and charm did. He supposed it was his own fault for losing you, his own fault that you walked out his door, leaving a young child with him that was now old enough. Old enough to want to find her mother. He wanted to find you. But he also didn’t want to. It meant to face his own truth.

𝐓𝐖: angst, heartbreak, whipped Sherlock, smut, crime, murder, corrupted business, high society, OC!daughter, fluff, witty reader, Enola rooting for love, mention of Tewkesbury, Mycroft being a dick, one hell of a love story (I think)

𝐀/𝐍: All titles are taken from Lord Byron’s She Walks In Beauty!

𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐢𝐧

𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗢𝗡𝗘: 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐲 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗧𝗪𝗢: 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐬𝐤𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗧𝗛𝗥𝗘𝗘: 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗙𝗢𝗨𝗥: 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗙𝗜𝗩𝗘: 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐬 𝐨’𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗦𝗜𝗫: 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗦𝗘𝗩𝗘𝗡: 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗘𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗧: 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐝𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗘: 𝐬𝐨 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐦, 𝐲𝐞𝐭 𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗧𝗘𝗡: 𝐚 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭

𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐥𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @goldngguk @sweetpeachbombshell @slut-for-stiles @staple-your-mouth @daddyscrimsstuff

@dob-4-life @marcis-mixtapez @nonoreas0n @gabrielasilva1510

@lucyholmes13 @pandadork-blog1 @nicolstancu @malusinhaaaa @dybalabandolero

@a-cup-of-nightshade @tomatoessoup @sh0rtcakee @fall-06 @mckaykay-fandoms

@b3th13

@demonxangelomegaverse @deanwinchestersgirl87 @capailluiscedove @i723l-interrupted2323 @niyomiii

@all-the-fan-fic @eviekinevie8 @sunflowerlover57 @1-800-dean-winchester

@darichvep @idk-usernme @supernaturalmarvel3000 @ega2025 @deanbrainrotwritings

@targaryenluvs @bucky-hydra-hoe-barnes @leigh70 @aintnowayboi @ripoffsteveharrington

@gleefulleve @sacrosankta

@riteofpassage77 @eevvvaa @thedevilortheangel @thorsballhair @barbienotdoll

@4e1h3r @wolfieblue03 @kianaleani @vicky199625 @sassyslut2003

@impyrz

@didisull @miwp @lastcallatrockysbar @rizlowwritessortof

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@yourgoldengirls @deansobsessedgirl @mrsjenniferwinchester

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@a-girl-who-loves-disney @jeneelsworld @deans-spinster-witch @deanspinsterwitchs-readinglist @kayleighwinchester

@cheynovak @d3ndroslim3s @phantomtea19 @homewreckingwreck @annoyance-for-u

@i-have-no-life-charlie @orion067 @withthistreaserisummon

𝐩𝐬𝐬𝐭! 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 ‘𝐬𝐮𝐛𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐞’ 𝐭𝐨 𝐣𝐨𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭.

[daydreamtofiction]

Thou Shalt Not Covet // 20: Resurrection

Contents | Part 19 | First Person Version [AO3]

Summary: (Priest!Ben x Female Reader) THE FINAL CHAPTER IS UPON US. I love you all I love you all I love you all I love you all I love you all I love you all I love you all I love you all I love you all. I'm going to sleep now.

Word Count: 7.1K

Warnings: Strong language, irreverence, dark humour, adult & sexual themes. Readers must be 18+

You stirred gently from sleep, eyes closed as you drifted between the realms of reality and slumber. Echoes of the countryside seeped in through the open window like a soundscape, tranquil and idyllic; birdsong, wildlife, nature, rain-

Rain? 

Your eyes shot open, the remnants of your sleepy haze immediately falling away as you scrambled out of bed and hurried to the window. You pulled back the thick curtains, looking out over the vast landscape of the stately home, the plush, well kept grass and winding gravel paths, the fields in the distance that stretched along the skyline, as though nothing existed beyond it. 

The blue summer sky was blanketed in clouds, showering the earth in a rain so fine you could only see it in the ripple on the surface of a nearby pond. You gave a dejected sigh, walking around the bed to grab your phone off the nightstand. 

"Shit," you hissed as you noticed the time, the alarm you must have sent to snooze in your sleep.

You rushed out of your room in your t-shirt and pyjama shorts, making your way across the large landing towards the sound of voices and laughter, the smell of food and perfume. You tapped your knuckles on a door decorated with flowers and pushed it open, stepping into the room with an awkward grimace, an apology ready on your tongue. 

The spacious suite was buzzing with excitement, women with their hair in rollers, champagne flutes in their hands. They were all wearing matching silk robes; pale blue, 'bridesmaid' embroidered in white thread across the breast. You spotted Camilla from across the room, the only one in white, sitting with her back to you as a stylist blowdried her hair.

It felt like a bad teen movie; the moment the awkward new girl stepped into the high school cafeteria, looking over at the popular girls' table as she stood alone with her tray. They'd all known each other forever; the maid-of-honour her twin sister, the other four old friends. They were probably wondering why she'd asked you to be a bridesmaid at all, why you got to be part of the day they'd been waiting for since they were kids. 

"Oh, here she is!" One of the women shouted, jumping up from a couch in the middle of the room and rushing over to you. 

Camilla turned her head, smiling when she laid eyes on you and giving an excited wave. "You okay!?" she shouted over the sound of the hairdryer. 

You nodded, mouthing 'sorry' at her from across the room and pointing at your phone. 'Alarm didn't...'

She waved her hand at you, as if telling you not to worry. 

The woman approaching you was called Lottie, her freckled face gleaming with a grin as she handed you a robe. You took it and shrugged it on, looking down at the same 'bridesmaid' label embroidered into the pale blue silk. 

"Come and get some breakfast," she said, pointing to the coffee table between two couches, an elaborate spread laid across it. 

You picked at the food, putting a few pieces of fruit and croissant on a small plate and sitting down with the other women. 

"I'm so sorry I slept in," you said. 

"Oh don't worry about it," said Camilla's sister Alice. "You haven't missed anything. And Georgia's still asleep so you're not actually the latest." 

You laughed, biting into your croissant and relaxing back slightly into the couch. "I can't believe it's raining," you said, gesturing to the window on the other side of the room. "Especially with how warm June's been this year. I hope it stops before the ceremony." 

"Femi was just saying rain on your wedding day is supposed to be good luck," said Lottie.

The woman beside you nodded, her thick, dark hair sitting in a cluster of rollers on top of her head. "It is. They say it's supposed to wash away all the bad memories." 

"Hm." You nodded. "Well I hope it pours down then." 

They all laughed, and you allowed a smile, almost feeling bad for expecting coldness from them. They'd never been anything but kind; every dress fitting and group chat conversation filled with positivity and excitement, even the hen night had been surprisingly fun. Yet still, there was something inside you that made you doubt yourself, like you didn't belong amongst them.

Music played and the morning flowed as freely as the champagne. People rotated between the makeup artist and hair stylist, picking at the food and taking breaks in-between to dance and pose for pictures. You sat in the makeup chair as the woman swirled a brush over your eyelid, pinning your brow up with her thumb after you failed to stop blinking. 

You felt a tap on your shoulder, glancing up to see Camilla at your side.

"I know you don't like champagne so I got them to bring you a mojito," she said, handing you a tall glass, a sprig of mint floating over the ice. 

"Oh, wow, thank you. You didn't have to-" The makeup artist turned your face back towards her.  

Camilla laughed, patting you on the arm before walking away. 

You took a sip as the artist turned to dip her brush in another eyeshadow, quickly putting it down when she returned to you. You peered at yourself in the mirror through one eye, liking what you saw; glowing skin and romantically blushed cheeks, fluffy brows and the beginnings of a soft, dreamy eye. You found yourself thinking about your own wedding, the kind of makeup you'd have, the dress you'd wear, the colours you might choose. You could picture the guests, the bridesmaids, the church. But the groom didn't seem to have a face. No matter how hard you tried to imagine him waiting for you at the altar, you just couldn't make him out.

You were the last one to sit in the hair stylist's chair, nursing your cocktail as she ran a bristly round brush through your hair, spraying you with mists and pinning it up in sections while you watched the other women slip into their dresses. 

At every fitting, Camilla had been very specific about what she wanted your dresses to look like. They were beautiful; layers upon layers of delicate tulle that flowed to the ground like water, sleeves that draped off the shoulders and dozens of intricate flower appliqués. If it weren't for the soft blue colour, they could have been mistaken for wedding gowns. 

You watched as each woman was zipped and buttoned into her dress, the material gliding across the ground as they walked and twirled. And when your hair was finished, you put on your own, holding it tight to your chest as Femi fastened the back. You turned to looked at yourself in the mirror; the makeup, the hair and the most magnificent dress you had no idea how to walk in without tripping over it. You felt beautiful. You looked beautiful. You all did. 

You stood in the room waiting to go, clutching your bouquet in front of you, your thumb fiddling with the twine keeping it all together. Clusters of periwinkles, cornflowers, lavender and lilacs were peppered with baby's-breath and eucalyptus. You brought it to your nose, the sleepy perfume calming you down as you shifted your weight from side to side in your heels. 

The door opened and Camilla stepped into the room, eliciting a collective gasp from the bridal party, even you. Her jet black hair was slicked into a low bun, a veil cascading from it like a waterfall to the ground. Her dress was a pearly white; high neck and long sleeves, the beading catching in the sunlight that shone through the window. The train was long enough to rival royalty, her mother and father carrying it into the room behind her. 

The photographer was snapping pictures, moving around to catch each of the bridesmaids reactions. You glanced around to see them all carefully dabbing away tears, wondering if you were supposed to be crying too. You lifted a finger to your eye as he took your photo, not wanting to seem like the odd one out when they looked back over the album. 

"Right," said Camilla. "Let's go get married." 

It was two bridesmaids to a car; the dresses so big that you had to be packed and folded into the back seats like the stuffing of a pillow. You'd been put with Esther; the most laid back of the group, her soothing voice and charming laugh making the entire ordeal a little less mortifying. When the driver finally closed her door, she blew a loose strand of hair out of her face, turning to you and smirking. 

"Logistically, they should've just stuck us all in the back of a van," she said. 

You giggled. "Yeah, or one of those things they transport horses in." 

"Can you imagine," she laughed. 

The engine rumbled to life and you began to move, following in a long line of classic cars decorated with flowers. You returned to fiddling with the twine on your bouquet, breathing slow to loosen the knots forming in your stomach. You tried to focus on the view from your window as you travelled out of the countryside and into the small town, people stopping to look as you all drove past, the pretty views and brightening sky. You hadn't been back there in two months, and it was hard to look at the cobbled roads, thatched roofs and kitschy village shops without thinking of him, without knowing you were just a car ride away from facing him again. 

"Are you okay?" asked Esther.

"Hm?" You turned to look at her. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm good." 

"Are you sure? You seem more nervous than Cam, and she's the bride." 

You breathed out a weak laugh. "No, I'm fine, really. Just... churches, y'know. They make me uneasy." 

"Ah." She nodded, smoothing down a piece of her dress that had puffed up between you. "Well don't worry about that. If I can walk into a church then you definitely can." 

"What do you mean?" 

"I'm a trans woman, about to walk into a Catholic Church and stand in front of a priest who probably thinks I don't deserve to exist." 

"This one won't think that," you said. "He won't."

"How do you know? Have you met him?" 

"I have. And he's one of the good ones, I promise." 

She eyed you for a moment before smiling. "Well then you've got nothing to worry about either, have you." 

She reached over and squeezed your hand, holding it supportively for the rest of the journey. You felt bad, like you'd lied to her, taken her legitimate fear and used it to hide your own sordid truth. You'd tried to move on again, to get back to where you were before the day you found him in this town. But something was missing now, as though you'd left a piece of yourself behind, or maybe he'd taken it, and now nothing fit together right. 

The cars rolled to a stop outside the church. You could see the other bridesmaids gathering at the gates, their dresses fluttering together in a cloud of powder blue. The driver opened Esther's door first, taking her hand to help her out. And for a handful of seconds you were alone in the backseat, with nothing but the sound of your own breath, your nails raking over a fray in the twine you'd been fiddling with until it broke. 

"Oh, fuck sake," you whispered as the arrangement fell apart in your lap, stems and flowers and greenery sitting in the trough of your dress. 

You gathered it all back together frantically as your door opened, clutching it in your fist as you climbed out into the warm June breeze. Esther smiled at you, gesturing for you to come with her to join the others, then she looked down at the flowers in your hand, the piece of string in the other. 

"My god, you really are bricking it aren't you," she laughed, helping you tie it all back together. 

When you got to the other bridesmaids, your eyes darted across all of their bouquets, then down to yours. It looked like shit; too much green on one side, a clump of baby's-breath on the other, a broken stem of lavender hanging limply over your knuckles. You snapped it off and threw it to the ground behind you before anyone noticed. 

The bridal car pulled up and you watched as Camilla and her father climbed out, their smiles warmer than the summer air. You couldn't help but smile too, wondering if your own father would smile like that. He would. Though, he'd probably complain about having to wear a suit first.

You stared up at the church as you made your way towards it, blowing out slow, shaking breaths through pursed lips. 

"It's not about you, Ellis," you muttered to yourself. "This isn't about you." 

You felt an arm link yours, turning to see Esther at your side. She was looking straight ahead, pressing her lips together nervously, and you couldn't help but wonder if the arm she'd given was for your benefit or her's. 

The familiar musky aroma hit you as you walked into the church. You pushed your nose into your lopsided flowers, breathing in their scent instead, wishing you could tuck yourself away inside the petals like Thumbelina until it was all over. 

The organiser shifted you around, peeling you from Esther's side to arrange you in a line. You breathed a sigh of relief to find yourself somewhere in the middle, kicking the bottom of your dress out to stop it getting caught under your feet. Short steps, that's what the dressmaker had said. Little shuffles, a small kick if you feel it catching on your shoes. You were going to fall over. You just knew it. 

Music began to play in the chapel and the hum of chit chat fell silent. You took a deep breath, glancing over your shoulder to give Esther a reassuring smile, before turning back and staring down at the ground, waiting for your turn to walk. 

Lottie went first. Then Georgia, then Femi, then it was you. You turned the corner and stepped through the open chapel doors, taking the fastest small steps you possibly could, wishing you'd convinced Rav to choose the church with the tiny aisle instead. Heads were turned, women in large hats and extravagant fascinators, men with corsages on their lapels and children with wide eyes, all watching you with smiles as you made your way towards the altar. You kept your eyes on Femi in front, watching the way her dress moved so gracefully across the floor, hoping yours somehow looked the same. 

You finally raised your head when you reached the front, your eyes meeting Father Benedict's almost immediately. He was smiling softly, a crisp white stole draped around his neck. You notice his throat bob with a swallow, a glisten along the waterlines of his eyes. You could have cried. But then you looked at Rav, and you couldn't help but break into a smile. He was beaming, chest puffed, shifting on his feet with excited energy as he waited for his bride. He winked at you and you scrunched your nose happily before stepping aside to stand with the other bridesmaids. Esther followed behind you, then Alice. 

Father Benedict raised his hands and the music changed. There was a collective shuffle as everyone in the pews rose to their feet, turning to see Camilla enter the chapel, a bouquet in one hand, her father's fingers firmly clutched in the other. They walked together to the sweet sound of strings, her dress and veil trailing elegantly behind her. She kept her eyes on Rav the entire time, smiling, blushing, and you felt a selfish sense of pride wash over you. You'd introduced them. You'd known how perfect they would be for each other before they'd ever even met. And now here they were, just a year later, declaring their love in front of you all. 

"Hello everyone," said Father Benedict. "We are gathered here today to witness the marriage of Raviraj and Camilla. Let us call upon God to be with us today as we celebrate this union. In the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Peace be with you."  "And also with you," you said quietly, your voice lost amongst the collective.

"Let us pray."

You sat down as he began the prayer. You closed your eyes, allowing yourself to savour his voice, just for a moment. 

You wondered if he realised he was looking at you. Those striking blue eyes glancing over every few moments as he gave his first few readings, almost as though he was checking you were still there, making sure you hadn't been a figment of his imagination. You listened to him speak carefully; this was what he'd chosen, to share the word of his God, and he was good at it. 

"Raviraj and Camilla, you have come together today so that the Lord may seal and strengthen your love in the presence of your family and friends," he said. "And in doing so, you will be strengthened to keep mutual and lasting faith with each other as you carry out the duties of marriage. And so, in the presence of the church and of your family and friends, I ask you to state your intentions."

Rav and Camilla exchanged a glance and a nervous laugh. You smiled. 

"Raviraj and Camilla, have you come here to enter into marriage without coercion, freely and wholeheartedly?" 

"I have," they both said. 

"Raviraj, are you resolved to take Camilla to be your wife: to love her, comfort her, honour and protect her, and forsaking all others, to be faithful to her for as long as you both shall live?" 

"I am," said Rav, pressing his lips together to hold back an excited grin. 

"Camilla, are you resolved to take Raviraj to be your husband: to love him, comfort him, honour and protect him, and forsaking all others, to be faithful to him for as long as you both shall live?"

"I am," said Camilla. 

"And are you, Raviraj Mishra free lawfully to marry Camilla Anne Bowen?" 

"I am." 

"Are you, Camilla Anne Bowen free lawfully to marry Raviraj Mishra?" 

"I am."  "Well that's lucky," said Father Benedict, getting a light chuckle from everyone, including the bride and groom. 

He was always so good at easing tension; knowing exactly when people needed a moment to laugh, a second to take a breath. 

"Since it is your intention to enter the covenant of Holy Matrimony, join your right hands and declare your consent before God and his church," he said, gesturing for them to hold hands. 

You watched on with pure joy as the couple said their vows, your cheeks aching from smiling, any nerves or apprehension you had melting away as you listened to them giggle and trip over their words. But every now and again, you would find your gaze slipping to Father Benedict; the smile lines, the crinkled brow, the curve of his lips as he laughed. 

"You were right, he is really nice, isn't he," Esther whispered as she leaned over to you.

You nodded. "He is. I'm really glad he's the one doing this." 

"Do we have rings?" he asked.

Rav's best man took a step forward, taking the rings from the breast pocket of his suit and handing them to Father Benedict. 

"Lovely, okay," he said, clearing his throat. "May the Lord bless these rings, which you will give to each other as a sign of love and fidelity. Amen." 

He handed Rav a ring. "Repeat after me: Camilla, receive this ring as a sign of my love and fidelity. In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit." 

"Camilla," said Rav. "Receive this ring as a sign of..." 

You slapped your face with your palm. Camilla rolled her eyes with a laugh. 

"Come on, I gave you the easy version of this as well," Father Benedict joked, drawing another laugh from the guests. "As a sign of my love and fidelity." 

"Camilla, receive this ring as a sign of my love and fidelity. In the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit." 

He patted Rav on the shoulder like a proud father, and you couldn't help but smile.

"Give me the hard version," said Camilla, making him chuckle deeply in his throat. 

"Has to be the same, I'm afraid." He gave her the ring. "Raviraj, receive this ring as a sign of my love and fidelity. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit." 

"Raviraj, receive this ring as a sign of my love and fidelity. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit," she said before slipping it onto his finger, smiling like she'd perfectly recited a Shakespeare soliloquy.

Father Benedict ran a hand through his hair. "Now this is where we would usually declare them husband and wife," he said, addressing the chapel. "However, Raviraj and Camilla have asked if they can read their own declarations which they have prepared. So I will now take a step back and allow Raviraj to begin." 

You sat up straighter, your ears pricking with curiosity as Rav reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, unfolding it with nervous fingers and clearing his throat. 

"Okay," he said, taking a deep breath. "Camilla. Before I met you, I'd stopped believing in love. And because of that, I'd grown comfortable on my own; complacent, maybe even a little bit jaded. But from the second I laid eyes on you, I was forced to confront everything I thought I knew. You made me realise that love isn't something you can just avoid. It's something you feel whether you want to or not, and it should be embraced and cherished and nurtured."

The paper was shaking in his hands, and it almost made you tear up. You placed a hand over your chest as you listened, glancing over at Father Benedict who hadn't taken his eyes off Rav since he began speaking. 

"You found me at a time when I didn't even realise I was lost. When I thought the only way to be strong was to be alone. You showed me that real strength lies in being vulnerable and honest and imperfect, in being brave enough to risk letting someone behind the barricade. Maybe you'll lose everything. Or maybe..." He gestured to Camilla. "You'll gain more than you had to begin with." 

Father Benedict looked at you, you knew because you could feel his gaze on your face like the sun's rays. But you kept yours on Rav.

"So today, I vow to you, Camilla, that I will always keep my heart open for you. I vow to choose you, every single day. You are my person, my partner, and the best risk I ever took." 

The sound of sniffling echoed through the chapel, and you watched as Camilla wiped a tear from her cheek. She cleared her throat, turning to Alice who took out a piece of paper and handed it to her quickly.

"Rav," she said as she unfolded the paper, her voice still wobbly. "When a little over a year ago, a friend told me I should meet her neighbour, I was skeptical." 

You smiled, like you'd been given a shout out on the radio, mentioned in an Oscars speech. Father Benedict held back a smirk as he watched your reaction, rubbing his mouth with his fingers to hide it.

"I was focused and career driven and believed that a relationship would only slow me down. So I said no to meeting you. But then, like an act of God." She gestured to the church around her with a shy laugh. "We ended up in the same bar one night, where that friend introduced us after all. And I am... so glad. Loving you was never a question; I adored you from the start. The fear was that I'd found my soulmate at the wrong time in my life." 

Your focus flitted to Father Benedict as you thought of the last thing he'd said to you. Right person, wrong everything else. He swallowed, his eyes glazed over as Camilla spoke. 

"But there came a point where I had to ask myself: If I were to look back on my life, what would I regret more? Missing out on a few promotions? Or missing out on a lifetime of loving you? There was no contest. Choosing you isn't just a decision. It's the best decision I've ever made. I don't want to wonder what could have been." She flipped her paper over to read the other side. "And what I've discovered is that I actually haven't had to give up anything. Because you have supported me and encouraged me and cheered me on in whatever I've chosen to do. So my promise to you, Rav, is to always do the same. I promise to love and encourage and cheer you on in whatever you do, and I promise to choose you every day, because the only thing worse than not being with you is the regret of never having tried." 

You brought your hands together to clap, stopping when you realised no one else was applauding. Instead there were tears, sharp sniffs and coughs. Father Benedict stepped back up to them, clearing his throat and curling his mouth into a sincere smile. 

"That was beautiful," he said. "Now, let us humbly invoke God's blessing upon this bride and groom, that in his kindness he may favour with his help those on whom he has bestowed the bond of marriage." 

"Closer if you can, Darlin'," said the photographer from behind his camera. 

You shuffled closer to the groomsman you'd been placed beside, so close your hip was now pressing against him. Surely this was close enough. You held your bouquet in front of you and smiled as the camera snapped in quick succession. 

The sun was gleaming now in a clear blue sky, the air growing humid as you all stood outside the church for photos. The confetti you'd thrown was fluttering across the grass in the light breeze, the cars waiting near the road to take you to the reception. 

"That's lovely," said the photographer. "If you on the end there could just turn your body inwards a bit please." 

Lottie turned as the camera snapped again. 

You were standing in a meticulously organised row; six groomsmen and six bridesmaids, slotted together and posed in your blue dresses and their matching blue ties and pocket squares. Your groomsman was Rav's cousin Niall, who kept making you laugh by muttering things under his breath. 

"You, love, you're going to have to get closer than that," said the photographer. 

"Me?" You pointed to yourself. 

"If you can please, darlin'." 

"Jesus, any closer and we'll have to use protection," said Niall quietly.

You laughed through your nose, trying to hold it in as the camera shutter went off again. 

Across the grass, Rav and Camilla were standing together, stealing kisses and holding hands beneath the shade of a large tree. You felt warm watching them, unsure if you'd ever been this unequivocally happy for someone else before. Your eyes moved over the groups of guests to the church, your heart stopping for a moment when you saw Father Benedict standing at the top of the steps near the entrance. 

He was out of his white alb and stole now, standing with his hands in the pockets of his trousers, a black shirt rolled up at the sleeves and white clerical collar around his neck. He met your gaze for a moment and you gave him a soft smile. He smiled back, but it seemed sad, even from so far away. 

"Can we do a funny one?" asked Georgia.

The rest of you groaned in unison, but it was too late, the photographer already coming over to reposition the group. He turned you all sideways, your back to Niall's chest, his back to Esther's and so on until it looked like a twelve person queue.

"This is a bit human centipede-y, don't you think?" Niall called out to him.

