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alchemistc · 8 months ago

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There are tiny firefighters checking the integrity of the roof in a grid pattern directly on his brain.

The first thought comes as he's filtering towards wakefulness: Ow.

He needs maybe a gallon of water, and for the sun to stop being so fucking bright, and for -

His arm is pinned by something. That's - there's something wrong with that. Why is that wrong?

Tommy snaps his eyes open and immediately regrets it. The sun is too bright, and the bed he's in is too small, and the ceiling spins as he tries to get his bearings.

No clothes.

Sore muscles that don't have anything to do with the roiling of his gut or the nausea as he tries to focus or the way his brain feels too big for his skull.

He's a little afraid to turn his head, so he makes do with shifting his eyes to attempt to figure out why there's weight on his arm.

His stomach lurches dramatically, and Tommy squeezes his eyes shut. Not fucking again.

It's like he can't fucking help himself.

Tommy had known he'd regret agreeing to go to this damn bachelor party. Gregson is a good guy, but his best man is absolutely insane and apparently loaded - they'd all wandered in to the hotel to check in only to find they each had a room, a new suit somehow tailored to their measurements (that was a feat, considering), an itinerary laid out on each bathroom sink that included the places Tommy only ever went to when a buddy took him, and (if he's not mistaken, he'd immediately dropped his off at Gregson's brothers room) a little box neatly filled with party drugs.

It'd been fine, up until they'd split off. Gregson's best man had mentioned something about escorts, and about a third of the married men had turned to Tommy in a panic, like Tommy's sexuality was the only thing that could be a good enough excuse not to cheat on their wives, and Tommy hadn't had the heart to tell them there were definitely male sex workers and they were definitely the kind of thing Gregson's best man would be able to find in a heartbeat. He wasn't interested, anyway. If Tommy found someone to sleep with on this trip, he'd find them him-fucking-self.

So he'd made an excuse. Told Gregson they'd meet him in the bungalow the next afternoon. Six panicked men had followed after him like lost ducklings, across the lobby of the hotel and out into the cooling night.

He'd found a quiet looking bar off the strip, set them all up at the pool tables, and downed three shots in a row the moment he saw a flash of wide shoulders and curls.

It was a problem.

Tommy wasn't a fucking saint. He'd ripped his own heart out of his own damn chest, and sometimes the only medicine to try to heal that still bleeding wound was an ill-advised hookup with someone he'd never see again. Problem was, every guy that'd caught his eye in the last six months had a few of the same features. Tousled curls, blue eyes, a barrel chest, cheeks he could sink his teeth into. He did it because it felt like an apt punishment.

The guy on his arm groans. Shifts his weight. Rolls a shoulder and spins into the cradle of Tommy's armpit.

Tommy risks a peek and regrets it immediately.

"Morning," he says, and Tommy has spent months successfully avoiding this, how did he cross state lines and stumble right into it?

What the fuck happened last night?

Evan's thigh hitches up over Tommy's, criminally, perpetually cold foot tucking into the space between his legs. He slides a hand up the shifting muscles of Tommy's abdomen and there's a flash of memory there - Evan Buckley's eyes going dark and cloudy when he realized that Tommy had trimmed back up post breakup: no more gentle give to his tummy because there was no Evan cooking decadent meals three times a week that Tommy burned off in bed instead of the gym.

The hand glides up, fingers reaching to tweak a nipple, and Tommy turns his gaze to that instead. He can't look, can't see, can't -

"Is that -?"

Tommy ignores every muscle in his body protesting as he snatches at Evan's hand. His left hand.

His left hand that has a gold band settled on the third finger.

Tommy risks running his thumb over his own finger and - yeah. There's skin warm metal on his hand, too.

He waits for the panic. The terror. The absolute agony of knowing what kind of shit drunk Tommy dropped him in.

Only.

The gap in his memory is slowly filling in.

The two of them, buzzed but steady, eyeing each other across the little patio table tucked out back between the bar and a little nickel slot casino. The glittering lights above turning Evan golden as he acknowledged that the both of them had been idiots. Tommy, feeling that draw, the pull that no amount of curly hair or blue eyes on a stranger could replicate. The hand that reached for his when he'd admitted how fucking much he'd missed him.

Evan's expression when Tommy had dropped the stoicism and called him Evan again.

The longer Tommy stares at Evan's hand, the smaller the goofy smile on Evan's face becomes.

He moves like he's going to roll away, so Tommy brackets him in, tucks his face into the disaster of Evan's hair and breathes. "It's...slowly coming back, but uh... was this your idea or my idea?"

"What, running into each other in Vegas at a dive bar off the strip?"

Oh. He's - well, he sounds a little mad.

Doesn't stop him from sinking his teeth into the side of Tommy's pec, though.

"Or actually having the conversation you've been refusing to have with me for months?"

Another bite. Sharper, pointed this time.

"You made us go to three different chapels because you didn't like the look of the Elvis in the first two."

So. Tommy's idea, then.

He can see the edges of it. The of all the bars in all the world mentality that had given him the courage to say his piece, to listen to Evan's. The rightness of Evan's hand in his own, the absurd joy that sizzled under his skin when Evan raised their intertwined hand to press his lips to Tommy's knuckles.

Evan forces himself up, out-muscles Tommy and ignores the tractor beam of light that darts across his face so he can stare Tommy down. "Do you want me to go?"

Tommy wonders where the marriage certificate is. He thinks blindly of the joke about eating it - good luck returning me without the receipt.

"Did we actually sit down and write vows on our phones before we left the bar?"

Hours. Two more rounds of shots and maybe three beers each while they dissected every fucking misstep they'd taken those first six months. He hadn't been sober when he'd thrown it out there, but he hadn't been wasted either.

Tommy doesn't believe in fate. In curses, or the guiding hand of the universe, or soul mates.

But the coincidences seemed stacked, last night. Like this was all inevitable. Like eventually they'd be led back to each other no matter how many times Tommy found a poor substitute, no matter how many times Evan dipped his toes in and found he just wasn't as interested in someone new as he'd hoped he might be.

