#Mycroft gave him the buns of course
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A while ago I was thinking about how some Sherlock Holmes media is really intent on giving him a child, often via an affair with Irene Adler, and my reaction to that was "Lol he'd be more likely to end up with a child through some sort of weird science cloning experiment than that"
And I've currently written 20,000+ words about that.
Here is said clone encountering BUNS for the first time.
In my defence this is only JUST weirder than anything actually in the canon.
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Sharing It
[ Can be read as a sequel to “Keeping It” or as a standalone ]
“Mmm…. no.”
“You’re maddening.”
“No argument there.”
“That is also maddening.”
Molly sighed and put down her tablet, the medical journal she’d been trying to read for the last ten minutes a lost cause. “You’re both maddening.”
Her husband smirked behind his cup of tea, an eyebrow cocked over his reading glasses. “It is hereditary, you know.”
“Yeah, Mum. Uncle Mycroft is maddening, and I know Dad thinks Gamma and Papa are--”
Sherlock shot his gaze to their daughter in a mock-glare. “Shush. Gamma can likely hear you, even fifty miles away.”
“Which is what you find maddening,” was her sly response.
Molly reached for a piece of toast, a small grin on her face. Sherlock nudged her calf with his bare foot under the breakfast table.
“Dr. Hooper-Holmes, I’ll have you know you are maddening too. I’ll also remind you that you contributed the other half of the maddening genes we see in the creature at our table.”
“Creature?!” Another bare foot swept and nudged Sherlock’s calf, though harder than he’d nudged Molly’s.
Laughter ensued, as it usually did when Sherlock teased the girl.
“Darling, what prompted the maddening argument?” Molly asked her, nibbling her toast.
“I asked Dad if I could help with the Livingston case. DI Dimmock called this morning and will be here by noon.”
“And,” Sherlock interrupted, “I politely - yet firmly - said no.”
“Why?” both of his girls asked in unison.
Sherlock inwardly groaned. Twin pairs of heart-shaped faces and messy chestnut buns swung to look at him expectantly. The brown eyes were curious, but the eyes that mirrored his own in color and shape were full of challenge. A swell of pride and love rose in his chest but he beat it down so as not to look soft -- those challenging eyes were keener than his own and would see it and manipulate it with ease.
“Because it’s not appropriate--” he began.
“Fibber,” Molly smiled. “You don’t give a fig about being appropriate.”
Sherlock scowled, though without heat because she was right, of course. “Fine. Because she’s too young--”
“You were only nineteen when Uncle Greg first let you onto an NSY case!”
She was also right.
“Sherlock.”
He looked at Molly, her laugh lines a little more prominent, her own reading glasses perched atop her head. Motherhood and wifehood had not diminished her charm or her ability to see him. “Yes?”
She just smiled at him until he gave in and smiled too.
“Alright, is this going to be like when I came home early from the Watsons’ and learned what coitus interruptus meant?”
They both kicked their daughter under the table, who laughed and threw pieces of bacon at them.
“Artemis Charlotte Zephyrine Hooper-Holmes!” Molly chided the young woman. “You’re worse than your father!”
“Well you were getting all sentimental, something had to be done!” Artie (as she preferred because her full name was only for when she was truly in trouble with her parents) chuckled, crinkling her nose up at her mother. “We were in the middle of interrogating Dad about his lame reason why I can’t help with the Livingston case…”
Sherlock chewed the bacon she’d thrown at him, nodding to Molly. She could say what he felt.
“He doesn’t want to share you,” his wife said simply.
“Share me?” Artie stared at her father. “Whattaya mean?”
It was Molly’s turn to nod at him. He swallowed tightly and let himself feel. It was important, after all. “If you solve the Livingston case with me, it’ll be open range for the NSY to come to us both, then ultimately just you, for more cases.”
His daughter cocked her head to the side, a tic she’d developed early on when deducing something. Or someone.
“You’re not worried I’ll overshadow you or take over the ‘family business’, though, Dad,” she said softly and certainly. “Then why--”
“It is a wild, heart-pounding, dangerous, and exhilarating life, being a consulting detective,” he said. Molly’s warm eyes met his. “I have only ever experienced the precisely same rush in the line of work that is husband and father. And I want nothing more than for you to feel it too.”
He looked Artie right in the eye and let himself be open to her. “I don’t want to share my girl and her talents for deduction and compassion just yet. It would mean that you’re ready to not need me. Or your mother,” he added quickly, trying to maintain some semblance of his signature stoicism.
Artie’s eyes narrowed, and she was silent for a moment. As the moment stretched Sherlock was reminded that she was most definitely his child. John had said that his own silences were unnerving. But, right before the moment became awkward, Artie’s face broke into a smile.
“Dad, you’re an idiot.”
Molly cleared her throat with admonishment, but both husband and daughter waved her off with identical dismissive hands.
“Mum, you know what I mean,” Artie smiled, keeping her eyes on her father. “Dad, I don’t want to do this because I don’t need you and Mum. I do and always will. I want to work this case because I think I want to be a writer.”
Molly and Sherlock looked to each other, then to their girl. “A writer?”
Artie sat up a little straighter, pulling the sleeves of her father’s old blue dressing gown down over her hands. Sherlock inwardly grinned. Bravado and nerves in both movements; this was a big moment for his daughter.
“I figured out what I want to major in at Oxford -- creative writing. I know, I know, it’s not exactly lucrative but I could take some cases myself as you said and that could pay a bit. Besides, Uncle John’s blog inspired me, and a-actually I’m rewriting some entries for a publication. Rosie’s doing the illustrations and I found that I loved it but I’m not getting the voice of the stories right because I’ve never seen you and Uncle John on a case. Well, not a murder case -- and we all know those are the juiciest tales!”
She was babbling, outdoing her mother as she motor-mouthed her explanation. She seemed to realize this and slowed to catch her breath. Molly and Sherlock were still locked in on her, their faces a combination of shock and intrigue.
Artie took a breath and smiled at them. “I want to write and publish these stories, Dad. Your stories, with Uncles John and Greg, Mum, Nana Hudders. I want to share you with more than London and the surrounding countryside.”
Sherlock’s throat felt tight, and a strange prickling began behind his eyes. He chanced a glance at Molly, whose eyes were swimming in pride and un-shed tears.
“Oh,” he murmured, blinking rapidly. “Well, um…”
Artie’s hand slipped into his on the table. “Dad?”
Sherlock grasped her fingers in his, her touch grounding. He looked at Molly again, his foot finding her sock-clad one under the small table, and closed his eyes. In his mind palace (which had more windows than walls now, letting sunlight filter in and illuminate the ceilings and doors of the massive building), he found Artie’s room next door to Molly’s. Pushing the door open he saw her, all of eight years old with his deerstalker on her head and her faithful, never-far-from-reach diary open, a silly feathery pen at the ready.
He smiled as he opened his eyes and arched a supercilious brow at his currently eighteen year old daughter. “Best get your arse dressed and prepared for battle, Miss Hooper-Holmes. The game--”
“-- is ON! Hell yeah, Dad!” Artie tugged him forward and planted a loud smacking kiss on his forehead before bolting out of the kitchen and upstairs to her bedroom, dressing gown flapping dramatically.
Molly immediately cracked up laughing, standing to clear the table. “She is so your child, Sherlock.”
He grasped her wrist and pulled her into his lap. “Again, I remind you that she is half you too, wife.” He kissed her languidly, her hands reaching into his curls (which may or may not have had strands of silver through them). They broke apart only when they heard the thump of their daughter losing her balance, no doubt trying to put on her boots without unlacing them (again).
“You better get yourself dressed too,” Molly said, pressing a kiss to his nose. “Artie’s been dead-set on joining you for a murder for ages.”
Sherlock scrunched his nose at her. “Dead-set? Molly, your jokes…”
They shared another soft, sweet kiss, ignoring the thundering footsteps and the subsequent “Ohhh come on, you two!”
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‘The Adventure of Philip Anderson’ Chapter 5: There’s No Good in Goodbye
Sherlock and Molly attend the dinner party to keep an eye out for any suspects, instead finding an intended victim. Things get heated with them and the upstairs corridor. And Anderson comes along for the ride. What could possibly go wrong?
FFN | Ao3 | Buy Me a Coffee?
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When Anthea caught on to what Philip Anderson was trying to pull, she wanted a part in his game. Thankfully, Mycroft had tasked her with picking up the evening gown Molly would be wearing. It had to be sexy, but simple. As Coco Chanel once said, “Elegance is refusal.” Just as both Holmes brothers instructed, she had the dress sent out to Molly that afternoon. She wished she could see the look on Sherlock’s face when he saw Molly in that dress.
“Anthea?” Mycroft called to her as he stepped out of his office. “Has the gown been sent to Miss Hooper?”
“Yes sir, everything is done as you asked,” Anthea informed him.
Mycroft grumbled something unintelligible.
“What was that sir?”
“Nothing,” he smiled demurely. “I just hope my brother and Miss Hooper can work something out. He has been alone much too long.”
“If I may speak out of turn, sir, I think you have too,” she told him. It wasn’t much, but maybe it was enough for him to see he had her love.
Mycroft appeared to be taken aback by her remark—not in horror, but genuine surprise. Perhaps she was right.
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Molly had never worn anything so extravagant in her life. Every which way she turned in the mirror, the fact remained that it was as if this gown had been specifically tailored to her measurements. And if that were true, how exactly did Sherlock know her measurements? Surely somebody had to know in order for this gown to fit her like a glove. He probably figured it out when she wore that dress to the Christmas party at his flat all those years ago.
The gown was simple, all black. It had an off the shoulder neckline with shoulder strap accents, and a sweetheart bust with padded cups. The material hugged her curves, cascading all the way down to her ankles. If it hadn’t been for the strappy silver heels, the dress would have been dragging the floor considering her short stature. There was high side-slit exposing her left leg, giving off a sexy, but sophisticated look. Molly had her hair swept up in a chignon bun, loose tendrils framing her face. Her eyes were done up with eyeliner on the top and bottom of her eyelids, and winged from the corner of her eyes. Her lips were stained with wine coloured lipstick that gave her look the pop of colour it needed.
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Startled from her thoughts by a knock on her door, Molly took a deep breath. She slipped on the lacy black bell sleeve shrug over her shoulders and made her way to the door. To say she was nervous about tonight was an understatement. Fake married to Sherlock? The thought made her laugh in disbelief. It sounded like a storyline in one of Anderson’s dreams. Okay, maybe her dreams too, but that was aside from the point.
She answered the door to find Sherlock down on one knee, a ring sparkling from within a velvet box. It was golden and gorgeous, a blood red ruby cut into the shape of a heart in its center with two small, rounded diamonds on either side of it. Beside it was a matching wedding band—an endless circle of the utmost significance. “Molly Hooper.” He breathed out her name as if she had stolen the breath from his lungs. “You are radiant. I shall perish if you reject my proposal.”
“A bit dramatic, that,” Molly remarked, clearly enjoying Sherlock’s theatrical approach.
“It is only the truth,” he replied, desperately wishing for her to see his heart the way she once did.
Molly nodded her head, a smile on her face. “Then I accept your proposal, Mister Holmes. I couldn’t very well be happy in a world without you.” And that was her truth. Could he see that she meant it? But still, she wondered, was the trust she needed there? She certainly felt safe with him, but did she feel safe with him?
Sherlock stood, revealing to be dressed as dapper as a Victorian gentleman, complete with a brocade waistcoat, a pocket watch tucked into it. He had tamed his unruly curls, now slicked back in such a distinguished way. He gently slid the rings on her finger, surprising her when they fit perfectly. It was as if they were made for her…just like the gown she wore. Brown eyes looked into cerulean ones, searching for truth and answers. His eyes darted to her lips, making him yearn for the chance to kiss her. If all went well, perhaps she’d allow him to do so.
“We should go,” he told her, offering his arm. One of Mycroft’s hired drivers had been waiting for them in one of the ever-so-inconspicuous black cars. Sherlock opened the door for her, following right behind as she climbed in.
Molly was silent, unsure of what to say, let alone if she should say anything at all. It wasn’t awkward, but it wasn’t all too comfortable either. She blamed it all on her nerves. Sherlock’s voice cut through her inner turmoil, but she hadn’t heard what he said. “I’m sorry, what was that?”
“I asked if you were alright,” Sherlock told her. “You look as if you’ve become ill.” He was berating himself for having dragged her into this. It was crossing a very fragile line. They loved each other, but she wasn’t ready to give her heart to him—at least not completely. He feared that this would halt whatever progress they had made, if any.
“I’ll be fine,” she assured him. “Just a couple of well-timed snogs, right?”
So, that’s what had her so nervous. He took her hand in his. “Molly, we don’t have to. Not every married couple expresses PDA. We’re convincing enough with our chemistry.” His eyes met hers intensely. “I would never make you do anything you didn’t want to do.”
The relief was now plain on her face; nothing to worry about now. She could focus on enjoying her night, dancing with Sherlock and catching a murderer. What could be better?
In the front seat, the driver smirked in satisfaction. He had no doubt those two would find a way through the rubble. Nobody ever paid attention to the driver—a fact that comforted him. If he was found out, however, Mycroft Holmes would have his head for sure. Philip Anderson blanched at the thought.
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The manor of Sir Archibald Blackwood was grand, of course. Hundreds of people were in attendance, mingling as they arrived. When Sherlock led Molly through the doors after giving their false names to the guard, she admired the Baroque architecture. She could feel Sherlock squeezing her hand affectionately as they wove their way through the crowd. They were headed to the ballroom—a perfect place to keep an eye out for suspicious activity. Archibald was a suspect, but Sherlock did not believe the man capable of such an act, though he wouldn’t put it past him to at least puppeteer the entire thing. Speaking of which…
“Mister and Mrs. Lexington!” Archibald greeted them with enthusiasm, clapping his hands together. “A pleasure to finally meet you both! Mycroft Holmes speaks very highly of you!”
“How surprising,” Sherlock remarked flatly. A sharp jab from Molly, and he got his act together.
“He means to say it is a pleasure to finally meet you as well, Mister Blackwood,” Molly smiled. “I admire your choice in architecture—you have a lovely home.”
“Why, Miss Lexington, would you care for a tour?” An awkward silence ensued. “That is, if your husband won’t mind,” he added quickly.
“Just a quick one,” Sherlock told him sharply.
Molly turned to him, her eyes meeting his. “I promise we’ll have plenty of time to dance.” She leaned up on her toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek, surprising him.
“Be careful,” he whispered in her ear. “Now giggle as if I’ve said something naughty.”
Molly did just that, her cheeks even flushing from the notion. She then went along with Blackwood as he gestured to the high ceilings. Sherlock had to remember to breathe. He knew Molly could take care of herself, but it didn’t stop him from worrying over her safety. Though it may not look like it, Molly was a damn good fighter. No one would ever see her coming.
He moved on through the corridors until finally arriving at the ballroom. Already, so many couples were dancing to the music performed by the live orchestra. It was like a scene ripped right out of a fairytale. He scanned the room, looking for anyone who stood out. There, high above on the balcony overlooking the room was a man of average height, a top hat covering his features.
Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh. He carefully climbed the stairs that led up to the balcony, stopping in front of the man, removing the hat from his head. “Anderson, you are going to blow our cover!” he quietly berated him. “What were you thinking!?”