"Do you think he's going to have us conga all the way back to the manor?" Esther joked.

Niall laughed. "Ellis is leading so we'd all be fucked." 

You elbowed him. 

"Alright, after three you're all going to kick out your leg and lean back on the person behind you!" the photographer shouted. 

"Oh cheers, Georgia, this is just wonderful," said one of the groomsmen. 

"I just wanted to pull some funny faces," she shouted back. "I didn't think he'd have us doing fucking Cirque du Soleil!" 

You looked over at Father Benedict again, shaking your head at him. His shoulders shook with a gentle laugh, his hand covering a smile. 

The photographer moved on to Camilla and Rav's parents soon after. You stayed on the grass, trying to rearrange your bouquet as your heels sank into the soft earth beneath you. You looked over at the other bridesmaids, watching as they all found their partners amongst the chaos; Alice and her husband talking to Femi and her fiancé, Lottie sitting on the church steps FaceTiming her boyfriend in Australia as Georgia introduced her girlfriend to Esther and her boyfriend. You bit the inside of your cheek, returning your attention to the flowers in your hand.

"Ellie!" 

You looked up to see Blossom running towards you. 

"Hi," you said, bending down to hug her before pulling back to look at her dress, the mint green material covered in a subtle frog print. "You look so cute." 

She smiled as Lorna caught up behind her, placing a hand lovingly on top of her daughter's head.

"So you compromised on her wearing the frog onesie to the wedding, then," you said. 

She nodded. "Praise the lord." 

You laughed. 

She slid her sunglasses onto her head, her almost-knee-length hair falling in loose waves down her back. She was wearing a long, sunflower print dress with exaggerated bell sleeves, a pair of wooden clogs with hand-painted soles. You didn't realise you were staring at her until she narrowed her eyes at you. 

"What is it?" she asked. 

"Oh, sorry. Sometimes I just wish I was you." 

"Don't be silly." She laughed and patted your arm. "I'm just going to see Rav. Are you coming Blossom?"

The little girl didn't move. You looked at Lorna and smiled. "I'll stay with her."

She thanked you as she walked away, and you returned to plucking stray leaves from your bouquet. You looked down to see Blossom running her fingers over your dress, quietly admiring the appliqués.

"Do you like it?" you asked. 

She nodded.

"I'll save it for you. You can have it when you're older." 

She smiled shyly. 

You crouched down, resting on your haunches to look at the dress with her, turning at the waist so she could see the back. 

Father Benedict was still standing at the top of the church steps, leaning against the open door as he stared off into space. But he seemed to sense that you were looking at him, glancing down to catch your gaze. 

You wanted to talk to him. Not about what happened, not about the two of you or your feelings or religion or anything. You just wanted to talk. About the weather, about how his day was going, about what he was going to have for dinner. There had to be a part of you that was still capable of that. 

Blossom pointed to one of the appliqués near the hem of your dress. "This one is my favourite," she said.

She didn't talk a lot, so whenever she did it took you by surprise. You returned your attention to her immediately. 

"Really? I like that one too. And this one here." 

You looked back up to find him smiling; a soft, sincere smile that made your heart ache. 

"Ellis, our car's ready to go!" Esther shouted across the grass. 

You stood up, taking Blossom's hand to lead her back to Lorna, allowing one last glance back at the church steps. 

A strange sense of calm washed over you as you looked at him, like there was comfort in your last memory of him being in the place he'd chosen to stay. 

You weren't sure how you'd ended up in the middle of the dance floor, huddled amongst a huge group of women as they squashed together in excitement. You'd intended to stay on the outskirts, but someone had pulled you, another accidentally pushing you further inward, until eventually you were at the heart of the cluster, watching as Camilla turned her back, counting down from three. 

Her bouquet came flying towards you, but instead of catching it, you ducked, letting it soar over your head and into the hands of a woman behind you. She jumped and cheered, the rest of the women laughing and clapping as her boyfriend jokingly made a run for the door. 

"God, Ellis, tell me you're scared of commitment without telling me you're scared of commitment," said Camilla, laughing as she walked over to you. 

"Well my natural reaction to things flying at my head is to duck," you said with a shrug. 

A waiter walked past with a tray of champagne. She plucked one off it and took a large gulp.

"The world's not running out of champagne, Cam," you said. 

"Sorry," she mumbled, wiping the corner of her mouth with her hand. "This whole wedding's just been so stressful. All that drama with the planner, and then the fucking church burning down." 

"Maybe it was her. Set fire to it out of spite because you sacked her." 

She laughed. "Wouldn't put it past her. We're just so lucky we got the church we did. He was nice wasn't he. The priest. Made it really... not boring."

"Yeah, he was... It was good." 

She cocked her head, brow furrowing slightly. "What?" 

"What?" 

"You just seem really sad." 

"I'm not sad. I'm not." You looked around the busy hall. "Lonely, yes. Sad, no." 

"Oh, Ellis, don't say that, you're breaking my heart."

You rolled your eyes. "I'm only joking. Go and enjoy your wedding for Christ's sake." 

She eventually disappeared into the sea of guests as you made your way over to the bar. You ordered a drink and plonked yourself back down at your table, resting your cheek on your fist as you sipped it slowly. 

The large hall was dark, flashing with colourful disco lights and strobes as the DJ played music from a deck in the corner. You watched people enjoying themselves; the funny dance-walk they'd do as they made their way to the floor, the buttons of men's shirts coming further undone as they got drunker and sweatier, the kids being told off for sliding on their knees in their good clothes.

Your table was empty since Lorna had taken Blossom home, the bridesmaids up dancing and catching up with people they knew on the other side of the room. You didn't mind, always finding parties more of an obligation than they were fun; you hated having to shout down people's ears just to have a conversation, being pressured to get up and dance, losing your seat if you left it for too long. You much preferred to sit on the edge of the room, nursing a drink and people watching. You were Ellis Attenborough, observing humans in their natural habitat. 

The music lowered and the multicoloured lights melted to a warm white. You looked around in confusion as the noise of the hall seemed to hush suddenly. 

"Ladies and gentleman, please join me in welcoming the new Mr and Mrs Mishra to the floor for their first dance as husband and wife," said the DJ over the speakers.

The room erupted into cheers and applause. You clapped along as Rav took Camilla's hand and led her to the centre of the empty dance floor. She'd changed dresses, swapping her ornate, bountiful gown for a sleek, elegant slip. You watched as the photographer scurried around them, trying to get a good shot as they wrapped their arms around each other and began to sway to the music. 

You hated yourself for thinking of him as you watched them dance. You hated that you felt jealous, persecuted, forced to spend the rest of your life as a spectator to other people's love stories from the corner of the room. You'd never been certain of what you wanted, and there was something so cruel in knowing now; knowing that you did want the marriage, the children, the brushing teeth side by side in the mirror each morning and washing dishes while the other dried them in the evenings. You wanted the fights, the sex, the anniversaries, the dates. You wanted to be a girlfriend, then a fiancé, then a wife. And if there really was a God, he was a fucking arsehole for taking all of those wants and putting them into a man you could never have. For setting up the dominoes so perfectly and then moving the last one just an inch too far to fall. 

The song was still going, and you watched as other couples began to join them on the dance floor, moving in their own little bubbles, smiling, kissing, embracing. You got up and weaved through the crowd towards the exit, stepping out of the hall into the vast, empty foyer of the stately home.

You grabbed the hem of your dress, lumping the abundance of material in your arms as you made your way through the front doors and out into the cool night air. Your ears were ringing, the noise of the party a distant hum as you walked down the steps and over the gravel towards the gardens. There were a few people dotted over the grounds, a couple walking hand-in-hand through the flower gardens, a man in a three piece suit smoking a cigarette as he sat on the grass, a woman waiting for a cab near the long driveway. 

You trudged over the grass with your dress balled up in your arms, drinking in deep breaths as you prepared yourself to go back inside. You turned around, taking in the full view of the manor, the stars above so bright and unpolluted by city light. 

You held your middle finger up at the sky. "Fuck you," you said. "You won. Well done." 

The man with the cigarette gave you an awkward look. 

"I'm talking to God," you said. "He's a prick." 

"Ah." He nodded.

You let out an exasperated sigh and walked back towards the house, almost tripping when your heel got caught in the grass. The noise from the reception grew louder as you made it back onto the gravel, and you wondered if you should just go straight upstairs to your room, lie down and begin nursing the inevitable headache. You reached into your bra for your key card, pulling it out and immediately dropping it, listening as it clattered down each step you'd just climbed. 

"Of course," you muttered, turning around to walk back down when a figure emerged from the dark. 

His footsteps crunched slowly as his tall frame came into view. You stopped, back straightening, blinking rapidly as your brain tried to catch up with your eyes. 

"Hi," said Father Benedict, his voice so quiet the breeze almost carried it away. 

"Hi..." you replied, brows coming together in confusion. 

He picked up the key card and held it out to you.

"Thanks," you said, walking down the last few steps and taking it from him. "I... I didn't think priests usually got invited to the reception..." 

"I wasn't invited," he said, awkwardly scratching the back of his head. "I erm, it was actually quite stalkerish if I'm honest, I'm- I'm not proud of it. I asked around the town and found out where they were having it." 

"Oh." You looked over your shoulder to the open doors. "Well I'm sure they won't mind that you're here. They seemed to really like y-"

"I came to find you." 

"To find me?" 

"To tell you that this morning was my last service." 

"You're moving churches again?" 

"I'm leaving the clergy." 

You fell silent, looking around in bewilderment. "Wh- I don't und- Why?" 

"You know why." 

You stared at him for a moment, then your eyes grew wide. "No," you breathed. "No. You can't- You can't."

"Well I have." 

"Wh- Wh... When did you...?" 

"Today." 

You lost your grip on the skirt of your dress, the material falling from your arms to the floor. "Why would you do that?" 

He didn't answer, looking down at you like you already knew. 

"Ben..." 

"I can live without this." He pointed to his collar, before shaking his head, his voice cracking. "I don't think I can live without you." 

Your lips parted, a breath escaping like your lungs had caved in. Your eyes were beginning to water because you'd forgotten how to blink, your heart thumping in time with the music inside. 

"Ellis," he whispered. 

"Are you playing a trick on me?"

He breathed out a laugh, shaking his head as he moved closer and brought his hands up to cup your face. He tilted your head back slightly and leaned down, placing a slow, tender kiss on your lips. When he stopped, he let his forehead rest against yours, looking into your eyes as you struggled to form a coherent sentence. 

"But what... What if- If it didn't work out? Then-"

"Then I'd be thankful I got to love you. Openly, completely. Even if it was just for a little while." 

"You're not thinking clearly. You're giving up everything-"

"I'm gaining everything."

You shook your head in disbelief. 

Another quiet laugh rumbled in his throat. "Ellis," he said. "What do you want?" 

You paused, staring up at him. "I want to brush my teeth with you." 

"What?" 

You shook your head, throwing your arms around the back of his neck and pulling him into another kiss. His hands slid down from your face to wrap around your waist, hugging you tight as your lips moved in perfect tandem. You felt him smile, and you smiled too, weaving your fingers into the back of his hair.

Rav and Camilla wandered through the doors, taking a few steps before stopping suddenly. 

"Is that... Ellis... kissing our priest...?" asked Rav.

Camilla grabbed his arm and they slowly retreated back inside. 

Ben broke away, bringing his hands back to your face as he stared down at you. "Right person," he said. "Full stop."

*Tags: @evelynrosestuff @thealleydog @lexlexigogh @allie131313 @simpingbestie @ironstrange1991 @witchoftheages @hiddendiary @swds @jyessaminereads @withalittlehoney @hunterofshadows04 @slytherindoctorsat221b @diabaroxa @phoebe221 @hai-kbai @downtownshabby @dara-of-qui-zi @unfilteredmoonchild @classicrebound @bigratbitchsworld @aphroditesdilemma @bloodyxsaint @ployavengersog1 @spectaclebitch @paola-carter @gordorio @shjl15 @thedaredevilsgirl @howardtonypotts @ceccille @wllsfer @thelostsmiles @vi0letdaze @stanfanfiction @king-kongbebe-blog @sof38 @doctorscarletwitch @rmoonstoner @intrappolatatrairicordi @ehuether @dragonqueen89 @estheticwh0re @Lfp10836 @kanyewestest @star-girl-05 @theothersideofthescreen @battledress @chaosdorito @vlqueen @erratica47 @happybunnyclumsyduck @bloggerbatch @bimrwolf @chaand-sitara @dude-where-s-my-tardis @run-clever-boy @j3mj3rrica

[strangesthirdeye]

Y/n: *groans in frustration* Fuck me

Sherlock: *lowers his pants*

Y/n: *looks at Sherlock with wide eyes* wow

[gummydummy19]

Hi Gummy👀❤️

um, because of the post you said about just now......

Thinking about Prof!Sherlock Holmes celebrate with you that your exams are over.

Correction: you sneak in his office with a bottle of champagne and wearing the lingerie he gifted to you a few weeks ago... He was very confused at the beginning(

Well, you did celebrate TOGETHER after all.👀😋

Gaahh I would love to celebrate with him! 🥳🫠 Thank you for the ask, jammie! Im very sorry this took so incredibly long and that its a bit shit maybe lol, I hope you still kinda like it :)

His best student

Content Warnings: smut, age gap (not specifically mentioned), college student/college professor relationships (abuse of power, just to be sure), pet names (little one, Sir, baby), smidge of angst for some reason

A/N: This story is a fantasy and purely fictional. I do not condone student/teacher relationships or abuse of power in real life. Since this is pure fiction, everything is consensual. (because it's my fantasy and I fucking wrote it that way)

Word Count: 1.9k +

He was busy grading papers, the usual frown on his face, not even looking up at you as you entered his office...

You eyed him hungrily as you locked the door behind you. "Do you know what day it is today?" you asked in a sultry voice, hoping to get his attention.

You'd been waiting for this moment for weeks, ever since he gifted you that black, lacy lingerie set a few days before your first exam. He'd had it delivered, knowing if he'd handed it to you himself neither of you would be able to wait. The box contained a note, written in Sherlock's beautiful handwriting, as per usual.

"A little gift to get you in the mood. I hope it motivates you, my dear. I expect straight A's from my best student x"

You had never been so excited to study. With your new-found motivation, you propped yourself at your desk, which is where you stayed for weeks. Focused and dedicated.

You hadn't touched yourself once in the past few weeks. Partly because you wanted to stay focussed, but also because you simply didn't have the time. You were so exhausted and mentally drained from studying all day, your back and shoulders were sore from sitting hunched over your desk for hours. When you finally got to bed at night you were so tired you almost immediately fell asleep.

And now the wait was finally over. All your hard work had paid off, straight A's across the board. You were proud of yourself, proud and incredibly horny, ready to collect your reward.

"Uhh...Friday?" Sherlock answered mindlessly, his eyes still glued to the red ink he scribbled across the paper.

You rolled your eyes before clearing your throat, hoping to finally get him to look up at you.

His eyes found yours, they were filled with confusion and a tiny bit of aggravation...until you let your coat fall open. The beautiful black set was revealed and you could almost hear the wheels turning in his head.

"Yeah," you spoke, "it's Friday"

A smirk tugged at his plushy lips, 'it's Friday", he repeated as the realization dawned on him.

"Hmm." you nodded, dropping your coat on the floor with a smile.

You took a few slow steps towards him, never once breaking eye contact.

"Passed all my exams, straight A's just like you wanted Mr. Holmes", you spoke innocently.

"Is that so?" he smirked, leaning back in his chair, his knees falling wider open.

"Uh uh", you nodded coyly, chewing your finger.

You took a few steps closer to him, keeping your eyes glued to his. You debated crawling into his lap and kissing him silly, but took a seat on his desk instead. "So I think I deserve my reward now, don't you?"

He was trying to contain himself a little longer, trying not to show how much of an effect you had on him. But the glimmer in his eyes told you enough. You couldn't help but smile at him. A warm genuine smile that told him how much you adored him and how badly you'd missed him.

He couldn't hold back the grin that broke free on his face and he stood up. Wasting no time before grabbing your face and crashing his lips to yours. The kiss was full of heat and passion. Your hands tangled in his beautiful brown curls before trailing down his neck and fiddling with the buttons on his shirt. It took every fiber in your being not to rip the fabric off him, but you decided to behave. You the last thing you needed was a punishment when you came here for a reward.

Luckily he noticed what you were doing quite quickly, and since there was not much left for you to take off, he decided to help you.

"Fuck...I missed you, little one", he mumbled against your mouth as he undid the final button on his shirt.

"Hmm...missed you too, Sir...so much", you sighed back, your hands sliding over his shoulders, under the fabric of his shirt, making it drop on the floor while your fingers tangled in his hair again pulling him in for another kiss.

The kiss became more heated, more impatient, and you felt yourself starting to buck against the front of his trousers. The growing bulge pressed perfectly against the thin fabric of your panties. The panties that were slowly but surely starting to get very sticky and damp...

He pulled his lips away from yours, only to trail kissed from your jaw to your neck, groaning into your nape once he got there. His large hands trailed up and down your waist, squeezing at your flesh wherever he could.

You wriggled your hands between your bodies, your fingers eagerly searching for the buckle of his belt.

“Need you now…right now…”, you whined as you pulled his belt from his pants, your desperation made him chuckle.

“Hmmm…my perfect pretty princess…”, his voice was low has his fingers trailed down your jaw. Your breath hitched when his hand made its way down your throat, you expected him to stop there, to squeeze it as punishment for being so impatient…but he didn’t.

His hand moved down a little bit further until he pressed his palm flat, right in the middle of your chest. You were sure he felt your heartbeat thumping.

“Lay back for me”, he commanded. His tone combined with the slight press of his hand left little room for arguing, so you did what he asked.

Your back his the cold wood of his desk and you stared up at him. He held your gaze while his hands moved to caress your legs, starting at your knees, up to your thighs and back to your knees, where he held a firm grip to keep your legs spread (as if you needed any help with that?)

You enjoyed every second of it, every single touch, every look…but you needed more.

“Please Sir…”, you whined, “haven’t I been a good girl?”

He once again chuckled at your shameless display of pure desperation. “Don’t frown like that little one, you’ll get wrinkles”

“Then don’t give me a reason to frown.”

Your inner brat was starting to show and you hated it. Not that you didn’t love your bratty side, because you absolutely did, but today it meant that he was winning and you had worked too hard to let that happen.

He was staring down at you with his usual raised eyebrow. “Come on, Mr. Holmes..please?", you tried, your foot inching up his waist until your toes touched the now massive bulge in his trousers. You moved methodically, creating a friction you knew he craved.

"Behave", his voice was stern, no doubt a cover-up for his neediness, but stern nonetheless. You ignored it, continuing your movements shamelessly until he growled. "Enough!"

In a matter of seconds had pushed your legs open again and he was on you. Your wrists pinned to the oak desk just like the rest of you. "I told you to behave, little one."

"Why? When I do you give me nothing", you argued, staring him dead in the eye. "I came here for a reward, but if you insist on punishing me go ahead. Either way, I refuse to leave here empty-handed. I worked my ass off for the past few weeks, haven't even touched myself once. I kept my focus, I got perfect grades, and now I wanna cum. I deserve to cum."

You had never spoken to him that way. Ever.

The two of you looked at each other in silence. His hands still had a firm grip on your wrists and the look in his eyes gave little away. For a split second, you worried you had gone too far. He was still your professor after all, and by far the most intelligent and respected man you'd ever met.

You were simply a young girl who happened to be in his class and sucked his cock the way he liked it. You were nobody. And yet here you were, sprawled on his desk demanding orgasms.

"I'm proud of you, you know that?"

His deep voice broke through the silence and with that also through your thoughts. "Huh?" you managed to get out.

He grinned down at you, but different than before. Less devilish, more pure. "You're right, you worked incredibly hard...and you deserve a reward..."

He dipped his head down, his curls brushing your face as he pressed kisses against your neck and shoulder.

The second you felt his warm lips press loving kisses on your skin your eyes fluttered shut. A relaxed sigh left your lips as you basked in his touch.

“Such a good girl…such a…an amazing woman you…”, he panted out his praises while kissing his way down your body.

You moaned when you felt his warm lips press against your core through your panties, he kissed and licked until he could taste you through the fabric, leaving it even more soaked than it already was.

“Fuck sir…” your fingers tangled in his curls again when he pulled your panties to the side and finally ran his tongue through your sopping wet folds.

He ate you out with vigour, humming and groaning into your pussy like a man possessed.

It wasn’t long before your thighs squeezed around his head and you shook with pleasure, letting out one final loud moan as your orgasm rushed through you.

“Fuck…” you giggled while staring at the ceiling, you swore you saw a couple stars fly around.

You could feel him grinning against your skin as he pressed a few more kisses on your inner thighs.

“C’mere…” your hands grabbed at him again, this time he didn’t even try to refuse. His large body stretched over you and his hands found the sides of your face.

You both smiled into the kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue was always such a turn on. You tasted great together, every time.

It wasn’t long before hunger consumed you again, and you could tell even though he just ate…he was still starving.

Your legs locked around his waist and you bucked your hips up into his bulge, whimpering a little from the overstimulation.

He didn’t need to be told what to do. He grinned as he leaned up. Never breaking eye contact with you while he lowered his pants and boxers, allowing his thick cock to spring free.

“My sweet girl….”, was all he said before slowly…ever so slowly…pushing inside of you.

He dropped down close to you, one hand on your hip, using it as leverage while he pumped in and out of you.

The other one right next to your face, keeping him from leaning his full body weight on you…not that you would complain…

“Fuck…s-sir…” your voice was barely above a whisper given that his nose was practically touching yours.

He pressed a gentle kiss against your lips, “call me by my name…please”.

You moaned and he slowly picked up the pace, “S-sherlock…Sherlock! Oh god, Sherlock”, you pulled at his hair as he fucked you passionately on his desk, fucking you deeper and harder each time you screamed his name.

“Yeah fuck…that’s it princess…shit”, he angled his hips while his hand slid down between your bodies, “cum for me baby…cum on my cock while I pump you full…can’t hold it much longer sweetheart, you feel so fucking good, fuck” his almost whiny tone and desperate look melted you to your core, and so you did what he asked, you came on his cock, hard.

“SHERLOCK! please please please….”, your walls squeezed him tightly and with one final thrust and a guttural groan he came inside you.

Sweaty foreheads and plump lips bumped against each other as you rode out the highs of your orgasms together.

“I love you…I love you”, he spoke quietly after a few beats of silence.

Once to himself, and once to you.

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[ananiel]

Okay, I know and I'm very sorry that I am bothering you again. I just thought about something crazy.... What if Sherlock and William baby traped Obanai!Reader? And she can't bring herself to kill the babies because it's not babies's fault? It's twins by the way. Girl and Boy.

And if you are writing NSFW can you do it too?

And I am very sorry again for bothering you with my requests😭

I just like how you write about it and how you are imagining it. I have plenty scenarios but I don't know how to write them🥲

Yes, i am not the best at writing nsfw but i can certainly try, and do not worry, You are of no bother at all, i like taking requests, and that is a very good idea!

Yandere sherlock holmes x reader x yandere William james moriarty

Tw : mentions of killing intent, non con, yandere themes, baby trapping, drugging, dark content, read at your own risk!

Nsfw!

--------------------------------------------------

IT had been days since they saw your scars... Days since they started making side comments, side comments that became more and more disturbing for You

"do You think that the child Will have your beautifull eyes?"

Or

"... Ha, you'd look so good round, full with children, my darling"

You weren't dumb either. You knew what they were hinting at, all the soft touches, sugestive looks and most importantly, on the rarely ocasions that they let You go outside... The way they would stare at pregnant or mother's with their children, especially if the Young ones were still babies. Every time, You would see at least one of them stare long, with a small smile as his hand went to your stomach, holding it tight (and You in place)

Of course, You expected what came next, a talk with them, over tea, which, as a fool, You took, in which they wanted to prepare You, and say that You are at a Point in your relathionship in which the time for kids is right... They were old enough, and so were You for that.

You protested, screaming at them as You told them that You would never want to raise children, or have sex, with either one... And they took that... Smirking?

When your vision got slightly blury You understood why, of course, they planned this, they knew You, they knew You wouldn't accept it in no way posible. But drugging? This was low even for them, You wanted to say, but do You truly know them both so well to say that? Can You even say that, knowing You were talking about your kiddnappers and possible rapists?

.

.

.

"no... No...." You breath out, trying to pull yourself togheter as You saw them inch closer.