"I liked the bit about boils and all," Evan murmurs, and Tommy - well, he has to kiss him about that, doesn't he?

This doesn't solve anything. They've spent six months apart. They've got a share of issues that'd make a grown man weep. They - God, did they even say the words last night? He doesn't think they said the words.

Evan breaks the kiss to look him square in the eye, like he's read Tommy's mind. "I love you. I never stopped. Is that - is that enough, for now?"

Tommy feels light as a feather. Bright, and happy, and terrified out of his fucking mind. "Evan. I love you. We should get a divorce."

He narrows his eyes. Twists the ring with the pad of his thumb. "I think we could probably just do an annulment." Tommy laughs. Evan's vows are coming back in bits and pieces as his gaze in this moment mirrors the one he'd had on his face with a mildly better Elvis impersonator standing between them. Platitudes about not finding something but making it. Fancy words that only meant something because Evan wanted them to. Because Tommy did.

"I'm keeping the ring," Tommy says, and Evan's grin splits down the middle as he leans back in, somehow not bothered in the least by Tommy's morning breath.

#bucktommy #bucktommy fic #what happens in vegas #tevan fic #any excuse to get these two idiots to talk about things

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icedhotcocoa · 1 month ago

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oh podlock tommy gregson… they made you in a lab for me to love

#he reminds me a lot of bbc lestrade and I think you can tell #tom gregson #s&c #etchasketchings #sherlock & co #holmesposting #podlock #sherlock holmes #s&co #mariana ametxazurra #gwen lestrade #John Watson #jonk watson #ummmmmm what other tags

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screamlet · 7 months ago

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fic: blow up that chopper epilogue (118 daily drabble)

pairing: bucktommy rating: mature word count: 1.8k epilogue (3.4k total); status: complete tags: breakup/makeup; fix-it fic; buck pov; future fic; near death experience; helicopter crash! notes: you can read all the drabbles and epilogue at the ao3 link, and in their original post-by-post form in the #blow up that chopper (118dailydrabble) tag.

Series Summary:

Buck reads to himself: If my grief is violent enough, perhaps he will come back to life again. It sits uncomfortably on his tongue until the sirens blare. They jump into action, but Buck freezes at the bottom of the stairs. "Mayday, mayday, mayday, companies respond to an explosion at Harbor Station."

---

1 YEAR LATER (DECEMBER 2025)

It's only been a month, so Buck's going to forgive himself for still feeling giddy about this: kissing Tommy in the parking lot of their favorite breakfast place before heading home together (to their house) after a shift.

"Love you, I'll see you at home," Tommy says, just before he kisses Buck.

Buck smiles into it, every time. "Where else would I be?"

Tommy still doesn't have a standard quip in response, so he kisses Buck again. He's smiling, too, and smiles brighter as Buck whispers I love you into their kiss.

---

All things considered, Tommy had survived the accident at Harbor by moments. There wasn't much to uncover about what happened: there was a call for a medevac and one of the other A-shift pilots, Gregson, took it. Almost two thousand feet in the air, he had a fatal heart attack and the helicopter crashed on the station. Seven people died, including Gregson, Captain Norton, and their probie Serrano, who was a month away from finishing their probationary year.

The explosion had thrown Tommy free and clear of the worst of it. He could have died immediately, like Gregson and others in the station, but the way he landed had broken his arm and shoulder, cracked his ribs, and ruptured his spleen. If Buck and Chimney hadn't immediately spotted him on the ground in their line of vision, he would have died on the ground (instead of only three or four times in the ambulance).

("That's two," Chimney had said when Tommy woke up in the hospital. "You're just messing with me at this point.")

While Harbor was out of commission, the remaining crew had been split up across the city. Once Tommy had recovered, he was assigned to another Air Ops station to manage and train newer pilots. At his friend Sal's urging, he completed the training and testing so that Harbor Station would reopen with Interim Captain Kinard at the helm.

Some but not all of the original Harbor crew wanted to come back. It was a relief to Tommy (and Buck, too), that Lucy was one of them—she had been on the most fortuitously scheduled vacation to Italy anyone had ever taken, and came back to the literal ruins of her professional life. She promised to keep Interim Captain Kinard in line, and knock around anyone who doubted him (though Buck couldn't imagine who would).

And Buck stayed. He stayed and he fought for Tommy, and with Tommy, because meeting Robert Kinard had taught him one important thing: Tommy was stubborn and myopic and trapped in his own head, and Buck had to stop holding back if they wanted to stay together.

After they had broken up, Buck knew that he had rushed ahead too quickly. He thought that if they ever got back together, he would have to slow down and handle Tommy with kid gloves, incredibly gentle. That wasn't going to work, not when Buck had seen the heavy hand that had molded Tommy more than either of them wanted to admit.

Tommy had spent his entire adult life struggling against the man Robert wanted him to be, and Buck would have to drag him out of Robert's shadow by fucking force. Sometimes that meant telling Tommy he was wrong, just plain wrong.

It meant that both of them had to trust they were in this together: Tommy wasn't leading Buck into a life he didn't understand, and Buck wasn't trapping Tommy in a relationship that Tommy didn't want. It meant that sometimes Tommy had to walk away from a fight, go on a walk or a drive, and they both trusted that he would come back. What they had was worth fighting for, and neither of them would give into the fear of leaving and being left behind.

All things considered, almost dying made Tommy want to actually live, and ask for things, and make space for the things he wanted: I want to train pilots. I want to rebuild Harbor so our friends who are gone don't think we abandoned them. I want to become a firehouse captain. I want to stay on the ground and rebuild a station, and let others take to the sky and find themselves, like I did.

I want to be with you, Evan, even though sometimes I look at you and don't know how you got into my life and why you'd want to stay. I want you to stay at my house more often, as much as you think I want and then as much as you actually want. I want you to stop being afraid to leave things here. I want you to move in with me. I want us to trust that this isn't too much for us. I want us to make our future. I want it now.