“I wasn’t going to interact with you, promise,” he assured him. “You’re making a scene by speaking to me at all.”
“Look, this isn’t time for you to play matchmaker. This is very serious business I’m dealing with,” Sherlock argued.
Just then a shout reverberated through the open doors behind them that led to a darkened hallway. Sherlock and Anderson looked at each other in shock. “Molly,” they spoke in unison. Before they had a chance to reach the door, Molly came storming through, her hair and dress slightly askew.
“Blackwood isn’t a murderer,” she panted. “Just a bloody dirty old man!”
Sherlock’s blood boiled. “Did he touch you!?” he demanded. “Did he harm you in any way!?”
“Started pulling on the top of my dress, but I took care of it. He’ll be in pain for some time,” Molly informed him. “I’m fine, honest.” She turned to Anderson, his mustache and beard bushier than ever. “Why’s he here?”
“Molly, meet our driver,” Sherlock grimaced.
“How did you—“ Anderson spluttered.
“You, stay inconspicuous,” he ordered Philip. He then turned to Molly, offering her his arm. “Shall we have a dance, darling?”
“We shall,” she smiled, taking his arm and letting him lead her down to the ballroom. He intertwined one hand with hers, placing his other on her waist. Molly followed his lead as they waltzed through the room.
“Are you truly alright?” Sherlock asked, his tone gentle.
“I am, I promise you,” she replied. “We need to be careful now—we can’t slip up and use our real names.”
“Well, technically—“
“Yes, I know, you get to use your actual first name, William, but I don’t,” Molly pointed out.
Sherlock couldn’t help but smirk at the snark in her tone when she spoke his name. He spun her around, re-connecting their interlocked fingers when she faced him again. His heart ached despite their closeness, wishing they could just be together—that it didn’t have to be so difficult. He lowered his head so that his lips were near her ear, the warmth of his breath sending a flutter in her stomach. “Molly,” he whispered. “What can I do?”
“About what?” she spoke softly, finding it hard to breathe with him so close.
“How can I prove to you that you can trust me?” he asked. “I would never intend to hurt you. I know I have in the past, but I never intended to, though I know it’s not an excuse.” Sherlock traced the side of her jawline with the tip of his nose. “I ache for you, darling. I will do anything and everything to fix what I’ve broken. Tell me what you need.”
Her brown eyes were filling with tears that she fought from releasing. “Sherlock,” she spoke in a whisper, her voice breaking. Molly wasn’t all that sure it was an issue of trust anymore. Somewhere, deep down, she knew there was more to it, but what?? “I wish I knew—believe me, I’m just as lost as you are.” She let out a shaky breath. “I want to be with you more than anything,” she admitted, “but every time I feel I’m ready, there’s a voice telling me that it’s too dangerous, and I just…don’t.”
He closed his eyes at her admission, hating how much trouble he was causing her. It pained him to know she was so conflicted. “Everything in you is warning you not to make that leap,” Sherlock realised. “Because deep down inside, we both know the truth.” He straightened up, meeting her eyes with his.
“And what truth is that?” Molly asked, keeping a grip on him though they had stopped dancing.
“Regardless of how we feel, I’m no good for you,” Sherlock told her. He stopped her before she could argue this point. “I know you don’t think that of me, Molly, but it’s the truth. The sooner we accept it, the better off we’ll be.”
Just like telling a child they can’t have a biscuit, making them want it all the more, Sherlock basically telling Molly she shouldn’t love him made her love him all the more. “No,” she told him. “I can’t accept that.”
“We need to be discreet, Lyla,“ he hushed his voice, placing emphasis on her fake name.
“William,” she spoke firmly, her eyes keeping a hold of his, her gaze intense. “Kiss me.” Molly hadn’t a clue what she was doing—everything in her head was warning her not to do this, that it would only break her heart, but she no longer cared.
Sherlock looked at her for a moment, his brows knit together. It happened so fast. His lips were on hers, softly sliding against her own. He lowered his hand to the small of her back, pressing her closer against him, hearing her hum pleasurably at the contact. He felt her tears, finally falling from her eyes—or were they his? He could no longer tell. This was far from a joyful kiss. It felt bittersweet and heartbreaking as if they were saying goodbye.
Why were they even here at this party? The most suspicious people here were them and Anderson. Blackwood was more likely to be the victim than the murderer. Sherlock shook the thoughts from his head as he deepened their kiss, his tongue now dancing with hers. The saltiness of their tears remained even as he tasted her mouth. God, it was so explosive, the blood in his veins electrifying with every second the kiss went on. Explosive. He suddenly pulled away as a thought dawned on him.
“What?” Molly asked, clearly out of breath, her lips deliciously swollen. “What is it?” She looked around the room and back at him. “You’ve figured it out, haven’t you?”
“We need to go back upstairs—Blackwood is still there,” Sherlock told her. He took her hand and flew up the stairs with her. Anderson followed the two of them in case backup was needed. “He’s the intended victim, not the murderer.” As much as he was pissed at him for what he tried with Molly, he was still going to save the bastard. He pounded furiously at the door Molly pointed at.
“What is all this incessant noise, Mister Lexington??” Blackwood asked. He took a look at Anderson. “And who’s this mangy fellow?”
“I’m Sherlock Holmes, and I believe you are the next victim on our murderer’s kill list,” he informed him. “Get out of this corridor; get your guests to leave—NOW.”
Blackwood did as he was told without question.
“Uh, we’re still in the corridor,” Anderson pointed out. “Are we about to die?”
“Sherlock, honestly, what’s going on here?” Molly asked.
“Something’s not right here,” he told them as he searched the area. “It has to be here.”
“What has to be here!?” Anderson and Molly shouted in unison.
The beeping began, leading Sherlock to the source. It was a bomb. Only forty-five seconds left.
“Balcony,” Molly told them. They ran down the corridor to the balcony that led outside. Below them was a massive pool, and before Anderson could object, he was heading over the railing with them as the bomb went off. They made quite a splash in the pool, water stinging their eyes.
“A bit James Bond, that,” Anderson remarked, feeling a bit woozy.
Molly looked at Sherlock. “I think he’s going to faint.”
Anderson had to admit he wasn’t cut out for this kind of action, blacking out shortly after. They dragged him out of the pool, settling him in the back of the car whilst they took the front seats. Sherlock drove Philip home first who eventually woke just before they arrived at his flat. The drive back to Molly’s flat was met with silence. What happened back there, the searing kiss that they shared—it had been too much, and it was all her fault. Sherlock gave her the control of whether they kissed or not, but instead of doing it as their false identities, she made it personal. There was no way their first real kiss was going to be anything but.
“I shouldn’t have kissed you,” Sherlock told her when they walked up to her flat. “You only told me to as an act of rebellion—because I told you I was no good for you.” He sighed. “I knew that, but I did it anyways. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she told him. “The jumping into the pool thing was fun, though, huh?” Molly attempted to lighten the mood.
A short, quiet laugh escaped him. “Yeah,” he agreed. “It was.” Sherlock brought her hand to his lips, just barely pressing them to her knuckles. “Goodnight, Molly Hooper.”
She could feel her heart cracking further. He said goodnight, but why did it feel like goodbye?
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Molly’s Dress
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A Waste of Talent
Chapter Thirteen: One Nasty Hufflepuff
Read it on AO3!
Rating: M
Words: 1512
Following Sherlock’s lead, they put their wands in their pockets. John and Snape kept a hand on each of theirs, but Sherlock left both hands free, trusting the others to have his back.
The house he lead them up to looked just as normal and mundanely Muggle as all the other houses on Rosemary Drive. Small, solar-powered garden lights illuminated the pave-stone sidewalk that ran through the neatly kept lawn. A few brown leaves were scattered here and there, and a small garden that must have been quite impressive in the summertime preceded the quaint porch. A metal 42 in elegant script adorned the front door.
By all appearances, they were walking up the steps to the home of a very social and domestic Muggle family. It certainly didn’t appear to be the home of someone who deliberately invented a deadly potion and supplied it to a murderer.
According to Mycroft’s intelligence, however, that’s exactly what it was.
Sherlock bounced right up to the door as if he was paying an old friend a visit. He knocked three times and poised himself near the door, just enough to be seen through the peephole, while still being abnormally close.
Lights flicked on on the second floor, the stairs, and -- finally -- the foyer. After a few moments in which Kentworth was, presumably, looking through the peephole and assessing the situation, the door slowly creaked open a few inches.
With the speed of a striking cobra, Sherlock’s hand shot out, forcing the door completely open and took a step inside. Kentworth took an even step back, a shocked expression flashing across her face before quickly receding again.
He took a few more steps, which she compensated for to keep the distance between them, creating room for John and Snape to enter, wands drawn by their sides. Snape closed the door behind them, eyes fixed on the woman he’d deemed as “one of the nastiest Hufflepuffs” he’d ever met at such a young age.
Now that they were inside, John could get a proper look at her.
Margery Kentworth was on the shorter side, roughly 162 cm tall, though you would not know it from the confident way she carried herself. Her curly, blonde hair -- definitely not her natural colour, John noted -- was tied up in a messy bun. Given her attire, they’d definitely definitely woken her up; black sweatpants, a wrinkled grey tank top riddled with what looked like potion stains, and a black robe screamed of the early morning far louder than she ever could vocally.
She had a cool, indifferent demeanor, but, after years of living with Sherlock, John quickly saw that this was calculated. He could practically see her figuring out what was happening and running through her options -- just like Sherlock does on a crime scene.
Unlike Sherlock, however, she seemed to be coming up empty.
Desperately, she fixed her attention on a familiar face. “Such a pleasant surprise,” she said in a flat voice. “I had my fantasies about you, Professor, but I must confess I never expected you to be the type to bring company.” She gave Sherlock and John a once-over. “Though I’m not complaining -- you have good taste.”
Snape glared at her, lip curled into a snarl.
Eyes the size of Mrs. Hudson’s doilies, John’s face convulsed in a mixture of shock, horror -- and a little bit of anticipation of how Snape would respond. This might be his only chance to witness one of Snape’s legendary, invented spells first-hand.
Unfortunately, that wasn’t part of Sherlock’s plan.
The notoriously impatient detective hummed his annoyance. “Sorry, I don’t do well not being the center of attention of attention. Especially when I’m winning.”
At least he knows it, John thought, slightly disappointed.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Mr., um....” she feigned.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, grinning wickedly like a wolf that’s cornered it’s prey -- or a consulting detective who’s cornered an elusive criminal.
“Oh, don’t play stupid with me, Kentworth,” he started. His speech pattern picked up speed with every word. “You know exactly who I am. A fact that was made quite clear by your momentary hesitation between when looking to see who was at the door and when you finally opened it. You gave yourself time to compose yourself after placing your hand on the doorknob. Very quick, hardly noticeable -- to anyone but me. Then, of course, there was your biggest mistake: looking past me. Passing off your attention to Professor Snape, making him angry and uncomfortable in a sad attempt to buy yourself time to come up with a plan to weasel yourself out of this. But I don’t think I have to tell you that your efforts are pointless -- there’s no way out. And I suspect you knew that from the instant you recognized me.
“Given how long you’ve been at large, in business with your little outlaw potioneering, you’ve been quite good at covering your tracks. No one could prove you were responsible, not even my own brother, Mycroft Holmes. But you made a mistake. You couldn’t resist using the potion you’d developed in school -- the one that put you on the staff’s watchlist. The one you’ve obsessed with ever since. What could it hurt? It was finally perfected and you were dying for someone to give you a reason to test drive it. Surely, no one would recognize it? It was so long ago. So much has happened since then.
“And then some poor fool comes along, looking for a way to get rid of some pesky Muggles. You finally have the perfect chance to test out your brain-child with no repercussions. Their deaths would be labelled as mysterious by the Muggle authorities -- possibly even covered up by the Ministry even if they can’t identify the potion. The case would go cold and no one could prove the potion was yours. Except me.
“You didn’t anticipate the wizard who worked with Muggle law enforcement as a consulting detective. Nor could you have predicted that we’d get in contact with the very professor that first raised concerns about your little hobby.
“God, I hate it when interesting cases turn out to be so boring!”
Kentworth shook like a trapped rabbit, flinching when he raised his voice with his last sentence. They could see desperation and panic written all over her face as she tried and failed to think her way out. She was defeated and she knew it.
John had the urge to check his watch -- to see how long they had before Mycroft shows up with the Aurors -- but he resisted, knowing it might give them away. It did not slip past him that Sherlock mentioned Mycroft’s name, eliciting a startled flash of recognition, but did not mention his impending arrival.
Suddenly, a spark ignited in her eyes. “But you don’t know who I sold the potion to,” she countered. “That’s why you’re here. Otherwise, you would have just sicced your brother and his dogs after me.” She crossed her arms defiantly. “That gives me leverage. You haven’t won yet. And I would much prefer if you didn’t.”
Sherlock allowed a poignant pause, making a show of studying her and considering her words.
John and Snape exchanged a knowing look -- she was playing right into his hand.
“Go on,” Sherlock encouraged, crossing his arms as well to mirror her posture.
“I want a deal: I give you his name and you let me go. Tell your big brother I wasn’t home, trail went cold.”
“And why would I do that?”
“Because it will be more interesting for you.”
Again, Sherlock pretended to consider her words. “Fine. You have my word. Now, give me his name and anything else you know.”
She hesitated a moment, looking for signs of trickery from any of the men in her foyer, before deciding to take Sherlock’s word. Her shoulders relaxed.
“Amadeus Klint. Fairly ordinary. Didn’t say much about himself. None of them do ‘cept a few stray, lonely morons. Said he needed a potion to take care of some Muggles, his neighbors. He’s a mumbler, so I didn’t understand much of what he said, but -- from what I could understand -- they disrespected him...in some way. As well as just being annoying. He repeated that last part several times.”
The air left John’s lungs.
“You supplied a lethal potion to someone because their neighbors were annoying?!” Snape seethed, completely horrified.
Kentworth shrugged, clearly excited to have another opportunity to mess with him. “Sorry to disappoint you, professor. I’ll be happy to make it up to you,” she said with a wink.
With an emphatic flourish, Sherlock checked his watch. “Fortunately, I’m afraid there’s no time for that.”
Half a dozen loud cracks ripped through the air.
Kentworth whipped around the door burst open and five Aurors surrounded her. Mycroft was right behind them, vindication exploding across his face when he saw Sherlock’s smirk.
“YOU GAVE ME YOUR WORD!” she screamed.
Sherlock pulled an expression of mock regret. “I lied. My way is far more interesting!”
Tags: @madshelily @klinenovakwinchester @josiecarioca
#sherlock holmes#john watson#severus snape#margery kentworth#oc#ofc#wizard!john#wizard au#wizard!mycroft#Mycroft Holmes#wizard!sherlock#fanfiction#fanfic#sherlock fanfiction#snape/sherlock crossover#snape lives au#snape fanfiction#snape#a waste of talent#victoriaholmeswriting#tw death mention#tw murder mention#suggestive dialogue
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A deduction in assignments
Teen!John x Sherlock’s Sister!Reader
Maths is definitely not your favourite subject. John Watson finally agrees to explain it to you. Problem? You have a big crush on your older brother’s best friend.