Maybe it was your tired mind, but You could swear that You saw their faces twisted in that awfull smirks of theirs.

Sherlock was the one to grab You to your feet and making You grind against his erected cock while he let out a shaky breath of pleasure.

"now sherlock... Be patient Will You? Your turn Will come"

William says wraping his arms around your waist and holding your ass against his pants.

"it is easy for You, Liam, You will be the first to take her"

You shooks your head, your ears ringing as sherlock comented, and his rough hands adictinvly went and unbottined your shirt, giving them acces to your bare skin.

Seeing that, William's lips made contact with your neck and shoulders, whispering sweet nothings about how You will see that this is the best for You, that You were made to be a mother and that You will thank them for impregnating You when You would see the beautifull baby that will come out of you all.

You fall on the sofa, them soon following and taking their positions, with William behind You and Sherlock in front of You, Sherlock captured your lips in a pasionate kiss, his hands going to your hips as his toungue plays around your mouth, his hands guiding Your hips to meet William's, earning a few moans from the blond as he continued to pree open mouthed Kisses to your neck, making You unconsciouly moan against Sherlock's mouth, which grew his need dor You.

They continued to whisper sweet nothings here and there, but that didn't help, didn't help at all, as tears weild up in your eyes and their hands opened up your pants.

You were too weak to fight, and the combination of sherlock's roughness and the way William softly rubs his hands all over your skin... It was getting good, as much as you hated to admit it, as much as you hated the fact that they did make You wet.

William smiles mischevously as he felt the wetness from your panties, bring to of his fingers to tease your entrace before inserting them slowly, making You yelp weakly against Sherlock's mouth.

William started thrusting his fingers, making small pauses that had You embarassingly trying to meet his thrusts.

"see? Told ya she's gonna come around eventually, now hurry up Liam, am getting impatient... "

William playfully rolls his eyes as sherlock Kisses down your chest, ending up sucking on one of your nipples as his hand massages the other one.

William continues to thrust his fingers up, bringing you closer and closer to the edge, but before You can come, he removes his fingers, making You grown.

You left soft moans spill out of your lips from sherlock's actions as your eyes widen when You heard the William's pants falling down.

"easy now..." he shushes as he gives himself a pump before guiding You on himself, making You take him inch by inch. Not giving You time to get used to him before he bottoms out

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as You felt him slowly snap his hips back in you, earning a very loud moan from you, followed by more small muffle ones.

"hey... I'm getting jealous, pay attention to me too... " sherlock whispers, his hands playing with your clit as William thrusted his hips fast, making You reach your High that was denied earlier

"oh... This is... Better than i could've ever dreamed" he says in between groans and pants, his motions continuing for what felt like hours, as he continued to thrust, not giving You time to come down from your High

You moaned louder.

"we talked that after cumming we Switched William" sherlock bites into your shoulder, as if to show that he is very serious, not that William could seem to care less

"Said about switch ing after coming, she did, i didn't, wait till i finish and have your turn, it's not like she is going anywhere"

William rests his head against your shoulder, shotting his load inside you.

Panting, he gives one more thrust before pulling away.

"finally!" sherlock exclaims as pushes inside you, causing You to yelp, thinking that ha wasn't prepared, and that You would get a small break.

But no, the overstimulation was making You even more lightheaded than You already were because of the druged Tea. And jesus, You didn't know if You liked sherlock's aproach more, or William's. William was more calculated, having a rythm that he trusted in, while at sherlock it felt like every single thrust was difrent from the other, making your stomach twist and turn. You were close again, and if they fucked You thought this orgasm again, You are more than sure that You will pass out

"forgeting about me?" William asks as he presses down on your stomach, making You moan as he could feel sherlock's dick against his finger. You let out a loud moan as You came, William kissing your neck whole smiling as sherlock seemed to lost in his pleasure tto give a reaction other than a moan from the aditional squeze "you'll see my darling, once this children are born, You will thank us"

Sherlock nods, too lost into his pleasure to respond properly as he chases his high, bitting down on the opposite shoulder that is planting the Kisses.

His movements get more sloppy, and after 2 more thrusts, he cums. You fall against his chest, breathing in deeply as tears start pooling from your eyes again, but You don't know what they are. Maybe fear, maybe overstimulation, hatred .

"your turn now, Liam" Your eyes widen at that

"let her rest a minute, she needs it if we want her to not pass out and remember everything"

.

.

.

And remember everything you did, You felt disgusted at yourself, You looked into the mirror at your stomach almost 8 times a day, trying to see a difrence, trying to see if truly You were pregnant with their children.

You dreded the fact that You were late, that You were sleeping more, that You were more picky, and they couldn't seem to get enough of them.

They had, physician after physician come, but after the first one was killed right in front of You after You tried to tell him the truth, that You were forced into this. You weren't trying to take any risks now, You didn't want a poor man's blood on your hands.

Twins.

Twins, oh how happy they were at the sound of twins, how empty You felt, thinking that instead of one reminders of what happend, You had two. Two little beasts to resemble the bigger ones.

At month 5 You were already big enough to cause some disconfort, which they took grade pleasure in, helping and always holding your stomach... You considered more than once to fall down a fight of stairs, to end this pregnancy and posibly yourself, but something stopped You, the vow You made to be better than your parents.

You hated those kids, and it made You hate yourself more, that You couldn't love them, that You will end up maybe worse than your whole clan. What choice did the children have? It's not like they were at fault for who their fathers are...

You saw them put the cribs, You saw them react and tell everyone, and soon, You will see them hold the babies too. You saw the obbsesion, the need in their eyes more than enough to know that, that was the case now too. The children were a way too keep You close to them, but also, to have another piece of you.

They were obssesed with the kids too.

For You, they were the snake demon You had to cut your face for. They were the monster that your parents failed to protect You form, they were the demons You won't leave your children in the hands of those demons.

When they were born, You held them, You held one beautifull boy with blue hair and your striking eyes, and one girl, the spliting image of William, of it weren't for one colored eye that wasn't Red, her heterocromia made her somehow cuter, in the eyes of you, someone that was crytisized for them your whole life.

You were tired after birth, but You held strong, making sure that the two men have as little contact with the babies as posible that is until You heard one private discusion

"oh Liam, You genius, she doesn't even know that the children Will have our possesive traits!"

What? You looked at the baby in your arms, feeling lightheaded

"Who would expect a child being obssesed sherly, and You saw the babies' eyes, how they follow her... Our little copies. She can't escape now, and with the children, it's not like she wants to, the door has been opened and left unguared for a week, she won't ever escape now "

Door opened... You rushed to their cribs, putting each one of them in their respective cribs, looking at them for one last Time...

Not survivours like You... No... They were tiny baby demons... They were holding You out of fear for them in a Cage, only that it was opened, this time, the Cage is opened...

This time You can run...

You don't look back, You don't take anything... Foolled, You were tricked by the offsprings of demons.

And You won't accept it, won't accept being held hostage no more.

You were a better mother than your parents could ever be, and that made You proud, but after your past was hunted by snake people, You won't let another kind of those people control You any longer

(i am thinking to make a continuation of this, like, iguro obanai darling escapes without the children, and while sherliam are busy trying to find her, Louis and entity! Reader, that he didn't love at first, take care of the kids, but seeing her so motherly, he slowly starts to get obsesive, seeing the children as their own and the entity as his partner. What do You guys think?)

[darlingdekarios]

dance in the winter.

rating: explicit. 18+ only. length: 2,937 content: Sherlock Holmes x f!reader, porn with plot, smut [fingering - receiving, oral - receiving, unprotected p in v], kink(s) [praise, hair pulling], fluff

though he tried to restrain himself, it was useless – when he avoided you, circumstance always brought you crashing back into him. as he climbed the stairs to 221B Baker Street, he supposed this was one of those times as well.

Eight days, seven hours, and thirty-four minutes ago Sherlock Holmes had been persuaded by way of your fluttering eyelashes to take on one final case before Christmas, though against his better judgment he hardly needed convincing when it came to you. He’d met you months ago now through his sister and, despite himself, he’d found plenty of excuses to intersect his path with yours. The way you had burrowed into his mind was often infuriating, the way he had permeated your mind dizzying.

It was impossible to ignore the growing affection between the two of you – even Enola had remarked on it to you weeks ago and though you were a convincing liar, she was better at reading you. Sherlock’s behavior spoke for itself, Enola thought – the sheer fact he could be seen with you enough times to constitute a pattern meant he enjoyed your company, and for Sherlock that was enough of a compliment and revelation.

Though no one had pushed for an answer, everyone who knew both of you knew the energy that came with the both of you, and the assumption that you two had acted on those feelings would not be unfounded. Several times now, in fleeting and molten moments, Sherlock had kissed you breathless and reverent. Though he tried to restrain himself, it was useless – when he avoided you, circumstance always brought you crashing back into him. As he climbed the stairs to 221B Baker Street, he supposed this was one of those times as well.

“Eight days, seven hours, and thirty-eight minutes spent on your case,” he proclaimed as he closed his watch, tucking it away before fixing his gaze on you. “Only to follow clues to my own home, and to find you waiting for me.”

You waited for him with a smile on your face, sprawled against the worn fabric of his chaise in a dress you knew distracted him, the depth of its color bringing out the best in yours. He closed the door behind himself, dropping his cane beside the door and removing his jacket as he regarded you with analytic eyes.

“I’m afraid I deduced the crime before you, Mister Holmes,” you taunted, eyes sparkling in the crackling firelight coming from the fireplace near you. He closed some of the distance toward you as you spoke, causing you to raise to be seated before him in politeness, though you wished to cherish the way he hungrily eyed you as you lay before him. “I have been waiting here for the thief to return.”

“I assume you’ve decided it’s me,” he assessed, clasping his hands behind his back to resist the urge to reach out and push a stray hair from your face. 

“Yes, Sherlock, I’m afraid you are the thief, and you’ve stolen something very dear to me,” you mused, raising your hand to push the hair from your face instead, almost as if you were further taunting him. “I should hope you return it at once.”

“And what is it I’m accused of stealing?”

“My mind, dear detective,” you sighed, raising to your feet and standing close enough to him that he could make out the details of your face. “All of my sense. I demand you return it at once, I simply cannot pass another day in this state.”

A lazy smile passed his features, one that he gifted to you in privacy, entrusted you with in secret. You etched this one to memory just as the others.

“So, all this week while I have been uncovering clues and following trails,” he began, finally reaching forward to grasp one of your hands. Almost delicately he lifted it, pressing a kiss to your fingers before continuing. “They were all left by you.”

You nodded, fire engulfing your cheeks under his investigative eyes now burning into yours with something genuine and fierce.

“Hmm,” he mused, lowering your hand to rest against his chest as his own fingers traced along your jaw. “Who helped you?”

“I’m offended you think I would need help, Sherlock Holmes,” you quipped, noticing the twitch at the corners of his mouth in amusement. It crossed your mind he likely asked the question purely to antagonize you, though your pride insisted you assert your efforts. “It was me alone.”

“Of course it was,” he nodded, grasping your chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Though if you wanted my attention so badly, you hardly needed a game.”

“But you love a good game, or so I’ve heard,” you remarked, eyes light and playful. He had to appreciate that you could hold this back-and-forth with him without losing your footing, the mental dance you’d been in for months now fulfilling a deep need in his mind. “I enjoyed dancing with you.” 

His lips crashed to yours with bruising weight, the time since your last kiss finally settling into Sherlock and building the desire he felt for you. His hands found way to your lower back to hold you closer, covering himself in the warmth of you and swallowing the quiet sigh that passed your lips. The grasp he held on your dress revealed his satisfaction at having you so near again.

Eagerness would never spoil gentle intent. He carefully worked the laces of your gown free, pushing the heavy fabric to the floor when it had loosened adequately and immediately grasping your waist again. He released your mouth from his kiss to run his eyes over your body, his pink tongue swiping against his bottom lip in appreciation and to savor the taste of your lips.

“Lay down,” he instructed while motioning back to the chaise with one hand, releasing his hold on you to admire as you stepped back and listened with a meek nod. Eventually he’d tell you how amusing it was when you became bashful for him, but the comment could wait. Once you were comfortable again, he sank to his knees before you, reaching to pull the undergarments that covered you still with an appreciative hum before discarding them in the pile with your dress.

“Such a clever girl,” he complimented, leaning forward to press his lips to the side of your knee to encourage your legs apart. You listened without him needing to ask aloud, releasing a shaky breath as the cold air of the room passed over your heated core. “This is what you wanted, hmm?”

You could only nod as his fingers ran through your folds, teasing your soaked entrance lightly before running the digits back toward your clit, rubbing a well-intended circle around the already swollen nub. “You like when I praise you,” he remarked, like he was announcing his findings for notetaking. You supposed a man like him likely did keep mental notes. “Let’s find out what else you like.”

His head disappeared between your thighs then, his tongue replacing his fingers to eagerly taste what your arousal had to offer. A low sound rumbled in his chest in appreciation as his hands grasped your thighs, spreading your legs more so he could bury his face in your core, his tongue slipping into your cunt to massage your velvet walls. He was gifted with an unimaginable symphony of sounds from your lips as you fought to hold some composure and he fought to melt it away, connecting his thumb to your clit soon after. 

He felt the flutter to your walls and swapped his movements, reaching to take your swollen nub into his lips with a firm suck as he slipped a finger into you, curling it to massage the sensitive patch behind your clit. Your hips began to move to meet his face and hand desperately as your walls clenched, white hot euphoria washing over you as your fingers flung to his hair, pulling the wind-blown mess of curled locks in overwhelmed passion. 

Though you were in the throes of pleasure you heard the hefty groan that left his chest as he drank your orgasm from you, currently uncaring for tidiness and finding enjoyment in the mess you made of his lower face. When he was certain he’d carried you through it he removed himself from you, standing and displaying the obvious tent in his pants as he offered a hand to you. You took his hand without question, rising to meet him and lean against his wide torso for support. Finding your voice, however, was a task all in itself.

“Where are we going?” 

“My bedroom,” he replied, slipping an arm around your waist to lead you down the hall to the named room. While you knew the room existed, you had always assumed it remained empty…you had certainly never seen him use it before.

“Since when do you use your bedroom?”

“Since Enola made me find a flat mate,” he replied, sending a glance your way as he opened the door and gestured for you to enter. He followed behind immediately, pulling you back against him to press a kiss beneath your ear. “It’s not important right now.”

He turned you gently to claim your lips again, reaching behind his back to close the bedroom door before working himself free of his own clothes. You released a content sigh against his lips, pressing your bare skin to his to soak in his warmth and enjoy the feeling of him against you. When all that remained was his undergarments, he was offering you a taste of yourself with his tongue in your mouth, kissing you in ways that could be written of. 

To his amusement when he released you from his kiss a whimper slipped from your lips at the loss, and he satiated your disappointment with another gentle kiss before bumping his nose against yours. 

“You should have asked if this is what you wanted,” he remarked, offering a light smile when your eyes met his. If you wanted a game to play, Sherlock was the master of such matters, a painful reminder that fueled his mind. “Practice for me.”

“W-what?”

“Practice asking,” he instructed, trailing his kisses to brush along your jaw and to your neck. Infuriatingly, and perhaps admirably, he remembered the exact spots he needed to make you gasp, the perfect pressure to leave you breathless. He asked too much and knew it to be true, though he still insisted. “Perfect it.”

“Sherlock, please,” you whined as he backed you toward his bed, helping you lower down carefully to the cold sheets. Thankfully the cold was chased away by his warmth as he joined you, crawling between your legs and kissing up your chest slowly. “Don’t torment me, I want you so badly. Please.”

“I should make you wait,” he sounded too pleased with himself, too entertained by the desperate hitch in your breath and subtle shake to your legs as you wrapped them around his waist, eager to bring him closer. 

“Please…”

“Patience,” he reminded, sliding his hand down your body as he pressed an infuriatingly chaste kiss to your lips as he slipped two fingers into you. “Are you always this wet?”

“Often…when I’m near you,” you replied hurriedly, hips raising to meet his hand, desperate for anything he would offer you. He raised his head to drink in your expression, mentally noting the different hue to your cheeks and weight to your eyes. Seeing your body respond to him was science, learning the different ways to push you toward bliss a newfound task in his mind.

“Hmm,” he mused carefully, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Is this what you want?”

“Yes, Sherlock, please,” you whimpered as he curled his fingers again slowly, taking in your pleading expression as you continued. “No more games, please.”

He removed his fingers from you to grasp his throbbing cock, rubbing your slickness over himself before sliding the velvety head through your folds. With one last look for confirmation to your face met with a nod and whimper from you he slowly pressed into you inch by inch, holding you closer and claiming your lips again in a focused kiss. When he bottomed out and grasped your hips to hold you closer what were normally calculated kisses faltered slightly as your walls fluttered around him, the stretch to accommodate him making you feel almost too full but pulling a delicious moan from your chest.

When he moved it was as though he had been choreographing the movements in his mind nonstop for weeks…and perhaps he had with the way he seemed to massage every inch of you perfectly with each thrust. Your legs remained tight around his waist, holding him to you so he couldn’t withdraw further than you’d allow him – which he was more than happy to oblige. Focused on bringing you to the edge again the only noises that left Sherlock now were quiet groans in appreciation when you clenched around him, a low gasp falling from his lips when you pulled his hair again slightly. 

It was then when the lava returned to your core, bubbling under his mercury eyes and leaving your lips as a cry of his name. Your walls clenched around him tightly as you reached another orgasm, eyes squeezing tight as you bit into your kiss swollen bottom lip. It was then he found the words for you again.

“You look extraordinary like this…in my bed,” he complimented, his thrusts beginning to falter. You squeezed him tighter with your legs to encourage him to stay, a request he was more than happy to accommodate with a sloppy few final thrusts before his hot seed emptied into you. As he rode out the remainder of his spend, he pressed a tender kiss to your forehead, sliding one of his hands into yours and lacing your fingers together. 

You wondered if he would always find ways to take you by surprise. 

He was conscious not to linger, removing himself from you and pressing another kiss to your forehead before retreating to his living room, returning with your undergarments in hand. His hair was tousled from your desperation to grasp something and clung to the thin layer of sweat on his forehead, cheeks red. As you admired him you reached your arms toward him as he replaced your undergarments after running a clean cloth through your folds, discarding it to the floor to handle later.

He found his place beside you then, resting on his back and pulling you close to hold you for a moment, willing to relax now that you were cared for. His hands ran carefully along your stomach as he held you, pressing gentle kisses to the top of your head repeatedly to silently thank you for what had transpired. His gentle movements brought you to relaxation soon, raising your head to press a gentle kiss to his jaw. 

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock,” you cooed, repeating the kiss and causing a brief shudder to ripple up his back. 

“Mm,” came a low rumbled reply in his chest before he lowered his head to claim your lips again, aware that he needed to lighten it slightly to accommodate for the swollen bruise to your lips already. 

He held you that way for some time, allowing you to rest and enjoy the serenity of closeness to Sherlock in the afterglow of connecting with one another so deeply. Sherlock took advantage of the peaceful, quiet hours of the night to match it with little conversation as well, instead focusing his efforts on soothing your body and showing his appreciation and adoration. When you began to match his affections with soft kisses and nuzzles with your nose he opted to continue, pressing a kiss to your forehead before standing from the bed.

He reached beside the bed slowly to retrieve a robe, wrapping you in the fabric you recognized as one he wore frequently before replacing some of his clothes – whatever was necessary to move about the apartment with some decency. When you’d tied the robe he offered his hand to you, helping you rise from the bed and supporting you against him just as he had before. Even Sherlock had to admit the fulfilled swell to his chest at seeing you glowing because of him while dressed in his clothes.

“Come where it’s warm by the fire, dearest,” he offered in a tender tone, leading you back to the living room and helping you lower back into the chaise. 

While any ordinary time with any ordinary person you may have simply gone to bed, what was unfolding with Sherlock was anything but ordinary. Instead, you found yourself wrapped in his robe, draped across his chaise, and bathed in the golden morning glow as Sherlock took his place with violin in hand, playing you soothing and delicate songs. It was not long for you to be lulled into a heavy sleep by his music and for Sherlock’s flat mate to follow the sound of a violin so early in the morning. 

“Morning, Sherlock,” John greeted, adjusting his own robe carefully as he entered the room. “I see you found our guest.”

“Did you let her in, John?”

“I did. Did you tell her you figured it out days ago?”

Fondness pooled in Sherlock’s eyes at the question, and the lightest traces of a smile twitched his lips upward at the thought. He glanced away from your face just long enough to properly regard John, shaking his head astutely before returning his gaze to you. John knew the answer before Sherlock confirmed it.

“No.”

Rather than press the topic of the Christmas miracle unfolding before him, John elected to fix morning tea.

masterlist.

[maximsdeadwife]

The Experiment pt. 2

Sherlock Holmes x reader

The Experiment pt. 1 // Masterlist

Summary: Sherlock needs something new to keep him occupied. You have the perfect answer to his problems.

Author’s notes: couldn’t resist writing part 2, which was also requested after I wrote part 1. In my Victorian dirty talk research I discovered that the term ‘blow job’ comes from the Victorian term for cum: ‘blow,’ and how could I not make the most of that information??

Warnings/content: nsfw - smut, f!reader, blow job, hand job, marriage, first times (Sherlock’s first blow job), discussion of safe word, sub!Sherlock vibes if you squint

Upon returning to 221B, you found Sherlock barely out of bed; half-dressed and dropped down onto the nearest armchair, hair mussed from sleep and face sullen.

He hadn’t had a case for over a week, and whilst at first he had taken to spending his free time gladly tending to your desires, you did need to leave the house from time to time to run errands and see to your other commitments.

It was moments such as these that the ennui really set in. Sherlock needed something to occupy him, and if he couldn't have you, he needed something new to excite him, but whatever that would be hadn't yet arrived on his doorstep.

‘Sherlock, darling, I’m home,’ you chimed carefully, not wanting to startle him out of his melancholy.

His eyes lit up for a moment before he saw that you were already busy with the books you’d collected, and he dropped back into the chair.

You were eyeing him, though, surreptitiously as you flicked through one of your new novels pretending to admire the illustrations while really you were admiring him.

‘Remember our wedding night?’ you mused, attempting to sound entirely casual.

‘Fondly,’ he sighed dreamily. If only he could feel the excitement of that night anew, the thrill of learning your exquisite body for the first time.

‘I’ve been doing some research,’ you went on, finally snapping shut your book.

'Oh?' An eyebrow raised, interest piqued.

‘There was something you mentioned that night that I read up on since I’ve been wholly unable to distract my mind away… it's something I rather fancy I’d like to try.’

Your voice had turned sultry, immediately capturing Sherlock’s attention, his head snapping up so that he could examine your current state and gather your precise intentions.

Pupils dilated, cheeks flushed, breath quickening, he thought, and at that, heat stirred in his belly, coursing to his core.

‘You told me you would like to experiment with your own orgasms.’ Shivers crept up your neck, not yet quite used to speaking in such a way in the company of a gentleman. ‘Do you remember? You wondered how it might feel to climax in my hand... or my mouth…’ your tongue advanced slowly around your parted lips rather pointedly, eyes locked on his.

‘And how do you propose we conduct this experiment?’ he panted, beginning to tremble.

‘Sherlock… I'll need to taste you.’

His heart began to race and his eyelashes fluttered, unsure where to look. Your lust for him often threw him from his place of comfort. To him, it was ever an unexpected thrill to be the object of your desire, but never an unwelcome one.

‘Where… how do I-’ he started, cheeks flushing with shame at how utterly libidinous he felt for you.

‘Lay down for me, here, on the chaise,’ you beamed, thrilled that he was ready for a new experience with you.

As he peeled himself from the little armchair to stretch his long body out, he propped himself up on a cushion so he could observe what you would do to him.

You knelt between his ankles to slide your fingers up past his knees and over his strong thighs. ‘Spread your legs a little more… that’s it,’ you encouraged as he settled into position, one foot landing firmly on the floor, grounding him. From what you'd read, you supposed he may need it.

‘I’m going to unfasten your breeches and take you in my hand first,’ you said softly as your fingers got to work on unfastening the buttons keeping him decent. ‘Only briefly, though, for this time, I would like to suck your manhood and have you spill every last drop of your blow down my throat until you’re left limp.’

Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat.

‘Remember the code word?’ you breathed, eyes growing wide with wonder, ever fascinated with his size as your fingers released his already throbbing arousal and wrapped delicately around him, pumping lazily.

Sherlock nodded quickly, eager to begin. ‘Mycroft,’ he uttered breathily, ‘if I don’t enjoy the sensation, or it becomes too much, I say it once, and you'll stop.’

