#si: to a great mind‚ nothing is little 🤎

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🧡🤎💜 We love Heathlock (/r) and Ishlock (/p), right? 💜🤎🧡

(Art by the amazing @/artistlara here on tumblr!)

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Okay ... now, then! If you happen to take a peek at my "romantic" list, I have added two characters--Niko because I love the little fleeting crush dynamic he and Sherry have in Canto IV (I think they have a bit of witty banter and flirting that makes Heathcliff a bit jealous), and Hubert because ... uh ... I don't believe I ever mentioned him?

So, to catch you up to speed: Hubert was a character introduced in TimeKilling Time, which--if you remember my last blog--has been my favorite event so far because of how much lore it gave me. He tags along with Dante, Hong Lu, Rodya, and Ryōshū while they investigate the case of TimeKilling Time, and he's a very chatty individual, talking about inventions and time a lot (since time is a crucial part of District 20's culture). At the end of the event, we learn that he's actually the Chief Executive Director of T. Corp--making him a particularly powerful individual.

As for Sherry ... seeing as District 20 is based off Victorian London (one of my favorite time periods), it's safe to say that she, being a woman, would have been married off by her family for the sake of keeping appearances--and, given Mycroft's ties to T. Corp, as well as the Holmes Family's position within the Nest, Sherry and Hubert happened to be introduced, and it wasn't long before Sherry's grandmother was pressing for marriage.

We all know Sherry dislikes the idea of being tied down, so she was certainly against the idea from the start--even though she did (and still does) like Hubert. They do have a few differences in opinion, I believe, but if you put the pair in a room together, they could converse for hours--and it's rare Sherry finds someone like that.

Thankfully, they did part on positive terms, but you can imagine Sherry's eye twitching and teeth clenching throughout TimeKilling Time when she has to spend so much time with her former suitor ... especially since by that time she's started to become aware of how she feels towards Heathcliff, and she's separated from him for quite some time during this stretch of the story--she's a bit distracted, worrying about what he might think if he found out about her ties to Hubert.

Oh, and she goes through the entire event without naming him until the end. She's going to play the game of keeping everyone in the dark because she's just like that. /lh

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My first thought when I got her was, "Aw, she's copying Sherry!" since Sherry has a timepiece she's regularly checking.

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I have been thinking about Sherry having an announcer ... I like the idea of her having unique lines for each Sinner--either praising or scolding them depending on their performance and her relationship with them. And, of course, her compliments are always said in a manner that makes them wonder if she's really praising them.

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When my Enkephalin restores and I get a tag for this last guy, you're all going to be subjected to new Sherry lore. /lh

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I have been thinking about Paradise Lost (that's the name for my Fell Bullet × Pursuance AU) a lot, these days ... Pursuance!Sherry holding Corroded Fell Bullet!Heathcliff is a common thought of mine.

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A Night Out

Synopsis: Heathcliff and Sherry spend an evening out at a local tavern, taking advantage of a rare opportunity to relax.

Ship: The Adventure of Wuthering Heights

Words: 5,445

Warnings: alcohol, mentions of gambling, smoking, mentions of drugs, mentions of torture and death (no one is actually tortured/killed), mentions of food

Note: This fic is set in my Sherlock Holmes AU; Originally posted in June of 2023

A pleasant hush had descended on the Backstreets, and Heathcliff observed the evening routines of the local residents with a disinterested expression—here, on the outermost fringes of the Nest, the denizens of the District enjoyed a modicum of tranquility that stirred a bitter resentment in his heart.

Arrogant bastards, he thought, glaring at a pair of men as they lounged on the steps of their apartment, discussing whatever topic entertained those within the folds of high society—poetry, he supposed; those Odysseys and Iliads that only men and women of  ‘genteel breeding’ had the pleasure of reading.

Scoffing, Heathcliff leaned against the side of the alleyway, his gaze turning towards the building that formed the opposite wall—the Diogenes Club. It was a polite structure, constructed of ruddy bricks that had been glued together with thick globs of cement, and several windows adorned the frontside. The building possessed two stories, with the second floor rising from the first and shunted back a ways, and every single curtain was drawn, much to his consternation.

How much longer is this going to take? He thought, eyeing the nearest window warily. Every now and then, the drapes were drawn back, and someone would peek out before hastily drawing the curtains once more. He knew exactly who it was, and the game he played, but he wasn’t deterred. Does he just think he can keep her all night? That I’ll get fed up and leave?

Huffing, Heathcliff kicked the pavement, muttering a string of curses to himself. He’d been waiting since five, and, though there wasn’t a clock nearby, he knew it’d been a good three hours since his companion had vanished into the establishment—the surrounding apartments had been painted gold, then orange, and now a cool shade of indigo, and now the faintest lines of silver were beginning to dance through the streets, lending a soft, sparkling sheen to the pavement of the cul-de-sac.

What business is so important he has to keep her three hours? He glowered at the window, the curtains once again flickering as someone peered out at him. If I have to wait much longer, I’ll go mad.

Heathcliff had oft repeated that exact line to himself over the past three hours, yet he’d remained outside, patiently awaiting his companion’s return—such was the power of the vow between them.

“I shouldn’t have signed that lousy scrap of paper,” he grumbled. “I’d be off having a fine time with my mates at the pub if I hadn’t—I’d be starting scraps here and there, sure, but at least I’d be inside where it’s warm.”

But I wouldn’t be sitting half as pretty as I am, he reminded himself with a scowl.

His gaze returned to the window, but it was still. A moment later, the front door opened, and a woman dressed in a familiar coat of brown tweed stepped onto the street, her brow knit as she addressed someone behind her.

“—I won’t hear anymore of this, Mycroft. I have made my position on this matter perfectly clear—perhaps clearer than you would’ve liked. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my companion and I have another appointment, and I’ve wasted quite enough time entertaining your nonsense.”

“Sherlock, you cannot be serious about keeping this … engagement of yours. Your reputation will suffer for it—as will the family name!”

“Reputation means little to me, as you well know—besides, you’re the one the family name relies on, what with you being the eldest.” Tipping her cap, she offered the man a stiff bow. “Now, good evening.”

With that, she turned on her heel and set off at a brisk pace down the street, signaling for Heathcliff to join her with a wave of her hand. Glancing between her and the man still standing in the doorway, he shrugged, detaching himself from the shadows and hurrying after her.

“I take it things didn’t go well?” he asked, raising an eyebrow as she fished a pipe from one of her coat’s numerous pockets.

“It went as expected,” she replied crisply. “Things played out exactly as I told you they would, this morning: Mycroft begged me to drop my work as a Fixer, but he really dug in when it came to me keeping you around.”

“Ah … hence the ‘your reputation will suffer’ …” Heathcliff sighed. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone worried about me disgracing a lady.”

“And, as I’ve told you, not even my dear brother can undo the ties that bind you and I.” She smiled mischievously, lighting her pipe. “Imagine the look on his face if I were to produce the contract … he’d faint, I’m sure.”

“As would a good chunk of my mates,” Heathcliff muttered, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Though, they wouldn’t be as civil as Sherlock’s brother, he thought ruefully. No … they’d brand me a traitor, and then they’d exile me … but not until after they’ve tried to kill me.

He glanced at Sherlock—Sherry—hoping that he’d feel the familiar rush of rage towards her that he’d felt when they’d first started out on this private venture. But, try as he might, the flames of anger and resentment had long since abated when it came to Sherlock Holmes. After all, she’d opened her home to him, despite his untoward behavior, and had let him eat whatever leftovers remained when she finished eating—and, oftentimes, those leftovers were the entire feast.

She’d even enlisted her friend, Dr. John Watson, to tend his injuries whenever he returned to the Office covered in wounds from this or that clash between Syndicates, silencing Watson’s complaints with nothing more than a cold glare and a single, sharp word.

And, if that weren’t enough, she’d promised him the one thing no one else could—information. Along with a forty percent cut of her earnings, so long as he agreed to help her on cases every now and then.

By all accounts, Heathcliff had landed himself a deal that others would’ve killed for. Free room and board, a doctor whenever he needed one, tidbits of information on the person he yearned for most, and a sizeable paycheck … to hate Sherlock Holmes after all she’d offered him would be to bite the hand that feeds—and she fed him well.

And all he had to do was swallow his pride and sign a fancy little contract.

Heathcliff sighed, abandoning his attempt at hating the woman beside him—it was impossible for him to harbor hatred toward her, given the circumstances. “You said we had another call, this evening?”

Sherry shook her head. “That was simply an excuse to get away from my brother,” she said, her smile fading. “I don’t like lying to him, but he’d exhausted my patience.”

“Then we’re returning to Baker Street?”

“If that’s what you wish.”

Heathcliff raised an eyebrow. What I wish?