Sherlock was a wonderful brother to me. My mother always said that I followed him everywhere as soon as I took my first steps. She added that it would still be like this today. My brothers have always been my idols. They were clever and I loved them dearly. I knew that most of the other children said that my brothers were freaks or crazy, but it never mattered for me. They just were my older brothers, who protected me from everybody and always were by my side, if I needed them.
Frankly I wasn't as good in Maths as my brothers. I had fun with languages but Maths wasn't my favourite subject. I didn't understand it. Sherlock loved me, but he just did not have the patience to explain it to me. My mother always said that one day, it would be difficult for him to find a job with an impatience as bad as his. But Sherlock simply replied that he would be a consulting detective one day. No body of us knew what that is, but we did not dare to asked further.
Mycroft was currently studying Philosophy, Politics and Economics at Oxford University, which meant that he wouldn't come home often. We often joked about him being the future prime minister of England.
There was nobody who could explain an especially difficult Maths topic to me. No one except one person.
My younger-older brother Sherlock had a best friends since eighth grade. His name was John Watson. He was a sympathic nice boy with sandy blonde hair and cozy jumpers. He played rugby at school, had good grades and a smile always tucked at one corner of his mouth. He went to twelfth grade at high school just like Sherlock and wanted to study medicine after finishing his A-Levels. Something that fitted perfectly to a kind boy like John Watson. A person who always wanted to help others with the well-being and problems. It was like that job of a doctor was made for him. For somebody who wanted to save the whole world and prevent them from illnesses and pain.
John, as kind as always, said that he would -of course!- help me with my Maths problems, when Sherlock asked him to do so. What my lovely brother did not know about was my big crush on his best friend. I knew John for some years now. I mean he spent his entire time over at ours so there was no way in NOT to get to know him. Of course I spent some time alone with him, when Sherlock was still at school or practised the violin. But it never felt that intimidating than it did now.
I was rushing through my room and searched through my wardrobe for something that I could wear. I decided to wear a beautiful black top and some well fitting pair of jeans. Then I did my hair up to a bun and eyed myself in detail in the mirror of the bath room. The door bell rang.
»Y/N!« Sherlock called from the end of the stairs in the hall.
»John's here!« I took a deep breathe and turned around.
»I'm coming! I'm coming.« I rushed the stairs down, where Sherlock waited for me and watched me with a raised eye brow as soon as he saw my outfit. He just smirked and said nothing.
»I sent him to the living room. Gonna buy some milk, will be back in a few.« He said, gave me a kiss on the forehead.
»Have fun.« He said and winked at me.
Ignored him and turned to the living room. I fidgeted nervously with my necklace. John looked up and smiled as soon as I came into his view.
»Hey Y/N. Thought you'd never come.« He said and ruffled his soft hair with his right hand. I gulped and smiled.
»Hey John.«
»You look... erm... good.« He said and I blushed a little.
»C'mon, sit down here.« He slided a few papers aside and patted on the chair next to him.
»Well, let's get started.« I said and threw a big smile at the blonde boy. He returned my smile.
*oOo*
I got carried away by watching his features, while he was explaining a difficult problem to me. But I didn’t pay attention to the words he said. I watched the way the sparkling sunshine fell on his blonde golden hair. The way he rubbed his neck with his hand when he was focused onto something.
»Y/N? Are you still listening to me?« He asked me. I woke up from my daydreaming and was a bit dizzy.
»What? Er, yes, I-I’m fine, thanks, John.« I mumbled. He eyed me curiously but did not asked further.
»You seem to be a bit zoomed out. Did you fight with Sherlock again? I bet everything is going to be fine. It’ll sort out. Don’t worry. You are his sister, I don’t need to tell you that.« He said and ruffled his hair again. It now stood in all directions.
»It’s not about Sherlock.« I whispered quietly.
»Then what’s that about? You know you can tell me everything, Y/N? You’re like a sister to me. I would do everything for you.« I cringed. Like a sister? Seriously? Ouch. He saw my look but misinterpreted it.
»O no. Is it about me? Did I do something? Did I do something wrong? Should I explained it to you again? Or aren’t you feeling well about me explaining it to you?« He worried.
»I have a good friend of mine. Greg Lestarde. He’s currently in London for his police career, but comes home at the weekends. I can asked him to do me a favor. I bet he would help you with Maths if you feel uncomfortable with me.« For god’s sake, did this boy ever stop talking?
Suddenly I rushed forward to him and kissed this wonderful rosa lips of his. It felt nice. Warm and pleasantly wet. Soft and slow. It was the perfect kiss. After some time I leaned back and watched his face nervously. He looked at me and smiled.
»Well that’s something different.« He laughed.
»Do you kiss all your sisters like that?« I teased him.
»O shut it.« He said and pulled me in a kiss again.
We both sighed when our lips met again.
No one of the two of us saw Sherlock standing in the doorway to the living room with a bag with two bottles of milk in it.
»Finally.« He said smiling and rolled his eyes.
Could be that I threw my pencil case at him.
John laughed.
»I love you.«
#teenlock#fanfiction#fanfic#john x reader#john watson#teen!lock#teen!john#teen!sherlock#young sherlock holmes#young john watson#sherlock fanfic#x reader#a deduction in assignments#sherlock holmes#john watson#imagine#sister!reader#sherlock's sister#eye sex#sweet#romantic#young#first kiss#fanfiction writer#sherlock bbc#benedict timothy carlton cumberbatch#martin freeman#high school#sherlock series
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ASC - A New Beginning -14
Mycroft x Reader
You sent John to help Violet with lunch, leaning on the doorway to Sherlock’s childhood room, “Is there a reason you’re antagonizing John?”
He glanced up from cleaning his paint gun at his desk for a moment to scowl at you and then got back to it, “I wasn’t.”
“Sherly,” you sighed, “I know you meant well. Please don’t be cross. I’m awake now.”
He huffed, “Obviously.”
“So what’s the problem?”
You watched as he set down what he was doing and leaned back in his chair to look at you, hands coming together under his chin lightly to signify it was something he was thinking on seriously. You gave him a moment, waiting for whatever was troubling him to settle so that he could speak.
“Mycroft is acting strangely.”
You blinked a couple of times, processing, and then stifled a laugh, “And that is what has you in a mood?”
Your brother frowned seriously, “It is not funny, (F/n). There is always a reason for what he does and I don’t like that this time his intentions are less than clear.”
You stepped in to sit on his desk, “Sherlock… he’s been pleasant and, as far as I can tell, genuine in his attempts to change his behavior toward me. While I understand your unease, I don’t think it warrants this amount of thought. Perhaps he truly does just wish to make amends.”
He huffed out air forcefully, brow furrowed ever so slightly, and you smiled softly, guessing at the true problem, “Sherly… no matter what happens with him, he’s not going to take your place. You’ll always be my favorite brother even if you aren’t my only brother.”
He rolled his eyes, but the furrow in his brow released, “Obviously, (F/n). You don’t need to tell me things I already know.”
A small fond smirk graced your lips as you leaned forward to kiss his temple gently, “Apologies, brother mine.”
He batted you away in very convincing mock annoyance, any traces of his previous mood gone, and you stepped back, “Come down to lunch when you're finished with that?”
“Not hungry.”
You faked a large yawn as you slipped out into the hall, “Hmmm then maybe I’ll just fall asleep at the table.”
He rolled his eyes, “I’m not falling for that. That wasn’t even a convincing yawn.”
“Says you,” You sing-singed as you moved down the hall, “but as you pointed out I am so very predictable and I always get ever so sleepy after lunch… you never know. A midday nap sounds rather appealing.”
You heard him huff and knew you’d succeeded, if there as even a chance you would fall asleep at or after lunch he wouldn’t be able to stay away. A faint smile settled on your face as you headed the short distance to your room to change into something more appropriate.
Taking a moment to consider your options, you picked out a pair of tailored black trousers and petal pink cami with a lace edge and layered a slouchy soft grey cardigan over it. After glancing in the mirror to twist your hair into a bun, you decided it was still comfortable and snuggly but much more presentable than your previous outfit.
Finished with making sure your hair looked nice, you stepped out and headed down to lunch. You stopped to lean on the doorway to the kitchen, small smile on your face at the scene before you. John was leaning over the stove, clad in one of Violet’s aprons- a particular favorite of yours with little cows all over it- to stir what looked to be a sauce of some sort while chatting with Violet.
“It smells lovely,” you piped up and John jumped a little, cheeks going lightly red.
Violet turned to smile at you, “I was just teaching John to make that strawberry glaze Sherlock likes. He’s quite good.”
A soft chuckle escaped your lips, “Fantastic. Perhaps this will coax him to eat more often when they return home.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Violet beamed, proud of her newest attempt to get her son to behave like an actual human being and eat regularly.
“On that line, he will be joining us for lunch.”
John raised a brow, “How did you manage that?”
You slid into a chair at the table, “I may have implied that I intend to take a nap during or after lunch.”
Grinning as a laugh escaped John’s lips, you stretched your arms up over your head, “How about Mycroft? Will he be joining us?”
“I’m afraid not,” Violet answered with a frown, “He asked to have it brought up. Something about being sore.”
Your brow furrowed as you thought that over. He must be hurt from when you fell on him but hadn’t wanted to say anything to worry you in the moment. Violet and John continued as you fiddled absentmindedly with the edge of your cardigan and mulled over your thoughts. You felt an overwhelming amount of guilt at the notion that he was hurt because of you to the point he couldn’t even come down to have lunch with his family.
Coming to a decision, you looked up, “Mummy, would you make two plates for Mycroft and me? I’ll take his lunch up and keep him company.”
She blinked for a moment, surprised at the request, and then nodded, “Of course, darling. That is very kind of you.”
You ducked your head sheepishly, “Hardly… I may be responsible for his soreness. I fell on him from the library ladder.”
“(F/n) (L/n)! How many times have I told you to be careful on the ladder? You and Sherlock... always finding a way to make normal things dangerous.”
You mother continued to scold you in true parental fashion, but you tuned it out, delving back into your thoughts. You had fallen from quite high and he had taken the brunt of the fall... you hoped he wasn’t too seriously injured or in pain. The last thing you needed was the fragile balance that had developed between the two of you to be shifted.
#BBC Sherlock#sherlock#brother!sherlock#sherlock holmes#John Watson#mycroft Holmes#reader#sibling!reader#Adopted!reader#Mummy Holmes#mycroft Holmes x reader#mycroft x reader#mycroft holmes x you#john watson x reader x mycroft holmes#a second chance#a new beginning#thebeethathums#violet holmes#reader insert#reader-insert#fanfic#fan fiction
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Fallen Through Time - Chapter Seven
Read on AO3.
Sherlock extended a confident hand and waved down his first Victorian cab. As John climbed in, he said to the driver, “Bart’s Hospital, please.” The man nodded and Sherlock slid into the back of the carriage, settling in beside John.
“I have a friend who works in the morgue who should be able to sneak us a peek at the murder victim,” John said, unbuttoning his jacket and making himself comfortable. “Perhaps we’ll be able to suss something out without traveling through time or giving chase to a stalker in the forest.”
Sherlock huffed a little laugh. “It would be helpful to finally have uninterrupted access to the body,” Sherlock mused. He ran his hands over the fabric of his new suit, admiring the handsome plaid pattern, and it occurred to him that John had made rather a large sacrifice in paying to clothe Sherlock. He had deduced when he first met John that he was living above his means simply for the sake of living in London and not begging to his family, and now he had gone and spent what much surely be a large sum of money on a man he had only just met. And kissed. Rather spectacularly. Sherlock felt his cheeks flush; John had done him a favour, apparently out of the goodness of his heart.
“John,” he said, keeping his face as smooth as possible, “I’d like to thank you for the suit. Sincerely. It was… quite generous of you.”
John looked almost taken aback. He blinked a little confusedly and uttered, “Oh — ah, of course. Think nothing of it.” He offered Sherlock an awkward little smile and turned his face back to the window. Doesn’t like to talk about money. Noted. Is that why he won’t go to his family? Oh, no. His family is why he doesn’t like to talk about money. Unsure of the next “appropriate” thing to say, Sherlock decided to leave it be. He had done what was socially required when a person does one a favour and, surprisingly, he had meant it. Sherlock continued to fiddle with his jacket until he felt something in his pocket. His eyebrows furrowed, Sherlock extracted a small slip of cardstock. It was printed with a delicate image of a bouquet of roses and read, “Miss Janine Hawkins, 43 George Street.”
“What on Earth?” Sherlock mumbled and John turned to see what he was on about. Sherlock turned the card for John to see and was surprised when John’s face split into a wide grin. “What?”
“It seems Miss Hawkins would like to see more of you, Mister Holmes,” he teased with a bright laugh. At Sherlock’s continued confusion, he explained, “It’s her calling card ‒ so you know where to find her. Surely people do something similar in your own time?”
“My understanding is that when young people are interested in coitus they send small pictures of aubergines and peaches via their mobile phones to the object of their affection.” Now it was John’s turn to be confused.
“Whatever for?”
“I believe it is due to their vague resemblance to human genitalia.” John’s eyebrows flew nearly to his hairline and Sherlock chuckled.
“Dear God,” he muttered, utterly scandalised.
“I know. Vulgar, isn’t it?”
“Rather.” They made eye contact and were soon enveloped in a fit of giggles that lasted until the cab pulled to a stop in front of St. Bart’s Hospital.
The morgue was located exactly where Sherlock remembered it — in the basement — and that small similarity gave him a tiny feeling of reassurance. This was a case, like any other, and he had to go about the Work with the same diligence and fervour with which he treated every case.
John led the way into the morgue, Sherlock following close behind. There were several bodies laid out on work tables, all covered over with heavy linen, and a quick survey told Sherlock that they were, surprisingly, all female.
“Miss Hooper. Thank you for agreeing to meet with us,” John was saying cordially, and Sherlock’s attention was drawn to a living woman at the back of the room. She turned and offered John a mousey little smile, taking his hand in a polite shake. Her hair was pinned up in a simple, slightly-askew bun and her clothes were plain. Simple. Practical, Sherlock corrected. Durable fabric, no excessive frills, well cared-for but clearly worn regularly ‒ not a large wardrobe, then. Single, lives with a relative ‒ likely an aunt or some such ‒ late twenties, works with her hands.
“You must be quick, Doctor Watson,” Miss Hooper replied in a thin voice. “I’m really not supposed to let you down here while I’m working.”
“Working?” Sherlock inquired with a tilt of his head. “You work with the bodies?”
“Yes,” Miss Hooper replied, slightly surprised by the question. “I’m the undertaker here for women and children. And you are…?”
“Oh! Apologies,” John interjected, “Miss Margaret Hooper, this is my new friend, Mister Sherlock Holmes. He’s a detective, helping me to investigate this murder.” Sherlock gave John a slightly-indignant look at being referred to as someone else’s helper, but he let it slide. He was, after all, the stranger in the strange land. Sherlock offered Miss Hooper a handshake and she took it.
“I didn’t expect a female undertaker,” Sherlock explained, but that earned him a surprisingly-hard expression from Miss Hooper. Her mouth formed a thin line and her eyes narrowed, clearly having heard this sentiment before.
“It’s more common than you might think,” she said, almost accusatory. “Bart’s has a policy against men embalming females and children for the sake of decency. It seems that even dead women are not free from the societal pressures of modesty.”