‘Precisely. And if you do enjoy it?’ you smirked up at him, gripping a little more firmly as you stroked him, lips now so close to the tip of his length he could feel the warmth of your breath against it.

‘Oh-ah-mmh… then I… ah- I will cry your name… over and over until I have- mmh!- no breath left in my… oh!- body.’

‘Understood.’

Your delightfully plump, wet lips finally brushed against the flesh of his tip, parting to suckle at the precum that oozed steadily out onto your lapping tongue.

Sherlock cried out, his body jolting at the overwhelming fever that spread rapidly through his body at the heat of your mouth on him. He tried to think through it, tried to memorise the sensations, but nothing had quite come close to this when it came to his pleasure.

He'd fucked you every which way one could imagine, finding easy release in the depths of your own pleasure just by knowing that he was the one to cause it. But this, entirely focussed on his needs, was a whole other game.

He couldn't grasp any of the thoughts swirling around his pleasure-addled mind, couldn't focus on anything but how you felt, wet and warm around his root, devouring him like a starved woman presented with a delicious meal.

And a delicious meal, he was. His cock swelled within the passion of your mouth as you took him in further still, your massaging fingers at the base, compensating for what you couldn’t fit. Remembering what you’d read in that filthy little book you'd been keeping secret, you bobbed your head and hollowed your cheeks, and you sucked, gently at first but slowly building to something more intense that made it harder and harder for him to find any semblance of focus.

You gazed up at him, eyes sparkling with your own arousal, to see him completely lost in pleasure, one elegant hand pressed to his forehead in delightful despair, the other gripping the edge of the cushion he laid back on so firmly that his knuckles had long since turned white.

You hummed, appreciating his weight of his heavy cock against your tongue as you felt a wetness grow between your thighs. The vibration your dirty little sound sent down his shaft caused him to whine out a string of incomprehensible obscenities, and his hips to buck up involuntarily as he fought to keep his eyes open and his head lifted enough to see you.

He’d never felt so safe with such a lack of control over his body, every nerve alight with passion and every muscle weak with complete pleasure. He couldn't think, but he didn't need to. He knew somewhere in the depths of this rapture that you would take good care of him, think through his pleasure for him, and finish him spectacularly. There was one other thing he knew for certain - one thought that pierced the haze of euphoria clouding his every thought - that his peak would come all too soon.

He couldn't fight it, he felt too week with imminent satisfaction to try to last any longer. He wanted this feeling to last forever, but also to explode between your lips and reach paradise all at once.

He released his grip on the seat cushion, and reached, trembling, for the nape of your neck. If his eyes must insist on clenching shut in unfathomable pleasure, he could at least follow your movements with touch, perhaps that would be just as enjoyable as watching.

It was.

At the exact moment that his fingers connected with your neck and slid up into your hair, he erupted with a shout, emptying his seed into your mouth and down your throat while your tongue circled his sensitive tip each time you moved upwards, and massaged his shaft as you slid back down.

Your name tore from his lips, a guttural cry that rang in your ears as he came down from his climax, breathless and groaning in exertion.

With a final lap to clean up the last traces of his peak, you sat back on your heels and smiled, proud of yourself for getting him off with such excellent results on your first attempt.

Sherlock was still very much floating on another plane of existence as his length twitched with aftershocks and softened upon your palm. You pushed up so settle over him on the chaise, appreciating his post-orgasm glow from a few inches above his handsome face.

‘A success?’ you chuckled, connecting your lips to his so he could taste himself upon them.

He nodded, opening his eyes slightly with an uneven smile meant as a silent thank you. ‘But I… I couldn’t focus on a thing. Nothing, that is, except for your mouth being stuffed full of me. Tell me you-’

Pride swelled in your chest. ‘I memorised every minute reaction.’

‘That’s my girl,’ he breathed. ‘You should write it down.’

‘Oh, I will,’ you promised, ‘in great, explicit detail. But first, another?’

His head fell back as you moved your hand gently over his sex, feeling it grow with arousal once again, and with that, a knock sounded at the door.

Disappointment flooded you. ‘You'll probably want to get that. It could be a case-’

‘They can wait,’ Sherlock whispered, waving his hand lazily. ‘I'm in the middle of a very important experiment for which we need more data...’

[milfloveer]

Sherlock Holmes x fem!reader

Prompt: Y/n gives Sherlock a time out of the work

Warnings: smut 18+ minors DNI, age gap (reader is in their 20s and Sherlock in his 30s), p in v, unprotected sex, creampie

A/n: Hey! It's my first work here on Tumblr! So please be nice, thank you <3 Also I'm open to requests! (Character or not, male or female x femreader :3)

‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚ ⊹ ‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹

The smell of tobacco coming from the smoking pipe invaded my nostrils, which made me look over towards the man sitting on his chair while concentrating on the papers scattered all over the desk in front of him. A frown on his face and the smoking pipe dangling from his lips, his hair a little ruffled from the many times he passed his hands over it.

My face softens and a smile forms on my lips, it is amazing how this man can be even more handsome when he doesn't care, but what is truly remarkable is how the so famous detective, Sherlock Holmes, can't figure out the feelings I nurture for him, for I don't even try to hide them.

Realizing that I am staring I shake my head and look back at the tangling lines on the map securing some clues in certain places.

Nonetheless, I can't take the man present in the same room out of my head. How we both need some rest, so I decide to take matters into my hands.

With my heart hammering into my ribcage I approach Sherlock from the side "Any luck?" I ask, trying to gain more time so my restless heart wouldn't jump out through my mouth. The man closes his eyes while sighing "None. This man is playing with us, he's always a step ahead." he says now looking directly at me.

Taking a deep breath I approached him more "Maybe we need some rest, so we could think straight. In the early morning is better than the late night, Sherlock." I say trying to convince him, but he doesn't listen to me "No, I need to solve this. You go rest, y/n. You deserve it." he says getting back to his papers.

I roll my eyes annoyed and turn his chair towards me so he could be face to face with me "You deserve to rest as well." I say firmly while staring at his blue eyes.

Sherlock seems surprised by my behavior "Y/n, I-" he tries to say but I stop him by putting my index finger in front of his lips "No 'but', no nothing. Rest." I demand. He opens his mouth again to talk so I straddle him, our faces now centimeters away "No 'but's." I say seductively, his body tenses under mine "Y/n-" he gulps, my heart roaring on my chest, my nerves are above the scale, but I keep my composure, firm, sexy and confident.

A wave of pure confidence floods over me and in a second I close the gap between us, my mind racing with a million thoughts all at once, my heart ripping out of my chest and the air on my lungs no longer existing. Until I felt Sherlock hands grabbing firmly my waist, pulling me closer and his lips moving hungrily against mine.

I started grinding against him, which made his hands grip my hips. His touch feels electric against my body. A needy moan escapes between my lips and as a result of, Sherlock hands move to my thighs, slowly, painfully, teasingly, moving towards my center.

"Please." I breathe out against his lips, he looks at me, his eyes dark with desire "Please what, darling?" his voice seductively low and raspy "I need you." I say tugging his hair softly while keeping my hip movements. I can feel him hard against my center "Then take me." Sherlock says daringly, that's all I needed to hear.

My hands move to his pants unbuttoning them and releasing him, I can feel myself dripping at his sight. With one hand I grab him and slowly stroke him, teasing him, pulling a guttural groan out of Sherlock, his head falls back against the chair. My other hand is pulling my undergarments off of me and when I'm fully free I stop my movements and look deep into Sherlock eyes "You sure about this?" I ask him "I've dreamed of this moment, darling. I'm truly certain about this." the man says while squeezing my thighs, his eyes darting between my eyes and lips.

I cup his face so I could bring him closer to seal our lips together in a heated kiss. He lets out a groan when one of my hands grabs him while centering with me. Moving my body down slowly I feel his tip entering me, my head falls to his shoulder, my mouth wide as he keeps filling me up, his head back and his eyes shut, while a soft moan escapes his soft lips.

When he's fully inside me I wait a moment so I can adjust to his size, Sherlock on the other hand starts displaying open mouth kisses from my neck to my collarbone, his hand rips the corset buttons open and then pulls my blouse down so my breasts are fully disposed to him. He moans at the sight before attaching his lips to my right nipple, making my head fall back as my hand goes to the back of his head, nuzzling my fingers into his hair, pulling his head even more towards me.

My hips start moving slowly causing Sherlock and I to groan in synchrony "You have no idea how long I've been thinking about this." He says against my breasts looking up at me like a lost puppy, the sight mixed with the words he said brings out a chuckle from me "And here I thought you were the best detective of all time." I say beginning to move up and down, filling me up each time I move down, his tip hitting a wonderful spot every single time.

"Bloody hell, y/n. You feel wonderful." Sherlock says grabbing my hips so he could help me with the movements "Yes, Sherlock, just like that." I say feeling the pressure building up on my lower abdomen.

I start to move sloppily and out of coordination so Sherlock circles my waist with his arms pulling me closer to him, our bodies sticky with sweat, he starts moving his hips up and down with deep and faster trusts which makes me stop my own movements and scream out "Sherlock!" He bites my neck sucking right after, certainly leaving a love mark.

"That's it darling, cum for me." His deep raspy voice demands on my ear and it was all I needed to go over the edge, my body trembles with ecstasy, but nonetheless Sherlock keeps his movements, a little more sloppier than before "Good girl. Now are you going to make daddy cum as well?" He asks making me moan at his words "Yes." I say and he slaps my butt cheek "Yes what?" Sherlock asks with his deep voice "Yes, daddy." I say biting my bottom lip "That's my good girl. I'm gonna fill you up with my seed and you're going to take it all." He says grabbing my chin and forcing me to look right at his blown irises "Yes, daddy, give me everything." I say feeling my second orgasm building up.

All that is heard on the loft is the encounter of our skins, the sounds of my juices dripping all over him "Shit- Sherlock, I'm close!" I say as my walls clench around him and I could tell his near too. A few more deep trust and his hot liquid is filling me up while my body shakes almost violently with my second ecstatic moment.

After coming down from our highs I lay my forehead against his, a smile plastered on my lips, our breaths shaky and heavy. Sherlock chuckles and kisses me softly "What if we take this to the bedroom?" His suggestive tone makes me chuckle "Lead the way." I say before he lifts me up in his arms while getting himself up from his chair, making our way to the bedroom.

[artyandink]

𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐮𝐬 | 𝟏

𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐲

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: You were the only one Sherlock ever truly loved, and it was true. No lady ever caught his eye, no woman stole his attention the way your wit and charm did. He supposed it was his own fault for losing you, his own fault that you walked out his door, leaving a young child with him that was now old enough. Old enough to want to find her mother. He wanted to find you. But he also didn’t want to. It meant to face his own truth.

𝐓𝐖: angst, set after Enola Holmes 2, bad father-daughter relationships, child abandonment, heartbreak, stubborn Sherlock, oc!daughter, stubborn daughter so the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, identity concealment

𝐀/𝐍: surprise! Decided to post early ;)

𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓/𝐑𝐄𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐆

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆: I MISS YOU, I’M SORRY BY GRACIE ABRAMS

𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐢𝐧

𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐋𝐘, 𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐇𝐀𝐃 no one learnt their lesson yet?

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He groaned, stepping past the burly police guards to get into the scene of the bank robbery— oh, now they’re stopping Watson, what was it with these blasted, bloody policemen? Guess nobody had bothered to even instate smarter policemen after Grail and his cronies got fired (in Grail’s case, a very broken neck). “Didn’t I tell you not to be ridiculous? He’s with me. Holmes and Watson.”

“Sorry, Mr Holmes, sir.” One of the policemen muttered, gesturing for Watson to pass through, the man looking a little bemused and unfamiliar with his surroundings. Ah. Right, Watson wasn’t acquainted with the life of a detective.

He stepped up beside Sherlock, looking around at the bustling room of policemen who were trampling all over the crime scene, which made his job that much more frustrating. “What are we looking for, exactly?”

“Clues.” Sherlock replied, rubbing his chin for a moment then spotting an approaching Lestrade from across the room. Oh, bother. Lestrade. “Act busy, Watson.”

The question seemed to baffle Watson, as he raised his eyebrows in confusion and bewilderment. “What? Why—”

An obnoxious laugh, followed by— “Mr Holmes? Or is there still an invitation for Sherlock?” The lack of laughter clearly told him no. “Ah. Well, apologies for the bother,” yes, you are a bother, Lestrade, “but we have someone claiming to be your daughter.”

Oh, bother. Again.

“I’ll handle it.” Sherlock muttered, knowing exactly who Lestrade was talking about. With heavy footsteps — and heart — he made his way across the room, seeing a girl who looked startlingly like her mother, something which tugged at her heartstrings. She had a scrutinising look that mirrored his often as she looked at the crime scene, but she was not meant to be here. Not at all, not now, not any day. “Clara.”

She turned around, huffing slightly at the stern tone, an eyebrow raising in response to his short and sweet sentence. “You could sound happier, you know.”

“I’ll sound happy when you’re not trodding on my crime scene.” He grimaced, gesturing around at the marbled bank. Really, what was it with people making his day more difficult? Even if Clara was his daughter, yes, he could give her more favour, but he wasn’t in the mood today.

That was the excuse he’d given for the past sixteen years of your life.

The deceivingly polite hum she gave in return mocked him, he knew it, he’d been hearing it more times than now. “I don’t see your name on it.”

“You don’t need to.” He took her arm, giving her a stern look once more, because why on this green Earth does his daughter have to trouble him so? “Clara, I highly advise that you return home. It isn’t safe to do my job.”

“And yet you let Enola do it.” Ah, that was true, but Enola was a rather frustratingly free spirit and he had less control and watch over her than he did you. So he could make that odd excuse for himself.

Couldn’t he?

Watson approached the two, which gave him the chance to divert from the rather valid point, gesturing between the two. “Ah, Watson. This is my daughter, Clara.”

“Dr John Watson.” Watson offered a friendly smile, to which Clara did too and shook his hand— this man seemed amicable, to say the least.

“Pleasure.” She replied warmly, feeling rather friendly towards this man. The firm handshake ended as Clara turned her attention back to Sherlock, a smirk playing at her lips. “Alright, Sherlock,” she began, voice laced with a playful defiance. “If it’s so unsafe, why don’t you show me? Let me see what you’re so keen on keeping me away from.” She glanced at the scattered, chaotic scene. “Maybe you need a fresher pair of eyes on this anyway.”

Sherlock’s expression tightened. He’d managed to avoid bringing her into his world all these years, and now, in the middle of a chaotic crime scene, she was pushing him to let her in. “This isn’t the time or place for amateur eyes, Clara,” he said in a low tone, already feeling the familiar pulse of frustration beginning to rise. “And I would advise you to stop before you make a fool of yourself.”

Clara shrugged, undeterred. “Just thought I’d offer. You never know, I might surprise you.”

Holmes bit back a retort as Watson watched the exchange with bemused curiosity, clearly amused by the sight of someone matching Sherlock’s intensity without a hint of deference. “I see stubbornness is a family trait,” he muttered, folding his arms as he leaned in beside Sherlock.

Lestrade, who had been standing off to the side and soaking in the drama, took the opportunity to interject. “Mr. Holmes,” he drawled, crossing his arms as he looked between father and daughter with raised eyebrows, “are we here to solve the crime or conduct a family reunion?”

Holmes’s mouth twitched in irritation, but he let it pass. “Right. Watson, you’re with me. Clara—” he pointedly ignored her expectant expression— “you’re waiting here with Lestrade.”

Clara rolled her eyes. “Oh, wonderful. I’ll stay here and learn all about the art of loitering from Inspector Lestrade.”

Lestrade opened his mouth, but Sherlock cut him off, heading toward the center of the room with Watson in tow. “Now,” he murmured as they stopped beside the broken bank vault, “let’s have a look.”

Watson peered inside the gaping vault door. “They took quite a haul, didn’t they?”

“Not just any haul,” Holmes murmured, narrowing his eyes as he took in the disturbed items, the displaced dust, the carelessly strewn stacks of paper. “This was messy—too messy.” He crouched down, scrutinizing a particular set of footprints in the dust. “It’s almost as if they wanted us to believe they were inexperienced.”

Watson frowned. “But why would they do that?”

Holmes traced a hand over the edge of the vault’s interior. “The more time we spend looking for amateurs, the less time we spend looking for professionals.”

Watson nodded thoughtfully. “So they’ve planted a false trail, hoping to throw us off their scent.”

“Precisely.” Sherlock straightened, his mind churning through the details. His gaze flicked back toward the corner of the room, where Clara stood. Against his better judgment, he motioned her over. “Alright, Clara. Since you insist on staying, why don’t you tell me what you see?”

Clara’s eyebrows shot up, surprise flashing across her face before she schooled it into an air of composed observation. She glanced around the vault, taking in the state of the room as her father had done moments before. After a few seconds, she looked back at Sherlock with a wry smile. “They’re trying to lead you down the wrong path, aren’t they?”

Holmes’s eyes widened, just slightly. “And what makes you say that?”

Clara pointed at the shoeprints left in the vault. “The prints are too heavy-handed, too deliberate. Someone’s been stomping around as if they wanted to make sure every detail would be noticed.” Her gaze shifted to the scattered papers on the floor, arranged just a bit too carelessly. “Almost as if they’d never done this before—and wanted to make sure we knew it.”

A proud smile tugged at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth despite himself. “Not bad, Clara. Not bad at all.”

Lestrade, who had wandered over to listen, snorted. “A chip off the old block, eh, Holmes?”

Holmes ignored him. Instead, he glanced at Clara, a faint glint of approval in his eyes. “Very well. Since you’ve already inserted yourself into this, let’s see how much you can keep up.”

“Gladly,” Clara replied with a smirk, her tone far more confident now that she’d received a sliver of approval.

Watson chuckled, nudging Holmes with his elbow. “Looks like you’ve got yourself a new apprentice, Holmes.”

Sherlock groaned, but there was a resigned acceptance in his expression. “Don’t remind me.” He turned, leading the trio out of the vault. “Lestrade, call in the forensics team, and see if they can track down anything unusual with those footprints. Watson, Clara—let’s move.”

As they began to exit the bank, Watson glanced sideways at Clara. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen him that rattled,” he whispered, grinning. “You’ve a knack for keeping him on his toes.”

Clara shrugged, the glimmer of pride unmistakable in her eyes. “Someone’s got to.”

Clara adjusted her bonnet in the small, gilded mirror in the parlor, smiling at her reflection with a touch of nerves. She rarely dressed up, but today was different. She was meeting Enola—her aunt, yes, but more than that, her friend, her confidante. Enola understood Clara like no one else in her family, and Clara had looked forward to this afternoon, knowing it would be a rare moment of laughter, freedom, and truth. Besides, she had an idea that her sharp-eyed aunt wouldn’t mind a bit of teasing about her newest friendship with the charming Lord Tewkesbury.

Peeking out the window, she saw Enola striding down the street with a familiar energy, her chin tilted high and her gaze direct. Enola moved as if she belonged to no one and nothing, and watching her always made Clara feel a thrill of admiration. Moments later, her aunt burst through the parlor door, her face lighting up when she saw Clara.

“Clara, darling, you look radiant! Has something thrilling happened?” Enola asked, her tone teasing, but her gaze keen.

“Oh, nothing terribly exciting,” Clara replied, unable to keep the grin from spreading across her face. “But I could say the same for you, couldn’t I? You’ve that certain glow… perhaps from all the secret meetings with Lord Tewkesbury?”

The smile flickered from Enola’s face for just a heartbeat before she laughed it off with a wave of her hand. “Honestly, you’re incorrigible.”

They settled into the cushioned armchairs around the tea service, with the delicate china cups and a plate of scones, but Clara could see that her words had struck something in Enola. As her aunt poured tea, her movements were brisk and efficient, but Clara noticed the faintest blush on her cheeks, a telltale sign she was rarely allowed to show.

Clara let the silence linger for a beat, sipping her tea with a knowing look, until Enola finally laughed, giving in. “I ought to know better than to try hiding anything from you. Sherlock may be the great detective, but you’re the most observant one in this family, Clara.”

“Guilty as charged,” Clara replied, grinning. “And it’s hardly my fault—you’ve hardly hidden the signs. I’ve noticed that particular look in your eyes each time someone mentions his name.”

Enola’s fingers tightened slightly on her teacup, her lips pressing together for a moment as if unsure of how much to say. “Oh, it’s nothing, really. He’s just… interesting. He treats me like a person, you know? Not like I’m some delicate flower to be admired from afar.”

Clara raised her eyebrow, refusing to let her aunt off so easily. “Interesting, hmm? That’s an understatement if I’ve ever heard one. He’s called on you half a dozen times in the last fortnight. Are you certain it’s ‘nothing’?”

A faint, wistful smile touched Enola’s lips, though she tried to disguise it with a sip of tea. “Fine, if you must know—he has expressed a certain… interest. He asked if he might call on me more formally, in fact.” Her voice softened, and Clara could see a flicker of uncertainty there that she’d rarely seen before.

Clara bit back a smile, hiding her excitement behind her teacup. “Oh, Enola! And what did you say?”

“I told him I’d… consider it,” Enola admitted, looking away for a moment, clearly conflicted. “But, Clara, it feels so dreadfully conventional, doesn’t it? I’ve never wanted to be one of those women, sitting pretty at someone’s side and pretending I’m satisfied with needlework and society visits. But… there’s something about him that feels different.”

Clara’s smile softened, and she reached out, placing a reassuring hand on Enola’s. “You’re not one of those women, Enola. You’re extraordinary. And if he’s calling on you, knowing exactly who you are, then maybe he sees that too. I don’t think you’d have to change a thing.”

Enola looked down at Clara’s hand on hers, her expression thoughtful. “You really think so? I’ve always told myself there was no room in my life for courtships, for the expectations that come with it all. But with him… I feel as though I could just be myself.”

“Exactly,” Clara said softly. “Maybe he’s more than just ‘interesting,’ after all.”

They fell into a comfortable silence, both of them lost in their thoughts. Clara watched her aunt carefully, seeing the subtle changes in her face as she considered her words. She’d never seen Enola uncertain about anything before; her aunt had always been fiercely independent, but there was a tenderness in her expression that was new.

After a moment, Enola broke the silence, smiling at Clara with a touch of mischief. “But enough about me. What about you, Clara? Surely there must be some gentleman interested in the great Sherlock Holmes’s daughter?”

Clara nearly choked on her tea, laughing. “Oh, absolutely not. For one, I doubt any man in his right mind would willingly subject himself to Father’s scrutiny. He’d investigate everything about him before we’d even finished tea.”

Enola chuckled, nodding. “I can only imagine. Sherlock would be positively unbearable if he suspected someone was pursuing his daughter. But you mustn’t let that stop you from living, Clara. I can tell he’s proud of you, even if he doesn’t say it outright.”

Clara’s gaze softened, and she let out a small sigh. “I know he is, in his way. But sometimes I feel like he’s more protective than proud, almost possessive. As if he’s afraid I’ll leave him somehow.”

Enola’s face softened, and she reached out, squeezing Clara’s hand gently. “I understand. Sherlock has always struggled with connecting to people, even family. But you’ve done more than anyone to draw him out of himself. Even if it is merely an inch.”

Clara looked down, trying to hide the sudden rush of emotion. “It’s comforting to hear that. And it’s a relief to talk to you about these things, Enola. I can’t say them to anyone else.”

For a moment, they sat in quiet understanding, sipping their tea and watching the afternoon light filter through the lace curtains. Finally, Enola’s voice broke the silence, her tone soft.

“You know, I’ve often wondered what it must have been like, growing up as Sherlock’s daughter,” she said gently. “Did you ever feel lonely?”

Clara hesitated, letting the question settle around her. “Sometimes, yes,” she admitted. “Sherlock’s mind is always working, and it was hard to reach him. I grew up thinking that was normal, that fathers were supposed to be distant and distracted. But it wasn’t until I grew older that I realized how unique he is—and how much I love him for it, even if it’s difficult at times.”

Enola smiled, understanding. “You’re right to love him. He’s a complicated man, but I think he knows he has something precious in you.”

Clara returned the smile, feeling a warmth in her chest. She leaned back, looking at her aunt with a thoughtful expression. “Sometimes I wonder if we women of the Holmes family are destined to lead lives more complicated than most.”

Enola chuckled, raising her teacup in a playful toast. “Perhaps so. But we’re Holmes women—we’ve always known how to rise to a challenge.”

“To the Holmes women,” Clara echoed, tapping her cup against Enola’s. They drank, sharing a smile that held years of understanding and unspoken support.