That was the other thing that had stifled his frustrations shortly after they’d both signed that scrap of paper—Sherry always took interest in what he wanted. At first, this had only served to incense him further—he was already bound to aid her, and now she was trying to befriend him? It reeked of deception, the kind of trickery any Backstreets swindler would employ.

And yet … she’d met his gaze whenever he answered—she’d seen him, rather than straight through him, and committed his responses to memory. It’d been far too long since someone had wanted to know Heathcliff for who he was rather than for what he could do for them, and, despite reminding himself over and over that it was probably a clever ploy to win his trust, he’d developed a secret fondness for the detective—a fondness he both loathed and treasured.

“I didn’t have anything that I wanted to do,” he said finally, ignoring her piercing gaze as it settled on him—those sharp, sapphire eyes, sparkling with an intensity that made his insides squirm, were incapable of missing even the slightest of details. Heathcliff instinctively reached to adjust one of his suspenders, then froze.

Lass has me fretting about my appearance, now, he thought, gritting his teeth and forcing his hand back into his pocket as Sherry chuckled softly.

“You’ve been doing that more,” she said, closing her eyes.

“Doing what?” he asked, feigning ignorance.

“Straightening your clothes whenever I cast a glance your way,” Sherry replied, smiling. “There’s no need for it, you know—I’m not going to scold you for having a button undone.”

She cracked open an eyelid, her gaze hovering on the collar of his shirt, which, as usual, was unbuttoned.

Heathcliff muttered an oath, beginning to fumble with the buttons, which only made Sherry laugh more. After a moment, she tugged his arm, halting him so she could adjust his attire herself.

“I told you—I’ve no problem with how you dress.” She pulled his dusty, brown jacket so that it covered his shoulders properly, then fussed with his sleeves, picking off a few pieces of lint. “As long as you’re comfortable, I’ve no qualms about your clothing.”

Heathcliff grunted, waving her away. “If you didn’t care, then you wouldn’t be fussing.”

“I’m only fussing because watching you fumble with buttons and folds is as entertaining as watching rain trickle down a windowpane,” she retorted.

“Yet you were chuckling just a moment before,” he growled.

“Only because you fall for my teasing so easily—surely you know when I’m taking the piss, by now?”

Heathcliff bristled, but couldn’t think of a clever comeback. Instead, he settled for another curse, turning to follow Sherry as she continued down the street.

“If you don’t have anywhere you’d like to visit, then we can retire to Baker Street early—Victor did send me a letter, and I could spend the evening continuing my correspondence with him.”

At this, Heathcliff hissed. “Not that rich sod from the Nest, again … he isn’t insisting you return to that bloody estate of his, is he?”

Sherry’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “He is. I know how you feel about him, so you can look after the Office when I visit him, if you so choose.”

And let him flirt with you? I’d rather be shot! Heathcliff bit his tongue, barely stopping himself from listing the numerous reasons Sherry shouldn’t return to Victor Trevor’s estate—chief among them the jealousy surging through his veins.

“Victor informed me that a man by the name of Hudson has been working his father into quite a state, and wishes for me to look into him, and it wouldn’t do to turn down a friend after all he’s done for me.”

She turned her eyes toward Heathcliff, their mischievous twinkle growing brighter as she grinned.

“Unless, of course, something prevents me from writing back to him.”

Heathcliff returned her gaze coolly. He knew exactly what she was doing, and if he wasn’t so stung by her dragging Victor’s name into the conversation, he would’ve been flattered. To think, the great Sherlock Holmes was hinting at wanting to spend time with him … outside of the Office, no less!

Finally, he sighed. “I suppose … I might know a place we could go—but it’s not exactly the kind of establishment I should be taking a lady.”

“My dear Heathcliff, do you think I’m unfamiliar with the City’s dens of iniquity?”

“No, but still …” he avoided her gaze. There were places he frequented that he’d wanted to keep Sherry away from—the taverns were one thing, but the gambling dens and the underground fighting rings, thick with tobacco smoke, were places he didn’t want her to see, lest they spoil her opinion of him.

“I assure you, you shall receive no judgement from me—if that’s what you fear.” Sherry placed her finger over the end of her pipe, snuffing out the flame before pocketing it. “And if you’re concerned about my reputation … I made my stance quite clear, earlier.”

“That you did,” Heathcliff muttered. “Alright—perhaps I have a bit of unfinished business at a place nearby. But I don’t want to hear you complaining about the clientele, got it?”

The Rat’s Nest was an unassuming building upon first glance, with ashen brick walls and a number of freshly scrubbed windows, but locals knew better—though the establishment had a modest exterior, the inside was rank with illicit activity, from gambling to forgery to smuggling enkephalin.

Still, it was a place Heathcliff frequented—if nothing else, he could turn up a tidbit of info or two to run back to Sherry for her cases. And … well, the drinks were nice, too.

“The Rat’s Nest,” Sherry’s eyes glanced over the sign hanging above the door, and she sighed, clearly unamused. “How clever.”

“Careful there,” Heathcliff said, nodding at a crowd of thugs gathered outside the establishment, their eyes trained on the unusual duo. “This place is one of the most dangerous places in the District.”

“I’m familiar with its reputation,” she said softly. “Many of my clients have run into trouble with those who frequent this establishment … but it’s a wealth of information for any Fixer willing to step inside.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been here, then?”

“No—but I know a certain man with a rather unkempt appearance who has.” She shot him a sly grin, and he grit his teeth. “What’s your business, tonight?”

“Same as every night where you’re not demanding I go and dig up information—pool.”

Sherry raised an eyebrow, but said nothing as he opened the tavern door, a cloud of thick, blue tobacco smoke roiling forth and smothering them as they ducked inside.

The building was packed, with people from all corners of the Backstreets crowded around tables throughout the main floor. Many of them were speaking in hushed whispers, dark eyes glittering warily as they surveyed the room, watching for potential eavesdroppers. Most were smoking thick cigars, contributing to the hazy blue cloud drifting across the ceiling, while others had their fingers curled around neatly chiseled glasses filled with brandy, vodka, or gin—at least, that’s what Heathcliff supposed, having glanced over the bar menu briefly once or twice. He fancied the scotch, himself.

One quarter of the room had been lowered several yards, and a staircase had been installed for guests to travel down to the lowest point in the tavern—a space filled with dartboards, pool tables, and slot machines. Throngs of Rats had gathered around the slots, their dim eyes reflecting the dazzling colors as they watched the reels spin as if in a trance.

Sherry barely suppressed a soft cough, glaring at the indigo fog rolling overhead. “Would it kill them to crack open a window?”

“Don’t let ‘em hear you saying that,” Heathcliff whispered, nudging her towards the stairs. “Trust me—this crowd can sense disapproval, and they’re pretty quick to stamp it out.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You’ve upset them a few times, then?”

“And what would make you think I’m the one who upset ‘em? Perhaps I was just an innocent bystander who witnessed some poor sod getting thrashed for daring to tell one of ‘em off?”

Sherry grinned, shaking her head. “My dear Heathcliff … I’m sorry, but it sounds like you’re recounting one of your personal experiences.”

He muttered a curse, prodding her closer to the stairs. “Fine, I’ve been in a few scrapes with these lads in the past, but that’s all the more reason for you to keep your mouth shut.”

“Oh?” she raised an eyebrow, her eyes gleaming mischievously. “Is that why you’ve been coming back to the Office so ragged these past few weeks?”

“Mouth. Shut.” Heathcliff hissed, his eyes flicking towards the bar before scanning the nearby tables. “I don’t need you drawing more attention than you already have.”

Sherry huffed, folding her arms. “You’re not scared of them, are you?”

“What? No!” he scoffed. “Just get down the bloody stairs before I—”

He stopped midsentence, noticing a few people had turned to stare at them, and he felt his face flush. Grabbing Sherry by the elbow, he led her down the stairs, then towards a pool table in the bottom left corner of the room.

Releasing Sherry, he sighed, leaning against the pool table with his eyes closed. This woman is going to be the death of me.

“Eight-ball or one-pocket?” Sherry’s question, asked in a soft, gentle tone, made him open his eyes, and he was surprised to see her racking pool balls on the table behind him.

“Eight-ball,” he answered, and she nodded. “You … you’ve played before?”

“Once or twice,” she replied, shrugging. “Mycroft often lets the boys play at the Diogenes Club, and I picked it up from them—though, my dear brother was upset when he found out.”

“I can imagine.” Heathcliff couldn’t help but grin at the thought of Mycroft fuming because his precious little sister had learned how to play something as ‘scandalous’ as pool.

Sherry removed the rack from around the balls with a flourish, setting it to the side before placing the cue ball at the headstring. “Would you like to shoot first?”