So Buck stayed and made it theirs.

---

Tommy beats him home, but not by much. This might be one of Buck's favorite secret Tommy rituals, the ones that Buck didn't see until he moved in.

Every time Tommy gets home from a shift, he's going to stand at the mailbox and flip through every single piece of mail, sigh loudly, then head inside. Buck grabs his bag and heads over so he can hook his chin over Tommy's shoulder and participate, too.

"I'm dreading the day all the junk mailers discover you've moved," Tommy murmurs. "Never thought I'd need a bigger mailbox."

"Homeowner worries," Buck adds seriously, then grins when Tommy makes a face at him. "Anything good?"

Tommy hands over the three Christmas cards he's found so far: one of Tommy's friends from the Army, the Wilsons (and they are always The Wilsons on their envelopes), and the whole Ramirez family (one of Tommy's friends from Harbor).

"It's been long enough that I even miss his snoring." Tommy sighs. "May 2026, the return of Harbor Station." He pauses, but doesn't try to turn and look at Buck. "I keep thinking about how weird it'll feel. I'll be happy to be back because I love that place. That's my firehouse, my station, but."

"Yeah," Buck says. "Yeah, I get it."

"It'll never be the same." Tommy pauses, then says, "They're doing a private dedication in April. I put it on the calendar."

"I saw." Buck gently kisses the side of his neck. "I'll be there. And you'll be there, Captain Kinard."

"Interim captain," Tommy corrects.

"Interim with high probability of being made permanent after six months," Buck corrects further. "Because you're the best and no one loves that place like you do. And hey, what about my snoring? I thought I was special."

That finally gets Tommy to turn and kiss Buck, right at the corner of his mouth. "Dork. Brat. Whatever you're playing at today."

"Brat, definitely," Buck says as he bites at his lower lip. "Come on, there's still more mail."

"There's still more mail, god forbid it ever stops. Huh."

There's a red envelope, so it must be another Christmas card. The handwriting is very careful and old-fashioned, tight lines and loops at the very center of the envelope. It's the kind of precision and attention to the most minute details that he sees every day, but now it's postmarked from Ventura, CA.

Mr. Thomas Kinard Mr. Evan Buckley

"Now how in the hell did he get my address? And how did he track you here?" Tommy asks. Buck finally notices the R. Kinard in the top left corner. No return address, just the city, state, and zip code.

"Internet, probably," Buck says. "And my Instagram isn't private. I didn't post your face but I did post, you know, moving boxes and stuff. I'm sorry if that was too much."

"Nothing to apologize for," Tommy replies. "And I doubt my father uses Instagram. Some nosy cousin must have snitched."

He props his chin on Tommy's shoulder again. He doesn't want Tommy to see his face, as curious as he is to see Tommy's. There's a lump in his throat that Robert Kinard doesn't deserve, but Buck still feels something. There's no bridge to build here, but there's this crumb: I see you.

And maybe on some level it terrifies Tommy to be seen, but... maybe it doesn't.

It's one good thing. One good thing. One good thing this man can do.

Buck steps back and takes the rest of the mail as Tommy holds the envelope and considers it. He finally opens it and, to Buck's surprise, laughs.

"Didn't expect this sappy shit from him," Tommy says as he shows Buck the card. It's pretty typical drug store Christmas fare with a big white dove holding a ribbon, some silver glitter, red accents, and in huge cursive script the words: Peace, Love, and Joy to Your Family.

Buck wonders if he's imagining the way time stretches out as he and Tommy look at the card.

To Your Family

It's one good thing.

Buck coughs and asks, "Anything inside? Like a message, not—"

"He owes me a lot more than a $5 bill in a gas station Christmas card if he wants to make up with me." Inside the card it says: Merry Christmas. -Robert

"He didn't sign it Dad?" Buck asks.

"Yeah," Tommy says slowly. "Yeah, that's weird, but he's never sent me a Christmas card before so he's probably never had to think about it." Tommy looks at it for a beat, then closes it. "I don't hate it."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Tommy sounds a little surprised by himself. "I don't want it with the others open on the mantle, but maybe like… still in the envelope, off to the side. Just so it's there." There's a beat before Tommy says, "I just like seeing our names like this."

Buck smiles to himself. "Me too."

Tommy catches his eye and laughs as he tucks the card back into the envelope. "Alright, let's get inside. I need a nap and then we've got our Howie and Maddie double date tonight: dinner and vintage Christmas hijinks. Christmas in Connecticut, baby. Deeply underappreciated classic. I think you're gonna love it."

"If you love it, I love it."

"And it's under two hours."

"I love it," Buck laughs. "Love it more than anything."

They only make it a few steps to the front door before Tommy pulls Buck into his arms, hands on his waist and movie-star-dreamy eyes fixed on Buck's. "More than me?"

Buck pretends to think about it. "If it's under 90 minutes before the credits."

Tommy doesn't even bother rolling his eyes. He kisses Buck and deepens the kiss when Buck wraps his arms around his neck. There's no forgetting where they are as they kiss: in front of their home, on their street, in their neighborhood, right out in the open for anyone and everyone to see. There's nowhere they'd rather be.

#911 fic #bucktommy fic #bucktommy #tevan #tevan fic #kinley fic #tommy kinard #evan buckley #my fic #my writing #fix it fic #bucktommy fix it fic #blow up that chopper (118dailydrabble)#118dailydrabble

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glassfullofsass · 5 months ago

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tommy gregson is a lying liar who lies

#“We're not friends”#“This partnership is a means to an end”#Elementary

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saturdaynightmatinee · 8 months ago

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CALIFICACIÓN PERSONAL: 4.5 / 10

Título Original: Vampires: Los Muertos

Año: 2002

Duración: 96 min.