Sherlock was a little taken aback ‒ he had only suspected that, due to the time period, women would not be allowed to do what was often considered “man’s work”. Certainly, he didn’t think one’s gender had any bearing on their competency. Societal constructs of gender and sex were completely arbitrary, besides. Suddenly, it occured to Sherlock that he had not voiced any of these thoughts and had been staring uncomfortably at Miss Hooper for nearly thirty awkward seconds. “That’s not ‒ I didn’t mean…” he stuttered quickly, but John stepped in.
“I’m sure Mister Holmes is merely surprised,” he supplied helpfully. “He’s never worked with an undertaker before ‒ you must forgive his ignorance, Miss Hooper.” Ignorance? Sherlock had never been accused of ignorance before in his life. Well, except by Mycroft, but he was a cock. John raised a warning eyebrow at Sherlock and he decided to take the path of least resistance.
“Apologies if I offended you, Miss Hooper. I am grateful for your assistance.” He nearly pulled a muscle from trying to maintain an expression of plausible contrition. But it appeared that Miss Hooper was mollified.
“I’ve heard it often enough,” she said with a sigh. With little fanfare, Miss Hooper approached one of the slabs and whipped the sheet from the body atop the wooden surface. “Mrs. Edith Herraldson, formerly of Swindon, in town visiting her sister who identified her earlier this morning. Thirty-four years of age, stabbed on the left-hand side with a non-serrated blade which punctured her liver and lung.”
“A bit of an expert maneuver, wouldn’t you say?” Sherlock asked casually, bending to take a closer look at the wound in question. “To miss the ribs and not make a mess of the whole affair?”
“I’d say so,” Miss Hopper concurred.
“Are these bruises on her chin?” John was bent over Mrs. Herraldson’s face, his eyebrows furrowed and his fingers gently tilting her head left and right. “Here ‒ along her right jaw.”
Sherlock stepped closer and examined her face from John’s point-of-view. He was correct. “The killer must have gripped her ‘round the mouth as he stabbed her.”
“He?” John asked.
“Most likely, given the spacing of the bruises and the strength required for this kind of stabbing.” Sherlock righted himself and looked down at John, his open face a touchstone for steady thought.
“So he ‒ what? ‒ sat on the bench beside her and held her by the jaw?” One of John’s eyebrows lowered in contemplation. “Why wouldn’t she have moved away? Been afraid or offended?”
“I expect he was making a pass at her.” Sherlock looked quickly around the room before grabbing two chairs and plopping them down side by side. He pointed to one and John sat down before Sherlock took up the other seat. “He joins her on the bench, at a respectable distance, they start chatting and he slowly sidles closer.” Sherlock demonstrated and John turned to look at him with an expression that was somewhere between bemusement and amusement. Dropping his left arm onto the back of John’s chair, Sherlock leaned over him a little as he continued to speak. “He’s making her feel comfortable ‒ flattered, even. She’s not paying attention to his hands.” Sherlock dropped his gaze a little, glancing down at John’s mouth before meeting his eyes again. There was heat in John’s blue irises that hadn't been there a moment before. “It’s the perfect moment to strike.” Sherlock quickly wrapped his left hand around John’s jaw, covering his mouth, and jabbed John in the side with his right index finger. John jumped at the attack and Sherlock smirked. A little huff of embarrassed laughter escaped John’s nose and he practically rolled his eyes as Sherlock stood from their makeshift bench.
“You git,” he said, but there was no real annoyance behind the word.
“I’ve heard it often enough.” Sherlock grinned and offered Miss Hooper a playful little wink. Finally, she smiled at him and shook her head. It occured to Sherlock that in his own time, working with people was an unfortunate evil. He would never have felt inclined to make peace with someone whom he had offended ‒ or even realise that he had offended someone in the first place. But John was introducing him to people, practically insisting that he engage in polite conversation, and for some reason, Sherlock felt inclined to comply. It had been easier, for certain, to deal with people after being nice, if a little more time-consuming. But perhaps, in the long run, it would prove beneficial for people to feel engendered towards him. John truly was proving himself to be an asset to Sherlock’s very existence in this time.
“Well, if the two of you have gotten everything you need,” Miss Hopper said as John replaced the chairs to their proper stations, “Professor Moriarty will be down shortly to make his own notes and I’d rather not be caught letting unauthorised persons in the morgue.”
“Certainly, Miss Hooper,” John said, waving his hat politely before donning it.
“Thank you again.” Sherlock nodded with a small smile, which Miss Hopper returned, and he and John took their leave.
‒‒
“I don’t know what it is you want me to say, Mister Holmes. I know as much as you do.”
“Well, I doubt that very much.” Mycroft sat back in his chair and tapped the capped end of his Montblanc pen impatiently against the surface of his desk. He stared across at Detective Inspector Lestrade with a shrewd expression. “But when it comes to Sherlock Holmes, there are certain details of his everyday life which he still manages to keep from my sight.”
“What makes you think I know anything?” Lestrade demanded, equally impatient but unable to remain as infuriatingly calm as Mycroft. “I need him on this case ‒ a body turns up on Parliament Hill in what Sherlock assures me are authentic Victorian clothes, he goes running off into the woods, we all turn our backs for one second, and next thing he and the body are missing. What am I s’posed to do with that, eh? If I knew where he was, don’t you think I’d be after him myself?”
“I think you know where he is because, loathe though I am to admit it, you do probably know him best.”
“I’ve known him for five years and no I don’t.” Lestrade crossed his arms and flopped back in his own chair, far less comfortable than the one in which Mycroft reclined.
“You’ve been his arresting officer on no fewer than eleven occasions. I believe that gives me reason to suspect that you may have an inkling as to his whereabouts. His most-frequented bolt-holes, the people with whom he usually associated when he… relapses.”
“You’re the one with all this power ‒ you can’t track him or anything?”
“Power?” Mycroft scoffed. “What makes you think I have any power whatsoever?”
“Well, I’ve been sequestered in this office for more than twelve hours, brought here by spooks in an unmarked towncar. And, as you say, I’ve arrested Sherlock at least eleven times and the last time I checked, he doesn’t have so much as a parking ticket on his record. I know I didn’t pardon him.” Lestrade lifted an eyebrow and gave Mycroft a look that could only be described as sassy. “Now, I will do anything I can to find Sherlock because he’s my friend, it’s my job, and I need his help. But I can’t do anything while I’m trapped in this bloody office.”
Mycroft took a deep breath through his nose and considered the detective before him. “This conversation never happened.”
“I’m sure it didn't.” Lestrade stood from his chair, grabbed up his jacket, and marched through the door.
#sherlock#bbc sherlock#johnlock#johnlock fanfic#ao3#victorian au#fallen through time#molly hooper#sherlock holmes#john watson#ao3 update#i know im late#but it is what it is
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Christmas with the Holmes’
5. Falling for you
Sherlock was up later than usual and when he got downstairs, he found John in the kitchen just finishing his breakfast.
‘Good morning, Sherlock’ John smiled ‘I already started breakfast if you don’t mind, I’m famished!’
Sherlock smiled ‘Well that can only mean that you are feeling better’
‘I do actually. The fever is gone, and I feel like my old self again’ John grinned ‘So, that means that we can go for that long walk today if you are up for it’
‘Definitely’ Sherlock answered ‘but I’ll have a light breakfast first before my mother starts her ‘most important meal of the day’ speech’
‘I heard that!’ Mrs Holmes’ voice came from the other room.
‘Good!’ Sherlock said ‘I am eating something, you can ask John if you do not believe me’
Mrs Holmes walked in, her arms crossed, looking stern ‘Sherlock Holmes, are you trying to say I am a nagging mother in front of a guest?’
‘Of course, not mother, I wouldn’t dream of it. Speaking of nagging, where is Mycroft?’
‘He had to go back to London. He will send the car for you when you are going back to college’
‘He is not coming to pick me up himself?’ Sherlock asked surprised. ‘That’s a first. But I am quite capable to go back by train, mother, there is no need to send his car. I’m sure he needs it himself’
‘I will tell him the next time I will speak to him’ Mrs Holmes said.
‘We are going for a long walk today’ Sherlock said to his mother.
‘That’s nice dear, be sure to take some sandwiches with you. Oh, and John, don’t fall into any frozen ditches this time’
John blushed; ‘I won’t Mrs Holmes’
They took some sandwiches and a container with some water and John put it in a rucksack. ‘Well, I’m ready, show me the best spots in the countryside. I can’t wait to see all the spots where you were going when you lived here, when you were growing up here’
They walked for a while quietly side by side. It was a clear sky, but it was still very chilly. The snow lay frozen on the ground still and there was no sign that it would snow again. The sun was shining even, although it remained cold. But walking kept them warm.
After a while John stopped to get some water out of the rucksack. He drank a few sips and offered the container to Sherlock. Sherlock never took anything with him when walking but he took a few sips of water anyway.
When he handed the container back to John their hands touched ever so slightly. It was like an electric pulse went through their hands, it even sent of a tiny spark.
‘Wow!’ John exclaimed.
‘It is due to the dry wintery weather’ Sherlock started to explain. ‘That and our clothes (you are wearing a jumper) are rubbing against our skin and they are charging electric pulses or are getting static’
‘And here I thought sparks were flying off between us already’ John laughed.
Sherlock looked shocked at John, he couldn’t have noticed that he really liked John, could he? John smiled at him; ‘Well, let’s go’ and walked on.
No, Sherlock thought, it was all in his head again. With all his brain or intellect, he was so stupid when it came to affairs of the heart. But in all honesty, how would you tell someone you really liked them? It wouldn’t be the first time that the other person would laugh in his face. It seemed that John liked him, but he wouldn’t love him, not like he would want to. He had to face it, he was falling for yet another man who didn’t feel the same. He sighed.
John looked over his shoulder to Sherlock; ‘Is something the matter Sherlock? You are so quiet and that isn’t like you, or at least… I don’t know you for that long yet, but I do know you like to talk about things. So, let’s hear it, what is bothering you?’
Sherlock swallowed hard; ‘It’s nothing John, it’s silly of me, just let it go’
John put his hand on Sherlock’s arm, and felt that electric spark again and giggled. Than he got serious and said; ‘Sherlock, you can trust me. Is it the thing with the flat you are worried about? Because I have thought about it and it sounds like a wonderful idea, that I have something to come back to I mean after I come back from where ever they are sending me. A place I can call home’
‘You don’t have to say that on my account John’ Sherlock said.
‘Oh, no I don’t, I think it’s a great idea!’ John sounded all excited.
‘You do?’
‘Yes, can we go and look at the place soon?’
‘Oh, if I ring Mrs H, she will be delighted to show it to us’
‘Mrs H?’
‘Mrs Hudson, the landlady, she lives downstairs. I helped her with something once and she told me she would keep a room for me and if I needed it, I should ring her’
‘That is very generous of her’
‘Of course, I still need someone to share it with, I got her to drop some of the price and between the two of us we can afford it’
They walked along the meadows for a while not talking, each to their own thoughts. The sun made the dewdrops glisten and the crows in the fields were searching for food.
It still was a chilly December morning and Sherlock put his coat collar up.
John looked at him while he did that.
‘Can I ask you something?’ John’s eyes were fixed on Sherlock’s.
‘Of course,’ Sherlock replied.
‘Why are you doing that?’
‘Doing what?’
‘Putting your coat collar up all the time’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Do you have any idea how hot that is? Of course, you do, you must know. You do it all the time!’ John stood before Sherlock with his hands in the pockets of his jacket against the cold.
‘I do what because it is what?’ Sherlock stammered.
‘Oh, you know very well what I mean and don’t do that!’ John pointed at Sherlock nervously ruffling his hair ‘when you do that, you very well know’ John put his hand back in his jacket and wanted to walk away but reconsidered ‘Why, Sherlock, do you want someone to live with you? No, why do you want me to live with you in London? Is it because you want me to live there because you like my company or is it just to share the rent? I want an honest answer please’
Sherlock ruffled his hair nervously, there it was, the moment where he would have to tell the truth and where John would walk away.
‘I need the rent’ Sherlock said ‘who can afford anything these days in London of all places and we are just starting out. Come on John, I really do not know what you mean’
‘Really Sherlock?’ John’s eyes turned a darker shade of blue.
‘I honestly don’t know what you want me to say’ Sherlock said.
‘Yes, you do but you are afraid to say it’ John said disappointed.
‘John’ Sherlock softly said, but John already walked on ahead ‘I have been so disappointed for so many times already, thinking this was the one’ Sherlock added, thinking John could not hear him. ‘I don’t think I can do that anymore, it would break my heart’
John turned around ‘But not taking any chance at all, won’t that leave you empty Sherlock? Won’t that leave you like an empty shell living without love?’
Sherlock looked up, tears filled his eyes; ‘I am not good at this, John’
John walked over to Sherlock and stood before him. He was slightly shorter than Sherlock was and had to look up a bit ‘Sherlock’ John said taking Sherlock’s head in his cold hands ‘I am falling for you’
John pulled Sherlock’s head a bit lower so that he could kiss him. It was a little kiss, soft and tender.
Sherlock’s eyes were now completely full of tears so that he could not see John’s blue eyes anymore who looked at him full of warmth.
‘I don’t know what to say’
‘Don’t say anything’ John said ‘just feel’
John repeated the kiss, this time it was longer, more tender and John pulled Sherlock toward him, holding him close. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck and Sherlock took John around the waist after some hesitation.
‘How did that feel?’ John whispered.
Sherlock just stood there completely baffled.
‘Okay, so you need more proof then’ John grinned ‘You are greedy, aren’t you?’
This time John went all out, and grabbed Sherlock’s curls, he put his tongue in Sherlock’s mouth and tasted him. The kiss was eager and promising more and full of hunger.
After a while John said ‘You taste like cinnamon’
‘That’s the bun I ate at breakfast’ Sherlock whispered.
They started giggling.
‘Is this real?’ Sherlock asked, ‘am I not dreaming?’
‘No, you are not dreaming, why? Have you dreamt of me? Oh, come on, tell me!’
‘That’s too embarrassing’ Sherlock smirked.
‘Let’s walk back home. Here a sandwich’ John pulled a sandwich out of the rucksack and gave it to Sherlock. ‘You will taste of strawberry marmalade later’
Sherlock grinned ‘You know, when we’re back, I will ring Mrs Hudson, so we can meet her in London soon’
‘I can’t wait’ John smiled.
‘John’
‘Sherlock’
‘I am falling for you as well’
‘Good!’ John smiled ‘as long as it is not in a frozen ditch’
They both started giggling which lasted till they were back home in the cottage.
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@brassandblue continued from [x]
Alice was hardly impressed at the sight of another young ‘gentleman’–the sort who were never happy to learn she was neither someone’s assistant, nor a file clerk or secretary–and she had no time for coddling the incompetence of others.
At the aftermath of the Great War, she had forcibly carved a niche for herself in the British government as one of the foremost experts in operations management and information resourcing. Numbers, strategy, and people–the building blocks of her career, a foundation that upheld her work in codebreaking, espionage, and an extensive (and dangerous) network of spies, informants, and allies. She was something of a legend, widely spoken of in rumors but little seemed to be really known about her outside her job… and she preferred it to be that way.