“If it pleases the lady,” Heathcliff hummed, and Sherry scoffed. But she nodded, tossing him a cue stick from the set hanging on the wall beside the table.

“The floor’s yours.”

Without another word, Heathcliff moved himself behind the cue ball, leaning forward and placing his bridge hand on the table—open bridge, as always—and delivered a sharp prod to the cue ball, which collided with the pool balls at the opposite end of the table, sending them scattering in all directions. A solid blue ball rolled neatly into the top left pocket, and Heathcliff shot Sherry a smug grin.

“Seems I’ll be taking an early lead.”

“Don’t go getting cocky, now,” she warned, rubbing a chalk cube on the end of her cue stick. “You haven’t even seen me shoot.”

He shrugged, moving to the right side of the table to position himself behind the cue ball, eyes fixed on a solid red ball a few inches away from the leftmost pocket. As he settled down to shoot, though, he felt that familiar sensation of being watched by a sharp pair of eyes …

Sherlock, he thought, gritting his teeth as his heart skipped a beat. His gaze flicked up to meet hers, but he quickly focused his attention back on the cue ball, trying to ignore her. Just focus on the game, Heathcliff—don’t let her get in your head.

He poked the cue ball firmly, but it only rolled enough to nudge the red ball he’d aimed for, and he muttered a quiet curse as Sherry scooped up the cue ball and reset it behind the headstring.

“Allow me …” she said, settling into a striking position.

Heathcliff huffed, stepping back to lean against the wall, studying Sherry’s movements.

There were few moments where he had the opportunity to truly look at Sherlock Holmes—she was always bundled up in her brown trench coat, a short, tweed cape hanging about her shoulders, with a familiar cap perched atop her head.

 And that was usually all he noticed.

But here, in the dimly lit tavern, with her crouched low as she charted the course of the cue ball in front of her, Heathcliff had a rare opportunity to admire her face—it was surprisingly soft, with the faintest of wrinkles under her eyes denoting the many sleepless nights she’d spent in her favorite armchair, her deep blue eyes reflecting the leaping flame contained in the fireplace. He never really knew what she was thinking on those nights, but he knew one thing: Sherlock had some of the most piercing eyes he’d ever seen, and they expressed her thoughts more clearly than her own tongue.

Sherry narrowed her eyes, studying the cue ball with an intensity that she usually reserved for the morning papers, and she set her bridge hand flat on the table, running the edge of her cue stick back and forth along her thumb and index finger in quiet contemplation. A few locks of her warm, tawny hair brushed against the table as she leaned forward, delivering a firm strike to the cue ball that sent it shooting across the table, knocking a ball with a thick, yellow band into the top right pocket.

Wordlessly, Sherry straightened, moving around the table to prepare for another shot, this time her gaze set on a ball behind the headstring, sporting a band of indigo. And, again, she sank the ball.

Moving back around the table, she cast Heathcliff a sly glance, and he snorted. So, she’s got a little bit of skill—it’s nothing to be proud of. It’s not like we’re playing for money or anything.

Sherry sank yet another ball, and he sighed as she once again looped around the table.

Okay … maybe she’s got something to be proud of.

“I do hope I’m not boring you,” she said, flicking her eyes in his direction  as she settled down for her fourth shot. “I’m not familiar with the kind of conversation people have when they play pool.”

“They’re usually about topics that wouldn’t interest you, anyway,” Heathcliff replied.

“Try me.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, listening as the cue ball clattered against a trio of balls at the other end of the table. “When it’s me and my mates, the topic usually turns to who fancies who pretty quick.”

“Ah … you’re right. That isn’t something that interests me.”

“Not even if it’s about me?” he asked, opening his eyes to study her curiously.

“I was under the impression you were in love with that Earnshaw woman.” Sherry’s words were polite, but her eyes were dark. She gestured at the table. “It’s your shot.”

“So it is,” he murmured, detaching himself from the wall and plucking the cue ball from the table, once again resetting it behind the headstring. “Have you learned anything more about Cathy, by any chance?”

“Nothing that pleases me,” Sherry muttered bitterly, brow furrowed. “The more I learn of her, the more I dislike her—if you’ll pardon me saying so.”

Heathcliff hummed in response, taking his shot and sinking another ball in the rightmost pocket. “Wouldn’t happen to be because you’re … jealous, would it?”

“I have no reason to envy her,” Sherry said simply, but the storm in her eyes brought a smile to Heathcliff’s face.

Oh, she’s definitely jealous …

He missed his next shot, and Sherry took his place, resetting the cue ball and knocking two more balls into separate pockets. She really was quite good at the game—better than most.

“If I’d known you were this good, I would’ve made a bet with you.” Heathcliff sidled up beside her, earning an annoyed glare.

“And what would the stakes have been?”

“Nothing big—just a bet to see who’d be buying drinks.”

Sherry shrugged, jabbing the cue ball and sending another pool ball rattled into a pocket. “If you want a drink, I have no problem buying you one.”

“You, Miss Sherlock Holmes, are the complete opposite of a lady. Your brother would be horrified if he heard you were offering to buy a man a drink, you know.”

“There are more scandalous things,” she replied, rounding the table and sinking her seventh pool ball. “For example—I’m about to beat you at pool by knocking the eight ball into that pocket.”

She nodded at the hole closest to him, and he grinned.

“You’re just racking up your sins, tonight, aren’t you?”

“I never said I was a lady—you’re the one who assumed I was.”

With that, she sank the eight ball into the pocket beside Heathcliff, and the game was finished.

“Not bad,” Heathcliff mused, knocking the rest of the balls into the table’s pockets as Sherry hung up her cue stick. “Seems I owe you a drink.”

“If I drink, it’ll be back at Baker Street.” Sherry sighed, twirling her hair around her finger. “I don’t care to drink in public—and especially not in places like this.”

“What—you can’t hold your liquor?” Heathcliff teased.

“I hold my drink better than you,” she said sharply, and he winced—she had seen him in a drunken stupor once before, and though he couldn’t recall any of the things he’d said or done, the disapproving look in her eyes during the weeks following his intoxicated haze had hurt more than the initial hangover. “But … if you’d like, I can treat you to a glass of brandy.”

“Scotch would be nice,” he muttered, hanging up his cue stick.

“Scotch, then.” Sherry moved towards the stairs, and Heathcliff scrambled after her, catching up as she reached the main floor.

Before he could say anything, however, she’d vanished into the crowd, leaving him alone on the landing.

Shit, he thought, glancing around frantically for her. Really, Heathcliff—you bring a lass out with you for the first time in years, and you decide the ideal place to take her is a seedy little tavern packed full of the shadiest Syndicates in the Backstreets … and then you go and lose track of her. Sure, she’s Sherlock Holmes, but with a face as cute as hers, any drunk sod could fancy the idea to try and charm her—not that he’d succeed, because she is Sherlock Holmes and has no interest in romance, but …

He shook himself, muttering a quiet curse.

Pull yourself together, you stupid fool! It’s because she’s Sherlock Holmes that she’s in so much danger here—all sorts of Syndicates gather here, and none of ‘em are too keen on her after she broke up their enkephalin smuggling rings. If they cornered her, they’d do all manner of unthinkable things to her …

He shuddered, a cold, dark realization dawning on him.

… and it’d be my fault. I’d be the reason she got caught and tortured. His stomach twisted painfully at the thought, and his heartrate accelerated. They’d kill her and I’d be the one responsible for it, because I’m the bastard who brought her here in the first place.

He was about to dive into the crowd in search of her when he felt a gentle tug at his arm, and, glancing down, he saw that Sherry had returned, a glass of whiskey in her hand, which she offered to him.

“Sherlock!” he wheezed, relief washing over him. “You’re … safe.”

“Of course I am,” she replied, raising an eyebrow at his quivering frame. “Are you feeling alright? You’re shaking like a newborn calf …”

He blinked, then released a tired sigh. “Don’t go running off on me, love … you scared me half to death.”

“Ah …” Sherry glanced away, then took his elbow. “Let’s go over here—there’s a table in the corner that was unoccupied … you can rest there for a moment.”

Heathcliff allowed her to lead him through the crowd, and they settled down at a small booth in the farthest corner of the tavern, far away from the wary eyes of the ruffians clustered around the bar.

Sherry was silent, quietly observing the murmuring crowds, and Heathcliff took the opportunity to take a swig of his drink, sighing as the familiar warmth of alcohol spread through his limbs, filling him with renewed vigor.

Setting the now-empty glass down, he turned his gaze to Sherry, who was staring at her lap, her hat drawn low over her eyes.

“You doing alright?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m fine,” she replied curtly, lifting her head and staring out at the people milling about the tavern.