País: Estados Unidos

Director: Tommy Lee Wallace

Guion: Tommy Lee Wallace

Música: Brian Tyler

Fotografía: Henner Hofmann

Reparto: Bon Jovi, Cristian de la Fuente, Natasha Gregson Wagner, Arly Jover, etc

Productora: Storm King Productions, Screen Gems. Productor: John Carpenter

Género: Action; Thriller; Horror

TRAILER:

youtube

#Action #Thriller #Horror #2002 #EE.UU

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vivaciousoceans · 1 year ago

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Oh how far Captain Tommy Gregson has fallen since Watson and Sherlock moved to London

#teya talks #elementary #law and order: svu

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queer-benoit-blanc · 1 year ago

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Elementary S1 Gregson reassuring Sherlock that it isn't his fault Moran came to New York because Moran is the "twist", not Sherlock, and being scandalised when Sherlock goes for revenge VS S6 Gregson blaming Sherlock for Michael's murders and almost letting Joan go to prison for Hannah getting revenge

#gregson just never really trusts sherlock #especially after the business with moran #it builds into a resentment that makes it very easy for him to blame sherlock #tommy gregson #sherlock holmes #sebastian moran #michael rowan #cbs elementary #elementary

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lessthanpure · 2 years ago

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A Love Supreme Seems Far Removed Chapter 1

Fandom: Elementary

Relationships: Tommy Gregson/Sherlock Holmes

Tags: female Sherlock Holmes, Western AU

Summary: Thomas Gregson is a man in want of a wife. Sherlock Holmes is a woman in want of getting out. Can they help each other?

Rating: Explicit (not yet, but it will be)

Wordcount: 5360

Notes: Ok so I was stuck on titling this until i found a fantastic generator that spits out hozier song lyrics. Perfect. I might have chosen a basic-ass one, but it seemed to fit. Other possible options were: reasons wretched and divine, Found me just in time, and Only blue or black days. If y'all want to use one of those, OR the generator yourselves! Here it is.

AO3 Link

Sherlock Holmes is a woman of means. So her father expressly forbade her sending the letter to the mail-order bride company. But she had been on a ship to America before he realized she was even gone.

Sherlock hopes that any man who puts in an order for her is at least kind. She sighs and leans herself on the railing of the ship. She also hopes that America is drier and more free than England, though she’s read many novels and newspapers detailing the culture.

Tommy Gregson just wants some companionship. After Cheryl…he needs a change. So when his deputies had dropped the small bound pamphlet in front of him, he had read it in curiosity. He had stilled when he realized what exactly the pages detailed. Brides, ready for men to just…marry. He still gives the papers a thorough read, just to get his deputies off his back, but none catch his eye until the very last page three weeks later. Sherlock Holmes. An odd first name, for sure. But he finds himself reading her description. 5’9, tall for a woman. And slight, as well. 28 years old, black hair, blue eyes, fair skin…he can picture her. So he looks through the pages detailing the process for such a thing. There are ways to talk before he decides. Letters. He nods to himself, alone in his room, and writes to the company, asking for her address.

Sherlock checks the post every day, looking for any letters from possible…’suitors’ isn't the best word…’potential husbands’ is more accurate. But it’s weeks before she gets one. She takes it to her room and opens it eagerly. She examines the handwriting first- neat penmanship, which pleases her. That means the man takes care in everything he does. She reads the letter.

Ms. Holmes, the greeting says, which makes her even more pleased- not overly familiar. The house she’s in, with other mail-order brides, the women had said that the men that write often use the woman's first name or even a nickname like they know each other. There are the rare ones that write something sappy like ‘to my dearest love’ or what have you. She reads the letter.

I am writing to you to see if we would be a good match. My name is Thomas Gregson and I’m the Sheriff in Silver Road, New Mexico. I admit, I’ve never done something like this before. But I’m willing to give this a try because some companionship would be nice.

Since I have an idea of what you look like, I guess it’s only fair for you to have an idea of what I look like. I’m thirty-two, six feet tall, and going gray. I’ve spent my whole life in Silver Road. The town has a sheriff’s office, a saloon, a jail, a courthouse, and several houses. I live outside of town, in a house with a bedroom, a kitchen, a bathroom, and a front porch.

Let me know if you'd like to correspond,

Thomas Gregson

Sherlock hums, pleased. This Thomas Gregson, he seems both polite and honest. He also didn't force the issue, he asked for her permission for them to write each other. She picks up a pen and paper, and starts to write a reply. She goes through a draft, crossing out words that don’t seem to fit, before she’s happy with the result.

Gregson opens the envelope when he gets home. The penmanship is gorgeous and he raises an eyebrow at it. It almost looks like she comes from money, or at least was schooled like she was. He reads the letter.

Mr. Gregson.

As you might expect, my name is Sherlock Holmes, and I’m from London England. There’s really so much to explain to a person that just one letter, especially an introductory one, comes nowhere close to touching what they are truly like.

As far as myself, I am also looking for companionship. It’s the reason I wrote to the company- I was not driven by desperation, like some of the poor women at the home I am currently staying in. There’s no bad past behind me. Just an open future.

I appreciate that you asked for permission for us to write one another- it shows that you’re a good man. Consider this to be a formal invitation for us to continue to correspond.

Silver Road- and you- sound incredibly interesting, and I look forward to learning more about both.

I look forward to receiving your next letter,

Sherlock Holmes

Gregson hums. It’s a brief letter, and she hadn’t revealed much about herself. But Sherlock is right- one letter isn’t enough. He’s looking forward to more.

There’s several weeks of correspondence between the two before she agrees to come to him. She’s antsy on the train, looking out the windows as the somewhat familiar city disappears in favor of empty land.

When she arrives in Silver Road, she disembarks the train. Tommy- as he had insisted she called him- had said he would wear his uniform so he’s easily recognizable, and she looks for a star pinned to a brown shirt.