Alice was buttoned-up, figuratively and quite literally–her dark brunette hair was pulled back into a neat bun, her makeup was expertly applied but simple, and she wore a well-made matching blazer and trousers with a collared shirt tucked underneath, as well as worn but well-cared for sensible leather shoes–she was not flashy, nor luxurious, but simply well put together, pragmatic, ironed, focused. Similarly, her posture was confident, firm but not rigid nor inflexible; she gave little away, a measure of centuries of learning control in a world so hostile to her sex and so scrutinizing of its every move.
Without a word she examined the man’s identification, glancing at him briefly to study him before referencing the ID once more.
Mycroft Holmes? Ah. Violet’s eldest son, and one of the very few people she was keen on seeing where they might take their career. Indeed, Alice had been intent on finding and meeting Mycroft anyway, as his new department and hers–Personnel and Operations Management–were naturally very linked.
Once satisfied, Alice returned the ID to Mycroft and plucked hers from her blazer pocket, offering it in turn.
‘Head of Personnel and Operations Management’, ‘Alice Rosaline Kirkland’–
–‘England’.
… The level of clearance listed there was not even her proper level, as that actual one lingered in the stratosphere under the authority of the Queen Herself, and wasn’t meant for the eyes of regular personnel.
She silently took note of the umbrella and Mycroft’s subtle leaning on it, recalling the injuries he’d incurred; and the impeccable way he was dressed, all put-together and closed off as she was.
Oh! Well, wasn’t that a lucky coincidence? Mycroft had heard whispers of Alice, of course. For a long time, he had been making an effort to know the ins and outs of the world he was inhabiting. While it was true that he did not know many exact details about the other and the nature of her work, he knew that she was one to look out for.
Why did her ID card state her nationality, though? Mycroft’s didn’t. Presumably it was because she was involved in some work that he was not aware of, also explaining why it was necessary to separate out her exact country rather than leave her at merely British. How very interesting.
No issue with his presence had been stated, and so Mycroft assumed that there was none. He could exclude the other pulling him up, though. His new role had not been in existence for long and, though the intention was to never be a figure that was familiar to the masses, not even the people that needed to know were necessarily aware of his face yet. The there was the fact that he really did look young. This wouldn’t have been the first time he was mistaken for an intern or somebody in a junior role, and he doubted that it would be the last.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” Mycroft responded after he was done inspecting Alice’s ID. He wasn’t lying either - it was nice to meet her. If his plans for his new role were to succeed, it was important that he became familiar with everybody of important, especially those that seemed to carry out the more secretive work.
“If you have a spare moment, perhaps you could help me? I must confess that I am completely unfamiliar with this area of the building and I was not given directions before heading this way.”
Technically, he was admitting to a weakness - something that he would usually attempt to avoid at all costs. But here? The risk seemed worth it. If he could convince Alice to show him the way, he could get talking to her and, from there, ultimately find out more about the work she was doing.
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Laurelworth
Chpater II: The Riddle of Love
“The impending delivery of John and Mary Watson’s child brings me to Laurelworth. My companion in solving crime is refusing to go on cases during the last trimester of gestation and will not likely return to my aid till six months after the child is born.” Sherlock elaborated between sips of coffee.
“I am sorry, truly. I’m sure it is a great disappointment as you find London so diverting.” Molly replied with a compassionate smile. “What will Mrs. Hudson be doing with her days now that you aren’t bumbling above her?”
Such cheek? Sherlock inwardly mused. Perhaps this would be a simpler endeavor than I assumed!
“I suspect that she’ll enjoy the alone time. I believe her sister will be coming to visit for several weeks as well.”
Molly nodded, seemingly satisfied with his answer as she dug into her eggs. As the pair ate in silence, Sherlock Holmes studied his wife. It had been some months since he’d last seen her at Christmas and while she had been beautiful then in her red evening gown amongst the candlelight, she was stunning now. The notion didn’t seem to make rational sense given that Molly was wearing a plain blue riding habit, her hair tied back in a simple ponytail, but his heart still soared at the sight all the same. Perhaps it was because he’d not seen his wife in so long that any dose of her was refreshing to his senses. Either way, it did not matter the reason; she was lovely with a glowing tan and freckles across her nose and cheeks, auburn hair lightened by her time in the sun.
Having been so caught up in his assessment of Molly, he’d not noticed she had already finished her breakfast before him and stood, calling the dogs and Mrs. Lyle.
“Yes ma’am?” The older woman asked, her graying hair pulled back in a tight bun, black uniform crisply ironed.
“Will you have Gabriel or Jean ready Gypsy and bring her round in a half hour? I’m going to walk with the dogs for a bit.”
“Of course, ma’am. Do you have a preference for lunch?”
Molly gave an indulgent laugh, resting a reassuring hand on the head house keeper’s shoulder. “Whatever you’ve prepared for the house will be fine. I would ask that it be rather large, after I tour the peach orchards I am to meet with our accountant, Mr. Ivanov, and from there I will head to surgery till about eight o’clock tonight. Naturally, that will not leave much time for dinner.”
“Surely we can wait for you?” Mrs. Lyle insisted.
“No, no, Mrs. Lyle. Just fix something for Mr. Holmes and be off for the evening, the cooks as well. I’m sure we can survive the night without you.” The brunette winked, pulling on her leather gloves and whistling to the two dogs waiting patiently around her ankles. “Come along then, we must find you pair a stick! Thank you again, Mrs. Lyle!”
“Yes Mrs. Holmes, anything you need!” She smiled.
Sherlock watched the exchange with rabid fascination, the staff was sure to love their mistress with the kindness and smiles Molly so freely bestowed upon them. Envy coursed through him like he’d never known. His wife had scarcely acknowledged his presence, not even bothering as to inquire after his activities planned out for the day. He had not expected Molly to drop all her responsibilities, however, he would’ve thought she’d have at least attempted to entertain his audience.
There was a coolness to his wife’s demeanor, while she flashed him sunny smiles and a friendly enough greeting, the Consulting Detective got the impression that she was…indifferent, to his presence here at Laurelworth. Clearly she expected that they would live the next nine months as though neither had existed, much as they has the previous fourteen months. Sherlock did not begrudge Molly her ambivalence, while he had expected ire at his unannounced arrival, the apathetic manner which she regarded him with was somehow worse.
Sherlock cleared his throat.
“Mr. Holmes, I beg your pardon-“
“Does Mrs. Holmes often traverse the estate unaccompanied?” He interjected, taking one last gulp of coffee.
The older woman flushed, in embarrassment or anger, he could not tell. “N-No, sir! I would never allow for it! The shepherd, Herr Schaper, or the game keeper, Mr. MacDonald, or-or one of the farm hands goes with her always!”
“I am not familiar with this Schaper.” Sherlock replied suspiciously. Mercy, did his male bravado know no bounds? “How long has he been in my wife’s employ?”
“Nearly a year, sir.” Mrs. Lyle answered. “When the mistress arrived at Laurelworth, she made a great many changes to the staffing, all of which have been for the better, Mr. Holmes.”
Frowning, he nodded, rising from the table. “I shall be in my study, do not disturb me till Mrs. Holmes has returned for lunch.”
“Of course, sir. Generally, she takes her luncheon in her study or on the deck…”
“Either will do, just inform me of her return immediately.”
Sherlock had not lied to his wife when he told her of his reasons for returning to Laurelworth, but it had not, strictly speaking, been the entire truth. After a rather intimate conversation with the Molly living in his Mind Palace, a revelation about the potential wonders of being married -happily married anyway- struck the genius like a ton of bricks. Could he have perhaps been falling for Molly all along? The year they spent together at Baker Street was difficult for Sherlock to adjust to. He’d been rude and short and dismissive of Molly’s presence in his life. However, there were times Molly was doing absolutely nothing but sitting on the loveseat reading and his heart would race. Once when she’d gone downstairs for tea with Mrs. Hudson and her laughter had filled the entire townhome; Sherlock remembered feeling a pang of guilt that he had not been the one to elicit such joy from his wife.
So, upon discovering that he had, in fact, been harboring feelings for his spouse much longer than he had realized, Sherlock did what all good Consulting Detectives do when out of their depth.
Annoy John Watson, friend and confidant.
“Sherlock, I do not know if it is wise to just…drop in on Molly.”
“Why not? Mary said herself to make a ‘grand romantic gesture’! What could be more ostentatiously sentimental than presenting my person when she least expects it?” He had exclaimed, pacing the floor of 221 B as his man, Billy Wiggins, packed his bags for Laurelworth. “You have been known to stop in unannounced at St. Bartholomew’s Midwifery when Mary was working to bring her pastries or packed lunches. How is this any different?”
“Well, for one, Mary doesn’t despise my blooming guts…majority of the time anyway.” John had answered uneasily. “Look, you and Molly parted under horrible circumstances of your own making. She loved you, deeply, and you all but threw it back in her face the moment Irene Adler wandered back into your life.”
“So what do you suggest then, John?” Sherlock growled in frustration. “God, this is miserable! I can’t sleep, I can’t eat, all I can think about is ‘Molly This’ and ‘Molly That’ and ‘I wonder if Molly is enjoying the early spring weather’…it’s unbearable! Truly, I cannot fathom how I have gone so long not recognizing that I was…I was…”
John smiled, hoping against hope that Sherlock was comprehending just what it was he felt for Margaret Louise Holmes.
“...In love with her.” Sherlock finished with a dumbfounded smile. “B-But my work…it’s never been better! How has love not afflicted my case success rate?”
“Ever consider that perhaps it is what has aided in its prosperity? Sherlock, when you are trying to work out a problem with a case, you throw yourself into composing. Maybe you threw yourself into solving crimes the past fourteen months because, subconsciously, it helped you solve the riddle of your love for Molly.”
He swallowed nervously. “I’m…I’m scared, John. I’ve made an awful, terrible mess of things.”
“Yeah, you have mate.” John rested a comforting arm upon Sherlock’s shoulder. “But it’s not hopeless, the easy part was confirming you love her, now you just have to convince her of your affections.”
“Will you…will you help me?” Sherlock’s voice hoarse with emotion. “Please, John?”
“Of course, mate. But I’m warning you, it’s not going to be pretty or pleasant at first.”
“I am willing to do whatever it takes to win back Molly Holmes’ heart.”
Molly was still out touring the orchards, leaving Sherlock to his devices. He’d already arranged his study to his liking, cleaned his smoking pipe and hidden away his valuables in the safe, including the large parcel of unsent letters he’d written to Molly over the last fourteen months.
Now he had one singular task ahead of him: Learn what Molly likes. Deciding that snooping about her room would be a gross invasion of privacy, Sherlock opted for her personal study instead. Surely if the maids were allowed to freely enter and exit, he would be allowed to as well!
Conveniently, there was a hidden door behind a bookcase that lead to the adjacent room his wife had taken over as her study. Sherlock entered, his senses instantly struck with the overwhelming presence of everything Molly. The room smelled of juniper and peonies, the sofas and love seats plush velvet and carved in delicate, feminine patterns. The roaring fire told him that a servant had not long ago been in here, meaning that time was probably on his side.
The walls were covered in bookshelves, hundreds of texts filled the space. A human skeleton sat in the corner, dressed in an old morning suit. Sherlock smirked, Molly always did have strangely morbid sense of humor. In another corner sat a large globe, inherited from her father after his death. On the walls hung various paintings of her kin or works of art she’d purchased or been gifted. Above the mantel was a portrait of her mother, Abigail, who had died of Malaria in Bombay when Molly was nine. Another painting displayed upon the wall was a birthday gift from Mycroft, a real Hashimoto Gaho. Sherlock frowned, remembering how Anthea had gushed over Molly’s enthusiasm upon receiving it.
“She wept she was so touched! Truly it was the best gift we have ever bestowed upon a person. A more deserving recipient there could not have been!” Anthea had exclaimed smugly, earning an affectionate eye roll from his older brother.
Two large cathedral windows framed Molly’s desk from behind, the dusty rose curtain’s drawn to bring in as much natural light as possible. The desk contrasted his own greatly, where Sherlock’s had been messy and chaotic, Molly’s was neat and organized. Few sentimental knick-knacks littered the desk, a large map of the grounds took up most of the space. The desk was punctuated by several pen and ink wells, a wax seal stamper with the monogram ‘MLH’, a bouquet of fresh wildflowers in a Chinese vase they had received as a wedding gift was placed on the corner, and a solitary silver picture frame was angled for her to see directly when sitting in her chair.
Sherlock felt his breath catch, it was a picture of him on their wedding day. Looking down at the thick platinum band on his left hand, it dawned on him that Molly still wore her Welsh gold wedding band. Surely if Molly truly despised him, she would not have set his likeness in such plain view or kept his Grandmama’s ring!
Hope soared through him, taking one last sweeping glance around Sherlock exited through the secret door and back to his study, it was time to make a plan.
A light shake on the shoulder brought Sherlock out of his Mind Palace.
“Mr. Holmes, the Missus has returned for lunch. She’s taken it out on the porch.” Mrs. Lyle said.
He grinned, leaping from his supine position on the sofa. “Excellent, thank-you, Mrs. Lyle.”
The head house keeper beamed, no doubt pleased she could finally appease the insufferable Master of the house. “You’re very welcome, sir. It is summer chowder in bread bowls and greens today, will that be to your liking?”
“Is that a favorite of Mrs. Holmes?” He asked, removing his dressing gown and straightening his collar.
“Yes, she enjoys it very much. She wrote the recipe with Mrs. Honeycutt, our cook.”
“Wonderful!” He called back, racing out of the study and down the hall to the main doors, earning curious glances from the passing staff. He slowed upon his arrival to the large front porch overlooking Bass Lake and the mountain forest upon their doorstep. As beautiful as the view was, none could compete the sight of Molly. She’d removed the jacket of her riding habit revealing her fitted high collared linen blouse, her beautiful thick hair, now free of its usual ponytail, flowed down to her slender waist.
“Mr. Holmes, is something the matter?” She questioned curiously.
“No. No, why would something be the matter?” He sputtered, moving to sit in the chair beside her, a table between the two housing a bowl of peaches and a pitcher of sun tea.
“Well…it’s just that…I assumed you’d be taking your lunch in your study, if you ate all.”
“It is true, I do not typically eat lunch. However, given that this is a special dish to you, one you help create no less, I thought I might try it.”
Molly blinked, clearly shocked by his statement. “I-uh, yes. I did. How could have possibly known that?”
Sherlock gave her a wry smirk. “Mrs. Holmes, surely you know me well enough now to know I’m a fairly observant man.”
Molly opened her mouth to respond, but was interrupted by the servant coming out to deliver their lunch. “Thank-you, Gillian, it looks wonderful?”
“Is there anything else I can get you ma’am?” She asked with a friendly smile.
“I’m fine, truly. How is little Gerogie feeling?”
“Oh, much better, Missus! That tonic you gave me did wonders for him. He’s sleeping so much easier now that he’s breathing easier. Not that I am getting any sleep, of course. I still stay up at night paranoid that he’s going to stop breathing any second.” Gillian gushed.
“Well you make sure to get some rest, Gillian! It won’t do him any good to have sick Mummy.” Molly smiled.
“Yes Missus ‘olmes. Is there anything I can get you, Mr. ‘olmes?”
“No, thank-you, that will be all for now.” Sherlock replied in as warm a tone as he could muster, wanting to impress Molly with his newfound tenderness.