Heathcliff tried to read her eyes, but they weren’t the dazzling window to her thoughts that they usually were—instead, they were clouded with an emotion that was foreign to them … something different from the delight and anger that usually thundered through them.

“… can I ask you a question, Heathcliff?”

Sherry’s voice was soft, hesitant—so much less confident than usual.

“Of course,” he said, tilting his head. “What is it?”

“Do you still love Catherine Earnshaw?”

Heathcliff blinked, surprised by the question. “Of course I do—Cathy’s the only reason I’m doing all this, remember? You said that as long as I help you out here and there, and sometimes keep you company now that Watson’s left to focus on his practice, you’d tell me what you learned about her whereabouts.”

“I see. I suspected as much.” Sherry’s words were stiff, and that clouded emotion in her eyes thickened. “And what if she’s ceased to love you? Have you ever considered that possibility?”

“That ‘possibility’ is an impossibility,” Heathcliff hissed, bristling.

Sherry frowned. “Then you’re set on returning to her, once I discover where she’s decided to roost?”

“Naturally—once I get the information I want, our contract’s fulfilled. I’m free to go on my way, and you can find someone else to accompany you on your cases.”

“And what about everything we’ve been through? Is the friendship we share so trivial that you’ll just vanish without a word once you get what you want?”

Heathcliff hesitated at this—certainly, Sherlock meant something to him … she meant more to him than anyone else in the Backstreets. Hell—just a few moments ago, the thought of losing her had stricken him with terror, and that fear was rivaled only by the bitter thought that someone else would steal away her affections … but he knew that was impossible. Sherlock Holmes had no interest in winning a man’s heart—and besides, didn’t his love belong to Cathy?

Still, the idea of parting with Sherry once he finally learned of Catherine’s whereabouts left him feeling hollow. He did harbor a secret affection for her, after all … even if he refused to admit it.

“You’re … you’re not going to make me choose between the two of you, are you?”

“I’m not. But the fact that Catherine Earnshaw and I lead very different lives and desire very different things—save, perhaps, one thing—is undeniable. It’s not a matter of choosing between Catherine and I … it’s a matter of choosing between the life Catherine wants and the life you currently lead.”

He blinked—he’d never once considered how different his life would be once he was finally reunited with Cathy. He’d just assumed things would go back to how they were before he left—only this time, she would accept him. How could she not? He was returning to her a fairly wealthy man, after all …

But, life as it was before was … dull and uninteresting, now that he thought about it. He’d rise with the sun, eat breakfast, do whatever business required his attention, eat lunch, return to business, eat dinner, and then go to bed shortly after sunset. And there’d be balls, no doubt—and he loathed balls. Even with Cathy at his side, the drabness of it all would bore him to tears—especially in comparison to the fast paced life he led in the Backstreets working with Sherry.

At Baker Street Office, he had his three meals a day, a room for himself, and there was something new happening nearly every day—unearthing scandals, busting enkephalin smuggling rings, tearing down entire Syndicates, and learning the secrets of the Wings … plus, he still had the pleasures of gambling and drinking to pass the time whenever Sherry gave him leave. Though the consequences of those behaviors weren’t always the best, he at least enjoyed freedom when he was working for her … a freedom that he’d lose the moment he returned to Catherine.

“I’m close to figuring out where she is, Heathcliff,” Sherry said softly. “I just wanted to make you aware of how serious a choice awaits you. I won’t sway you one way or the other—but I will say that of all the men I’ve known, you certainly keep me the most entertained.”

She rose, brushing off her coat.

“I think I’ll return to Baker Street, now. All things considered, this was a lovely evening—it’s been a long time since I had this much fun.”

Heathcliff started. “Don’t you want company on the way home?”

“I’ll be alright on my own—I’ll leave the door unlocked for you. Just go easy on the whiskey, alright?”

With that, she swept out of the tavern, leaving Heathcliff to brood over the problem she’d unceremoniously dropped in his lap.

It was only a few minutes after she departed, however, that he realized something—Sherry had said there was one thing that both she and Catherine wanted. What that thing was remained a mystery to him, though his fluttering heart dared to hope that, perhaps, it was him.

[throughpatchesofviolet]

I do like thinking about early Heathlock now that I've been shipping with Heathcliff for over a year and a half, and have learned so much about myself.

I project onto Sherry a lot, of course--she's a self insert OC, so that's bound to happen--so I love exploring her relationship with romance ... she has felt romantic attraction once or thrice, but never as strongly as she does after meeting Heathcliff.

And we know from the Sherlock Holmes stories that Sherlock CAN and WILL threaten people's lives if those he loves (i.e., Watson, his closest companion) are injured or potentially killed. So it's very easy to imagine Sherry being upset about Heathcliff dying, even if she knows Dante can bring him back.

Not to mention her lore ... Watson was killed right in front of her. So when Heathcliff (or Ishmael, or Sinclair, or any other Sinner) dies right in front of her, she's reliving that painful experience over again in real time. It doesn't matter if Dante can bring them back--it'll only be a matter of time before Sherry watches them die all over again.

[throughpatchesofviolet]

Been quietly figuring out which E.G.O Sherry has ... been making some adjustments, lately, since I want her to have the same amount of E.G.O as the other Sinners (so, currently she can have 7, including her default), but also I need them to make sense.

[throughpatchesofviolet]

Right, so ... the Fell Bullet × Pursuance AU. I finally have coherent thoughts that I can post.

Fell Bullet!Heathcliff is somewhere between mortal and demon--he's not completely human, but he's also not completely inhuman, either. Keeping in line with the story associated with the Abnormality from which this E.G.O originates, Heathcliff was once a human who loved someone (Catherine) dearly, but he's long since forgotten her as part of his deal with Der Fluchschütze. He's also "undead," in a sense--his heart no longer beats, yet he remains "alive." His soul has fallen, but his body remains on the mortal plain.

Pursuance!Sherry is a more angelic being, and is able to travel freely between "the heavens" and the mortal realm--the latter being a post-apocalyptic setting wreathed in red smoke (this is based on the background for Fell Bullet's E.G.O). Since she's an executioner, her job is to roam the moral plain and find lost souls, who she then interrogates and passes judgement on based on the rules set by Heavenly Executor's Scribe (the Abnormality her E.G.O is from). Sherry does have a beating heart, despite not being human.

Since Fell Bullet!Heathcliff is cursed to wander the earth for eternity, he eventually catches sight of Pursuance!Sherry while she's busy carrying out an interrogation, though he avoids approaching her. Afterwards, he often sees her soaring overhead, and always hides himself from her if she gets too close--he's curious about her, but he's also shy. Sherry stirs familiar feelings in Heathcliff's chest, which puzzles him since his heart should no longer be working, and yet here he is, experiencing what can best be described as "love."

When the two do finally meet, it's a rather awkward encounter, but it becomes very clear to both of them that the other is special. But, while Sherry is driven by curiosity and wishes to understand why she feels this way about him, Heathcliff is more withdrawn, feeling more fear than anything else. He does like Sherry--quite a bit, in fact--but the feelings are almost painful for him, since he knows he's felt this way about someone before, but he can't remember who they were.

On top of that, Heathcliff is scared that he'll somehow "taint" Sherry--an angelic being--by touching her, which makes him extra cautious around her. He does everything in his power to avoid physical contact with her, but, eventually, they do end up touching--a simple brush of hands--and when Heathcliff realizes nothing bad happens to Sherry, he's more open to her caresses.

They do have to keep their connection a secret, however--a heavenly being falling in love with a fallen being is unheard of, and wouldn't go over well with either of the Abnormalities the two serve.

[throughpatchesofviolet]

I've been doing a lot of thinking, lately, and I ended up reflecting on my identity a bit, yesterday--mainly through Sherry, since she's my conduit for self exploration and reflection, but specifically in a situation where she's trying to explain herself to Heathcliff.

Specifically, I was thinking about how I experience romantic attraction, and how Sherry--even just based on her source material--is very much some flavor of aromantic and asexual. I don't really use any labels, and neither does she, but that's because I have had negative experiences with them.

Anyway, something about Sherry trying to explain to Heathcliff that she doesn't really feel romantic love is very cathartic to me. I project onto her a lot, so she's maybe had an inkling of romantic attraction once or thrice (one of her little crushes was Hubert, to keep it in line with my canon lore), but it's never gone anywhere, and usually fades pretty quickly.

I feel Heathcliff wouldn't really understand what she means--he'd have a hard time wrapping his head around someone not feeling (romantic) love, especially since he's known that feeling pretty much all his life--but he'd also be the first to defend her from anyone who thinks her lack of interest in romance is "weird." Even if he doesn't completely understand her feelings, he cares about Sherry, and he knows how it feels to be treated differently because of who he is, so why wouldn't he stick up for her?