The dim, late-afternoon light was fading through the frosted windows of Clara’s modest flat as she unlocked the door and stepped inside, letting out a long sigh. Her day had gone from thrilling to exhausting in a matter of hours, thanks to her father’s stubbornness and the chaotic mess at the bank. She barely had time to set down her bag when she heard a faint knock at her door. Opening it, she found the postman standing there with a single letter in hand.

“Afternoon, Miss Holmes,” he said, tipping his cap.

She accepted the letter, thanking him politely, and shut the door, examining the envelope in her hand. It was thicker than usual, her name written in swirling emerald ink. Something about it felt… unusual. She moved to her small kitchen table, where she gently broke the seal and unfolded the letter.

My dearest Clara,

You must be wondering who I am. I am your mother, and this letter is long overdue. I left when you were only a year old—not out of a lack of love, but out of circumstances I could not control. It has been one of the deepest regrets of my life, and not a day has passed without thoughts of you.

I am certain you have many questions, perhaps even anger, and I will understand if you do. But know this, Clara: I loved you then, and I love you now. Your father and I… well, things grew complicated, but I miss him as well, even though I know his heart is not easily won back.

With all my love,

Your mother.

Clara read the letter twice, her hands still. She was unsure how to process the surge of emotions. Her mother… a woman she had no memory of, yet had spent years wondering about, had suddenly reappeared in her life with only this brief, tantalizing message.

Her mother was alive. And she missed her.

Her fingers traced the elegant, swirling letters as her mind raced. She felt a strange mix of excitement, anger, and wariness that left her stomach knotted. She’d spent her entire life wondering about this mysterious figure, and here was the chance to finally know more. But, at the same time, there was a gnawing sense of resentment—the feeling of abandonment, the ache of growing up without even the smallest memory of her mother.

But this was not a decision she could make lightly. Sherlock had always been tight-lipped on the subject, dismissing questions or deflecting with wit or cold silence. Now, she’d received more about her mother in a few sentences than her father had given in sixteen years.

Clara’s thoughts were interrupted as she realized she hadn’t moved in nearly ten minutes, still clutching the letter as if it might vanish. She quickly slid it back into the envelope, setting it down on the table. Then she paced back and forth in her cramped flat, glancing every so often at the envelope as though it might hold all the answers she needed.

Finally, she sank into a chair, the letter held in both hands as she tried to calm her mind. She recalled moments over the years—questions she’d asked Sherlock, the clipped answers, the discomfort that shadowed his otherwise composed demeanor whenever the subject of her mother arose. A part of her wanted to storm back to Baker Street and demand answers, but she knew he’d only retreat behind a wall of indifference.

For now, she’d have to rely on the letter itself, on the words her mother had chosen so carefully.

The hours slipped by as Clara turned the letter over in her mind, running her fingers over the rich green ink and wondering if the faint scent of lavender clinging to the page was intentional or a mere coincidence. When she finally managed to pull herself away from the letter, it was nearly dusk, and the world outside her window was settling into the quiet hum of evening.

There was something raw and earnest there, a vulnerability that felt deeply out of place in her life—something almost… foreign.

She was almost startled when the knock at the door echoed again. Her mind raced, wondering if somehow her mother was on the other side. Heart pounding, she went to open it, but it was only Mrs. Donahue, the elderly woman from down the hall, who’d come to check in on her, as she often did.

Clara managed a smile, exchanging small talk and listening patiently to the latest updates on Mrs. Donahue’s collection of pet cats. All the while, though, her mind drifted back to the letter. Once her neighbor had left, she sat down with her notebook and pen, beginning to draft a response.

Dear Mother,

Thank you for reaching out to me. I must admit, receiving your letter has been… unexpected. I have questions, certainly, and perhaps even some anger that I cannot yet name. I grew up knowing only my father, and while he was… well, Sherlock, he raised me alone, and I had few memories or even stories of you.

I don’t know what to think about your leaving or how I’m supposed to feel now that you want to see me. You’ve said you miss me, but I need to know more—about you, about the circumstances that led to your departure.

I really do want to meet you again.

Yours sincerely,

Clara.

As she finished, Clara took a deep breath, sealing the letter and addressing it to the return address her mother had provided in the countryside. It felt surreal, sending a reply out into the unknown, as though reaching through a foggy past. She didn’t know what would come of it, or even if she wanted a relationship with this woman who had so suddenly re-entered her life. But she did want answers—and she knew she couldn’t ignore this chance, however strange it felt.

With her reply tucked away, Clara took one last glance at her mother’s letter before extinguishing the light and preparing for bed. She lay awake, the darkness only sharpening the conflicted feelings swirling within her. It was a strange mixture of curiosity and trepidation, mingled with the faintest glimmer of hope she was almost afraid to acknowledge.

The morning was cold and gray as Sherlock stepped out into the brisk London air, tugging the collar of his coat up against the biting wind. He’d been summoned by Mycroft, and, though he didn’t care much for such meetings, he’d decided it was best to comply this time. The man never summoned anyone without purpose—especially not his own brother.

Arriving at Whitehall, he was ushered through the labyrinthine halls with all the formalities expected of government offices. The building loomed around him, its thick stone walls and tall, narrow windows giving the place a sense of unyielding authority. Everything here was impeccably neat, everything in its place—a stark contrast to the chaos of Baker Street, with its cluttered stacks of books, scattered notes, and curious relics from cases past.

Sherlock reached the last corridor, a long, dimly lit stretch of polished wood and brass fixtures. Mycroft’s office lay at the end, an austere and intimidating corner of the building, its large oak door carved with intricate designs. Sherlock paused, his hand on the brass doorknob, glancing at his own reflection in the polished surface. His face was calm, but there was a hint of weariness around his eyes—a faint remnant of the sleepless nights spent on the latest string of cases. But here, he needed to wear the veneer of composure. Mycroft would tolerate nothing less.

He opened the door, stepping into his brother’s domain. The office was vast, with tall ceilings and large windows draped in heavy burgundy curtains that framed the muted gray light outside. Shelves lined the walls, filled with meticulously ordered files and ledgers, the dark wood glistening from years of polish. A massive mahogany desk dominated the room, its surface immaculate, save for a single crystal inkpot, a brass letter opener, and several neatly stacked documents.

Behind the desk sat Mycroft, every inch the imposing government official. His perfectly tailored suit, his carefully manicured hands folded on the desktop, and his steely, inscrutable gaze all contributed to an air of detached authority. He watched as Sherlock entered, his expression giving nothing away.

“Sherlock,” he greeted, his tone cool and measured.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock replied with a slight nod, crossing the room to stand before the desk.

For a moment, neither spoke, each studying the other. There was an old, familiar tension between them, a silent rivalry that had never quite faded. Though Sherlock prided himself on his ability to remain unfazed by most things, Mycroft’s scrutiny always had a peculiar effect on him, as if he were a schoolboy called to account.

“Sit,” Mycroft finally said, gesturing to the leather armchair opposite him.

Sherlock lowered himself into the chair, crossing his legs and lacing his fingers together. He kept his gaze steady, waiting for Mycroft to state his purpose.

“I trust you know why you’re here,” Mycroft began, his voice carrying the quiet authority of a man used to being obeyed.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “An assumption, Mycroft. I would have thought you’d know better.”

A flicker of annoyance passed over Mycroft’s face before he leaned forward, clasping his hands on the desk. “I called you here because of Clara.”

The mention of his daughter’s name caused a subtle shift in Sherlock’s expression, though he quickly masked it. He inclined his head slightly, waiting for Mycroft to continue.

“I received reports that she recently received a… peculiar letter,” Mycroft said, his tone carefully neutral. “From her mother.”

The words struck Sherlock like a physical blow, though he refused to let it show. He had spent years building walls around that part of his life, shutting away the memories of his former wife with a determination that bordered on ruthless. Yet, here they were, dragged back into the light, as if the mere mention of her name could summon a past he had tried so diligently to bury.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, his voice cool, almost detached. “A letter arrived for Clara recently. Written in emerald ink, her mother’s handwriting unmistakable.” He paused, the memory of the letter fresh in his mind. The flowing, ornate script, the words carefully chosen yet laced with sentiments he had long since ceased to indulge. “It seems she wishes to reconnect.”

Mycroft leaned back in his chair, his gaze never wavering. “And what are you planning to do about it?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock replied. “The matter is for Clara to decide. She’s old enough to form her own judgments.”

A slight frown creased Mycroft’s brow, his expression hardening. “Sherlock, we both know that allowing Clara to engage with such… sentimentality would be unwise. You cannot afford to be swayed by remnants of a life you abandoned long ago. I need you to remember the person you are now, the clarity you’ve achieved. Falling back into old patterns would be… detrimental.”

Sherlock held his brother’s gaze, his own expression growing colder. “I’m not a fool, Mycroft. I’m aware of what’s at stake. I haven’t forgotten the reasons for that chapter’s closure.”

Mycroft studied him in silence, and in that silence, Sherlock could feel the weight of his brother’s unspoken expectations. He knew that Mycroft regarded sentiment as a weakness—a flaw that had no place in their carefully constructed lives. And Sherlock had once shared that view, perhaps even more fiercely than Mycroft himself. But Clara had changed things. Clara, with her sharp mind and fierce independence, was a constant reminder of the life he had built after severing ties with his past.

“My point,” Mycroft continued, his tone colder, “is that you have responsibilities—both to Clara and to yourself. Indulging her curiosity could lead to complications that neither of you are equipped to handle. And as for… her mother…” He paused, his face hardening, as if even the mention of the woman was distasteful. “Reopening that door would only invite chaos. I trust you haven’t forgotten that.”

Sherlock’s jaw tightened, a flicker of defiance in his eyes. “I am perfectly aware of the risks, Mycroft. But I won’t dictate Clara’s choices. She is her own person.”

“Her autonomy is not the issue here,” Mycroft countered sharply. “The issue is that she is a Holmes, and that comes with expectations. Emotions and nostalgia have no place in this family. We were raised to understand that.”

For a moment, a surge of resentment flared within Sherlock, memories of his own emotionally barren upbringing surfacing unbidden. He had learned early on that sentiment was something to be kept under lock and key, that any display of vulnerability was a liability. Yet he had fought against that conditioning for Clara’s sake, wanting to shield her from the colder aspects of the Holmes legacy.

But now, sitting across from Mycroft in this austere office, he felt the weight of that legacy press down on him once more, suffocating and inescapable.

“I understand your concerns,” Sherlock said finally, his tone measured, carefully devoid of emotion. “But I will handle this situation in my own way. Clara is not a child, and I refuse to impose limitations on her merely because they suit your sensibilities.”

Mycroft’s gaze grew colder still, but he remained silent, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the surface of the desk. The room felt heavy, the air thick with unspoken tensions that seemed to settle over them like a shroud.

“Very well,” Mycroft said at last, his tone clipped. “But consider this your only warning, Sherlock. I won’t tolerate any lapses in judgment where she is concerned. Sentiment is a distraction, and distractions lead to vulnerabilities. And vulnerabilities, in our line of work, can be fatal.”

Sherlock held his gaze, feeling a pang of resentment at the admonishment. He knew Mycroft’s words were rooted in a twisted sense of duty, but they grated against the part of him that wanted, however reluctantly, to trust Clara’s ability to navigate her own path.

“Understood,” he replied curtly, rising from the chair. He cast a final, lingering glance around the office—the shelves stacked with secrets, the air thick with the scent of leather and ink, the oppressive quiet that seemed to permeate every corner of this place. It was a stark reminder of the life he had chosen, of the sacrifices he had made, and of the distance that now separated him from the man he had once been.

As he turned to leave, Mycroft’s voice stopped him.

“Sherlock.” The tone was softer this time, almost a warning. “Don’t let sentiment blind you. You know what it cost you the last time.”

Sherlock paused, the words hanging heavily in the air. He knew, all too well, the price he had paid. And yet, for all his resolve, he felt a flicker of doubt—a faint, nagging whisper that refused to be silenced. But he crushed it down, turning his gaze to the door.

“Yes, Mycroft,” he said quietly, his voice a cold, measured echo in the stillness. “I remember.”

“Father.” It was one word which caught Sherlock’s attention as his daughter simply burst into his flat as he was working the details of the bank robbery with Watson the next day.

Oh, go ahead, just sweep into his apartment like a small tornado right when he’s busy. His daughter summarised in just one sentence. “Clara.”

“Clara.” Watson piped up, probably to not feel left out of the cold exchange and to make it a little more friendly.

Clara smiled at Watson, clearly more accustomed to him than Sherlock. “John.” That raised Sherlock’s brow, as what just happened? That wasn’t normal, that wasn’t ever normal.

“John?” He repeated incredulously, glancing between the two of them to try and fathom the use of first names. “Since when was it John, pray tell?”

Clara rolled her eyes; trust her father to be a nosy busybody about all her business. She looked pointedly to Watson, who got the hint, gathering up his things. “I’ll have a cuppa with Mrs Hudson.” He muttered as he hurried.

“No, Watson, ask her to make me…” The door slammed shut, a heavy sigh from Sherlock fading into a pensive expression that spoke many volumes, his hand dropping to his side. “Mrs Hudson makes… wonderful tea.”

“I’m sure she does.” She replied dryly, inviting a glare of incredulity from Sherlock— Mrs Hudson deserved the world, she was an exemplary landlady, why the tone which sounded like it had been through a substantial drought. “Now, we have to talk.”

He frowned slightly, taking a puff from his pipe and setting it aside. What could you possibly want from him? “Yes? What about?”

“Mother.” The word stiffened him up, everything rushing back. He never thought he’d find the day, but he supposed you were inevitable.

You. It was always you, it always came back to you.

You were Sherlock’s one exception, his only mistake, but it was a mistake that he’d most likely make a million times over. It had felt like his vision was in dull noir before it burst into glorious colour the moment he laid eyes on you, the witty, oh-so-charming woman who’d stolen his heart so effortlessly. You were beauty in its finest form and good Lord, you had a brilliant mind that rivalled his own.

In truth, you were the enigma he took true pleasure in decoding.

He had been young, foolish, and he’d fallen for you, courted you, and you’d done the same. It had come to the point where even a few hours spent away from one another made your hearts ache and experience pain greater than the most devastating blow. So he’d married you, loved you, cherished you, and it felt like a whirlwind. His mind, his cases had become nothing more than a speck of dust and you had consumed him— mind, body and soul.

It wasn’t extensive to say that no matter who he saw or who attempted to have him, he’d always be yours.

Barely a few months after the marriage, you had turned out to be with child, and he had never been happier, never been more elated, more protective of you, abandoning all cases that came his way to keep you safe, to focus on you. And what’s more is that he became a new man once Clara was born. The second light of his life, and everything seemed so vibrant, so surreal, sublime, and he knew that he’d never find a love like this. A love that made him feel alive.

Good things were never meant to last, however, for a month after Clara’s first birthday, things had seemingly got too dangerous for you once you and Sherlock had resumed taking cases while Mrs Hudson cared for Clara. You’d left with only one conversation, not allowing room for him to plead with you, to tell you to stay, that you were his driving force.

To no avail, for you left, and you left him a broken man, unable to look at his child — your child — without seeing you. It hardened him, forced tunnel vision in front of his eyes as he no longer saw Clara, just the woman he’d loved and lost because he hadn’t fought hard enough. He couldn’t bear to see you in his daughter. Mycroft called it sentimentality.

Sentimentality was his sin.

He muttered your name, his thumb moving to rub over his wedding band, every small memory you both shared seared into his vision and into his being. Sometimes he wished he had a lesser mind, at least then he could forget you. Or stop loving you.

He couldn’t let Clara suffer the same.

“What about her?” His voice had gotten sharper, he noticed, almost like the dagger that had twisted in his heart the day you left. To this day, his heart still bled, like a dead man walking.

Clara showed him the letter, and yes, he immediately knew it was you. Your handwriting was unforgettable, the way you wrote the letter ‘S’, the small teardrop next to his name and the emerald green ink that had always stained your pointer finger on the page in beautiful lettering. “She wrote to me. I want to find her, Sherlock.”

Oh, dear Lord. No, he couldn’t. He couldn’t have his heart broken again.

“No.” He shook his head.

The air in Sherlock’s flat felt thick, and every nerve in his body tensed as he faced his daughter, the letter clutched in her hand like a weapon ready to break open old wounds. Sherlock's fingers gripped the edge of his chair until his knuckles turned white, as if holding on for balance against an emotional tide that threatened to pull him under.

"No," he repeated, his tone colder than he intended. "I won’t allow it."

Clara’s eyes narrowed, and her face twisted in a mixture of disbelief and anger. "What do you mean, 'won’t allow it'? I’m not a child, Sherlock. I can make my own choices."

Sherlock felt the familiar pang of guilt gnawing at him. His gaze flickered to the letter, the one written in that all-too-familiar handwriting. It was as if just seeing her words, her distinctive, elegant hand, brought every memory flooding back, each one pressing down on him until he could hardly breathe. But he forced himself to maintain composure, his voice sharp and unwavering. “You don’t understand the implications, Clara. She left for a reason. Digging into that past—” He stopped himself, taking a steadying breath. “It’s not wise.”

Clara stared at him, eyes wide with anger and hurt. “Not wise?” she echoed, her voice thick with emotion. “What isn’t wise, Sherlock, is to keep avoiding this. She’s my mother, and you can’t just erase her from my life because you’re afraid of facing whatever it is that happened between you two.”

“Afraid?” Sherlock’s lips curled in an incredulous sneer, but it was a mask, thin and brittle. “You think this is fear? I am protecting you.”

“Protecting me?” Clara repeated, her tone scathing. “No, you’re protecting yourself. This has nothing to do with me, or what’s good for me. You’ve never even told me anything about her, Sherlock—not one detail. I know more about John and Mrs. Hudson than I do about my own mother, and that’s because of you. You never gave me the chance to know her.”

Sherlock’s jaw clenched as Clara’s words hit him like a series of blows, each one harder than the last. He knew she was right—she deserved to know about her mother, about the woman who had left them both behind. But every time he’d considered it, his heart had balked, resisting the idea of opening himself to the pain he had buried so deeply. To speak of her was to relive the joy and the anguish, and it felt like reopening a wound that had never fully healed.

“This isn’t about denying you knowledge,” he said, but his voice sounded hollow, even to his own ears. “Some things are better left in the past.”

“Because you say so?” Clara shot back, her hands shaking slightly. “I have the right to find her, Sherlock. She’s the one who reached out to me, not you, and I’m not going to let you stand in my way.”

He rose from his chair, the motion sudden and forceful. “Clara, you don’t know what you’re dealing with. Your mother isn’t the person you imagine her to be. You were a baby when she left. You don’t understand the complexity, the danger—”

“The danger?” Clara’s voice trembled, and she laughed bitterly. “There you go again, always shrouding everything in mystery and secrets. Do you ever think that maybe I’d be better equipped to handle things if you’d just told me the truth from the beginning?”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The silence between them was filled with unspoken words, regrets, and the weight of years spent in avoidance. Sherlock’s eyes softened for a fraction of a second, and he considered, for the briefest of moments, telling her everything. But the years of habit, of training himself to keep his heart locked away, proved stronger.

“This discussion is over,” he said finally, the words cutting like ice. “I won’t permit it.”

Clara stared at him, disbelief and hurt flashing across her face. “You really are heartless, aren’t you?” she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath. “All that intelligence, all those brilliant deductions, and yet you can’t see what’s right in front of you.” She took a step back, shaking her head. “I thought, maybe, there was a part of you that could care… that there was some semblance of family left between us. But I was wrong.”

Without another word, Clara turned on her heel and stormed out of the flat, the door slamming behind her with a force that rattled the windows. Sherlock flinched, a rare, unguarded reaction breaking through his normally stoic expression.

For a moment, he stood there, the silence of the flat pressing in on him like a weight. The letter sat on the table, the emerald ink glistening faintly in the dim light, taunting him. He resisted the urge to reach for it, to read the words he knew would cut deeper than any blade.

“Sherlock?” The soft voice broke the silence, and he looked up to see Mrs. Hudson standing hesitantly in the doorway, having been drawn by the commotion. She took one look at his face, and her expression softened with concern.

“Oh, dear,” she murmured, her eyes drifting toward the letter on the table. “Would you like some tea?”

Sherlock took a deep, steadying breath, forcing his composure back into place. He nodded, though his voice sounded distant, as if it belonged to someone else. “Yes, Mrs. Hudson… I think I would.”

𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐥𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠

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[daydreamtofiction]

Thou Shalt Not Covet // 19: Spirit

Contents | Prev Part | First Person Version [AO3]

Summary: (Priest!Benedict x Female Reader) A year and a half has passed and Ellis has moved on, but the universe never seems to let her forget her past.

Word Count: 8.3K (It's another hefty one lol oops)

Warnings: Strong language, irreverence, dark humour, adult & sexual themes, alcohol consumption, smut incl: penetrative sex, 'quickie', rough, no aftercare. Readers must be 18+

The world never stops turning, no matter how unfair it may seem. We crash our cars yet the radio still plays, traffic lights keep changing as we sit in the wreck, red then amber then green, and back again. Daffodils bloom as dreams wilt away, and the sky still glitters with fireworks at the end of the worst year of someone's life. We are passengers on a train with no stops, and the options are limited; embrace the journey or get dragged along behind it. 

Eighteen months had passed since you'd let the light back in. A year and a half of laughter and growth, of new friends and milestones. Granted, you still couldn't drive. Still had terrible posture and a knack for saying the wrong things. But those that loved you didn't care, and you were finding it easier to love yourself because of that. 

You were four hours from home, sitting in the passenger seat of Rav's car as he drove you through the most quaint, scenic town you'd ever seen. It was like an illustration; thatched roofs and Tudor cladding, ivy on brick and winding cobblestone lanes. There was a milkman driving a float in front of you, an old lady setting up tables outside a café as a policeman strolled down the street, smiling and waving at passers by. 

You turned to Rav. "Did you ever watch Midsomer Murders?" 

He looked at you from the corner of his eye, smirking like he knew what you were about to say.

"This place is just too idillic," you said. "Feels like Jessica Fletcher's somewhere investigating a suspicious death." 

"That was Murder She Wrote." 

"Oh. Well, still..." 

He laughed, craning his head to see around the milk float in front. "Fucking hell, first the tractor, now this." 

"It looks like he's going that way." 

"Woohoo!" he cheered, speeding up as the float turned the corner.

You rolled your eyes. "Alright, Lewis Hamilton, slow down." 

"Oh, I'm sorry, for a second there it sounded like you were criticising my driving. You, Ellis Weiss, the woman whose name alone strikes fear into the hearts of driving instructors everywhere." 

You hit him on the arm.

He laughed, before squinting to read the road sign ahead. "I'm not seeing any directions for this place yet, are you?" 

"No. And I still don't have any signal so I can't Google Maps it. Why don't you pull over and we can ask someone for directions?" 

He gave a reluctant hum and kept driving. 

"Rav, just pull over and ask." 

"Hang on a second, let me see-"

"Why are men so opposed to getting directions?" 

"I'm not opposed, I just-" 

You reached a dead end. He rolled to a stop as you glared at him. 

"Y'know what, it's fine," he said facetiously. "Who needs marriage anyway? This isn't the 1920's, we're a progressive society."

You laughed. "May I remind you, you were the one who proposed."

He pressed his mouth into a straight line, jokingly rolling his eyes before turning the car around and driving back the way you came. 

You drove a little while longer, finally spotting a spire in the distance; the tall, stone point peeking over a row of houses.

"Is that the one?" asked Rav.

"I think it is." 

He got closer, turning onto the street where a large church stood proudly at the bottom. Perfectly kept grass bordered the beautiful stone building, winding paths and an elaborate sign near the entrance. 

"St Joseph's," Rav read. "Yeah, this is it. Thank fuck for that." 

He pulled into the carpark and you felt a strange wave of discomfort ripple through your stomach. It didn't seem to matter how many churches you visited, how much time passed; the memories were like a scar, healed but never fully gone. 

You climbed out into the cool, spring breeze, drying your sweaty palms on your trousers. 

"Here we go, church number three," said Rav. "Third time's a charm, right?"

"Well this isn't falling apart like the last one, so we're off to a good start," you replied.

You walked together down a long path, climbing the steps and pushing through the doors into the foyer. It smelled musky, smoky; frankincense and myrrh, wood and incense, rose and beeswax. There was a man pinning signs to a noticeboard, his back to you as he whistled happily to himself. 

"Excuse me," said Rav. "Are you the priest?"