She soon finds it and looks at him from afar, hidden among the other passengers. Tommy is looking at every female passenger, probably wondering which one she is. He’s a handsome man, prematurely going gray as he described. It’s dashing. He’s tall and well-built, but not overly wide. He has a sinewy strength to him she quite likes. Before she takes a stride towards him, they meet eyes. She walks to him, her luggage in hand. He meets her. “Tommy,” she asks.

He nods. “Sherlock?” He has an accent, of course (everyone does), but it’s light and he uses it gently.

“Yes.”

“Mind if I take those,” he points at her suitcases.

“They’re light,” she says. He nods and doesn’t push.

“I didn’t expect the train to be late,” he says. “I apologize for that.”

“You don't control that. It was an interesting wait,” she replies. “Plenty of people to talk to, but most just wanted me to pronounce different things,” she rolls her eyes.

Tommy chuckles. “We don’t get many people from England ‘round here.”

“So I gathered.”

“Please, follow me,” he says, standing aside. She does. “Unfortunately, our judge doesn’t marry anyone after three in the afternoon," he starts as he walks beside her. "So you’re welcome to stay with me until the morning when we can be wed.”

“An unmarried woman staying with a man,” she questions.

“I won’t-” he stops himself. “I don’t expect you to have sex with me,” he says. “I just thought it would be nice to have somewhere safe to rest your head.”

“Is there a hotel in town?”

“Not much of one,” he admits. “It’s a few rooms above the saloon.” He snorts. “Most of them are rented by the hour.”

“It pulls double duty as a brothel,” she asks, surprised. He nods. She hums. “Does it have a flat rate for a night?”

“Yes.”

“Then there I shall stay.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

He nods again. “I’ll show you the way.”

Tommy brings her outside the train station and to a carriage. He steps up and offers his hand, and she takes it to let him help her up. He settles into the seat and picks up the reins, urging the horse into movement. “No one would think less of you for staying with me,” he assures her, looking at her. “We are to be married, after all.”

“I doubt that,” Sherlock says, voice dry.

“The West is not a savage land.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply. The rest of the ride is silent until they pull up to a two-story building. Music is flowing out of the doors, even though they’re shut. After Tommy helps her out, the doors open and two men come flying out. Sherlock quickly side-steps the brawling men.

“Knock that off,” Tommy demands. He waits for his moment and seizes one of the men, hauling him up with ease. Sherlock feels a shudder run through her at his easy strength. Tommy shoves the man away and gets between the irate men. “Go home, cool off,” he says, and one man grumbles and walks away. Tommy turns when he’s away and looks at the second man. “You too, Horace.”

Horace walks off.

“Still want to spend the night here,” Tommy asks.

“Yes.”

Tommy nods. He pushes the doors open and holds one open for her, and she steps inside. The building doesn’t offer much relief from the hot sun. There are several games of cards being played, a bar with plenty of alcohol, and women walking around, putting glasses in front of various men and some even sitting on laps. She follows Tommy to the bar.

“John,” Tommy calls, and the bartender turns.

“Sheriff,” John says, approaching him. “What can I do for you?”

“I need a room for the night,” he says. John glances behind him, to Sherlock.

“This your soon-to-be bride?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says.

“I’ll have Charlie send you up,” John nods. “Charlie!”

A woman soon appears. “Yes, John?”

“This lady needs a room for the night. Give her 4.”

“Sure thing.”

“What’s the cost for the night,” Sherlock asks.

“I’ll pay,” Tommy says.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Sherlock, you’re to be my wife. You don’t have to pay.”

“How much for the night?”

John says the cost. Tommy glares at him.

Sherlock nods and sets her luggage down, drawing out her purse.

“Sherlock-”

“I’ll pay, Tommy.”

She hands over the money and John accepts it.

There’s a crash and Tommy steps to Sherlock, putting his back to her. Protecting her. It warms her.

“Sheriff,” the man in front of a small group of men says, smiling. The men behind him look rough. Every one of them is carrying a pistol.

“Moriarty,” Tommy greets cooly.

“I thought you were an ‘honorable man,’” Moriarty mocks the last two words. “Never figured you’d buy a loose woman.”

Sherlock scowls at Tommy’s back.

“What do you care what I do,” Tommy asks. Moriarty comes closer with two men while the other four go to tables.

Moriarty steps to his right and looks at Sherlock as best as he can. Tommy steps in front of her again, but not enough to completely block her from view. Moriarty drags his eyes down her body. “God damn, Sheriff. This one wasn’t here when I was last,” he says, cocking his head. “I might just have to buy a few nights with her myself.”

“Moriarty,” Tommy says warningly.

“What? Is she your personal whore,” Moriarty laughs. His eyes light up after a second. “Hold up,” he says. “She’s got suitcases. Did you send off for a bride, Sheriff?”

“Sherlock, go upstairs,” Tommy says without looking at her. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Tommy-”

“Go.”

Charlie stands next to Sherlock and she looks at her. The woman looks frightened. Sherlock nods and follows her.

“Who is Moriarty,” Sherlock asks when they’re in her room for the night.

“A bounty hunter,” the woman replies quietly. “One that always brings his bounties dead rather than alive.” Sherlock nods. “Stay in here tonight, lock the door. Don’t go out until the morning.”

“Alright,” Sherlock says. She knows she can hold her own, but it’s always good to meet people who don’t fight in the first place. Men who don’t turn sour when the bottle runs out or when they lose a hand of cards. "Thank you. Goodnight." Charlie leaves, politely closing the door behind her. Sherlock walks to it and locks it. She gets ready for bed and goes to sleep.

The next morning, Sherlock wakes early and gets dressed. She packs everything up so she's ready whenever Tommy comes. She walks downstairs and goes to John, who's oddly still tending bar. She thought there would be a fresh bartender.

"Morning," John says once she's close enough.

"Good morning."

"The Sheriff hasn't come by yet."

Sherlock nods. "I thought as much."

There are fewer men in the establishment than there had been last night, but still over a dozen. She looks around. Most of them drunks, some of them gamblers, some whoremongers. She can pick out exactly who is who, of course. She turns back to John. "May I stay down here so I can see the Sheriff when he comes?"