Like I said above, Sherry doesn't use labels--she simply knows romance isn't something she needs to be satisfied with herself. Yes, she may eventually find someone she feels genuine, long-lasting romantic attraction towards (Heathcliff--much, much later on), but she's come to terms with the fact that, if she doesn't, she'll be okay on her own.

[throughpatchesofviolet]

Forever thinking about this Sherlock (or, as I like to call her, Chibilock) @/jils-things drew for me ... she's so cute.

[throughpatchesofviolet]

And Now You Know

Synopsis: Sherry and Heathcliff attend an opera.

Ship: The Adventure of Wuthering Heights

Words: ~4550

Warnings: character expresses self-loathing; implied animal death (related to the opera); mentions of food

Heathcliff fumbled with the straps of a puff tie, scowling as he struggled to thread it through his collar. The fabric seemed to squirm between his fingers, resisting his efforts, and Heathcliff grit his teeth as he yanked the cloth into place, finally looping it around his throat.

“Hah,” he muttered, smirking as he moved to fasten the clasp, “that wasn’t so har—”

Before he could finish, something sharp pierced the nape of his neck, and he yelped, ripping the tie from his throat and flinging it across the room, where it hit the wall with a soft thump. Heathcliff watched the garment fall to the floor, his chest heaving, then released a shaky sigh as he leaned back, sinking into the mattress beneath him.

This is pointless, he thought, glaring up at the ceiling. Even if I manage to get that bloody tie on, it won’t change anything—I’ll still be the same ‘witless brigand’ Heathcliff underneath. Clothes won’t change that. Nothing will change that.

He swallowed back a sob, squeezing his eyes shut as his fingers curled, digging into the comforter.

The fanciest clothes in the City wouldn’t stop me from making a fool of myself, and if I embarrass myself, tonight, then … then I embarrass Sherlock, too.

Heathcliff sighed, slowly opening his eyes.

Sherlock …

He reached into the pocket of his slacks, pulling out a pair of tickets—they shimmered faintly in the fading sunlight, and Heathcliff frowned, studying the looping, cursive font etched into the foil.

As if she’d even want to attend an opera with me, he thought, scowling. I don’t know a damn thing about music—she’d be better off going with someone else.

His arm fell back onto the mattress, the tickets clenched in his fist.

She probably won’t even show up. Why would she? She’s in the middle of an important case—she’s not going to drop it just because I invited her to an opera. It’s not rational. It’s not … Sherlock.

There was a knock at the door, and Mrs. Hudson poked her head in. “Heathcliff, love … is everything alright in here? The performance starts in an hour, and the opera house is at least forty minutes away …”

She trailed off when she saw him lying on the bed, not even halfway dressed. Her gaze drifted from him to the puff tie on the floor, and, after a moment, she smiled, quietly stepping into the room.

“You know,” she said, crouching to retrieve the garment, “my son used to have a hard time getting ready for events like these—the boy would spend all his time fretting about everything that could go wrong.”

Heathcliff snorted, but Mrs. Hudson continued, motioning for him to sit up as she approached the bed, settling down beside him.

“He’d get so anxious, the poor dear couldn’t even fasten his tie … it was quite the sight, watching him try to leave the house with his vest half-buttoned and his tie askew.”

The matronly woman chuckled softly, and Heathcliff scooted closer, allowing her to loop the straps of the puff tie around his neck, gently threading it through his collar.

“I’d always have to scold him for trying to run out like that,” she added, shaking her head. “Then I’d drag him back to his room and help him get dressed.”

A ghost of a smile played on Heathcliff’s lips. “He grew out of that, surely?”

“Oh, no—even well into adulthood, he still needed me to fuss over him. But, by that time, he welcomed my help … I’d say he grew into it, not out.” Mrs. Hudson fastened the puff tie, then placed a hand on Heathcliff’s shoulder. “There, now … is that better?”

He glanced down at the beige cloth, brow furrowed as his hands slowly came up to stroke the soft fabric. After a moment, he sighed, letting the tie drop from his fingers. “It doesn’t make a bit of difference. Even if you dressed me up in the fanciest clothes in the City, it won’t change what I am underneath—a witless brigand; a reckless fool who can barely control his temper.”

Mrs. Hudson frowned, her eyes darkening. “Now, just who put that thought in your head? I won’t have you talking about yourself like that—do you understand?”

Heathcliff winced, but said nothing, and the elderly woman rose to her feet, sighing as she reached to take his hand. He flinched slightly as her fingers brushed against his, and her gaze softened.

“Heathcliff, dear … it’s alright. I’m not upset with you, I just don’t like hearing you put yourself down like that—you’re a clever lad, and there’s nothing wrong with being reckless now and again.”

“But—” Heathcliff protested, but Mrs. Hudson shook her head.

“Your reckless nature is one of the things Miss Holmes and I love about you, Heathcliff.” She smiled, leaning forward to gently pinch his cheek. “As for your temper … you’ve been getting better at managing it, have you not? Even now, you’re keeping it in check.”

He waved her hand away, but his lips twitched, threatening to break into a smile. “I don’t need your coddling.”

“But you do need to be getting ready,” Mrs. Hudson chided, smiling as she took Heathcliff’s hand, tugging him to his feet. “Now, then—why don’t you tell me the real reason you’re so gloomy?”

Heathcliff hesitated, glancing away as Mrs. Hudson looked him over, clicking her tongue as she started unfastening his vest. Finally, he responded, his voice soft.

“Do you think Sherlock’s actually going to show up?”

Mrs. Hudson paused, lifting her gaze to his face. “Oh, Heathcliff … of course she will.”

“But she’s in the middle of a case, isn’t she? T. Corp’s been naggin’ her about finding some stolen treaty for days … why would she drop something that important just to attend an opera with … me?”

He clenched his fists, once again squeezing his eyes shut as he fought back tears.

“I … I just … I can’t be … no, I don’t want to be …”

I don’t want to be abandoned. Not again.

“Heathcliff.” He felt Mrs. Hudson’s fingers brushing against his cheeks, gently wiping away his tears. “It’s okay … you don’t have to force yourself to go, especially if it’s going to cause you grief.”

His eyes snapped open. “I … I can do that? Just not go?”

“Of course you can,” she assured him. “You just have to call Miss Holmes and tell her you can’t make it.”

Heathcliff stared at her in disbelief, then his gaze dropped to his hand. Slowly, he uncurled his fingers, revealing the shimmering tickets. He studied them for a moment, brow furrowed—it had taken him ages to work up the courage to ask Sherry if she’d attend the opera with him, and, when he finally did, he’d tripped over his words, looking like a complete fool in front of her.

But she said yes, he reminded himself, his heart skipping a beat. She promised she’d be there. And Sherlock doesn’t go back on her promises … not without good reason.

He took a deep breath, glancing up at Mrs. Hudson. “I’ll go.”

“That’s my boy,” the landlady said softly, beaming. “Now, let’s get you ready.”

She beckoned him closer, beginning to button his vest. When she finished, she smoothed the wrinkles from his clothes, a glimmer of pride in her eyes.

“There … that’s much better, isn’t it?” Mrs. Hudson reached for his puff tie as she spoke, overlapping the tails before tucking them into the collar of his vest. “I do believe you look rather fetching.”

“You think so?” Heathcliff asked, grinning as she moved to grab his suit jacket from the bedpost.

“I do,” she said firmly, helping him into the coat. Her eyes swept over him one last time as she tugged the jacket to cover his shoulders. “You’re going to sweep Miss Holmes right off her feet.”

He swallowed, his cheeks heating up. “I don’t know about that …”

Mrs. Hudson chuckled, placing a hand on his arm and turning him towards a mirror propped against the wall. “Alright, then … but what do you think, love? You’re quite dashing, are you not?”

Heathcliff’s eyes hovered on his reflection for a moment before dropping to the floor. “I look … alright, I s’pose,” he mumbled, his face growing warmer as he glanced away.

“Really, now, Heathcliff,” Mrs. Hudson huffed, placing her hands on her hips. “This isn’t the time to be modest—take a gander at yourself. Properly, this time.”

He sighed, then, taking a deep breath, he lifted his head, locking eyes with his reflection. While everything he wore was tinged with the sepia hues that characterized District 20, he had to admit that he did, in fact, look “rather fetching.” The suit jacket, though stiff, was drawn tightly over his shoulders, concealing the ragged dress shirt underneath, and the brocade vest, its buttons flashing faintly, added a touch of elegance to his appearance. Though his slacks were somewhat worn, they managed to bring his outfit together, and Heathcliff couldn’t help but feel a sliver of pride as he looked himself over.

“Well?” Mrs. Hudson prompted, smiling as Heathcliff straightened.