The pair were silent for a while, eating their lunch in peace as they listened to whippoorwills sing and butterflies flutter around the flowers flanking the front stair leading up to the porch. Workmen walked to and fro, dropping a hello or a wave to Molly and (if only by association) Sherlock.
‘This is it, Sherlock! Take your chance to make conversation with Molly. She needs to know you take an interest in her life!’ John’s voice cheered him on.
“I trust the orchards were in good condition? The peaches look very appetizing.”
“Yes, they were.” Molly gave him a perfunctory smile.
“Mycroft once ate a whole peach cobbler by himself in our younger years.”
“Mmmm.” She hummed between spoonfuls.
‘Don’t give up!’
“Will you be going on horseback to the village or taking the carriage?”
“Horseback, did you want to venture down to Northbury? I could arrange for a footman to take you.”
“No, that won’t be necessary. I’ve plenty to entertain myself in my study.” Sherlock answered with a small smile, locking their gaze. Molly’s breathing quickened, a becoming flush rising to her cheeks.
Oh, she is lovely. Sherlock thought inwardly
“I should be off.” She stood abruptly, leaving her food half finished. “Mr. Ivanov is a patient man but I’d never forgive myself if I was late to surgery.”
“You’ve not finished your meal.” He stood, catching her wrist in his hand. Her brown eyes widening at the voluntary contact.
“Really, it’s so warm. I don’t have much appetite in this heat.”
“You grew up in India, how is late March in Northern England considered warm to you?”
“I’ve acclimated.” She huffed uneasily, her hand still in his.
“Well, at least allow me to help you with your jacket.” Sherlock reluctantly released her hand to fetch the blue riding jacket from the arm of her chair. He held it up, Molly turned her back to him, moving her thick hair to the side. The sight of her exposed neck made his blood thrill.
“I’d nearly forgotten it, thank-you for reminding me.” She blushed with embarrassment, letting her hair swing loose once she’d slipped her arms through, buttoning the front as she turned to face him.
Unable to resist the urge, Sherlock rose his hand and gently brushed a lock of hair from her eyes, folding it behind her ear. She had not slapped his hand away yet, but her posture went stiff as a board at the contact. Not wanting to push his luck, he did not venture further, though the desire to run his thumb across her cheeks was over-whelming to say the least.
“Thank-you for taking lunch with me. I enjoyed our time together.”
Molly tried, and failed, not to look flabbergasted at his words.
“Y-You are welcome. Have a good night, Mr. Holmes, I shall see you on the morrow.”
Molly turned to leave just as an idea struck him.
“Will you be riding home alone tonight?” He blurted out once she was a few paces away.
“Usually one of the stable boys or footman come and escort me home.” She answered. “Did you have a need for them this evening? I could arrange for two to stay overnight-“
“PerhapsIcouldcomeandfetchyou?”
“I beg your pardon? I didn’t quite catch that, Sherlock. You spoke so quickly.”
He let out a nervous laugh. “I-I was merely suggesting that…perhaps I could come and fetch you from surgery this evening.”
At first Molly appeared dumbfounded, then her face flushed.
This time, not from embarrassment or physical attraction. It was most assuredly in anger.
“What game are you playing at, Sherlock Holmes?” She snapped, marching up to him and glaring up at him squarely. “Never, not once, did you walk me home during my time at St. Bartholomew’s. Need I remind you that it’s a large public hospital in the middle of London? Why the sudden concern for my safety when we are in a safe country village and not drenched in the industrial hustle of Town? Is this some sort of social experiment-”
“Molly, please, let me-“
“No! I do not want to hear your excuses! I have been respectful of your solitary lifestyle and will not be made a punching bag for your frustration when my presence becomes too much to bear.”
“That is not my desire any longer, I wish to-“
“We may be married, but we are not a couple, Sherlock.” Molly continued with a humorless laugh. “We are not even friends! So please, let us just spare the façade. Do not feel pressured to act as a doting husband would. I freed you from that responsibility months ago.”
Ah, that one stung. Sherlock inwardly sighed.
“You are my wife, we are married, and therefore we are a couple.” He said in earnest. “I apologize if I was too…forward, for lack of a better term, in my attempts to be close to you. It was not my intention to anger you.”
“I will not be made a fool of in my own home, Sherlock Holmes. You and Mrs. Adler did a fine enough job of that in front of the Ton in London. I’ll not have you speak to me as though I were some human abscess in front of the servants or villagers.” Molly drove on. “You smeared my reputation in London society and made a mockery of our marriage. Do not act as if the last fourteen months of separation change the facts.”
Sherlock inwardly sighed, there would be no winning this argument.
“I apologize for the inconveniences I have put upon you, believe me it was unconsciously done. Good afternoon, Mrs. Holmes. I hope your time at surgery fares better.” He said before turning to leave.
He did not look back for fear of seeing hatred burn in her fine dark eyes.
Sherlock watched as Molly locked the door to the surgery behind her, then walk over to where he held her horse, Gypsy’s reigns.
“Thank-you for escorting me home this evening, Jean. I know it’s later than I said but we had an emergency case.” Molly said, mounting Gypsy, giving the broodmare an affectionate nuzzle.
The doctor had not realized something was suspicious till she noted the horse her companion was riding.
“Jean, I’m not sure Mr. Holmes would approve of you riding Dante-“
The Consulting Detective smirked, watching her eyes widen a fraction as she took him in.
“Mr. Holmes, what are you doing here?” Molly demanded.
“Escorting you home.” Sherlock commented. “I hope we are not going to argue about this again, I’m already here. No sense in quarreling over it.”
Letting out an exasperated sigh, Molly nudged Gypsy into walking. “I suppose you are right. But this doesn’t mean I’m speaking to you.”
“Well, that’s rather a shame, I was hoping to hear about your time at surgery.”
Molly gazed at him with a mixture of surprise and suspicion. “Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?”
“I am still him. However, it is my intention to be the Sherlock Holmes you deserve, Margaret Louise Holmes. The one I should have been all along.”
#Sherlolly#sherlock x molly#sherlock#Sherlock Holmes#molly hooper#victorian!lock#Victorian au#victorian#AU
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Preparations
Part 11 of 15 of Aftermath...
It was a beautiful morning. The patchwork clouds of the previous evening had produced a sweet, cleansing rain sometime in the night and Molly’s back garden had been sparkling in sunshine when she’d gone out to cut a sheaf of chives for her Spanish Frittata.
A beautiful morning. The thought bubbled up occasionally… fairly often, actually… as she worked in her kitchen -- or played, really. Or it would have been playing, if not for the portentous nature of the occasion.
In spite of that, and the need for her to focus on the creation of a brunch suited to the discriminating palates of Sherlock’s parents and his brother, she found a smile curving her lips when her thoughts inevitably drifted to that dream within a dream of just a few hours before.
Her contentment was such that she suspected Sherlock would have no trouble seeing it, though the more overt physical evidence of their encounter had been washed away in a much-appreciated morning shower. She was now feeling ready for almost anything. She’d dressed carefully, donning neat navy trousers, sensible shoes, a new, crisply tailored shirt in a blue, green, and white flower print, and at present she was wearing her favorite pinny, white with yellow plaid pockets, inherited from her grandmother and a very functional garment in spite of the old fashioned ruffles at the shoulders and hem. Her navy cardigan was laid over the back of a chair for later, her hair was done up in a tidy braided bun, and she had even applied a touch of make-up -- lip gloss, and a touch of mascara, only, as her skin had seemed to glow when she’d studied herself in the mirror over the sink, her cheeks pink with good health and happiness.
There was apparently a great deal to be said in favor of dreamlike debauchery in the darkness of the pre-dawn hours with Sherlock Holmes.
Her partner in sin had still been sound asleep when she’d finished dressing and quietly slipped from the bedroom at just half six. Now, at nearly eight, she knew she would have to go awaken him if he did not soon rouse on his own.
However, a few minutes after the hour, he silently entered the kitchen like some dissipated wraith, his eyes both dazed and a bit wary, bare of foot and decadently disheveled, his hair wild, his blue dressing gown loose over his rumpled and slightly stained undergarments.
“Good morning,” Molly said, keeping the laughter in her voice to a minimum. “Are you alright?”
He frowned at her. “That… wasn’t a dream. Was it?”
She fought down a grin. “The evidence would suggest not, I believe. I’ll put fresh sheets on the bed later, though. We’re having brunch with your parents in less than two hours. And Mycroft.”
He winced at the painful reminder, but then peered at her closely. “You… you’re alright? You seem remarkably…”
“I’m excellent, thank you.”
“Then… it was…”
“Mmm… extraordinary?”
It was strange for him to be at a loss for words, but then it was a strange morning, all around.
He considered her adjective. “Extraordinary… in the good way?”
Her brows rose. “Well… yes. In the best possible way.”
His uncertain expression finally eased. “You thought so, too? I mean… it seemed to me... “ His voice trailed off, some color rising in his pale cheeks. “You’re certain you don’t have time to… ah…”
“Go back to bed with you?” she exclaimed, and when he nodded, a fatuous smile on his face, she threw up her hands. “No! Your parents will be here in two hours -- and Mycroft in one, hopefully. Did you text him about the saffron?”
“No, not yet,” he said, obviously disappointed. “Where’s my mobile?”
“On the coffee table, where you left it last night,” she said, walking around the peninsula toward him. “And ask him to bring some flowers for the table, too, will you?” Only her eyes laughed as she gave him a chaste kiss on his cheek. “And then go take a bath! You’ll feel much more the thing, believe me.”
He reached up and fingered the edge of the ruffle at her shoulder. “You don’t look like someone who was ravished a few hours ago.”
She chuckled. “I assure you, I’ve been like a cat in cream all morning, and going back to bed with you will not help in the least!”
He smiled slowly, his eyes alight. “Later, then?”
“Later,” she agreed. But then he bent and kissed her lips with such tender sensuality that it was almost enough to make her change her mind. She pulled herself together with some effort and said, “Go! You’re distracting me and I still have a great deal to do!”
He sniffed. “As I told you, all we have to do is let my mother get wind that a grandchild may be in the offing and she won’t care what she’s served. Dad, too.” He looked suddenly conscious. “You… er… did note the lack of… protection.”
“Yes, of course.”
“And you haven’t been on the pill since you broke with… ah…”
“Tom?”
“Yes. Him.” A hint of disapprobation crossed his face, but then his brow wrinkled and he asked, “Why haven’t you?”
She narrowed her eyes. “You know why.”
He raised a brow. “Do I?”
“Make a deduction, Mr. Holmes,” she said, somewhat acidly.
But instead of looking smug, he looked a bit horrified. “Would you have been content if we had remained… just friends?”
Just friends. The thought was a painful one, now, even with it being a thing of the past. “I… I had made up my mind to that. Yes.”
He carefully gathered her close and kissed her cheek, and said in her ear, “I was such an idiot.”
She laughed a little, and returned the kiss, and said, “Yes. It was a close run thing.”
“Yes.” He let her go and gazed down at her, longingly.
She cleared her throat. “Two hours? Mycroft?”
He rolled his eyes. “Mycroft can bloody well wait on our convenience.”
But he turned with a sigh and went into the living room to send the necessary text, then went back upstairs, and presently she could hear the shower running.
*
When he next appeared, half an hour later, he was much more himself again, in a sober suit of charcoal grey with a white shirt, his wild curls once again thoroughly tamed. The light of that sharp intelligence was back in his eyes, enhanced by a twinkle of amusement at the sight of her gazing upon him with obvious pleasure.
“Told you we should have gone back to bed,” he said smugly, kissing her on the cheek. “What’s that you’re making?”
“Ensaïmadas. It’s a type of Spanish breakfast bread. There will be a frittata, and a shrimp soup, a salad, and asparagus. And a tropical fruit salad to end with.”
“Good lord. Are you feeding an army?”
“No! But when Mycroft took me to your parents’ home for tea that time, at least half the dishes were homemade. Your mother is an excellent baker.”
“Yes, well. She was a maths graduate student when she met my father, and baking is fairly scientific in nature. Basically, it’s applied chemistry.”
“Very true, which is why you’re such a good cook, Mr. Graduate Chemist,” she teased.
But he just shrugged. “Not really my area.”
“Fish and chips, and Weetabix are more in your line?”
“Well, if I’m cooking, yes. If you’re doing it…”
“Well, you can help with this, at least. Here, put this on and you can get the asparagus prepped for me.” Trying not to smirk, she handed him another apron, a less frilly one, but red in color and emblazoned with the phrase Kiss the Cook.
“I am not wearing this when Mycroft arrives,” he said, but began to put it on without further protest.
“Oh, you’ll be done with the asparagus in plenty of time. Let me tie that for you and then I’ll show you what to do.”
He was, naturally enough, a quick learner, but the pile of asparagus was quite extensive and he was just finishing up with the last of it when a knock sounded on the front door a few minutes after nine. “Sorry, as I said…” He reached behind him to pull at the apron strings, but then exclaimed, “Molly, they’re stuck -- knotted or something! Did you do that on purpose?”
“No!” Molly laughed, washing her hands off quickly and going to his rescue. “Oh, why did you pull it so tight? Hold still, this will take a minute!”
The sound of the door opening came to their ears, and then Mycroft’s voice as he called, “Hello?”
“Just cut the strings!” Sherlock said, desperately.
“No! I almost have it. Hold still!” And then, a few seconds later, it was done. “There!”
He whipped off the apron, but not before Mycroft had appeared in the doorway, with Lady Alicia Smallwood standing beside him. Lady Alicia gave a small snort of laughter.
Sherlock cursed under his breath and straightened his suit jacket. “Just barging in, Mycroft? Hello, Alicia.”
“Good morning,” Lady Smallwood said, still amused.
Mycroft said, “The door was unlocked, and I presumed you were too busy to answer -- an accurate presumption, obviously. The apron was a nice touch.”
Molly came forward to take the grocery bag Mycroft was carrying. “Your brother has been a great deal of help in prepping the asparagus for me. Thank you so much for stopping for the flowers and saffron.”
Alicia held up a bottle. “We’ve brought some Cava, too, in keeping with the Spanish theme.”
“Thank you!” Molly said, taking the bottle as well. “Sherlock’s parents went to Spain for a week last year and I thought they’d enjoy the reminder of good times.”
“Very good point,” Mycroft said with approval.
And Sherlock gave her a smile and said to Mycroft, “Sometimes I think she’s smarter than either of us.”
“Certainly she has far less baggage to see around when it comes to our parents,” Mycroft agreed.
“Right!” Molly said, briskly. “Speaking of which, they will be here in less than an hour, and for everyone’s peace of mind it would be best if all is as ready as possible, are we agreed?”
Sherlock said, “Ye-es,” but hesitantly.
“Excellent. You and Mycroft can go set the table in the dining area -- everything is on the sideboard, table cloth, plates, napkins -- and then if you would see that the table and chairs in the back garden are dry and ready for use if necessary. Alicia, do you think you can arrange these flowers for me?”
“Yes, of course,” Lady Smallwood said, smiling at the twin expressions of consternation on the Holmes brothers’ faces. “I’m very good at arranging flowers.”
“I, however,” said Mycroft primly, “have not had occasion to set a table since I left day school.”
“Don’t worry,” said Sherlock, “I remember how to do it. Would you care to wear the pinny?” He offered the red apron to his brother.
But Lady Smallwood took it instead, saying, “He won’t need it for that, as you know perfectly well, but I can use it in here while I help Molly. Get to work, now, both of you. Chop-chop!’