The man turned. "Hm? Oh no, I'm just a volunteer." 

"Oh sorry. We were hoping we might be able to talk to the priest about possibly having a wedding here. I don't know if you might be able to... Erm..." 

"Ah, well I think he's in his office. I'll go and grab him for you." He smiled kindly. "You can come in and have a look around if you like? I'll only be a minute." 

"That's great, thank you." 

The man hurried away, disappearing through a nearby door that led to a long corridor. You walked with Rav, tentatively stepping into the chapel and looking around at the bright, vast space. 

He turned to you with an excited grin. "This is nice, isn't it." 

"It is," you said, looking up at the windows, the artwork on the walls. 

"Look." He walked down the aisle, pointing to the pews either side of him as he went. "Flowers here, right?" 

You nodded, watching as he jogged the rest of the way to stand at the altar. 

He held his hands out, gesturing to the space around him. "Yeah, this is nice. I can picture myself standing here. What do you think? Is the aisle long enough? Quick, Ellis, go there and walk down, see if you can picture it." 

You laughed and waved your hand at him, wandering over to a display of flowers instead, touching the petals gently to see if they were real and leaning forward to smell them. 

"Hi there, sorry to keep you," a voice echoed through the chapel. 

It sent a chill down your spine; the deep, rich tone seeping straight into your bones. You glanced over your shoulder, eyes widening in shock as the priest walked right past you, the sight of him leaving you frozen, staring at him as he met Rav in the middle of the aisle and reached for a handshake. 

There was a moment where you thought you were imagining it. The tall frame, dark curls and pale skin nothing more than a ghost, a mirage, a sign you needed to get some sleep. Then he introduced himself, I'm Father Benedict, and you knew he was real.

"Rav, nice to meet you." He gestured over to you. "And this is Ellis." 

He turned to look at you; his smile lines melting, lips parting in a stunned silence that seemed to last an eternity. But it couldn't have been more than a few seconds before he cleared his throat, forcing a smile and making his way over to you.

"H-hi..." he said breathlessly, reaching out his hand. "Nice to meet you." 

You glanced down at his trembling fingers, conceding after a moment with a weak handshake. 

Rav began to talk, but his voice was nothing more than a muffled buzz in your ears. Your eyes glazed over, losing focus as Father Benedict walked back over to him.

"Yeah, I apologise for showing up like this," Rav said. "I know it's a shot in the dark that you'll have an opening at such short notice. But the church we were supposed to be having the wedding at burned down." He laughed in disbelief. "Like literally burned down to the ground. Talk about a bad omen." 

Father Benedict chuckled. But the sound was shallow, half-hearted, his eyes flitting over to you every few moments. 

"Yeah I can- I can have a look. What's er, what's the date you're after?" he asked. "I'll check my... erm... my... calendar- book- diary. Diary, that's the word." 

"June..." Rav hesitated, looking over at you.

"Seventh," you said. 

"Seventh, right." 

You rolled your eyes. 

"Okay," Father Benedict nodded. "Okay, let me just go and erm... Have a- Let me check." 

He walked out of the chapel, and it felt like you'd been holding your breath the entire time. You blew out a soft, shaking exhale as Rav walked over to you. 

"He's alright, isn't he," he said. "Better than the priest this morning who kept staring at your tits."  

"What? No, I liked him. Made me feel wanted." 

"Fuck off," he laughed, immediately covering his mouth in regret. 

You gave a weak smile. 

He narrowed his eyes. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah I'm fine."

"Are you sure? You seem a bit... I don't know." 

"No I'm... It's just... I think I might be getting a cold or something. Bit headache-y." 

He gave you a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. 

Father Benedict returned, his eyes focusing immediately on Rav's hand on your shoulder. He fell silent for a moment before snapping out of it, shaking his head and looking down at the diary in his hands.

"S-sorry, could you just remind me of the date you wanted again?" 

Rav nodded. "It's June..." 

"Seventh," you said again.

"Okay, right, er..." Father Benedict cleared his throat, flicking through the pages. "So I do already have a wedding on the seventh. But Friday the sixth is open, or if you really want a Saturday, the following week is a possibility; the fourteenth?"

Rav looked at you, then down at the ground as he thought about it. "Yeah, no either of those should work. We know the owners of the venue so we should be able to swap the dates around. Could I... Can we get back to you?" 

"Yes, yes no problem." He closed the diary. "I er, I have somewhere to be, shortly, but if you want to come back tomorrow morning, we could sit and go through everything. Usually we'd need six months notice but, with the... fire and what not, I'm sure we can work something out; squeeze in your preparation, Saturday day, talk about costs and everything." 

"Yeah, that'd be great. Thank you." Rav looked at you, as though seeking approval. 

You gave another weak smile.

"No problem," Father Benedict replied, glancing at you again. 

You began walking towards the exit, and you couldn't quite believe that was it; a quick conversation, a handshake, a 'nice to meet you' as though you were nothing but strangers. You weren't sure what the alternative would have been; a hug, tears, a blazing row? Perhaps it was best to leave it like this, to run without another word, just like he'd done to you. 

But all of a sudden, there was a rush of white noise above you, growing louder until it was deafening. You looked up at the ceiling in confusion, then over to the windows as rain began to stream down the glass. 

"Oh my god," you muttered. 

"You can't say that in a church," said Rav. 

You groaned. "We parked so far away." 

"Tell you what, you wait here and I'll go and get the car. I'll drive it right up to the door."

"What? No it's fine. It's just rain-" 

"Don't be stupid. Wait there, I'll be two seconds."

He ran off before you could protest any further. You huffed and crossed your arms, hovering in the archway between the chapel and the foyer. You could hear Father Benedict moving around behind you, but you refused to turn around, as though not looking at him meant he wasn't actually there. 

You felt like a stroppy child, balled up, head turned, teeth clenched. When he first left, you'd have done anything to see him again, to hear his voice, smell his aftershave. But there was something painful about finally knowing where he'd been; knowing that for eighteen months he'd been just four hours away, starting anew like you were just an old VHS he could tape right over.

"Ellis...?" he said softly, tentatively. 

You exhaled through your nose and turned slowly, looking up at him with a heavy brow and glassy eyes. 

"Hi," he breathed, like he didn't know what else to say. 

"Hi," you replied bluntly, turning away again. 

He paused for a while, but you could hear him getting closer, feet shuffling tentatively across the floor. "H... How are you?"

You turned back and glared up at him in disbelief.

He sighed, dropping his head. "I'm sorry-"

"Don't," you interrupted. "Just don't." 

He seemed reluctant to give in, standing there staring down at you, anxiously biting his lip as he deliberated with himself. But finally, he yielded, turning in defeat and beginning to walk away. 

You watched him leave, your breath quickening, lungs bubbling with anger and confusion, sadness and grief. 

"You just... Left," you blurted out. 

He stopped, turning back to look at you. "I know." 

"No word, no explanation. You just..." You struggled to find the words, eyes darting around the chapel as they welled with tears, before finally giving up. "Why?" you whispered.

He took a long pause, head stooped. He swallowed hard and cleared his throat, forcing himself to look back up at you. "Because I was falling in love with you," he said simply, his voice nothing more than a breath.

You stared at him, the blue of his eyes so vibrant against the red in his waterline. 

"And..." he continued, taking a step towards you. "I know without a doubt that if I'd stayed, I would have just continued to fall more in love with you. And I would have loved you... more than... anything. More than..." He gestured to the church around you before shaking his head, his lip quivering. "I couldn't. I just- I couldn't..." 

"I wouldn't have ever asked you to." 

"I know that. But it wouldn't have stopped it from happening."

You pressed your mouth into a straight line, sniffing sharply and steadying your voice. "I was falling in love with you too." 

He nodded, like he already knew. 

You swallowed the urge to cry, taking a deep breath and shrugging. "Well there you go. What can you do."

He dropped his head, closing his eyes like your words hurt. 

You turned away, leaning against the frame of the archway as you waited for the beep of a car horn. 

"You're going to make a beautiful bride, Ellis," he said solemnly.

Your stomach tightened. Then you looked at him again. "I'm not the bride." 

His brow furrowed in confusion. 

"Bridesmaid," you said, pointing to yourself. 

"Oh..." he whispered. 

"Rav's fiancé had a dress fitting so she couldn't make it. Asked me to come with him instead because she didn't trust him to find a new church on his own." 

He exhaled a shaking breath, the corner of his mouth twitching with a relieved smile. "So you're- So you're not... Seeing anyone?" 

You shook your head. "No one's been worthy of me yet..." 

He gave a subtle smile, but your face remained stony. 

There was a loud beep and you turned to see Rav's car waiting near the door. You glanced back over your shoulder. "Good to see you, Father."

You rushed outside without waiting for a reply. The rain was warm, falling so hard it hurt as it pelted your skin. You tried to keep your breaths even as you hurried towards the car, a painful lump lodged in your throat. 

"Ellis! Ellis, hold on!"

You stopped at the passenger door, turning to see Father Benedict running down the church steps after you. He halted at the bottom, chest heaving, eyes wide. 

You stared at him, waiting for him to speak. 

"I..." he stammered. "I felt the urge to chase you but I didn't actually think through what I'd say once I got here..."

You blinked at him.

"D-do... Do you- could we maybe talk? I've got some work this afternoon but-" He pointed to a pub across the road. "We could get a drink, maybe? This evening? If you're not busy...?" 

You looked at the pub, then back to him.

"I know I don't deserve it," he said, wiping the rain out of his eyes. "But if you could give me... an hour of your time..." 

You sighed and shook your head. "Yeah," you finally said. "Yeah, okay."

He let out a relieved sigh, nodding with a slight smile. "Okay. Okay, erm... I can be over there for eight?" 

"Okay." 

"Okay."

You pulled the handle and got into the car, slicking your wet hair back with your hands. 

"What was that about?" asked Rav. 

"Oh, nothing, he erm... he just needed me to remind him of the dates again." 

He began to drive and you sat in silence, shocked, shivering. The church grew smaller in the wing mirror until you could no longer see it all, the rain easing, a double rainbow emerging in the sky above you. 

Rav glanced over at you. "Are you alright?" 

You nodded, staring out of the window, the quaint town looking entirely different to you now. 

The Poplar and Dove. Why did pubs always have such odd names? What did trees and birds have to do with beer, fruit machines and sticky carpets? 

You stood under the awning of the pub, wringing your hands nervously as you waited for 8pm to come. You'd gotten there earlier than you'd meant to, and though you could have just gone inside, you couldn't bring yourself to seem eager. 

You wished you'd packed nicer clothes than the t-shirt, long denim skirt and trainers you were wearing. But as a man stumbled out onto the street in oil-covered overalls and work boots, you almost felt overdressed.

It was 8:01 when you finally drew in a deep, anxious breath and went inside, the smell of beer hitting you like a boozy cloud as you pushed through the doors. It was quieter than you'd expected; a low hum of conversation as a television played quietly above the bar, an old song drifting from a jukebox in the corner. You slipped through a group of men, their hands and faces smattered with motor oil like the one you'd seen outside.

You tried to not make it obvious you were looking around, standing at the bar as you scanned the room quickly. What if he didn't come? What if he'd changed his mind at the last minute and stood you up? You'd have no one to blame but yourself; already dreading telling your sister you'd agreed to this at all.

"Ellis!"

You turned to see him in the corner, pointing to a drink on the table in front of him and waving you over. You couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief, pushing through another group of people to get to him. 

"Rum and Coke," he said as you sat down opposite him. "I hope that's still...?" 

"Yeah, yes. That's great. Thanks." You hooked your bag onto the back of the chair and took a sip - the rum was spiced, your favourite kind. 

He was even more beautiful than you remembered, and it annoyed you greatly. His casual shirt was open at the collar, sleeves rolled up to the elbow as he clasped his long fingers together in front of him. His curls were fluffy, falling slightly over his brow and framing his eyes. 

Those eyes. God. You took an extra sip of your drink. 

"Thank you for showing up," he said.

You gave a halfhearted smile.

"I know I don't deserve it..." 

There was a lull; an awkward pause as you both shifted in your seats. There'd never been an uncomfortable silence between you before. Even in the moments no one spoke, it was always pleasant, content. 

"So, what's it like around here?" you asked. 

His eyes rounded for a moment, like he was taken aback, not expecting you to make small talk. You weren't expecting yourself to make small talk either. 

"It's, er, It's- Nice," he said. "The parish is a lot bigger, so more work. But the town itself is... It's quiet." 

You nodded. 

"Why did your friends choose it for their wedding?" he asked.

"Camilla - the bride - grew up here." 

"No way," he laughed softly. "How did you meet her?" 

"Through a work thing. And Rav's my downstairs neighbour. I introduced them." 

"Ah, so you're basically Cupid." 

"I expect they'll be naming their first born Ellis," you said, unable to resist a smile. 

You'd planned to walk into that pub with fire in your belly, venom on your tongue. You'd gone over the things you wanted to say in the shower, practiced arguing with him in the mirror as you got ready. Yet there was something about him, like a sedative, that made it impossible to do anything but talk. 

"So Camilla's a photographer?" he asked between sips of his drink. "Editor?" 

"Oh, erm, no. I don't work at the studio anymore," you replied. "I'm a freelance book cover designer now; met her at a publishing thing." 

He smiled proudly. "You always wanted to do that." 

"I did." 

"Congratulations." 

"Thanks." you said shyly, bringing the glass to your lips. 

"Is that a tattoo?"

"Hm? Oh, yeah." You lifted the sleeve of your t-shirt to reveal a small, fine ink design on the inside of your upper arm. 

He leaned forward slightly, squinting to look at it more closely. 

"Why?" you asked. "Is it like... A cardinal sin or something?"

"No, I just couldn't see what it was." He laughed and relaxed back into his seat. "I like it." 

"Thanks. I've got another one as well, but if I tried to show you that we'd probably get kicked out." 

There was a subtle glint in his eye, making you realise what you'd said.

"I didn't mean for that to sound so..." You shook your head. "Sorry."

He chuckled quietly. "There's a guy in my congregation; biggest, buffest guy you've ever seen. Bald head, covered, and I mean covered in tattoos. And when I tell you he is the sweetest, gentlest most devoutly catholic man I've ever met, it's incredible."

"I bet he gives really good hugs."

"Oh absolutely."

You clinked your nails against the side of your glass, filling another awkward silence, letting the last of the nervous energy out through your fingertips. 

"How's your sister?" he asked.

"Oh, yeah, she's good," you replied. "She actually just had another baby."

"She did? Oh that's wonderful." 

"Mhm, a few months ago. Another girl." 

"What's her name?" 

You glared at him, pressing your lips together reluctantly. 

"Oh come on, it can't possibly be more out there than Soleil," he laughed.

"Eulalie." 

"You-lay-what?" 

You giggled. "Eulalie. It's French as well, apparently." 

"Well, they certainly love a unique name, don't they." 

"I know. I'm going to have to call my kid Keith or something, just to restore the balance." 

"Ah, little baby Keith." 

You lifted your glass, speaking before taking another sip. "What's the worst name you've ever baptised?" 

"I'm sure we've had this exact conversation before." 

"I don't think so." 

"We have. The woman with the twins?" 

You shook your head, looking up at the ceiling as you tried to think back. 

"I definitely told you. Don't you remember? We were lying in bed one night and..." he faltered suddenly, losing his train of thought and pressing his fingers to his mouth to disguise it. 

You wondered if the memory of you in his bed was too painful, or perhaps it was just embarrassing, an uncomfortable reminder of how close you once were. 

"Were they called something like Paco and Rabanne?" you asked. 

He laughed, his shoulders relaxing again. "Dolce and Gabbana." 

"That's it. Yes, I do remember. Those poor children." 

He smiled before shifting in his seat, reaching into the back pocket of his trousers and pulling out his wallet and keys. He placed the keys on the table and opened the wallet, sifting for money.

"Are you still driving the old car?" you asked, gesturing to the keys.

"Nope." He grinned. "And this new bad boy I've got has - get this - a working passenger door and air-con that actually blows cold air."

You gave a sarcastic, impressed whistle. "Living the dream." 

"I know. It's funny, when I bought it my first thought was 'Ellis would love this'."

"Why?" 

"Because it's an automatic so you wouldn't be able to stall it." 

You rolled your eyes. "Well actually, I have my license now, and I drive a Lamborghini, so..." 

"Really?" 

"Obviously not." 

"Fuck sake." He burst into laughter. "Do you want another drink?" 

You looked down at your rum and coke, surprised to see how much you'd already drank. You promised yourself you'd only stay for one. Yet there you were, nodding and watching him walk up to the bar to buy you another. 

It was hard to connect him to the man who'd left you broken and confused eighteen months ago. Hard to accept that as he laughed at your jokes and asked about your family, there was a part of him that was capable of such carelessness and cruelty. 

"Here you go," he said, placing a new drink in front of you.

You looked down at it for a moment, then up to him. "Why didn't you tell me you were leaving?" 

His face softened, the smile he'd sat down with falling away. 

"Come on, you knew I was going to ask at some point." You shrugged.

He remained quiet, rubbing his mouth in deliberation. "I..." He inhaled through his nose, letting it out again slowly. "I didn't decide to leave until that last night. I know that doesn't make it any better, but I swear to you it wasn't some big, thought-out departure I'd planned ages in advance. I just... I got scared." 

"Scared of what?" 

He paused. "There was a moment that night when we were sitting together; I told you there was nowhere else I'd rather be than with you. And suddenly it dawned on me; Fuck, I am falling in love with this woman. I've made a vow of clerical celibacy, a vow to devote myself to the church and to God and to put that before anything else in my life. Yet here I am, wanting to be nowhere else but with her..."

You stayed quiet, watching him fidget with his hands as he spoke. 

"I knew then that I couldn't stay." He lowered his voice. "So I did the terribly selfish thing of giving myself one last night with you. I made love to you, I kissed you before I left the next morning, and I suppose in a way I convinced myself that that was the goodbye." 

You swallowed. "If I hadn't randomly turned up here today, you'd have let me live the rest of my life not knowing any of that..." 

"I know. And trust me, Ellis, not a day has gone by where I haven't hated myself for it. But the way I would have loved you.... I have no doubt it would've eclipsed everything." He tilted his head to catch your gaze with his own. "I had to get away." 

You wrapped your hands around the glass in front of you, straightening your spine and clearing your throat. His words were like whiskey; his confession a painful burn, the truth a soothing warmth. Your only fault had been that you were loved, and you couldn't help but wonder how much easier it would have been to know that; perhaps you wouldn't have spent so long sitting alone in the dark. 

"Do you not think I deserved to know that?" you asked.

"Of course. But would it have made it any easier?" 

"Well... I'm not sure there's any easy of way of hearing someone say they'd rather be celibate than with you."

He shook his head, chewing his lip to hold back a smirk. "That's not fair." 

"I have a year and a half of pent up anger inside me. Let me make jokes." 

"Fair enough." 

You scanned his face, finishing off your first drink before moving swiftly to the second. "Are you happy with the decision you made?" 

He opened his mouth to speak when a sudden, roaring cheer erupted through the pub. You looked over your shoulder, watching the group of men celebrating a goal on TV. They bounced around, throwing their arms around each other as lager splashed over the rims of their glasses.

When you turned back to Father Benedict, he was smiling at them, laughing softly as he watched their roistering from across the room. But there was something melancholic about his expression; no lines in his cheeks, no crinkle between his brows or at the corners of his eyes. 

He returned his attention to you, realising you'd been watching him. "Not as happy as that," he said. 

You exhaled a laugh. 

"Ellis, I... I can't tell you how many times I've thought about what I'd say to you if I ever saw you again. The truth of the matter is, I don't know. I don't know if I'm dedicating my life to a God that doesn't exist. I don't know if any of it's real, I have no proof. But I really fucking hope it is. And what I do know is that I chose to become a priest because it allows me to help people, and inspire and encourage and share that hope with them, every single day." He paused. "I just never predicted I'd meet you."

You picked up your glass, swirling the ice around, making the liquid bubble and fizz. Then you sighed, meeting his gaze again. "I get it," you said. "I do, I get it. One of us would always have had to give up a part of themselves to be with the other. Either you would've had to leave clergy, or I'd have had to concede to being someone's secret lover for the rest of my life. And let's face it, neither of us would've expected that of the other." 

He looked sad, brows curved upwards over glistening eyes.

"Right person, wrong... everything else." You shrugged. "Our paths just crossed too late." 

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his eyes never leaving you. 

"I just hope you know that the collar you wear isn't what makes you a good person," you said. "You gave me hope when I really needed it. And that had nothing to do with God or church or sermons... It was you." 

He smiled, before dropping his head and clearing his throat. "You're being far more gracious to me than I deserve." 

"I know."

The TV above the bar was muted, the jukebox switched off. A strong smell of lemon disinfectant drifted through the air as a barmaid pushed around a mop bucket, another collecting glasses and wiping down surfaces. There was no one left, the lights raised to full brightness, chairs stacked on tables around you like the battlement walls of a castle. 

You'd talked through the end of the football match, through the noise of drunken punters and the bell for last orders. You'd talked as the crowds dwindled away, as the sky turned black beyond the windows and your glasses emptied to dregs of melted ice. 

It was like no time had passed since he left. You'd never understood that expression before; how could absence not change things? How could a river erode with time and water still flow the same way? But you got it now. With every joke he laughed at, every facial expression he understood and insignificant detail he remembered, it was clear your bond had never severed. It had just been frozen, lying in wait until something came to thaw it out. 

He was covering his face as you spoke, shoulders shaking as he laughed into his hands. 

"It's true!" you said. "They called the police and everything." 

"They did not call the police!" His laugh grew heartier, tears forming in his eyes.

"They did! I had to sit and explain to two uniformed officers that I hadn't meant to walk out of the shop with the coat on."

"Why were you even wearing it?" 

"I tried it on as a joke because it was so fucking ugly. Then Soleil decided to turn into Usain bloody Bolt and run outside at full speed into the busy street." 

A tear spilled onto his cheek. He wiped it away, still chuckling to himself. 

"I told Mara she was nuts for trusting me with her child," you said.

"Maybe next time try a soft play centre or a park, y'know, instead of a high end clothing shop." 

"Well you just have all the answers, don't you." 

He smiled, shaking his head and leaning back in his chair. "Just giving you some advice so you don't go losing Keith in a Selfridges one day." 

You laughed. "Keith will be kept on one of those baby leashes until he's eighteen." 

You could feel a hair on the side of your nose, rubbing your finger over it a few times. He began speaking, but you couldn't concentrate, the itch on your skin too distracting. You tried to wipe it away again. 

"Because then I went-" He stopped. "What's the matter?" 

"There's something on my face, it's driving me mad." 

He sat forward, gesturing for you to lean over the table to him. You did as he instructed, watching as he brought his face close to yours, examining the side of your nose for a moment before seeming to lose focus, his eyes softening as they trailed slowly from your eyes to your lips then back again. 

"Father," you said. "I'm going to say something you used to say to me all the time." 

"What's that?" 

"You need to stop looking at me like that..." 

He dropped his head and breathed out a laugh. "I apologise," he said, gently pressing the tip of his finger to the side of your nose, holding it up to show you a small black wisp. "Eyelash." 

"Thanks," you replied, sitting back down. 

"You know you can just call me Ben, by the way," he said. 

"I know, but, I don't-" You shrugged shyly. "I only ever really called you that when we were..." 

"Ah." 

"Yeah..." 

"Excuse me, guys," said one of the barmaids as she approached your table. "We're going to be locking up in a few minutes." 

Father Benedict glanced around the deserted pub, the wet floors and stacked chairs. "Oh, god, sorry. We didn't even realise-"

"It's okay," she replied kindly. "You looked like you were having a nice time, we didn't want to disturb you." 

"Thank you, we'll get out of your way." 

You stood up, grabbing your bag and hooking it over your shoulder as Father Benedict lifted his chair onto the table, making his way around to yours and doing the same. The women behind the bar smiled appreciatively as one of them unlocked the door to let you out. You almost felt embarrassed that you'd let yourself get so carried away, talking so far past closing time, your conversation the only sound inside the empty pub. 

You stepped out into the dark, chilly night, light rain falling in a mist that glittered under the streetlights. You crossed your arms over your chest to hide your nipples, suddenly very aware of how thin your t-shirt was. The street was quiet, the church nothing but a dark, imposing silhouette on the other side of the road. 

"Where are you staying?" asked Father Benedict. "I only had a couple of drinks so I can drive you wherever you need to go." 

"Oh, no, don't worry. My Airbnb's not far from here so I'm just going to walk." 