“I don’t look half bad,” he replied. “The only thing missing are my shoes.”

Mrs. Hudson sighed, shaking her head as Heathcliff scurried back to the bed, retrieving a pair of scuffed dress shoes from beneath it. “You’re missing a few other important things.”

Heathcliff froze midway through putting on his shoes. “I am?”

She waved a hand, turning to the dresser. “Hurry and get those on, love. You’re going to be late.”

He obliged, hurriedly tying the laces before springing to his feet as Mrs. Hudson beckoned him closer, pulling open a drawer.

“First of all, a gentleman needs a handkerchief,” she said, tucking a dark cloth into his breast pocket. “You can’t go around wiping your hands on your clothes when in the presence of high society.”

Heathcliff scoffed, but he said nothing as Mrs. Hudson pulled out a pocket watch.

“Second, you’ll need a timepiece—you know how important time is in this District.” She fixed the chain to a button of his vest, then slipped the watch into his pocket. “And, lastly …”

Mrs. Hudson turned back to the dresser, plucking a sprig of heather from a vase.

“… this is for good luck.”

She pinned the flower to his lapel, then reached to brush a strand of hair from Heathcliff’s face, gently cupping his cheek in her palm.

“Now you’re ready, dear.”

Heathcliff blinked, then closed his eyes, instinctively leaning into her touch. A memory stirred in the back of his mind—the faintest flash of a smile, gentle laughter, and the loving touch of someone he’d nearly forgotten … someone he hadn’t seen since he was a boy.

Someone he’d never see again.

He opened his eyes, pulling away from the matronly woman’s touch. “Thanks. For helping me, I mean. Though, I guess the coddling wasn’t half bad, either.”

Mrs. Hudson chuckled once more. “You’re most welcome, Heathcliff. You can always come to me if you need anything, you know that—including coddling, if you find yourself in need of it.”

“I don’t need coddling,” he grumbled, and she smiled.

“Of course, of course … now hurry along—you don’t want to be late.”

Heathcliff glanced at the clock, eyes widening when he noticed the time. “Shite,” he muttered, bolting towards the door, and Mrs. Hudson laughed.

“Be sure to have fun, tonight, Heathcliff!” she called after him.

“I’ll try,” he mumbled as he hurried down the stairs, taking them two at a time. “But first, I have to get there … before Sherlock does.”

A familiar, melodic chime tickled Heathcliff’s ears as he raced through the Backstreets, and, risking a glance towards the distant clock tower, he muttered an oath, pivoting to cut through a back alley. The bells droned on, spurring Heathcliff forward—bursting out of the narrow alleyway, he skidded to a halt in front of the opera house, panting heavily as he gazed up at its magnificent façade.

Though drained of color, the edifice retained its elegance, expressing its splendor through its architecture—six pillars, each composed of large, beige bricks, flanked the entrance, supporting a large mezzanine. Ornate columns sprouted from this foundation, linking with several balustrades to fence in the balcony. A pediment capped the structure, and, squinting, he was just able to make out an alcove beneath it, carvings of people and animals dancing across its surface.

Heathcliff swallowed, beginning to fidget as passersby shot him disapproving looks. He fumbled with his puff tie, attempting to straighten it, then abandoned his efforts, sighing as he leaned against a streetlamp, his confidence plummeting.

This was a mistake. I don’t belong here.

His eyes drifted towards the building, then dropped back to his outfit—his run through the Backstreets had left him disheveled, and he sighed, picking at his sleeve.

Mrs. Hudson spent all that time straightening my clothes, and now look at me … everyone can see exactly what I am—a miscreant.

Heathcliff reached into his pocket, feeling for the tickets. As his fingers brushed against them, he closed his eyes, allowing himself to relax.

But that doesn’t matter … it doesn’t. These rich sods can think whatever they like of me, so long as Sherlock shows up. I’m here for her, not them.

He cracked open an eyelid, glancing around anxiously—the performance was scheduled to start in a few minutes, yet there was no sign of Sherlock Holmes.

She’s … probably just running late. Yeah … that’s it. Heathcliff took a deep breath, standing a little straighter. I mean, she’s been working hard these last few days … yeah. She’s just … running late.

He closed his eyes again, quietly repeating this to himself.

She’s just late, Heathcliff. It’s fine—she hasn’t forgotten you. She’ll be here any second … right?

His heart sank as a bell chimed in the distance, ringing out the hour.

Or maybe she has forgotten.

Sighing, Heathcliff slumped against the streetlamp. “You set yourself up for this,” he grumbled, scolding himself. “Daring to hope Sherlock Holmes would go out with you … what a fool.”

“Heathcliff?”

His eyes snapped open, and he straightened, breath catching in his throat as a woman emerged from the shadows—Sherlock Holmes, dressed in the most splendid ball gown he’d ever seen. The cobalt blue fabric shimmered in the glow of the streetlamps, skirt billowing behind her as she approached, and Heathcliff swallowed, warmth flooding his cheeks as he took in her appearance. A stole hung around her neck, the white fur wrapped loosely around her elbows, and she’d slipped a pair of opera gloves over her hands, the blue fabric pairing nicely with that of her dress. Her shoulders and throat were exposed, save for a sapphire brooch pinned to a simple, satin collar.

“Sherlock …” he muttered, transfixed. “You … came.”

She blinked, brow furrowing. “Of course I did—you invited me, did you not?”

“W-well, yeah, but … I didn’t think you’d actually come.” Sherry raised an eyebrow, and he glanced away, his face growing even warmer. “I thought … well, I thought you’d be too busy.”

“Oh, I was quite busy,” she replied, and he winced. “But work can wait, at least for tonight.”

Sherry stepped closer, straightening Heathcliff’s jacket. Her gaze lingered on the flower pinned to his lapel, then she reached to gently stroke the petals, her eyes finally meeting his.

“You look lovely,” she whispered, and his heart skipped.

“Y-you think so?” he stammered, beginning to fidget.

“I do,” she said, the faintest of smiles on her lips. “Now, shall we head inside? I’ve been looking forward to this production all week.”

Heathcliff nodded, and she took his arm, her touch sending shivers up his spine. A faint, floral scent tickled his nostrils, and he cast Sherry a curious glance. “Perfume?”

“Queequeg’s idea,” she said, avoiding his gaze.

He grinned as they stepped into the opera house. “It suits you.”

Sherry scoffed, and Heathcliff couldn’t help but chuckle, unable to take his eyes off her—now inside, the light of the opera house washed over her, chasing away the sepia hues of the Backstreets and restoring her natural color. Her tawny hair tumbled down her back, for once completely free of tangles, and Heathcliff leaned closer, lowering his voice.

“You look gorgeous, by the way.”

She started at his compliment, her cheeks reddening. “Thank you.”

After presenting their tickets, the pair were ushered into the auditorium, and Heathcliff barely suppressed a gasp, freezing in the doorway. The room was ablaze—golden light flooded the walkways, radiating from sconces lining three of the four overhead balconies, each stacked atop the other like a layered cake. Thousands of seats, each wrapped in a shroud of crimson, stretched as far as the eye could see, many occupied by men and women dressed in gaudy outfits.

Sherry patted his arm reassuringly. “It’s alright, Heathcliff—this way.”

She turned around, exiting the auditorium before leading him up a flight of stairs. They emerged in a private booth on the second-floor balcony, and Heathcliff blinked, taking in his surroundings—the chamber was wreathed in crimson, with a few chairs and tables situated close to the railing.

“How did you …?” he began, but Sherry waved a hand.

“I used to attend performances here when I was a girl.”

“In the Backstreets?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“You know how Feathers are, Heathcliff—they love to come down from their homes in the Nest and ‘observe’ the commoners … my grandmother often dragged me along on such excursions, and they usually concluded with us attending the opera.” She released his arm, smoothing her skirt as they settled into their seats. “The Holmes family is quite close to the owner of this establishment … he paints himself as an entrepreneur, but he’s no different from anyone else drowning in affluence.”

Heathcliff leaned forward, scanning the seats below. “And I s’pose everyone here is one of his friends?”

“Most, but not all,” she replied, winking at him.

“R-right,” he stammered, straightening. “I don’t even know the bloke—and you’re not fond of him, either, from the sounds of it.”

“And yet, here we are … attending one of his operas.” Sherry picked up a brochure resting on the table beside her, skimming its contents. “I must say, I was a bit surprised when you invited me to join you.”

“Th-that’s …” Heathcliff trailed off, then sighed, looking away. “It was Mycroft’s idea.”

“My brother?” Sherry raised an eyebrow. “You two are getting along, then?”

“I wouldn’t say we’re ‘getting along,’” Heathcliff muttered. “We’re not at each other’s throats, anymore, but that’s about it. And the tickets … they’re his way of ‘making it up’ to us.”