Resigned to their fate, the brothers left the kitchen.
Molly grinned at Alicia and said quietly, “Well done!”
And Alicia smiled back. “Yes, wasn’t it? Now, where are your clippers and a vase?”
*
Molly was just putting the last touches on the food, sieving some confectioner’s sugar over the cooling ensaïmadas, when Sherlock came back into the kitchen a few minutes before ten o’clock.
“They’re here,” he said grimly, obviously nervous. “Just pulled up in the car Mycroft sent. Do you want to take off your pinny and come to the door with me?”
“Yes, of course I will,” she said, wiping her hands. She turned around and he swiftly untied the bow. She slipped it off as she went around the peninsula and quickly switched it for her blue cardigan. Once she’d got the cardigan on, she turned to Sherlock. “Do I look alright?”
A light came into his eyes, and a little crooked smile to his lips. He caught her shoulders and kissed her firmly. Then he said, softly, and very sincerely, “Thank you.”
She felt her cheeks growing pink. “It’s… I… I love you,” she said, simply.
He kissed her again, and said, “I love you, too.” He straightened. “Now. Into battle?”
“Well, not precisely. Everything will be fine!”
“When they calm down.”
“Yes.” She gave a tiny grimace.
Sherlock nodded.
He took her hand, and led her from the kitchen.
Everything was ready. The dining area, off to the side of the living room, glowed with a pristine white table cloth, Molly’s best china and flatware, and with the artfully arranged flowers.
Mycroft hovered near the table, a stoic non-expression on his face, and Alicia was standing beside him, looking concerned.
And then there came the faint sound of familiar voices, followed by a sharp rap on the front door that made all four of them blench, quite as though the cheerful sound was the very voice of doom.
~.~
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Enigma-Chapter one
A Sherlock Holmes Fanfiction
I stared blankly at the men in front of me. I clutched my arm to my chest, wincing in pain, but forced myself not to say anything. “How is this even possible?” the shortest one said. I sighed, and looked around the flat. The place was dust filled and messy, looking like a neurotic lived here. Which is most likely the case.
“Well it is.” I said dumbly.
“No. You’re supposed to be dead!” John shouted.
“Well, technically, well, legally, I was.” I said, straightening my posture.
“You’re supposed to be dead!” John shouted, coming closer to me. I flinched at his tone, not liking it, causing him to back up.
“John do remember that ages ago I was dead.” The other man said. My eyes snapped up at him, and I glanced him over. Right. This must be Sherlock. My brother’s best friend, and everyone’s favorite sociopathic resident.
“She overdosed!” John refused.
“And I jumped off a building.” Sherlock said, throwing his hands up, his robe flapping at his movements.
“And I’m right here! John! I’m standing right in front of you! And I am very much alive!” I shouted, feeling annoyed. Nothing made sense. Nothing was clear. I don’t understand emotions. I never had, yet I often find myself fueled by anger and pain. “I also have a bullet in my arm, so that would be great if you’d be able to help.” I said.
John froze and I rolled my eyes. I brushed past him, and into the kitchen, and I shuffled through drawers. I finally found what I was searching for. I pulled out a first aid kit. I tore off my jacket, and I braced my arm on the table. I heard footsteps behind, but I refused to look behind me.
“Oh jesus!” John said, sounding appalled.
“John, I’m the one with a god damned bullet in my arm!” I ground out through clenched teeth. I pulled out the knife from my pocket, and I hesitated before I drew the blade to my arm.
“Wait! You should go to the hospital!” John said.
I glared at him harshly. “No, no hospital. Far as I am concerned Amara Watson is dead.” I said. Suddenly, a lighter was placed in front of me, and I looked at it. I followed the hand, and I saw it was Sherlock. I grabbed the lighter from him, which I used to sterilize the blade. I hesitated slightly, before slicing into my arm. “Fuck!” I shouted, as I opened the wound up, so I could go in with a pair of tweezers, which I used to extract the bullet.
I dropped the bullet onto the table, and by this time I was dizzy. “Amara, you don’t look well.” John said, coming closer to me. I rolled my eyes, and took the knife, using the lighter to heat up the blade. “What are you- oh god!” John said, sounding like he was going to be sick as I used the hot blade, pressing it to my wound, letting the hot metal cauterize the wound. I let out a short scream.
Finally, I dropped the bloody knife to the table, and I stood up straight, nearly falling over. “John, this is why you’re the doctor.” I gasped out, and stumbled back into the other room, where I reached my bag, pulling out a bottle of alcohol, which I dumped onto my arm, cleansing the now burnt flesh. I applied ointment, then wrapped my arm in a bandage. I rummaged through my bag, then found my pain medicine, which I took quickly, swallowing it dry.
I collapsed onto the floor, and panted, feeling the adrenaline fade, which now left me shaky and dizzy. I pushed myself up, getting to my feet, as I walked back into the kitchen, picking up my jacket from the floor, walking back to the living room where my brother stood with Sherlock. “Will you please tell me what happened?” John begged.
“Oh dearie, don’t beg, it doesn’t suit you well at all.” I said, rolling my eyes.
“You’re a paranoid recluse on the run from someone, but it must have been taken care of recently for you to show up here. You have a talent of finding people, since you easily found us. You evade our questions, yet you came here for a reason. Is the reason that you’re finally free from the man you once loved? No, you’re not a torn up wreak. You didn’t love him, he loved you, obsessed with you.” Sherlock deduced.
“My my, your brother was right about you.” I teased, causing them both to freeze.
“You know Mycroft?” he asked.
“Of course. Who else do you think helped me disappear. Of course I owed him a few favors for his troubles, but I am now out of his debt.” I said, shrugging my shoulders, not at all phased by Sherlock’s deductions.
“An overdose?” John asked, hurt in his voice. I sighed but turned around.
“I actually did overdose. On accident. Not intentional. My heart did stop, but that’s where Mycroft’s men came in. In a matter of seconds, my death certificate was signed, and his men had my heart restarted. When I came to, Mycroft informed me that Jason, the man who I had been seeing, was a dangerous man. Of course I knew that. I agreed to disappear, knowing that it would rattle him. People would start asking questions, force him to become hasty, make a mistake.” I informed.
“I thought you were dead! For eleven years I thought you were dead!” John shouted. I flinched at his raised voice. Recoiling back in fright.
“Please, brother, try to see my perspective.” I said, out of breath, afraid.
“Your perspective? You come here, thinking that I would what? Welcome you back with open arms? After all this time? Your death drew Harry to drink. I went to war. Do you see my perspective?” he shouted.
“John, I think you should go.” Sherlock said, breaking up our little domestic.
“I should go? You don’t even know this girl who comes here with a bullet in her arm? She’s a liar who feels nothing!” John shouted, before storming out of the flat. I looked towards the entry way, flinching when I heard the door slam shut downstairs.
“Why?” I asked, not looking at the man.
“Why what?” he asked, sounding distracted. I looked toward him, seeing he was flipping through a book without a care in the world.
“Why’d you do that? You should be kicking me out, not him.” I said, shaking my head.
“He has some place to go. You? Do not.” He said.
I nodded my head, and glanced down at my arm once more. I sighed, and pulled my hair up into a bun. “You don’t seem surprised that I was alive, you don’t even seem phased that a supposed dead girl shows up on your doorstep claiming to be John’s sister.” I said.
“That’s because my brother told me about you when I met John. That he comes with baggage. Your death gave my brother’s idea for me to die and go into hiding when Moriarty was around. He knew it would work.” Sherlock said.
“Because it worked with me.” I said.
“Obviously.” He said. I rolled my eyes, and looked around once more.
“My room is down the hall, feel free to use it. I tend to sleep in here, if I do sleep.” Sherlock said. I looked at him shocked.
“So you’re just letting me stay here? No questions asked?” I verified.
“My brother is not a stupid man. He wouldn’t go through that much trouble to help a girl who isn’t clever. You are useful. Your talents and skill.” He said.
“So I’m just a tool?” I asked.
“Is that a problem?” he asked, arching an eyebrow. I scoffed.
“Of course not.” I said before gathering my belongings then went down the hall, finding the room I was directed to.
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the resounding consensus reached by everyone sherlock knew seemed to be that it simply wasn't fair. it wasn't fair for him to put them through this. it wasn't fair for him to let them mourn and weep and recover. it wasn't fair for him to return after two years and act as if nothing was amiss. there were the people that knew, of course, who waited his return expectantly, and sherlock wished he could say roman was one of them. out of everyone, it may have been roman sherlock wanted to tell the most. john, yes, but john was clearly strong. john, sherlock knew, would deal and continue. roman was a different story. sherlock knew that out of everyone, roman would take this the hardest.
that was why he waited so long to book a flight to america. three days, in fact, after his return went public. sherlock had a new number, no way for roman to reach him, and that gave him hope. he knocked on the door three times, quickly, just like he always did. there was the chance that roman wouldn't answer. sherlock knew how roman had been after his mother died and sherlock hoped that wasn't the case. he couldn't bring himself to ask mycroft. he waited another moment, and then the door opened, and there he was. roman, messy hair drawn up into a bun, jaw and chin covered in three-day-old stubble. sherlock exhaled, nodding slowly. he considered reaching out for a hug, but only got as far as a slight movement of his hand. he dropped his gaze to his feet.
he searched for words but found none. what was there to say? 'sorry, hi, not dead. want to blow something up?' or maybe, 'i really fooled you. it was a killer prank.' nothing seemed sufficient. he was flooded with relief yet still felt choked. maybe it was best if he just left. he moved one foot back, intent on turning around. he was unable to continue. he took a breath, opened his mouth, then thought better of it. he looked roman over, moving from his feet to his head, taking what he could from what he could see. he hadn't woken up long ago. he hadn't been to the lab in a few days. three days. it was three days since the news hit that sherlock was back. something clicked and he couldn't keep quiet anymore, breaking the silence abruptly.
“ if you weren't home, i would have gone to the lab. you didn't have to stay home to wait for me, roman. ”
( @geniusmiind )
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Where's the Crime? (The One Where He Put a Ring on It)
written for day 7 of @sherlollyappreciationweek
“Molly, I need you to come to Belair House on Gallery Road,” Sherlock told her over the phone. Excitable voices in the background had him shushing them with his hand whilst he was on the line.
“I’m kinda in the middle of something, Sherlock, can’t this wait?” Molly was not, in fact, in the middle of anything. She was lounging on her sofa, watching crap telly. It had been four months since the phone call, and they’d only just begun to go back to their usual ways, aside from the fact Sherlock was more…well, attentive. At least with her, he was.
“It’s very important—I can’t say why, but I promise you it is,” he assured her, mentally slapping himself for using the same words from four months ago. “Molly, what I mean to say is—“ he stopped short, pausing for the correct thing to say—“I need you here. I quite literally can’t do this without you.”
“I suppose the case is a ten then?” she asked, getting up, and slipping on her flats.
“May even be an eleven,” he said softly. The unusual tone made her suspicious, but of what, she hadn’t a clue.
“Alright, I’m on my way.” Heading out the door, Molly hoped this wouldn’t be an utter waste of her time.
Molly gave the cab driver the full address Sherlock had given her, and he even offered to pay for the trip there, as it was a bit far. Who was she to argue? When the cab pulled up to her destination, she saw the beautiful Georgian manor come into view. Though located in the city, it gave the feel of being in the countryside. What crime could’ve possibly been committed here? She wondered.
“Ah, Miss Hooper, please, follow me,” Mycroft Holmes had appeared outside to greet her, and handed the cab driver the money. He was dressed to the nines as if a very important event was in place here before all hell broke loose. Upon entering the manor, Molly found the room filled with the small, but wonderful group of mutual friends that she and Sherlock shared. His parents were there as well, which confused her all the more.
“I don’t understand.” Molly’s breathing was uneven. “There’s no crime?”
“Darling,” Sherlock began, “the only crime committed was that I hadn’t come to my senses sooner.” Darling? What? “We’ve wasted so much time already, and I swear to you, Molly Hooper, that I would love nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with you, if you’ll have me?” With that, he knelt down on one knee, revealing a beautiful, vintage rose gold engagement ring. “If you say yes, I have it all set for us to get married today.”
“This is…this is…” she broke down into tears, overwhelmed by it all.
“Now, see what you’ve done,” Mrs. Holmes scolded him. “You’ve gone and upset the poor dear.”
“I’m fine, Mrs. Holmes, thank you, I just—isn’t this a bit fast?” she asked.
“Molly,” Sherlock chuckled, “I believe we’ve already gone the slow route. This is me attempting to make up for lost time. You know I love you. I told you that I meant it, and though you said you couldn’t believe it to be true, this was the only way. You’re killing me, darling.”
“I didn’t even bring a dress,” she laughed. This was crazy.
“Oh, not to worry,” Mary smiled. “I may have secretly borrowed one from your closet.”
Sherlock, still on his knee, looked as if he was losing his confidence with each beat of her heart.
“Yes!” she shouted. “Of course I’ll marry you, you sneaky bugger!” It took a moment for her answer to process in his mind, but he then jumped up and picked her up in his arms, twirling her around. The sound of her laughter was music to his ears.
“Okay, I need to help our bride get ready,” Mary told Sherlock, shooing him away. “Crazy how your first real kiss is going to be the one that seals your marriage.”
The dress that Mary took from her closet was a modest, white spring dress with a lace overlay. It was simple, but oh so lovely, and complimented her petite frame. Needless to say, when she walked down the aisle, with Greg on her arm to give her away, Sherlock’s smile was the brightest she’d ever seen. Mary had done a nice job sweeping her hair up into a chignon bun, and only applying eyeliner to make her eyes pop. The white heels she wore were also ‘secretly borrowed’ from her closet.
They said their vows, straight from the heart, and I do’s, leading them to the reception. Their first dance was to a violin composition he had created for her. When, after a couple of hours, it eventually became too much, making it hard to breathe, Molly headed toward the terrace to get some fresh air. The inky black sky was full of stars, sparkling in the distance.
“Mrs. Holmes, are you alright?” Sherlock’s baritone reverberated through her.
“Oh, wow,” she breathed. “That’ll take some getting used to. I just needed some air is all.”
“I am sorry for overwhelming you,” he told her. “When I realised you wouldn’t believe me when I told you I loved you, I knew I’d just have to show you.”
“No need to apologise,” she assured him. “This has been the best day of my life.”
Sherlock took her in his arms, and kissed her lips softly. “How about we sneak away to our room to have the best night of our lives?” His voice had gone deeper, his tone conveying his meaning quite clearly. So clearly, in fact, heat was already beginning to pool in her abdomen.
“Let’s go then!” she spoke with enthusiasm, proud of the chuckle she elicited from him. She was sure they wouldn’t be missed. Mary would figure it out, and keep everyone distracted. And, oh yes! It was delightful night indeed.