He furrowed his brow. "They have Airbnbs around here?" 

You laughed. "Yeah, it's just a little cottage, nothing fancy."

"Well I'll walk you." 

"Are you sure? You really don't have to." 

"Of course I'm sure, come on." 

You walked most of the way in silence, your impending separation like a thick cloud in the air between you. Were you to simply say goodbye? No hard feelings? See you in June for the wedding?

The cobbled roads glistened like oil in the gentle rain, the houses quiet, as though the entire town had gone to sleep. You kept your arms crossed over your chest, your eyes straight ahead. When the road was on your left, he would walk on your left, and when it was on the right, he would move again, always keeping you on the inside despite there not being a single car. 

You pointed to a row of small terraced cottages at the bottom of a steep lane. "That's me down there." 

"Which one?" 

"Hanging baskets, right at the end." 

"Wow, you weren't joking when you said it was small." 

You exhaled a short laugh. "It's all I need. Only staying two nights." 

When you arrived at the cottage, you stopped at the gate, placing a hand on it and turning to look up at him. 

"Well this was... weird," you said.

"Very," he replied. "But also really great." 

"Yeah." You paused. "Thank you for the drinks, and for walking me home." 

He smiled, but the expression quickly grew forlorn as he stared down at you. You kept your hand on the gate as you waited for him to speak, a part of you willing yourself to just go inside, while another needed to know what he was thinking.

"What?" you asked. "Do I have another eyelash on my face?" 

He shook his head with a quiet laugh. "I've missed you," he said, his voice almost a whisper. 

You sighed. "You can't say that." 

"Why?" 

"Because it's not fair. You've known where to find me... This whole time, you've known exactly where..." Your voice trailed off. 

He closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath through his nose. "I told you why I couldn't come back-"

"And I said I understand. I do. But you made a choice. So you... You don't get to tell me you've missed me." You remained gentle, calm. "You can't act like something's been keeping us apart when the thing keeping us apart is you." 

"The thing keeping us apart is my vow."

"And so go and live by your vow, Father. Go and live your pious, solitary life. I am truly sorry I ever jeopardised that for you." 

He scoffed slightly. "There's no need to be sarcastic." 

"Wh-? I'm not. I'm really not." You pulled the gate shut again, turning to face him fully. "But surely you understand how much it hurts to know you see loving me and worshipping God as some kind of contradiction?" 

"I see loving you as the most easy thing I could've ever done." His voice was harsh yet quiet, frustration laced in a whisper. "But choosing to leave the clergy, to break the promises I made when I was ordained; that would've been the consequence of it."

"And I've already told you I wouldn't have expected you to do that. I understand your decision-"

"But you don't, Ellis. Not if you can stand there and tell me I don't get to say I miss you." 

You slowed your breathing, calming yourself before looking up at him. "If you truly missed me, it wouldn't have taken me randomly turning up here today for you to realise it." 

"I didn't have to realise it, because it's never not been the case." He took a step closer, speaking with more passion, intensity in his eyes. "Not a single day has gone by where I haven't thought of you. Where I haven't questioned if I made the right decision. You asked me earlier if I was happy with the choice I made, and the truth is... I don't know. Because my resolve has wavered so much more over the past eighteen months than it ever did before I left."

"And what changes now that I know that?" you replied. "Nothing. You're still going to go back to that church and I'm still going to go home on Friday. Alone."

"I don't- I don't know, I just... When I saw you there today in my church, there were ten or so minutes where I really, honestly thought you were marrying someone else," he shook his head. "And I wasn't happy for you, Ellis. I was... devastated." 

"And when you realised I was actually single, how did you feel then?" 

He blinked a few times, brows coming together, forming a crinkle at the bridge of his nose. "I felt..." 

"You felt...?" 

"Ellis you know that's not fair to ask-"

"But everything you've said to me in the last five minutes is fair?" 

You were getting angry now. The rage you'd planned to unload on him in the pub bubbling in the base of your chest. He ran away from you. Tore you apart and left you strewn across the rectory flowerbed in pieces. Now you'd finally bloomed again, and here he was, plucking at your petals. 

"Do you know what, I don't want to do this anymore," you said as you opened the gate and stepped through. "I knew meeting you tonight was a bad idea."

"Because I told you I've missed you?" he called out behind you.

You stopped and spun around. "Because everything you're saying is for your own benefit, not mine! To- to- to make yourself feel better, to unload how you feel onto me even though you know it doesn't change your decision." 

"So what would you prefer I do, Ellis? Not say anything? Walk you home and leave without another word?" 

"I'd prefer you to just fuck off," you snapped, taking in a sharp breath, stunned by your own words.

"You want me to fuck off..." he replied in dry disbelief, taking a few steps down the path towards you.

"Yes. Fuck off. Go away." Your voice quivered. You waved your hand at him dismissively and walked to the front door. "Just... Let me forget about you."

You fished through your bag with shaking hands, finding the key and struggling to push it into the lock. His eyes were on you, you could feel them, like a hand around the back of your neck. You unlocked the door and pushed it open before looking over your shoulder at him. 

"There's a reason you haven't walked away yet," you said, stepping into the cottage and turning around, placing your hand on the door and preparing to close it. "You want permission. You want to hear me ask you to choose me. But that's never going to happen. I have too much respect for myself to ever do that." 

You took a step back and swung the door shut, but there was a hard thump as it hit something on the other side, stopping it from fully closing. You pulled it back to see him standing there, palm planted against it, foot halfway over the threshold. His chest was heaving, nostrils flaring with heavy breaths. 

You stared up at him, unable to resist giving an insolent shrug, a brattish shake of your head. It seemed to annoy him even more, the muscle in his jaw twitching as he clenched his teeth.

"Wh-"

He interrupted you with a sudden kiss, his hand gripping the back of your head as his lips pressed firmly against yours. You lost yourself for a moment, swept away in the passion of the unexpected rush. Your mouth began to move in time with his, hot breath and sweeping tongues, but then you stopped, placing your hands on his chest and gently pushing him away. 

You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath to quell the anger rising up your throat, before glaring at him through your lashes. His face was still close, lips parted, eyes glassy. You wanted to push him away, but you couldn't; any sense of logic you possessed clouded by impulse. 

You gave in, letting your body take over, wrapping your hands around the back of his neck and pulling him down into a fevered, forceful kiss. He curled his fingers into your hair, holding it in fistfuls as you stumbled back into the cottage. You slammed the front door, grabbing him by the shirt as you moved in a mess of teeth and tongues, fingernails and clumsy missteps through the small, open living space. 

Your backside made contact with a dining table first. He gripped your hips and lifted you onto it as you continued to kiss with unwavering ferocity. You began pulling at your skirt, working impatiently to drag the heavy, stiff material up your legs as he used one hand to unbutton his trousers, the other helping to push the skirt over your thighs. His breaths were heavy, laboured, pouring into your open mouth as he freed himself from his underwear, like he'd been aching, desperate for release. 

You reached down and slid your fingers into your underwear, the thin cotton so wet it gave little resistance as you moved it to one side, parting your legs wider to let him stand between them. His lips broke away from yours, just long enough to spit into his hand, coating the head of his cock before sweeping you back into another kiss.

He slid the tip along the seam of your pussy, using his hand to guide it inside you. You gasped at the stretch, the dull burn and intense pressure. You'd only slept with a couple of people since he'd been gone; a one night stand, and a short-lived fling that fizzled out after a few dates. Neither of them matched up to him. Not in size, nor skill. So much so that you'd almost convinced yourself he wasn't as good as you remembered. 

You dug your nails into the back of his neck as he sank his full length into you, the walls of your pussy moulding to the shape of him, softening, lubricating to welcome the intrusion. His throat rumbled with a groan, a hum falling from his lips as he kissed you, fucking you with a hard, steady rhythm. You whimpered into his mouth, sliding your hands down to grip his backside, encouraging him to thrust harder, deeper. He planted a palm on the table beside you to steady himself, pressing his chest against yours as he moved with more force, each snap of his hips sending a jolt through your core, making the table rock and creak beneath you. 

Your mind was blank, clouded and hazy as your body welled with pleasure; a tingling in your clit and a deep, intense pulsing in your core. You were going to be swollen after this, bruised, sensitive. But you didn't care; there was an anger inside you that you had to extinguish, and with each slam of his body against yours, you were getting closer to putting it out. 

Your body began to tense and tighten, each slide of his cock met with a growing resistance, making him breathe quickly as he worked harder to maintain his thrusts. Your thighs came together, squeezing his hips as waves of electricity began to thrash in your pelvis. He growled and grabbed your legs, forcing them apart again, and you let out a heavy moan as he sank deeper, hitting the spots that sent you floating on the precipice between pleasure and pain. 

Your back arched, and with another brush of his cock, you fell apart. He hid his face in the crook of your neck as he buried himself completely, giving in to his own orgasm as you came around him. You were shaking, your bottom lip chattering like you'd been caught in a blizzard. Every time he shifted or twitched, the echoes of your climax would ring through you, making you shudder, goosebumps pricking your arms. 

The room was suddenly so quiet in the clarity, only the rushing of your breaths and the pulse pounding in your ears filling the silence. He lifted his head and carefully pulled out of you, your centre immediately feeling tender and raw in his absence. You glanced up at him, but he couldn't bring himself to look you in the eye, and you suddenly felt nauseous. 

You slid off the edge of the table onto your feet, readjusting your underwear and pulling your skirt back down. He stayed beside you, buttoning his trousers as he kept his head down, staring at the table and pensively biting his lip. You looked at him again, and when he finally looked back, you knew; the same remorseful expression you'd seen so many times before. A face full of regret, shame, disappointment in his own lack of restraint. You sighed and shook your head, walking off into the next room, trying to ignore your shaking legs and the lump in your throat. 

You stood in the small sitting room, looking out the window into the dark back garden. You felt a tear fall down your cheek, the droplet tickling your skin as it clung to the edge of your jaw. Your lip wobbled, but you bit it to keep it still, sniffing sharply.

"Ellis...?" His voice was so soft and gentle, his footsteps light as he entered the room behind you. 

"Just go, Ben," you replied weakly, too numb to even try to turn around. 

He paused at the sound of his name on your lips. Then he took another few tentative steps towards you. 

"Please, just..." You sighed. "You... broke me. Not just when you left, but every time you treated me like a mistake." 

"You're not a mistake. You were never a mistake." 

"Was that a mistake?" You turned around, nodding towards the other room. 

He hesitated. 

"Exactly," you said. "Getting over you was the hardest thing I have ever done. And all it took was one day for me to end up right back where I started." 

"It wasn't a mistake," he whispered. "I just... I suppose I wish I'd been more... forbearing. Made it mean something, y'know. I don't regret what just happened. I regret the way it happened." 

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying desperately not to cry. But another single tear betrayed you. 

"Please don't cry," he said softly. "I can't- I never wanted to-" He sighed, walking over and wrapping his arms around you. 

You resisted at first, but you quickly yielded, letting your head fall on his chest, your arms tucked in the space between your bodies. He cradled you in his large embrace, resting his chin on the top of your head.

"I love you, Ellis." 

You closed your eyes, his words stinging as much they soothed. 

"Right person, wrong everything else," he said. 

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[hannibals-favourite-meal]

.⋆｡A Lesson in Perseverance｡⋆.

Sherlock Holmes x plus size reader

The day has come where Sherlock finally takes you, even if he is far too big

Warnings: size kink, established relationship, virgin!reader, wedding night, Sherlock is a teasing shit, fingering, smut, unprotected sex

WC: 684

Minors DNI

Library- @hannibals-favourite-meal-library

He looked godly like this, doused in flickering candle light, his curls wild atop his head as sweat dripped down his brow. He flooded your vision, he was the only thing you could see, the only anchor you had left to reality.

Pleasure had easily built in your belly, your husband driving you to the edge just as easily as he would solve a case or string the bow for his violin. You grasp for him, needing to touch his skin, to know he’s real. “Sherlock.” You mewled, your voice already fucked out and raspy.

He smirks. “That’s it darling.” He cooed, his voice dropped even lower, a mere rumbling growl in his broad chest. He had waited oh so patiently for this day and now that it was here, he would savour every delicious second of it. “Give in, let yourself open up.” A thick finger moved from your bundle of nerves down to your opening. 

His thick body was nestled comfortably between your thighs, keeping you spread open and vulnerable for him. One large hand cupped your mound possessively as his fingers explored the soft flesh. You whimpered and whined with each touch, desperate for more but terrified of what was to come. The cold metal of his wedding band cutting through the heat between your legs. The ripped remains of your wedding gown lay beneath you like a white flag of surrender, evidence of your husband’s need for your body. 

With trembling hands, you reached for him again but he smirked wickedly, his blue eyes glinting in the low candlelight and pushed your touch away, pinning your wrists to your plush stomach with one mighty hand. “Do not be so impatient. I have been waiting for this day since I first saw you- you can handle a few more moments.” You attempted to disagree but instead a moan slipped from your lips as his middle finger finally breached you.

Your cunt burned even with a stretch as small as one of his fingers but as your husband curled his knuckles, ecstasy washed over you like a comforting wave. Your eyelids fluttered as you struggled to take in a breath. And right as your back arched from the bed, your lungs finally filling with air, a second finger joined the first.

Pleasure ricocheted through you, tearing you apart and pulling you back together all at the same time. Sherlock’s smile grew darker as he watched you crumble. He had spent months thinking about this day, this moment. You were bound to him for all eternity, the perfect bride meant for him.

“I think you’re ready for me now my darling.” Sherlock withdrew his hand slowly, drinking down the gasps that escaped your lips, savouring each and every mewl. His fingers shone with your release which he eagerly licked up. “Divine. I think I will feast on you every chance I get.” You gave an embarrassed whine and turned your head away from your husband.

“Now now wife. I won’t have any of that.” He guided your gaze back to him, forcing you to look upon his large frame as he towered over you. “Your eyes will remain on me as I fuck that perfect cunt of yours.” 

After a moment, he seemed satisfied that you would not look away again, so he released your jaw, letting his hands wander down the length of your soft body until he reached your wide hips. “My beautiful wife.” That was all the warning he gave before the crown of his cock was notched at your entrance and he slowly thrust into your weeping cunt.

Pain. That was all you felt, like the sting of an insect that only grew more intense with each passing second. Your fingernails bit into Sherlock’s broad side. “Too big.” Your body was on fire, an uncontrollable flame that your husband’s lust fuelled. 

His head rolled back between his broad shoulders as he moaned, his hands gripping your wide hips even tighter. He forced even more of his considerable length inside you. “Do not fret wife, we have only to persevere.”

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[just-a-strange-boy]

experimenting for friends

part 1 - praise

part 2

An unawaited opportunity introduces you to the complicated and intriguing man named Sherlock Holmes. Harder to understand than most, you are not quite sure why he reacts peculiarly everytime you spare him a compliment. Well, not until you get wrapped up in one of his "experiments".

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader (GN)

Warnings: 18+ (Minors DNI), mentions of drug abuse/addiction, handjob, praise kink, hints at inexperienced/virgin Sherlock

A/N: listen, I'm so fond of submissive Sherlock and just want him to get the love he deserves :')

When you met Sherlock Holmes for the first time, he saw through you right away.

Straight away, he knew that you were raised by a single mum, who had always tried her hardest to ensure to the happy childhood you deserved, since your father had left the family early on.

That you were living with two cats, one Cornish Rex, one coming from mixed breeding, both awfully affectionate, apparently leaving traces over nearly everything you wore.

That you were ambidextrous, ink from pens on both hands, also indicating you were working an ordinary office job, usually taking down notes with your right hand, though whenever you took phone calls you tended to use your left to write things down – and that you took a lot of pride in your handwriting, which was why you had a knack for using pens with ink in the first place.

But that wasn't all.

He figured that you were short-sighted, working a desk job that included staring at a computer screen far too often, missing out the fact that you were also on your phone a lot.

That your glasses were an old model from the early 2010s, which also told him you didn't have the finances for purchasing new ones, money likely being the reason for you taking this new job in the first place (which however wasn't entirely true). And also that your glasses were, of course, entirely unsuited for your current sight, still making you have to squint an awful lot while looking at your surroundings.

He even found out that you used to take acting classes during your school years, obtaining a compassion for the old bards and newer works alike, but didn't continue playing theatre, settling for your ordinary, time consuming desk job instead in order to make a living in London, more so because you were never confident enough in your skills.

And damn, if he weren't right about that.

Needless to say, Sherlock had been right about everything, his gift of picking up any piece of information nothing short of amazing, his talent for deduction truly unmatched, though you were certain that he might have had a little help on one or two details. It had been impressive, regardless of whether he might have gone through your personal records at least once or not.

Considering that someone definitely had kept a close eye on you, presumably meant that there was a lovely file titled with your name on the desk of your new and well-paying employer, Sherlock's older brother and relentless watchdog, Mycroft Holmes. Who, as you understood, was doing secret government work, keeping the state upright and preventing international chaos from ensuing, when he wasn't busy tending to his slightly odd, self-proclaimed sociopathic brother from a distance.

You weren't sure whether you would have even tried applying for the job if you had known what it entailed. But you hadn't needed, nor planned, to apply at all.

Truth is, you had been approached out of nowhere, a plain call coming through on your work phone. After hearing the rather scarce explanation as to what you were meant to do and the large sum the older Holmes brother offered for this position, you had definitely not wanted to say No. You hadn't asked why you out of all people had been chosen – so you hadn't gotten an answer either.

But since Mycroft Holmes was thorough in all he did, you supposed he wouldn't have gone for someone as ordinary as you if he hadn't had a good reason for it.

And fairly enough, for that much money, the job description didn't sound too challenging – take care of Sherlock Holmes. Be his companion, keep an watchful eye on him, make sure he doesn't get back into a habit of using again. Three simple points.

It might not have sounded too challenging at first, but then you had gotten to meet Sherlock and words couldn't describe how peculiar, how unique, how utterly confusing this man was.

People didn't really get him. Sherlock didn't really get people, though clearly able of picking them apart with deductions or uncovering their motives for all kinds of crimes, having solved plenty of unusual cases in the past. Sometimes people's behaviour clearly struck Sherlock as odd and while he was exceptionally smart, there were some things in the world even he wasn't able to understand.

While you had been worrying you might not get along with each other at first – plenty of people had made it their mission to warn you about Sherlock having a dismissive stance on ordinary people – you quickly figured out the consulting detective was simply misunderstood by those around him and not that dismissive after all.

He was peculiar, unique and utterly confusing. He was thinking differently, behaving and acting by his own logic. It took a while to figure out, though finding yourself incapable of understanding Sherlock as whole, you started to catch glimpses of what he was truly like.

Sherlock Holmes was lonely.

Even though regularly solving cases with his best friend John Watson, he had also gotten significantly lonelier since the man had found himself a wife, a child following not long after, and was not living with him anymore. As a husband and father and doctor, case work was nothing more than a distraction from his ordinary life. His responsibilities often kept him from actively joining cases and therefore, more than once in the time you've gotten to know Sherlock, the detective was out solving them on his own.

While he loved the work and didn't seem too bothered, you figured it substantially dampened his mood when John couldn't be around.

You also learned that Sherlock was actually quite friendly with a few people – especially his very motherly and caring landlady Mrs Hudson (who got regularly annoyed by the ruckus he was making upstairs in his flat), DI Lestrade (who slipped him the cases, relying on his help all too often) and Molly from St Bart's morgue (who provided him with body parts for experiments).

But he never sought them out when feeling some sort of way, more so relying on the exchange – accepting their presence because he deemed them useful. This for that. Never unconditional.

Sherlock Holmes also got bored easily.

Casework and experiments, both sometimes of questionable importance or downright dangerous, could only keep him busy for so long. You figured that he lived for the thrill as much as trying to keep his brain constantly working – he needed the distraction for his mind, needed something to stimulate it or else it would get too loud, too dark, too insufferable in his head.

As soon as he got bored, he took to moaning and complaining and behaving unhinged, desperate for something, anything, to cure him from the boredom, to keep his mind busy.

Having him in a state like that was anything but good.

Because when he was lonely and bored, Sherlock Holmes had a tendency of substance abuse.

It started with a heightened craving for nicotine, especially in the form of cigarettes, which you sometimes gave in to, for the sake of preventing worse – even if it meant going on a walk in the middle of a night to have one, since Mrs Hudson would have strangled you both for even thinking about smoking at Baker Street.

When it wasn't cigarettes, it was something worse he desired. Mostly heroin, though Mycroft Holmes had made sure to slip you a full list of substances Sherlock had abused in the past.

It had been unsettlingly long.

So you tried your very best to keep Sherlock away from those things by simply keeping him busy and well, less lonely.

By the time you would have considered yourself and the odd detective being something like friends, you were also finally able see that Sherlock Holmes – even though not nursing relationships to others like normal people did – was in his own way very sweet.

He wasn't always cold or seemingly incapable of feeling things, just direct and less reliant on sentiment. He was absolutely not a cat person, but still accepted whenever your rather friendly pets decided to climb all over him.

And all the times you had happened to unexpectedly fall asleep after crashing on Sherlock's couch (that man wore you out with his ever changing temper and the way he sometimes talked constantly) while he would still be working on researching for cases or doing his fair share of experiments, you would always wake up covered by a blanket, your glasses perched on the table next to a water cup.

Sherlock Holmes didn't like a lot of people, he struggled with making strong connections and put off a lot of the people around him by the way he was. But that didn't apply to you.

Initially perceiving you an entirely obnoxious obstacle in his thinking process, he had soon noticed you weren't so distracting in a negative way at all and even found himself positively surprised how pleasant you were to have around, beginning to tolerate you in the same room.

For his standards, he seemed to like you plenty enough and appeared to be rather comfortable around you too, in a way seeking out the companionship you were meant to offer to him, even if it was just being around each other in complete silence.

While Sherlock worked best in silence, especially when he figured out a case in his mind, sitting and staring for hours, there were also moments when you couldn't stop him from talking and showing off his knowledge. Often times, he seemed so happy to share his thoughts with someone, even though he was likely aware you usually weren't really able to follow him.

Admittedly, you liked Sherlock too.

You knew a lot of people were blind to Sherlock's humanity and never got to know him well enough to truly discover how much there was to him. He didn't let most in, or at least never far enough for them to really see him. You knew though. It was there, no matter how hard Sherlock tried to prove otherwise with his resenting behaviour, and you caught plenty of glimpses of him being human.

So after a while of knowing Sherlock Holmes, there was this one thing that had caught your attention and remained to be uncovered.

Why he avoided words of praise.

It was something you had brushed off at first, thinking that Sherlock's odd reaction whenever you said something nice to him, his sudden quietness and slow blinking and urge to swiftly leave the room before awkward silence arose, was completely normal behaviour for him.

You doubted that the detective got to hear a lot of niceties or compliments. Obviously his work was impressive, but did most even consider thanking him for it? If they had the chance, that was.

One could have also gotten the impression that Sherlock didn't really know how to nor wanted to take a 'Thank you', or a compliment for that matter.

Therefore he was more likely to escape the situation than accept it with content.

One day, you had asked "Did you compose that yourself?" after having listened to Sherlock play the violin for what must have been a good twenty minutes, without the man even having taken note of you being in the room, though you had walked in and slumped down on the couch normally, like on any other day.

Sherlock had seemed startled hearing your question, only acknowledging you then, but had shaken his head in silence.

"Well, sounded very beautiful anyway. I love your playing. Could listen to it for hours", you had added then, "Always surprises me how bloody skilled your hands are with everything you do."

Much like you had offended him, Sherlock had placed down the violin and the bow immediately, turning to leave the room.

You had let him, knowing that if he needed space, it was best to leave him be. But you had immediately wondered if perhaps your compliment had made him uncomfortable and asked yourself why.

On another day, you had been asked to accompany him on a case – there was no other logical explanation to it than the fact that John was busy yet again and couldn't make it in time – so there you were, looking at different samples of dirt, trying to make yourself as useful as you could (which wasn't much, but you tried).

Sherlock didn't seem to mind that you had no idea what you were supposed to be looking for. Whereas he would have called another one in your stead stupid, small-brained or dull for only having an average mind, the detective had simply begun explaining the necessity of taking dirt samples and how much they could tell the human eye if looked at properly.

Well, what they could tell his eyes, at least – because you still had not an ounce of an idea what he was talking about, even after his explanations.

"How does your brain even work?", you had only muttered under your breath, staring at Sherlock in awe, "It's just...amazing. The fact that you can read people like a book was already pretty mind blowing, but now that you are doing it with something as mundane as dirt, words can't describe how amazing that is."