Sherry set down the brochure, closing her eyes. “A fascinating move, dear brother …”

Heathcliff raised an eyebrow, but before he could ask what she meant, the lights began to dim, and he blinked. Oh, right. The opera.

His gaze drifted towards the stage, which remained dark, the curtain slowly rising as the orchestra burst to life, a flurry of notes tickling his ears.

“Ah … Prélude,” Sherry murmured, opening an eye. “Tell me, Heathcliff … are you familiar with the story of Carmen?”

“Not exactly,” he muttered.

“And I take it you aren’t fluent in French?”

Heathcliff rolled his eyes as Prélude drew to a close, a spotlight illuminating the stage. He leaned forward, resting his arms on the railing as he watched the performers. From their costumes, he gathered they were supposed to be soldiers, but the words they sang held no meaning—not to his ears, anyway.

“Sur la place, chacun passe,” Sherry whispered, joining him. “That is, ‘in the square, everyone passes.’ Sung by the soldiers as everyone walks past their guardhouse.”

“Not everyone—she walked right in.” Heathcliff nodded at a woman on stage, who’d appeared amidst the crowd of military officers.

“Ah, yes … that’s Micaëla, Don José’s sweetheart.” Sherry frowned as she watched the soldiers swarm the woman, begging her to stay. “Well, his first love, I suppose …”

Heathcliff glanced at her. “It wasn’t meant to be?”

“Perhaps not.” Sherry’s eyes remained fixed to the stage as Micaëlapulled free of the men, fleeing the guardhouse as a trumpet sang out, introducing the next tune. “Ah …Avec la garde montante … ‘with the rising guard.’ This was always a delightful little melody.”

“The kids are cute,” Heathcliff admitted, grinning as children flooded the stage, pretending to march like the soldiers. His gaze flicked back to Sherry, who was tapping her fingers in time with the music.

“They are, I suppose.” She sighed as the scene concluded, the children streaming into the wings as two soldiers took to the stage. “And here we have our dear Don José …”

She followed the performer with her eyes as he departed, another melody rising from the orchestra.

“La cloche a sonné,” she said. “‘The bell rang.’ This is when the women who work at the cigarette factory are released from their shifts, if only momentarily, and after this song, we finally meet the opera’s titular character …”

Heathcliff’s eyes wandered back to the stage, where a beautiful actress emerged from the shadows, men trailing after her as a soft, lilting tune filled the air. Beside him, Sherry sighed, and his heart skipped as she leaned against him.

“L’amour est un oiseau ribelle,” she murmured. “‘Love is a rebellious bird’ … one of the most famous songs of the entire opera—it’s when our dear Don José first encounters Carmen. Ah, and after this …”

Heathcliff closed his eyes, the music from the orchestra blending with Sherry’s explanations as he painted the scenes in his mind, progressing from the first act to the second, then the third, and, finally, the fourth, where Carmen and Don José met their tragic ends.

“Love is a peculiar thing,” Sherry mused as the crowd cheered, and Heathcliff opened his eyes, watching the curtain descend over the final scene—a triumphant Escamillo, his sword pointed at the head of a vanquished bull. “There’s nothing rational about it—love is an emotion; it interferes with reason, leading people to make decisions they come to regret.”

“That happens, sometimes,” Heathcliff muttered, folding his hands behind his head and leaning back in his chair. “But it’s the logical outcome, innit? When you care about someone that much, you’re bound to make stupid decisions—it’s just how we are.”

“‘We?’” she repeated, blinking.

“We. Us. Humans.” Heathcliff waved a hand. “We all have people we love. Some of us are just better at hiding it than others, or we show it in strange ways.”

Sherry flushed, glancing away. “Still, it’s … scary, don’t you think? Allowing your heart to dictate your actions.”

“It can be scary, yeah,” he admitted. “But sometimes you have to. Because if you don’t take that chance … then you’ll never know.”

“Know … what, exactly?”

“It depends, I suppose …” Heathcliff closed his eyes. “But, usually, people want to know if their crush feels the same way.”

“Ah …” Sherry shifted beside him, and he opened his eyes, watching her cheeks redden. “And … if they do feel the same … what happens if it doesn’t work out? What if your heart led you astray?”

Heathcliff’s gaze drifted to the empty stage as he recalled the deaths of Carmen and Don José. “If that happens … then you keep going. It’ll hurt for a while—it’ll hurt like hell—but … eventually you’ll find someone new. Someone who makes you fall in love all over again.

“Or maybe you don’t. Maybe you find out you’re happiest on your own. And that’s okay.” He sighed, hands falling into his lap. “The important thing is that you took a chance, and now … now you know.”

They fell silent, watching the audience file out of the auditorium. Then, Sherry leaned her head against his shoulder, closing her eyes.

“I want to know, Heathcliff,” she whispered. “I want to take that chance.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Even if it leads to stupid decisions?”

“I can accept a lapse in reason, so long as it’s you.”

Heathcliff blinked, his heart skipping a beat. “M-me?”

“You.” Sherry opened her eyes, meeting his gaze. “My heart wants you. I want you. Even if it’s only for a short while. Because then … I’ll know, won’t I? What love feels like?”

He swallowed. “Y-yeah … you would. But are you sure you want me? Heathcliff? The reckless fool from the Backstreets?”

“I’ve found I like reckless,” she mused. “And I believe I’ve made my position quite clear—the question, my dear Heathcliff, is do you want me?”

Heathcliff stared at her, his heart racing—just a few hours ago, he’d been worried Sherry wouldn’t even show up, and now here she was … confessing to him. His cheeks burned, and he glanced away.

She wants me, he thought, a smile spreading over his face. She wants me. And I … I want …

“Sherlock, I …” Heathcliff paused, the words caught in his throat. “I …”

Sherry’s hand slipped into his, her thumb brushing over his knuckles, and he lifted his head, finally holding her gaze. There, in those piercing blue eyes, was everything he wanted.

His fingers curled around Sherry’s wrist, and he tugged her closer. Cupping her face in his free hand, he leaned forward, pressing a kiss against her lips. She tensed, then slowly melted into his touch, closing her eyes as Heathcliff pulled her against his chest—the taste of tobacco lingered on her lips, but he paid it no mind, his hand sliding down her back, settling at her waist as they broke apart.

After a moment, Sherry cleared her throat. “I presume that’s a yes, then?”

Heathcliff nodded, grinning as he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Do you need me to sign a contract to … oh, how’d you put it … ‘to formalize our agreement?’”

She studied him for a moment, then leaned back in her chair, steepling her fingers. “It’d be inappropriate to establish an intimate relationship in such a manner—but, if you have any concerns, I’d be delighted to discuss them over dinner.”

“Dinner, huh?” Heathcliff narrowed his eyes. “You have somewhere in mind?”

“On my way here, I noticed a fascinating little restaurant just down the road … HamHamPangPang, I believe it was? They’re quite famous in the Backstreets, you know.”

“They have some pretty good sandwiches … and their fried chicken isn’t half bad, either.”

“Shall we, then?” Sherry rose from her seat, and Heathcliff blinked as she offered him her hand. His gaze flicked up to meet hers, and she smiled. “It’ll be my treat.”

He accepted her outstretched hand, allowing her to guide him from the booth. She whisked him down the stairs and out into the street, and Heathcliff watched as the color drained from her body—her dress still retained its gorgeous, azure hue, but the rest of her color was stripped away, replaced by the dreary, sepia hues of the Backstreets.

Usually, the sight pained him—in District 20, color was a luxury, something only the truly wealthy could afford—but tonight, things were different. Tonight, he’d taken a chance, and now … he knew.

Sherlock Holmes loved him.

And if she could love him as he was—flaws and all—perhaps Heathcliff could, too.

[throughpatchesofviolet]

Okay ... Sherlock (Sherry) Holmes, of Limbus Company fame (/lh /j), lore post--under a cut because I am verbose.

And it is very long--if you read this whole thing, you get a cookie. /lh

Also updating with a quick warnings list ... her lore makes references to: character death, dismemberment, war, severe injuries, the medical field (including administering drug-like substances), and murder.

The first thing we need to establish is that Sherry's lore, for the most part follows the original Sherlock Holmes stories--the ones written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. So anything from film or show adaptations, or books written by other authors, do not contribute to her lore.

Specifically, her story follows the cases found in A Study in Scarlet, The Sign of Four, The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, and, lastly, The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes. That's a lot of material, but the main case our dear Sinner is concerned with is "The Final Problem," the original ending to the Sherlock Holmes stories. Everything else is simply supplemental, and may occasionally be referenced in her (theoretical) dialogue--or by Don Quixote, because she's read every one of the books published about Sherry (she's one of her biggest fans).