"Do whatever you want." Sherlock nods and settles at a table. "Want breakfast," he calls.

"Please."

A woman with a low cut dress is soon there. "What can I get you," she asks.

"What do most people get?"

"Grits and eggs."

"That's fine." The woman nods and walks off.

There’s a stampede of footsteps and Sherlock looks up. Moriarty and his men are coming down the stairs. John appears at her table, sitting in the available chair.

“Look who I found,” Moriarty crows. “The Sheriff’s mail-order bride,” he says. He stops near her table a few paces back. “Are you one of them virgin ones,” he asks. Sherlock glares at him. “Aw, come on sweetheart. I’m just asking a polite question.”

“No, you’re asking an invasive one.”

“Well, well, well. You ain’t from around here.”

“What tipped you off,” she cocks her head. Moriarty glares and takes a step forward. A black man in a brown shirt appears in front of her with his back to her. He has a pistol in his belt.

“Deputy,” Moriarty greets.

“Moriarty. I believe you’ve been told to leave this lady alone.”

“It’s just a friendly conversation, Deputy.”

A woman comes out and puts a plate in front of Sherlock. She looks at it, seeing eggs and a truly strange pile of…something. These must be the grits. She looks up again, not wanting to look away from Moriarty for very long. He’s a dangerous man. Sherlock can hold her own with her hands, the pistol at her ankle, and the knife in her boot, but she’d rather not risk it.

“Enjoy your meal, darlin’,” Moriarty says. He has the same accent as Tommy, but his is much harsher. He turns and walks to a nearby table, joined by a few of his men. The deputy doesn’t move. Neither does John. Sherlock eats her breakfast, enjoying the eggs and tolerating the grits. Food is fuel, nothing else, but there’s better fuel available. Perhaps not in Silver Road, though.

She hasn’t been done two minutes when Tommy appears at her side. “Ready,” he asks. Sherlock nods and stands. “I’ll help you with your things.” He offers his arm and Sherlock takes it, leading him to her room. He grabs her suitcases and brings her downstairs without a word. He keeps himself between her and the room.

“Have a nice day with your bride, Sheriff,” Moriarty calls loudly. “I’ll be seeing you.”

“Goodbye, Moriarty.”

Tommy brings Sherlock outside and into a carriage. He helps her in like he had before and they go to a building. He helps her down and they walk inside. He relaxes once in, which makes Sherlock relax.

“The judge will marry us here,” he says.

She nods. The judge soon appears and performs the ceremony.

Sherlock walks out of the courthouse a married woman with her husband beside her. He helps her in. “My deputies insisted they give me the day off today,” Tommy says as they get into the carriage. “So I’ll bring you home.”

“Alright.”

Tommy brings her outside town to a modest house and they go inside, Tommy holding her suitcase. “One is light,” he notes once he opens the door for her. She walks inside. “What did you bring? More specifically, what did you leave behind?”

“Is that important,” she asks.

“I guess not,” he says. “Follow me.”

She does, and he brings her to his room. He sets the suitcases on the bed. “Get settled in,” he nods. “Did you eat?”

“Yes. Eggs and grits.”

“Ah, I don’t like grits myself.”

“Me neither.” Tommy chuckles and Sherlock likes the sound.

“I’ll be sure not to make you any, then.”

“Make me any,” she repeats.

“I’ve been alone for some time, Sherlock. I do know how to cook.”

“And you don’t expect your wife to do that?”

“If you want to, you can, but no I don’t expect it.”

“You’re a strange man, Tommy.”

“I choose to take that as a compliment.” He smiles gently. “That one’s your dresser,” he points. She nods. He leaves and closes the door behind him. She unpacks her meager belongings and puts them away. She’ll get more here. She can sew well enough with the machine she brought, so fabric will do just fine. She often has to get clothes tailored to fit her tall frame anyway. Sherlock steps out of the room and finds Tommy in the main area, sitting on a couch. He stands when he sees her. “All good,” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Good.” He pauses, unsure for the first time. “I gotta be honest. I don’t have many days off, so I’m not sure what I’m gonna do today. Especially with a new wife,” he laughs. Sherlock finds her mind filled with just exactly what Tommy can do with a new wife. She feels her face warm and Tommy must see it. “I’ll wait until you’re ready, Sherlock,” he says, walking to her. “I’m not an impatient man.”

She smiles. “Thank you.”

“Sheriff,” a desperate voice calls outside, and Tommy runs out, Sherlock following him. There’s a man outside, eyes wide with fear. “There’s a fire in town!”

“Where,” Tommy demands.

“Watson’s house!”

“Fuck! Sherlock, stay here,” Tommy demands.

“I can help!”

“I want you safe! Stay. Here.”

“What if Moriarty comes by,” she challenges.

Tommy glares and grits his teeth. “Do you know how to ride a horse?”

“Yes.”

“Follow me.”

She does, finding two horses hitched to a fence. On the fence are two saddles, one normal and one side. He hefts the side saddle in his arms (again warming her with his strength) and quickly does the buckles. Sherlock steps forward and does the side facing her. Tommy gets his own horse ready with the help of the man, and they all get on their horses. The men turn theirs towards town, and Sherlock follows. Tommy urges his horse quickly, and she races after him. Soon, they’re in town and there are people yelling at each other as they carry buckets. Tommy stops his horse outside a building and gets down, running. Sherlock hops off and follows him, hitching her dress up so she can move quickly. They get to a building engulfed in flames. “Is Watson inside,” Tommy demands of the closest man.

“No!”

“Good.” He turns. “Sherlock, this is Brad. He’ll show you where the well is. Go.”

Sherlock nods and follows Brad. They both get two buckets and bring them back. Sherlock looks at the house, quickly assessing where exactly she needs to throw the water. She takes her buckets and goes around the side, putting one on the ground. She uses the other and precisely throws it on the source of the fire. It goes out. She brings the second bucket around and uses it at another source. She helps the townsfolk put out the fire and Tommy is soon next to her. He sighs. “Never seen a fire that big. But we put it out fast.”