While usually so quick and rational in his responses, Sherlock had just blankly stared back at you, until continuing with his dirt samples, speechless, not saying another word about ground analysis.

Then another time, you had been flat on your couch for a good few days after catching a cold. While Sherlock had made sure to keep his distance, not wanting to contract anything, he had come by anyway. He had helped you with the cats, had brought you a bag of pills and goodies (that Mrs Hudson had packed, but it didn't matter since Sherlock was the one making time for you, bringing them over) and had chatted away about the latest case, trying to cheer you up while you sniffled into your tissues. Then he had made you tea and warmed up chicken soup for you, before deciding to take his leave again.

"Thanks, Sherl, you're a great friend. A true blessing when you get all domestic", you had sighed with a stuffed nose, trying to joke, although you knew joking around Sherlock was risky business, because... well... he didn't think like most people. That meant he didn't get jokes most of the time either, had problems trying to figure out whether you were actually serious about some of the comments you made or not, didn't know what to make of it.

You had thought that must have been the reason why Sherlock had left your flat in a hurry.

Honestly, you had begun to worry a little about Sherlock's behaviour by then.

Whenever you tended to say something nice, or gave him a compliment for that matter, the man simply went out of your way immediately. It was making him feel some sort of way, negatively you thought.

Maybe he really didn't know how to handle kind words and just couldn't show that he appreciated them. Maybe you had actually made him uncomfortable, but Sherlock never admitted to it, because he didn't want to put you off or hurt your feelings in return – you were friends after all.

Maybe it would take him a while to get used to someone being so unconditionally nice to him.

Things cleared up a little when Sherlock had approached you one day, deciding to start an 'experiment' in order to gain 'data' for his 'research' – he had something along those lines at least – which apparently included you as a test subject as well. He had specifically asked for your help, and though unmentioned you knew it was likely because of the bond and trust between you two.

Sherlock hadn't wanted to share what the point of his research was, but you had no opportunity to ask either after agreeing to it, because before you could open your mouth again, the detective had moved way too close into your personal space for his usual standards, cupped your cheeks and just leaned in to kiss you.

Short and sweet and... a little inexplicable.

"What was that for?", you wondered then, knowing that there always was an explanation to everything Sherlock did. You just didn't really know how he was going to explain this, overwhelmed with wrapping your head around what had just occurred, staring at him in an almost shock-like state and most definitely frozen to the spot.

"I told you, it's an experiment", Sherlock responded, "About... my own responses to... certain stimulus from certain...uh...people. I've decided to start with you, because we are significantly close, you have decided to pester me with your presence today once again and I figured you will not mind."

You only replied with a soft smile. How convenient you happened to be around right now, pestering him, just in time for his experiment. Though you had to admit, Sherlock wasn't wrong about his assumption either: you didn't mind. You were perfectly decent friends and being friends with Sherlock meant partaking in things out of the ordinary anyway. This was a way better experiment than lightening things on fire in the kitchen and causing the house to be contaminated with toxic smoke.

The kiss was tempting you. It made you curious. What was he trying to figure out?

"Alright, let's see what your experiment entails then", you agreed to partaking in Sherlock's personal studies, "Will you kiss me again, to get more data?"

"Likely", the detective mused, not wasting another moment before bending down to capture your lips in another and longer kiss, this time evidently unsure what to do with his hands as he didn't hold onto your face anymore, a little fidgety before eventually placing them on your waist, keeping you close.

He was a surprisingly sweet kisser. You adored the softness of his lips, the slight initial awkwardness, placing your hands on his shoulders, gently smoothing them over the material of his suit jacket, and returning the kiss with equal gentleness.

"Is that...to your liking?", Sherlock asked, upon parting for a moment.

You slid one hand to the nape of his neck, ready to pull him into another kiss, just to feel those lips on yours again. He was endearing and admittedly kind of addictive.

"I thought this experiment was about your responses, so why care what I'm thinking?”, you began, seeing a flicker of insecurity passing his face, since you avoided answering his question.

“Yeah, I love how tender and careful you are. Your lips feel great", you added in a whisper, hoping it would lift the worry from his brow.

An entirely different reaction followed. Now that you had just complimented him and Sherlock couldn't flee the situation like he usually did, you were more than surprised taking note of his reaction, a slight shudder, but not of discomfort.

Thus, you finally understood why he had wanted to avoid praise times and times again: It caused him to react.

"I honestly can't wait for you to touch me with those hands of yours", you added then, fingers carding upwards into Sherlock's curls, trying to push your own exploration to the limit, continuing to praise him with sweet words of affirmation, "Once we get there, I bet your touch will feel incredible. Just like you are."

Standing so close to the detective, you could hear his breath hitch, and there was no doubt his pulse was rapidly quickening too. Pupils blown wide with interest, lips parted, and oh, a little bit of red tainted his cheeks too. He definitely liked being praised.

"What do you want me to do with my hands?", Sherlock asked. He was still holding them placed on your waist and the unexpected question was more out of innocent curiosity, as blandly spoken as Sherlock usually talked, paired with the slight notion that he was perhaps truly a little clueless.

You wondered if he had ever done this with another person before – experimenting, kissing, touching – and came to the conclusion you couldn't quite imagine Sherlock being touchy and affectionate or sexual for that matter.

"I'm sure you know exactly what to do with those hands of yours", you chuckled, however trusting that Sherlock had to know at least a little bit about those things or else he wouldn't have dared to be so bold and just kiss you. Perhaps he had done a different kind of research beforehand.

"It's okay to touch me, I don't bite. There's no wrong and no right, go with what feels natural. Your deduction skills are unmatched, so why don't you just experiment and collect the necessary information?"

Blue eyes mustered your face, a slight look of confusion written all across his expression, and he still didn't move his hands, searching your face for something in return.

If you didn't know any better, you would have said that you might have broken Sherlock.

But then he came to life again, speaking up once more. "I've come to the conclusion that I like you. Being around you, usually at least, does not only calm my heart rate, it also quietens my brain. However being this close to you, I find my heart rate rising and my brain rattling. I just cannot figure out why your words cause me to feel the way I do."

"Well, if I might say so, I think that you're into it", you shrugged, fingers gently brushing through his thick curls, letting your other hand glide down the front of his shirt, feeling up his chest under it.

What would he look like under this? Would he enjoy being touched? How far was this experiment meant to go?

"I kind of enjoy how flustered you get when I praise you. Makes me think that no one has ever cherished you like you deserve it."

"I don't know if I am... interested in being cherished, but you do manage to make me feel like no one else has ever accomplished. I am tempted by your amenability", the detective admitted, finally catching the drift as he pulled you into a tighter embrace, arms sneaking around you, bowing down to capture your lips in a kiss again, this time with a lot more force.

As sweet and tender Sherlock was, you had simply known there was more passion, more curiosity, more hunger within him than suspected at first.

Saying you were amenable was also an understatement. You were more than compliant and sure let him know, responding to his advances with a passion, curiosity, hunger paralleling his.

So you began moving together, stumbling through the living room, careful not to trip over Sherlock's organized chaos on the floor, mouths busy with each other as you clung onto his neck, letting yourself be ushered all the way into the bedroom – a place you had only occasionally caught a glimpse of, neat and tidy compared to the rest of the flat, and while you had never expected you would ever end up in Sherlock's bed, you certainly weren't complaining about the opportunity.

Though technically, you were the one to shove the man down on his bed, wasting no time to climb onto his lap.

As much as you liked Sherlock for who he was, for his peculiarity, for the fact that he did not fit in with the rest of people, what he was being like right now definitely added onto the feelings you had for the man. Looking at him after pulling back from the kiss, you took note how beautiful Sherlock was in a moment of passion, his pretty dark curls, his sharp features, blue eyes watching you with interest, his luscious lips all swollen from kissing.

"You're such a pleasure to look at", you muttered, knowing that your praises would strike Sherlock where you wanted them too, "I've never known someone so graced by both intellect and beauty."

The man under you let out a soft sigh, wanton, perhaps a little aroused even. As you placed a hand on his pulse point, stroking along the curve of his jaw and the crook of his neck, you could very well feel that his heart was beating fast, just like his breathing got more intense, swallowing hard, even slightly squirming.

Sherlock's grip on your waist tightened a little, especially when you, perched on his thighs, slid forward in his lap, carefully pushing the suit jacket off the man's shoulders, before continuing to work on his shirt.

You were more than interested in discovering what Sherlock looked like under all those clothes, most certainly not disappointed, in awe as the man let you continue the quest to strip him off his shirt without a word of protest. You wondered what Sherlock was thinking, could never quite figure it out - because honestly, whoever managed to figure all of him out?

He was eyeing you curiously, occasionally brushing his large hands over your thighs, seemingly trying to take note of all affections given, but completely overwhelmed and unsure what to do.

"I usually don't like being touched", Sherlock spoke up eventually, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he seemed to swallow down a bit of nervousness yet again, "But I must admit that I want you to touch me."

"Good", you mused, sliding your hands over the man's pale skin, along his toned arms, back up to his shoulders, down the plane of his chest.

"Because I like touching you", you admitted, coaxing a moan out of Sherlock, as you just happened to brush your thumbs over his nipples. He seemed almost a little embarrassed after the sound had slipped past his lips, causing him to bite them in a try to repress any further noises.

And even more so, he was blushing a darker shade.

"Don't feel like you have to hold back", you assured him, trailing curious fingers over Sherlock's sensitive and delicate skin, flush with redness, since you had established that touch alone would get lovely reactions out of him, "You sound wonderful. I love how responsive you are."

Yet again, the words of praise caused Sherlock to shudder and he leant forward, asking for another kiss. You gave into it immediately, responding with eagerness as your hands moved over his slim belly, brushing far beyond his belt buckle, which startled the needy detective as he broke away for another moan, fingers squeezing into your thighs.

"Is this okay?", you took a moment of consideration, searching for uncertainty on Sherlock's face, who seemed oddly concentrated and focused on the situation, either of you unable to ignore that he was very aroused.

"I suppose this is a perfectly normal reaction to being touched so...thoroughly", the detective said oddly collected, a little out of breath, perfectly aware that he was responding and while the attention to his body certainly played a part, it undeniably were the words of praise that heightened the experience for him, "So yes, I would consider it okay."

"Do you want me to... go on?", you tried to assure yourself, wanting his consent before you went further, toying with the belt loops of his trousers, deciding to not give any more attention to his growing hardness until Sherlock confirmed that it was fine to continue.

"Yes", was the curt answer you received, rather eager, and you didn't want to deny him anything of what you were promising anymore. He wanted more. You were happy to give.

Opening the buckle of his belt with swift hands, it took a little bit of shuffling and changing positions for a moment to free him from his restraints, pulling his hardening cock out of his pants, wrapping a firm hand around him – no less sensitive, this caused Sherlock to take a deep breath, eyes closed and brows furrowed in concentration, leaning in to rest his forehead against yours.

"Just focus on my touch. I'll take good care of you", you simply whispered, gently running your fingers along the warm skin of his throbbing cock as it was quite responsive to your touch, giving an interested twitch, trickle of precome leaking from the tip.

"Gorgeous. I love how hard you get for me", you started praising Sherlock, rubbing your thumb over the glistening head, and then gently going on to stroke him, his head slumping down onto your shoulder, another desperate moan slipping past his lips.

"I wish you could see how lovely you are", you continued murmuring, pressing your face into Sherlock's soft curls, smiling to yourself. He really was lovely, sweet, surprisingly needy.

You tightened and eased your grip around the weeping cock, changing the rhythm times and times again, sometimes firmly grasping him, sometimes barely applying any pressure.

"You're doing so good for me", another soft praise as you dragged out the sweetest sounds from him, the response a warm and breathy moan against the crook of your neck, "Beautiful, brilliant Sherlock."

It was a huge turn on for you, something about Sherlock being all needy and desperate, whimpering against your own skin, breathing hard, tensing up, even shuddering at times, surrendering to his own pleasure in a way that you had never thought would happen.

Who would have thought the cold, distant detective was so submissive at heart?

Being painfully aroused yourself – your body was craving to feel the same amount of pleasure and attention, because of course it was – you did want to make sure this was all about Sherlock though, pushing your own desperation and need aside.

The man clung onto you for dear life, too overstimulated by the sensations rushing in, not used to this sort of attention, too gone and weak at the knees by being praised and teased and touched.

"I bet you're going to look and sound so beautiful when you come", you muttered, your strokes quicker, more erratic, the man beneath you shaking, panting heavily, face still hidden in your shoulder. Sherlock was getting really vocal, groaning and whimpering, claiming that he was close, so close, that he didn't want you to stop, not now.

It wasn't a demand. It was a plea. A desperate request.

"Are you going to be good and come for me, Sherl?", you asked then, placing a gentle kiss into his curls, lucky to have such composure or else Sherlock's warmth, the smell and touch of his hair, his desperation, his neediness, the sounds he made might have caused you to throw all of your self-composure out of the window and ride him to your own ecstasy.

But this was enough for now. Good enough for you, because when Sherlock did come, it was all for you.

His body was trembling, squirming, bucking under you as he fell apart, his words getting lost in his panting, culminating into a moan of relief – he surrendered, spilled himself so wonderfully all over your torturous hand, guiding him all the way through his orgasm, and between your bodies.

Coming down from the high took him long, shaking and gasping for air as he went completely lax and fell back into the pillows.

It was the perfect moment for you to look at the mess you both had made. The detective's cheeks were glowing with red, before he went ahead to cover his own face in shame with his arm, his curls spread out on the pillow, skin flushed pink from arousal and perhaps a bit embarrassment, the flat of his stomach heaving, his hardness softening in your hand.

He looked downright ethereal.

And you would always make sure to let him know.

[hey-its-roseaurum]

Guilty until Proven Innocent-Part I

A/N: Hey everyone. Thank you for taking the time to look at this story. This is for a collaboration with @lainiespicewrites. She is an excellent writer and I figured it was my turn to stretch my writing muscles and put something out into the world. This is my first Henry Cavill fic, so please don't be too harsh. Anyways, enjoy!

Synopsis: After recent murders in town, You (Olivia) decide to train with Edith in the art of self-defense. In the middle of training, you got a mysterious knock on the door. Sherlock walks in, looking for assistance with his latest case. He offers you to partake in a partnership to help him in his latest case? Do you take it?

Warnings: mentions of death

“You’re progressing nicely Olivia.”  Edith smiled from above me, her elbow pinning me to the floor mat.  There wasn’t a hint of sweat along her forehead.  She had taken me down in less than a minute. The worst part was I thought I was going to land a hit on her this time.

”I’m beginning to think that you’re just saying that to soothe my pride”. I rasped out.  She had eased her hold on me and stood up, extending a hand.

”Nonsense.  Look how far you’ve come since you first stepped in these doors.  Pretty soon you’ll be able to hold your ground with me.”  She exclaimed as I grabbed her hand and hoisted myself up.  My back had long since started throbbing.

For the past few weeks, I have been meeting Edith at her office to train and learn self-defense.  Ever since the first girl went missing and was later found dead in the street I hadn’t been able to sleep soundly.  There were constant, nagging thoughts that made me question if I was going to be the next victim.  It had only gotten worse when they found the next girl a week later in the middle of an alleyway that I frequently visited.  Her throat had been cut. 

In London, it was ill-advised for a woman, especially of noble birth, to consider something as trivial as self-defense.  Women are supposed to be soft, elegant, and passive. All of the trouble and responsibility in making decisions was for the men. 

 Being passive and soft didn’t save those girls from their cruel end.

And I wasn’t going to let myself become like them.  I refuse to be the next girl that falls victim to this.  So I went to my dear friend Enola at her detective agency and inquired about a solution to my predicament.  She sent me over to Edith and had me start training the next day.  I’ve been training every day since then.

I’m still not really good at it.

”Did you say the same thing when you were teaching Enola?”  I inquired as I dusted myself off.  Edith only shook her head.

”Not exactly.  Her response was more witty, thanks to her mother.”  Eudoria Holmes, the mother, the fire starter as people liked to call her.  I’ve seen her wanted poster splayed all across London.  But I didn’t see her as a criminal.  I saw her as the woman who saved my life six months ago.

That morning had been cold and bitter.  I remember feeling my fingers grow numb while I huddled against a mailbox.  Its red paint had chipped away at its base, leaving rust behind.

Which was ironic and poetic now that I think back on it.  And let me explain why.

It all started when my father had recently passed from a sickness that left my mother and me penniless.  With no man in the house and no money to our name, we were cast out of society.  My mother and I were thrown out and the estate that I called my home.   It was sold to another noble family in the south.

We lived off the street after that.  My mother, using what knowledge she had of needlework, had acquired a job as an assisted seamstress.  I was left to salvage whatever pity people gave me and half-rotten food from dumpsters.

Eventually, we were able to afford a small cottage on the outskirts of town.  It was small, run-down, and often had a damp smell to it.  Mother didn’t like to be there for a long period.  She claimed it was because she was so busy with her duties to the seamstress that she didn’t have time to spend there.  I think it was because she missed her life at the estate and living in this small broken cottage was too much for her to bear.

That morning six months ago I decided to go into town to fill my water bucket and get bread before it got too crowded.  When I got there, I sat down by the mailbox to wait for the bakery to open.  I was particularly annoyed when I saw a lot of people around this early in the morning.

I was watching a man get onto a carriage when something shifted from the corner of my eye.  It had been a man, or what I thought was a man walking towards me with a package in their hand.  When we made eye contact I didn’t think anything of it.  I just watched them and noted how stiff they walked. They placed the package in the slot of the mailbox.  Before I knew it, I was grabbed by the elbow, hoisted upright, and pulled away from the mailbox.  

That mailbox exploded, releasing a whirlwind of fliers into the air.

The two of us had run from the police.  I was forced to since they refused to let go of my hand.  We ran until this stranger knew that they weren't being followed.  

When things settled down, the man revealed that they were a woman in disguise.  She introduced herself as Eudoria Holmes and then proceeded to lecture me about being near explosives as if she were my own mother.  All I had wanted to do was bite back, to lecture her on how she shouldn’t be putting explosives where there were people.

Instead, I broke down, not from her lecturing but because of something I couldn’t quite place. All I knew was that I was waiting for a soggy piece of bread and nearly got blown up.

In the end, I told her everything.  I told her my past, my current situation, and why I was even in town in the first place.  One thing kind of led to another.  The next thing I knew I was sitting in Eudoria’s house with a cup of tea in my hand.

I stayed in that damp cottage less and less as time passed and more at Eudoria’s warm, often chaotic home.  That’s where I became friends with Enola, had briefly met her two brothers Sherlock and Mycroft, and felt somewhat happy.  

I don’t know why she pulled me away from that mailbox.  The one time I asked her she said she saw something in me, some sort of fire in my eye.  She didn’t want it to go out along with the mailbox.

I didn’t believe her, but I couldn’t tell that to her.

“So what you’re trying to say is that I still have a long way to go,” I asked as my brain jumped back to the present.  I stepped away from the mat and made my way into her office.

”What I’m saying is you’re doing better than you think you are.  You just began learning.  Give yourself a little credit.”  Following me, she made her way to the table by the window.  A stack of teacups were messily stacked up to one side.  She grabbed two, placed them on saucers, and poured liquid into both.  

“I know.  I’m just…worried.  It’s been a week since the last victim was found and the police still haven’t found the suspect.”  I let out a sigh and sipped some of my tea.  I needed a moment to choose my words carefully.  “I just want to be…prepared.”

A heavy pause filled the air before either of us spoke.  

”Olivia…there’s more to that, isn’t there?” Edith’s words were soft and gentle.

“I mean I-“. My response was sharply cut short.

A knock pulled our attention away from our conversation and to the door.  A tall man entered from the training room and to Edith’s office.  I couldn’t place if he looked tall because of his size, or because of the giant top hat sitting snugly on top of his head.  Dark wavy strands of hair peaked through from under his hat. 

”Have you any sense what time it is?”  Edith interrogated, crossing her arms.  The man took off his hat, revealing thick brown locks.  His sculpted jawline and nose complimented the hair.  Blue, mesmerizing eyes glanced around, investigating.

But the feature that I recognized right away from him was his shoulders.  I knew those shoulders.

”Hello, Edith” His attention briefly shot to me “Olivia”  I curtly nodded, averting my eyes.

”Good evening Mr. Holmes.”  I responded softly.  “With what do we owe the pleasure of your company?” Holmes.  Sherlock Holmes.  One of Enola’s older brothers. One of the greatest detectives I’ve ever seen.

”There’s no need for formalities Olivia.”  I felt something warm begin to grow on my cheeks at his response.  He’s only being polite Olivia.  We are only acquaintances because of Enola and Eudoria.  He doesn’t like you like that.

Or does he?  

I’m not sure.

Sherlock Holmes is a difficult man to understand.

“What are you here for Sherlock?”  Edith asked again, harsher this time.  Her tone quickly pulled me back to the present and away from my thoughts.  

Sherlock cleared his throat, his blue eyes revealing some sort of inner turmoil within himself.  It was an unusual amount of emotion that I was not used to seeing.  I expected it with Mycroft, he practically wore his emotions on his face at all times.  Sherlock never did.  He’s always been composed, and proper.  Before me now he still was, but a layer of some sort had been chipped away.

”I….need your help.”  He struggled to say the words like it was almost painful to him.  A moment of silence clung in the air.  

”Is it about Enola?   Did she get herself into trouble?”  There was a hint of concern in Edith’s voice when she begged the questions.  The only response he gave was a small shake of his head. I watched as realization flashed on her face. 

”There’s something about this case-“. 

”That deduction cannot solve?”  Edith finished his thought.  He slightly nodded, setting his hat down on her desk.  That was my cue. I softly placed my teacup down and made my way to the table by the window.  I began making some tea for Sherlock while listening to the conversation.

”I may need your…skills to get information from a place I cannot enter.”

“What kind of place?”  He listed off a name that I didn’t recognize.  Edith’s face slightly reddened.

”A showgirl theatre?! You cannot ask me such a thing Sherlock, no matter how close we are.”  My eyebrows raised as I grabbed a cup and saucer and poured some tea into the cup.

“I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t have another option.  A woman’s life is at stake.” His tone was calm, but there was something else there.

”But going into this with the possibility of getting murdered is not something I’m comfortable with.  Woman’s freedom and rights is one thing, going after a serial killer is a whole other matter entirely”

”Edith, I-“. I cut them off.

”I’ll do it.  I’ll go instead of you.”  In their arguing, I had made my way back to the two of them, Sherlock's tea in hand.  I had left mine behind.

”Olivia, do you know what kind of place that is, what situations you can get into.  You’re nowhere near ready to hold your ground”. What she said was like a punch to the gut.  

I knew I wasn’t ready, we had that same conversation not thirty minutes ago.  But I knew that if Edith went and something bad had happened to her Enola and Eudoria would be devastated.  I was different.  If I went and something happened to me, Edith would still be here training more girls like me.

”Who else is going to do it?  Enola?  She’s not expendable. I am.  And Edith, what about the other girls you train?” I took a breath, the stubbornness in me growing. “Besides, I know these streets better than anyone.  I’ve lived in them.  I know where to go in case I’m being followed.   And because of the way I look,”. I paused briefly looking down at myself, at my curvy, plump figure.  “No one would suspect me.  They would just see me as a showgirl trying to make ends meet.  I can blend in, go undercover, and get the information that he needs in order to catch this murderer.”

A heavy pause hung between the three of us.

I let what I said sink into the two of them.  I know that Edith is fighting with herself on whether she can let me go.  She believes that I am her responsibility, and I kind of was while Eudoria was undercover.  But since starting to learn to defend myself I told myself that I couldn’t sit and wait.  Sitting and worrying about who the next victim is going to drive me crazy.  If I can help and make a difference, then maybe the suspect will be caught before there’s more tragedy.  

”I promise I won’t let anything bad happen to her.”  Sherlock’s voice broke the silence and my inner thoughts.  “You have my word.”  His eyes met mine at his.  I felt something else there besides the promise.   Edith sighed,  rubbing her temples with both her index fingers.

“Okay, Sherlock.  Just…make sure she comes back in one piece.”   Edith finally concurred.  “You’re going to have to speak to your mother if you don’t.”

A smile tugged at my lips at the agreement.  I finally raised the cup of tea, offering it to him.    

”When do we start?”

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A/N: Thank you so much for reading. If you want to read @lainiespicewrites story about Paul Atreides from the Dune Sage, here is her link: https://www.tumblr.com/lainiespicewrites/747032352877903872/the-atreides-era?source=share