Anyway!! With that sorted ... I do have to reference A Study in Scarlet--this gives us our lore for everyone's favorite doctor (/lh /j), John Watson. If you're familiar with the Sherlock Holmes stories, you'll know Watson was a doctor who served in the military. However, an injury cut his service short, and he ended up back in London, his money slowly running out, and him desperately needing a place to stay.

In the Project Moon universe, there was a major canonical war in District 12*, called the Smoke War (Outis and Gregor, as well as Roland, participated in this war, so we have some lore for that, but I shall shelve it for later). So, for Limbus!Watson, he was actually a young boy, say around 12-13, when the Smoke War broke out in District 12, his home District. He and his neighbors were caught up in the conflict, and spent much of their time trying to survive, with Watson doing what he could to treat injuries and get his neighbors the food and medicine they needed. However, he was gravely injured (I'll avoid the details, since they get a bit graphic), and his neighbors decided to scrape together what money they could to get Watson out of District 12.

Thanks to their kindness, he ended up in District 11, which is where K. Corp is stationed. I won't get into the nitty gritty details, but the main thing to know about K. Corp is they manufacture "regeneration ampules," which can be injected into someone to "restore" their body to its previously unharmed/undamaged physical state. They can regenerate severed limbs, heal nasty internal and external injuries ... basically any physical ailment.

I bring this up because, as you may know from the source, Watson is a doctor. In my lore, Limbus!Watson decides to enter the medical field because he wants to save people--he felt powerless to save his neighbors in his youth, so he wants to use his medical knowledge to save people in the present/future. He is incredibly critical of K. Corp's ampules, since it's only the super wealthy who can get their hands on them, and prefers to stick to more "outdated" treatment methods, focused on supporting individual patients rather than injecting them with a green goo and calling it a day.

After a while, Watson manages to join up with a Workshop that installs prosthetic limbs on those who've lost arms, legs, and whatever else, and he uses his knowledge to support them through the process. However, he's in dire financial straits, and is on the verge of losing his home, so he's struggling to find a solution for that. Thankfully, an old friend from District 12 runs into him, and introduces him to Sherry, who is looking for a roommate so she can reside at a nice flat on Baker Street.

I'm going to skip over a lot, now, but Watson accompanies Sherry on her cases, writes about them, and publishes her adventures for the City to read. Sherry gains fame from this, and also becomes a Color. And, of course, she and Watson grow incredibly close, even after Watson ends up marrying. Sherry is someone who develops very, very strong platonic bonds first and foremost, so her relationship with him is very similar to her relationship with Ishmael--they're sort of QPPs? But less so since Sherry knows Watson's married and, while she's critical of it (in the source, Sherlock views Watson's marriage as a disappointment asdfhjkl), she knows not to overstep.

Now we get to the actual Limbus!Sherlock thing--"The Final Problem."

In this case, Sherlock is on the verge of finally bringing Professor Moriarty, a man with ties to every major crime in London, down. He asks Watson to accompany him on a trip around the Continent, but they find out Moriarty has slipped free of Sherlock's carefully laid trap, and he's bent on pursuing the detective and exacting revenge. If you've read the source, you know Moriarty eventually tricks Watson into leaving Holmes, and then uses that time to kill him--though Moriarty also perishes in the process.

Now. The Limbus/Project Moon version I came up with:

Sherry, like her counterpart, is close to bringing Moriarty down. She's been dogging him for months, and is being threatened at every corner (much like in the source), so she decides to go on a trip of the City to get away for a while. She asks Watson to accompany her, of course--he's her closest friend, after all, and she likes having company.

However, like in the source, Moriarty escapes Sherry's carefully laid trap and pursues her for revenge. While her scheme manages to catch a number of Moriarty's top agents, Moriarty is able to free them later--this is crucial for her Canto story, but we're discussing pre-Limbus Sherry lore, right now. /lh

Like in the original book, Moriarty pursues Sherry to a remote location--a mountainous area with a stunning waterfall. However, this is where Sherry's lore diverges from the novel--because, when Watson receives the notice that leads him to leave Sherlock in the story, it's right as Moriarty comes on top of them, and he uses Watson's presence as leverage against Sherry (we know from a future story that Sherlock is incredibly protective of Watson, and this remains true for Sherry--although I feel you guys would know that from what's mentioned above). She attempts to negotiate with Moriarty, but the Professor eventually grows tired of debating with her, and decides that he'll instead let her off with a "warning"--said warning being him killing Watson right in front of her.

Naturally, Sherry is distraught over this--Watson is her best friend, and easily the person she trusts most, so having him ripped away from her, right before her eyes, is soul-crushing. He's her companion, her partner, her friend, and he died because of her--because she couldn't bring Moriarty down. Because she got careless and sloppy.

Somehow, she manages to return to District 20--that's her home District, where Baker Street Office is--and seek out Mycroft, her brother, who tries to offer her some comfort. But, at this point, Sherry is already concocting her own revenge on Moriarty--she's determined to bring him to his knees, this time, and she's not going to let anyone or anything keep her from taking his life with her own hands.

At the same time, Moriarty still has his agents dogging her, trying to scare her into dropping her pursuit of the Professor. So, Mycroft--as a member of a Wing--pulls a few strings and manages to get Sherry into a deal with Limbus Company: she joins the bus team as their 14th Sinner (Dante counts as number 10, btw--it's on their jacket), and they'll ensure she gets her revenge on Moriarty.

Sherry enters this deal fully intending not to develop any personal attachments to her coworkers, but--as we know--she reunites with Ishmael after years, and her heart slowly warms to the other Sinners, as well. She also starts developing what are clearly romantic feelings for Heathcliff (although they could also be interpreted as strong platonic feelings that lean more into romantic desires than her feelings for Ishmael and Watson do/did), which she feels incredibly guilty for.

And that guilt comes from the fact she used to tease Watson for his romantic tendencies and him settling down--and also the fact she's responsible for his wife now being a widow. So why should she be allowed to feel romantic attraction towards someone?

Regardless, she cares very, very deeply for Heathcliff, and he easily becomes the person she's most comfortable confiding in--he's a very good listener, and Sherry values people who can be quiet and let her prattle on and on ... it helps her process her thoughts and emotions.

Thus, whenever Ishmael or Heathcliff are killed when Dante isn't present (this is a necessary factor for what follows, since Dante's absence means Ishmael and/or Heathcliff cannot be revived immediately), Sherry will sort of ... snap. Especially if they're killed right in front of her. Because she's immediately taken back to the moment when she let her dearest friend die--and she swore she'd never let anyone take the people she loved from her again, yet here she is, letting the two people closest to her heart get killed.

And Sherry just ... goes into killing mode. You do not want to be the one who cut Heathcliff or Ishmael's life short, because you will not only be slain, but also no one will recognize your body. Thankfully, this doesn't happen too often, but when it does, the only real way to treat her madness is for Dante to revive Ishmael or Heathcliff and let them calm her down--Heathcliff in particular knows how to soothe her best, since he's the one she's closest to.

It's the most severe when both Ishmael and Heathcliff are killed back to back, because if one is still alive, he/she can usually keep Sherry grounded.

This isn't to say Sherry doesn't care for the other Sinners, though--it's just those two in particular are the ones she feels safest and happiest with. They're people she loves dearly and wants to keep safe ... so when she fails at that she spirals very quickly.

... and that wraps it up, I think? I have had much to think about while fleshing Sherry out, but ultimately her Canto will involve giving her closure on what happened during this revised version of "The Final Problem," and she'll finally be able to allow herself to heal from losing Watson ... and since Ishmael and Heathcliff both have revenge themes in their own Cantos, it makes sense that they'd help comfort her.

This is the District where L. Corp was stationed! And a super quick lore dump: The "City" is a place where (most of) the humans in the Project Moon world live, and it's split into 26 "Districts," which sort of function as their own legal entities ... each one has a different culture and rules, but they're all overseen by the Head--that's the big government in District 1. So it's like ... a federal government overseeing all the other "state" governments.

[throughpatchesofviolet]

I thought of Heathcliff playing with the Baker Street Irregulars and it made me feel so soft ... I know he'd say, "They're rascals, the lot of 'em," and even if he's grumbling Sherry can tell he cares about those street urchins ... they're like her children, in some ways, so seeing Heathcliff get along with them warms her heart.

[throughpatchesofviolet]

I've been thinking about potential titles for Sherry's Canto ... canonically, we have "The Outcast," "The Unloving," "The Unconfronting," "The Unchanging," "The Evil Defining," "The Heartbreaking," and "The Dream Ending" ... so maybe something like "The Injustice" would fit. Since Sherry's story revolves around Moriarty getting away with his crimes and evading her attempts to defeat him.