“There were multiple spots of origin.”

“How do you know that,” he asks, looking at her.

“Someone set that fire.”

“But why?”

“Haven’t the foggiest idea. Who’s Watson,” Sherlock asks, turning to face him. He has soot on his cheek so she takes out her handkerchief and wipes it away. He stills. She cleans him up and folds the cloth again.

“My right hand deputy,” Tommy replies. He offers his arm and she accepts. They walk together and Tommy brings her to the jail. They walk inside and Sherlock sees a Chinese woman inside, fingers steepled in front of her face. There are a few men around, silent.

“Watson,” Tommy says, walking to the woman. Sherlock is surprised and follows him.

“Sheriff,” she stands. “You were supposed to have a day off.”

“Fuck that, your house was on fire.”

“I wasn’t inside,” Watson says. She looks at Sherlock. “This your new wife,” she asks, a smile playing at her lips.

“Yes. Meet Sherlock,” he introduces. “Sherlock, this is Joan Watson.”

“Pleasure,” Sherlock says. “I’m sorry about your home.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Gregson.” Sherlock startles- of course, her name is different now.

“Just Sherlock, please.”

Joan looks at Tommy, who nods. “Sherlock says that the fire was started in multiple places.”

“How do you know,” she asks Sherlock.

“I read a lot,” she shrugs.

“Where was the fire started,” Joan asks.

“The east side of your home, right in the middle of the base of the wall, the west side the same, the north side on either side of the door and in the center of your house,” she replies.

“Five,” Tommy demands. She nods. “How do you know, Sherlock?”

“Simple deduction, really,” she says. Tommy listens to Sherlock explain. She’s smart, and he doesn’t know how she saw what she did.

“Impressive,” he nods. She smiles a little. She doesn’t get told that enough, Gregson realizes. I’ll tell her that every day. “Did you see anything else? Something that would tell us who set it, maybe?”

Sherlock shakes her head. “No, the fire and water must have burned and washed away everything I could have used.”

“Sheriff,” Watson says, and he looks at her. “I think we all know who probably set it.”

“Moriarty,” Tommy says. “But you know we can’t just arrest him, even though Lord knows I want to. He has too many friends in high places.” Tommy sighs and Sherlock moves immediately, dropping his arm and gently rubbing his upper back. He relaxes under her fingers.

Sherlock sees his deputies looking at her, but she ignores them for now. Right now, Tommy needs some reassurance. “You’ll get him,” she says. “From what I’ve seen so far, I know you will.” Tommy looks at her and smiles a little. He huffs a laugh. He straightens and Sherlock stills her hand and slowly removes it even though she doesn’t really want to. His back is muscled and she wants to keep touching him. She warms and looks away from him. She still puts her hand in his offered arm.

“Alright,” Tommy says, and his deputies look at him. “Keep an eye on Moriarty, and keep your wits about you. We don’t know what he might do next. Watson, you can stay with me,” he says.

“No thanks, Sheriff. Bell already offered his guest room,” Watson says.

“Thanks, Bell,” Tommy says as he looks at a short black man. He was the one guarding her at the saloon that morning. Bell nods. “Sherlock, do you mind if I work today,” he asks.

“Sheriff,” Watson complains. “We have this covered. Spend time with your wife.”

“Watson, someone destroyed your home. I’m not taking a day off until Moriarty is taken care of.”

“Sheriff-”

“Watson,” Tommy cuts her off. “Sherlock and I have time,” he says. “I want him either in cuffs or out of town. I won’t rest until one happens.”

Watson looks at Sherlock briefly. “It’s alright, Deputy,” Sherlock assures her. “Like Tommy said, we have time,” she smiles gently. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Tommy smiles in her periphery and touches her hand.

“Thanks, Sheriff,” Watson says.

“Good. Now I want to go ask Moriarty some hard questions. Bell, with me. Watson, if you would stay here and make sure Sherlock’s alright.”

“You’re making me sit out,” Watson asks, incredulous.

“You need time to process,” Tommy says gently. “I promise, when the time comes you get to put the cuffs on him.” Watson pauses and nods. “Good. O’Malley, go see if you can round up the men Moriarty brought. Take Grell with you. Fulton, Hobbs, Wells. Once they’re found, separate them. Let me be clear- no one goes alone. Twos and threes. Got it?”

“Yes, Sheriff,” Watson nods.

“And Ripley,” he says, looking at a woman with no badge. “Stay with Watson and Sherlock.”

“Yes, Sheriff.”

“Alright.” Tommy looks at Sherlock.

“Be safe,” Sherlock says, taking her hand out of his arm. He catches it and presses a kiss to the back of her fingers.

“I will.”

He walks out with most of his deputies, leaving Sherlock and the other two women alone. Sherlock looks at them. “Nice to meet you,” Watson extends her hand.

“You as well. Do you prefer I call you Joan or Watson,” she asks as she shakes it.

“Joan,” she nods.

“Then Joan it shall be.” She turns to the other woman. “And is Ripley your given or surname,” she asks.

“My first,” Ripley replies. "So you can call me Ripley." Sherlock nods and smiles.

"Please, call me Sherlock."

"Odd, isn't it," Ripley asks. Sherlock furrows her eyebrows. "Being called by a different last name," she clarifies.

"I'll get used to it," Sherlock says. And she does hope she does.

"You do," Ripley smiles.

"So what do you do here, Ripley," Sherlock asks.

"I work the front desk," she explains. "But don't you worry, I can handle a shotgun as well as any deputy."

"I'm not worried," Sherlock replies. She isn't, surprisingly. She trusts Tommy to protect her.

"Where are you from," Joan asks.

"London, England."

"You're a long way from home."

"I haven't considered London home in quite some time," Sherlock admits.

"Why not," Ripley asks.

"Ever since my mother passed thirteen years ago, my father has been quite distant."

"How long were they together," Joan asks.

“Forty years,” Sherlock says. The women nod and look sympathetic.

“I’m sorry,” Joan says.

“It isn't your fault,” Sherlock smiles. “But thank you.” She looks out the door. “Should we get my horse,” she asks. “Unburden it?”

“I’ll come with you,” Joan says and stands. Sherlock nods, knowing that they won’t accept any of her protests. The women walk out and Sherlock takes the reins of her horse. The horse nickers and pushes her nose into her cheek. Sherlock smiles and strokes down her forehead. She leads the horse to the hitching post in front of the jail and ties her to it. She unbuckles the saddle and Joan helps her put it on the rail. Sherlock pats the animal fondly and walks inside with Joan. Joan stands behind a chair and gestures at it, offering it to Sherlock.

“I’m alright, but thank you.”

“So what made you choose the Sheriff,” Ripley asks.

“Truthfully, he was the first one to write to me. But as we wrote more to each other,” Sherlock trails off. “I’m not sure, it felt like…we understood each other.” She smiles and looks at her boots. “That must not make much sense. We’re strangers.”

“There are some people you just bond with,” Joan says. Sherlock looks up and smiles softly when there’s no judgment in her voice. “And it feels like you’ve known each other for years.”

“Exactly.” Sherlock wants to ask, but Ripley and Joan are hardly impartial.

“What is it, Sherlock,” Joan asks.

“Nothing.”

“Sherlock.”

She pauses. “The Sheriff…is he a good man?”

“The best,” Joan nods. “He’s the only Sheriff for miles who’s an honest man and keeps women and black men on his staff.”

“And behind closed doors?”

“He’s never done anything untoward,” Ripley promises her. “Not towards me, Joan, or any other woman in town.”

“Then,” Sherlock starts. She holds her tongue.

“Then why hasn’t he found a wife,” Joan asks, smiling. Sherlock nods. “He’s committed to his work. He hasn’t had the time. But everyone needs companionship. So a few deputies kept dropping catalogs on his desk,” she laughs. “He would read them, but quickly. Until he saw your name.” Sherlock’s cheeks warm. “I think he thinks you understand him, too,” Joan continues. “He’s been nervous since you told him you’d come.” She warms further, and Joan smiles reassuringly. “You’ll see,” she promises. Sherlock nods.

The day draws on and Sherlock gets to know the women. When the sun has almost set, Tommy walks in with a few men. Sherlock looks up, concerned. “No luck,” he says. “Sherlock, let’s go home." She nods and stands.

“It was nice meeting and getting to know you both,” Sherlock says. “You too, Sherlock,” Joan says, and Ripley nods, smiling. Sherlock goes to Tommy and takes his offered arm. He leads her outside and her horse is ready. She gets on and he gets on his own horse. Two men escort them home, and then Tommy sends them off once they’ve arrived.

Sherlock and Tommy look at each other for a moment. “Do you want a bath,” Tommy offers. “I can draw you one.”

Sherlock pauses. “A bath sounds lovely, thank you.”

Tommy nods and walks. Sherlock pauses and then goes to his- their- room, picking out some sleeping clothes. She drapes them over her arm and goes towards the sound of Tommy preparing a bath for her. He’s sitting on the edge of the tub, pouring hot water in. He looks up at her approach. “Check the temperature,” Tommy says, standing. “Make sure it’s alright.”

Sherlock nods and puts her clothes on a stool, going to him. She checks the water and nods. “Perfect, Tommy. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

He leaves the room, closing the door behind himself. Sherlock undresses and gets in the bath, washing up. It’s nice having time to do this, instead of on the train when she could only freshen up. She can get clean, wash away the grime of travel. She washes every part of her and her hair, and then dries herself and gets dressed. She braids her hair, walking to their room. She pauses outside the door and finishes the braid before tying it and knocking on the door. “Come in.”

Sherlock opens the door and Tommy is still dressed. “I could draw you another bath,” she offers. “The hot water will help you relax.”

“I’ll do it.”

“Tommy. You’ve done so much for me, just let me help.”

“Sherlock, you don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

“Alright.” Tommy helps her empty the tub and Sherlock draws a fresh one for him, standing aside to let him check the temperature. “Perfect, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Sherlock pauses, unsure, but leaves the room, closing the door behind herself.

Tommy undresses, thinking. He has a wife now. A beautiful one, too. He had read her description, but it didn’t come close to actually describing her. He gets in the tub, sighing. He closes his eyes and puts his head back. Sherlock’s right- the hot water helps. Fucking Moriarty. He causes nothing but trouble, but he’s never done something like this. Assaults, yes. Harassing, yes. But never setting fires, and certainly nothing to any deputy. He scrubs himself clean and then dries off, belatedly realizing he didn’t bring any clothes with him. I’m a fucking idiot. He wraps the towel around his hips and walks to the bedroom door, knocking.

“Come in.”

Tommy does, and Sherlock is already lying in bed. Her eyes dart down his chest to the towel, and then she looks away from him completely. “You don’t have to knock,” she says.

“You did.”

“Force of habit.”

He nods and goes to his dresser, pulling on pants. He puts the towel in the laundry and goes back, emptying the tub. He steels himself outside for a moment before he heads back in. He opens the bedroom door without knocking and Sherlock looks up. “Tomorrow we can get you whatever you need,” he promises as he stands beside the bed. He pauses and Sherlock flicks the blanket back. He gets in.

“That sounds nice,” she replies. “I can sew well enough, so just fabric is fine. I always had to alter my clothes anyway,” she continues as Tommy settles in. She looks at him. “Do you want to sleep right now?”

“Don’t go to sleep on my account.”

“No, I’m tired.” Sherlock reaches and turns off her lamp. Tommy turns and does the same. “Goodnight, Tommy.”

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

#elementary fanfiction #elementary fanfic #elementary fic #elementary #western au #female sherlock holmes #my fics

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