Molly’s Dress a.k.a. My Dress (excuse my messy hair, but I needed to get a good photo of this dress lol)
Ao3
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Heart (Sherlock x sister!reader)
Based on a song by Meg Myers, Heart Heart Head
(So I ended up writing a fanfic anyway! And I am so happy about it!) Reader is basically Eurus, I never know is it really Euros or Eurus, but never mind that, but just this time you as Sherlock’s sister, are no a secret. Sherlock is well aware of your present, but what he doesn’t know is that you have been transferred to Sherrinford because of mental illness, depression mostly. He hears from Mycroft, when he is finally ready to tell him, that you have been there, locked down for a year or so. Sherlock of course wants to visit you. ALSO reader is the youngest, unlike Eurus. AND sorry, Mycroft is a bit of an ass in this, not intendedly, maybe. (forgot the tags here like in every other ones...) @dekahg
Warnings: Angst, depression
He was furious. How could Mycroft hide something like this from him? How could he be so heatless, no, he could, but this was their sister. Their sister! Both of them were related to her and still Mycroft took it upon himself to be the only one to know, the only one to carry such weight on his shoulders. And he had kept this to himself by a year. If it hadn’t been Sherlock himself that had started to pester Mycroft on how he couldn’t get a hold of their sister, how he hadn’t heard of her and asked for the big brother to track her down, and no, not just a note would do it, he’d need to see their sister, that she was okay and in one piece. This led to Mycroft finally coming clean, informing that their sister, their baby sister, (Y/n) Holmes, had been turned in for a mental hospital that Mycroft had her transferred to. To Sherrinford.
Sherlock had insisted meeting his sister right there and then after their loud argument, which Mycroft had tried to decline, but of course, if Sherlock wanted in, he would just go. It was much easier to just let him instead of fighting him further on. Mycroft would only waste his time and end with the same solution with just letting him go. He did warn his little brother nonetheless, of how unstable and messed up their sister was and that she was still resisting the treatment she got. Sherlock would be to face something that would break his nonexistent heart.
To Sherrinford was a long way to go. Only a plain or a ship would go there, over the ocean in middle of nowhere. Sherlock didn’t care how long the trip would take, he only wanted to get there and see his sister. He didn’t believe there could be any way to bring his sister down so bad that she’d need to be hospitalized and medicated. A girl born to the Holmes family wouldn’t be to quit on life and flight. No, that wasn’t the (Y/n) Sherlock knew. Mycroft was just overreacting. Had to be.
The building was just as Mycroft described. Almost entirely hidden under a rocky mountain and miles deep. It seemed secure, but more than just bit too much to keep away just one girl, their sister to be exact.
The stairs down took ages and so did the elevators. Sherlock had to go through countless of locked and secured doors, being examined many times to be clean of all weapons or objects that could harm anyone. He started to grow fed up by this constant checking and became eager to see just how bad you were if it was this well secured place. There were nurses passing by, two doctors by far and countless of guards. To keep an eye on a Holmes this had to be a way to do it.
As if the last door, the finale door that stood in Sherlock’s way separating him from his beloved sister wasn’t enough to make Sherlock anxious, the nurse that had escorted him to the door would make sure to do it. She held her keycard next to the door, not yet opening it, and turned to Sherlock with a serious but calm look. Her hair had been pulled to a tight bun, no loose strands hanging to shield her tired face, her pale lips turned to a frown that was easy to spot even if she fought against it. ”Just be calm, she doesn’t take it well even when Mycroft visits her and it is a bit of a struggle to calm her down after that.” She explained but did nothing to yet open the door. As if she didn’t want to let anyone in there. ”She doesn’t much care about visitors.” Was the last thing she said as she sighed and let the keycard hit the machine. When the door started ringing, informing it was unlocked, the nurse pushed it open and let Sherlock in.
The room was huge. It was lit with white lights and the walls were neutral grey, matching the floor that didn’t give away colors. The way how depressingly dead the room looked, just a bed in the center of the room aside of a toilet, all surrounded by thick glass walls, and in there, right beside the bed, was (h/l) (h/c) haired girl in a white gown.
By the sound of the door closing and locking again the girl lifted her gaze, those wide, fearful but alert (e/c) eyes found Sherlock’s in a second. She was sitting on the floor, her legs crossed, but when she saw Sherlock she moved to get up right instant and Sherlock could make out from the raspy whisper she let out that she said his name, in awe. She took careful and slow steps closer to the glass and so did Sherlock. He still couldn’t put two and two together, not really wanting to believe his little sister was here, in an awful place like this.
”You came?” She whispered with a cracking voice, tears forming in the corners of her eyes as she approached him. She couldn’t believe Sherlock was there, finally. She had pleaded to see him from Mycroft so many times that the older brother had declined to even visit her himself. For some reason he insisted on Sherlock keeping away from her when she was still recovering. How stupid was that?
Sherlock didn’t know what to say, he was speechless as he stared at the mess of a sister in front of him. The hair was a mess, she looked tired and not well. She looked nothing like the innocent and happy (Y/n) he once knew.
”I thought you would come for me.” She snapped sadly as she didn’t get an answer. ”You are so alike. You and Mycroft.” Her voice dripped of venom and her expression changed to anger. ”You come here to watch me, like a goldfish in a fish tank, just to see me and keep me here locked down. Am I such a disappointment that I had to be caged in here so no one could see me?” There was no sense on what she was saying by now. Where did her bad self-esteem come from?
”I thought you, from all the people, would come and see me! I thought you would understand, Sherlock! I was always on your side and I always held your back and I waited for you! I thought you would come and get me out of here! Mycroft locked me in and I thought you had the heart to see through him, that he is lying, I am kept here for nothing!” She was yelling, she was still approaching ever so slowly, the glass, but now her movement resembled of a predator. ”Say something, Sherlock!”
”I didn’t know.” He finally got out. He was lost for words and he couldn’t comprehend with what was going on. ”I didn’t know you were here until now.” He tried convincing, but his words didn’t reach you, not in a way he intended.
”You had all the time in the world to come and get me and you did, but here you are, just like Mycroft, staring at me! I let you in! I cared for you and I, from all the people, counted on you! I let you in my heart! In my heart! In my heart! In my head!” The scream that erupted from her was deafening. She pulled at her hair, maniacally screaming bloody murder until her legs gave in, only half way through her room and almost right in front of Sherlock. The scream would hunt Sherlock forever.
”(Y/n).” Sherlock whispered and almost shocked by holding in all the pain inside. ”(Y/n), please, calm down.” He tried and took a step closer to the glass. ”Please, I’m here now. I will get you out. I promise.” But she didn’t listen. She turned around and curled up, her hands on either side of her head, her back facing Sherlock. She took in a deep breath and screamed again, a long howl echoing in the room, but it was starting to mute in Sherlock’s head as he started to realize how unstable you really were.
”(Y/n) please.” He begged, his hand placed on the glass as he stood right beside it. ”I would never leave you here.” He couldn’t help the tears that started falling. His voice was cracking and becoming raspy, his talk turning into whispers that were barely heard by himself and doubtfully able to catch his sisters ears.
Under the chaos that slowed everything around Sherlock he was unable to realize that the door on the other side of the glass wall had opened and numerous of nurses rushed in. (Y/n) only screamed louder and this time it was pure panic. She moved on the floor uncomfortably and tried to dodge the hands of the nurses as they took hold of her, she cried and screamed. The distress she was going through made Sherlock’s heart break, and he found himself yelling and begging the nurses to let go, that it was okay.
”Please, she’s just confused! Can’t you see she is terrified?” He yelled but they wouldn’t listen to him. One of the nurses pulled out a needle and the screams only became worse. ”Stop! Let her go, she is fine!” Sherlock kept trying, but nothing he said had effect on what was happening on the other side of the see through glass. When the screams died down, now only there was to hear (Y/n)’s sobbing and crying as she was taken away from her room and Sherlock found himself leaning against the wall, taking support from it as his legs gave in. ”Don’t take her away…” Sherlock cried.
He cried where his knees had given in, leaning against the glass, doubled over. He didn’t even move when the door behind him opened, not caring to turn and see Mycroft walking in and stopping couple feet away from him.
”She doesn’t trust us anymore, Sherlock.” Mycroft said with a sad frown, unseen by Sherlock but still existing. ”She blames us for her situation.” His eyes drifted to the ground in shame, he did blame himself for not being there for (Y/n) too, and it pained him how he couldn’t bring himself to see her anymore. The screaming was too much for him. He tried to savor the memory of you he held dear to his heart. Those childhood memories that he shared with Sherlock of (Y/n).
”We should have been there.” Sherlock mumbled. ”We could have stopped this from happening. She needed us, and we weren’t there.”
”We had our reasons. She knows it.” Mycroft said but only for his composure. He really didn’t feel like it, but for his pride was too high to let his emotions show and so he instinctively went by hiding his true meaning. ”It has always been up to us each and our own to keep sanity, pity she had to come down from us three. I always thought it would be you though.” Mycroft said and turned to leave.
”You are going to keep her here?” Sherlock asked which made Mycroft stop.
”Yes.” The older brother nodded. ”It is the safest place for her, she is a Holmes after all.” And he continued leaving, only at the door he stopped to look over his shoulder, ”And Sherlock, please don’t come visit her again. I don’t want to risk her healing progress by our sentiment and pity on her by coming over here only so we can live in peace knowing she is alive. It is better for her too if we stay away.” And he waited for the door to start ringing before adding, ”She doesn’t need us anymore.”
#sherlock x reader#sherlock holmes x reader#sister!reader#sister!reader x sherlock#sherlock#sherlock holmes#sherlock imagines#sherlock holmes imagines#mycroft holmes#not my gif
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THE CASE OF THE NOT SO SECRET VALENTINE- Johnlock fic
February 19th, 2019
Haven’t written in my blog for a while but I felt like now was a good time to start it up again. You see, the strangest thing happened to me.I received a Valentine’s card in the post six days ago. A Valentine’s card from my three year old daughter. A Valentine’s card in a red envelope. It had little love heart stickers dotted all over it and pink glitter spelling out my name.Now Rosie’s pretty smart ( for a three year old). Even Sherlock thinks she has masses of potential. He tells me that all the time. However, she still hasn’t mastered the art of formally posting a letter. She also doesn’t usually address me as John. Someone therefore had to have helped her to make and post the Valentine’s card in question. The list of suspects for me to choose from was very limited.
Mrs Hudson
Molly
Greg
Sherlock
The Pope
The Queen
Mycroft…
This is the order I questioned them in. Just joking….I never bothered asking Mycroft.
Every one of the real suspects provided good reasons/alibis as to why it wasn’t them. All except one.
Can you guess which one?
When I got round to questioning suspect number four, he ( like the rest of them) was adamant that it simply wasn’t him. He casually suggested that it must have been ‘Hudders’ and she’d just forgotten in her old age. Well, he actually blamed something else entirely but I don’t want to repeat that here! Let’s just say he blamed her pressure point and leave it at that! Anyway, after Sherlock started frantically finger pointing in everyone else’s direction, I knew for definite that it was him.So I lied to him.I lied to the worlds only consulting detective and he fell for it hook, line and sinker. I told him that I had Greg (Lestrade) run the card for fingerprints. His face! His actual face when I said that! He actually asked me if Rosie’s finger prints were in the police system! When I started laughing he didn’t join in. He was being serious.
When I think about it, I don’t know why I asked the others first. It should have been obvious who helped Rosie from the moment the postman handed me the card. Sherlock’s always doing arts and crafts with her. He secretly loves glitter. Mrs Hudson is forever moaning about the amounts of glitter being sucked up into the good Hoover. Sometimes I’ll get in after a long hard shift at the surgery and when I enter Baker Street, there they are, my daughter and the ‘mad man’, lying there on the sofa, sprawled out, their exhausted sleeping faces caked in all the sparkling colours of the rainbow.
The last time Rosie and Sherlock had the paints out, Mycroft had shown up unexpectedly. Rosie accidentally tipped a red paint pot over his fancy shoes and Sherlock gave her a biscuit as a reward. When Rosie toddled over to Mycroft with the splatter painting she had made and offered it to him ( her version of a sincere apology) Sherlock just glared at him until Mycroft reluctantly accepted it. Sherlock took his hesitation as a personal insult to my daughter’s artistic abilities. God help Rosie’s future teachers! I could only laugh as Sherlock demanded that his brother leave, whilst mumbling something under his breath about the painting being better than some of the pretentious rubbish Mycroft had on his walls at home. Funny because it’s actually true!
Anyway, you might still be wondering what happened after my finger print lie forced a confession from Sherlock.He was affronted about the whole situation obviously. Couldn’t look me in the eye. I was (admittedly) being quite wicked about the whole thing.I really enjoyed making him squirm. However, as he gradually became more uncomfortable, I almost felt bad…almost…
I asked him why he had written John on the front of the card. He looked at me with utter confusion before stating that it was in actual fact my name and what else would he possibly have put.When I reminded him that Rosie’s name for me is dad, he looked even more affronted.When I questioned him on his use of pink glitter he became incredulous.These were his actual words…direct quote……
“Really, John! Can you give your daughter no credit for this situation? It was the colour she chose when I asked her to pick one for you. She also helped me sprinkle it. If you don’t believe me then have Gavin dust the glitter tube for fingerprints.Surely, as my willing accomplice, Rosie must take her share of the blame in this!I don’t know why this has grown into such a big issue.Why this card annoys you so much. It was meant to make you smile. You have been so sad recently and I concluded it was because you missed having companionship in your life, as you stopped dating after Mary and it’s been three years.I researched this extensively before deciding on the best course of action.A card on an occasion like this, from ones child, is meant to make the recipient feel valued, appreciated and loved.It is not meant to make them launch a full scale inquiry!Does it disturb you because I made an error and wrote John?I’m sorry for the Freudian slip but perhaps I was trying to remind you that Rosie is not the only person left on this earth that deeply loves and values you.”
Amazing that he can remember what he says word for word really,otherwise I couldn’t have put this in the blog. I was too busy having a complete moment of clarity/internal crisis , to pay full attention to what he was saying.There he was, standing there pleading his case like an accused would to the jury, and all I could think about was that he had just admitted how much he loved and valued me.
It worried me that he actually thought I was viewing the whole situation negatively. He couldn’t see how absolutely moved I was that he’d taken the time to help my daughter do something like that for me. Nobody else had even thought of doing that. For all of their goodness, friendship and humanity, not one of my other friends realised that I was getting to a point were I actually needed to be reminded that I was loved. Not one person except Sherlock Holmes understood that.
Sherlock was standing there giving his big drama queen spiel and all I could think about, was if he knew exactly how much he was loved and valued. Did he know that everything he had done ( particularly in the last three years) was appreciated. The man who stayed up all night and shot holes in the wall, was now ( mostly) going to bed at reasonable hours so he could get up and give Rosie her breakfast in the morning if I had to work a nightshift. The man who had eyeballs in his fridge and forensic slides everywhere, suddenly had spaces full of stuffed toys in his living room and he had willingly put them there.The man who would spend hours on his science of deduction website was now cutting it short to watch YouTube videos about sewing, cooking and how to do braiding, buns and French plaits.I suddenly, in that moment, needed him to know how much he was appreciated for all of that. The only problem with that plan was that there was no time to find the pink glitter and Rosie was down for her afternoon nap. So I had to improvise. I had been moving steadily closer to him during his rant and was mere inches from him when insanity finally took over.
I kissed him.
My lips merged with his, my arms wrapped around his back and I clung on for dear life, fearing that this would be the one and only time I would be permitted to completely open myself up and to show this man exactly what he meant to me. To show him the depth of feeling that he could stir in me at the most unexpected of moments.
As the lustful haze from my wreck less decision cleared, and just before the guilt of my actions began to form, I fully expected to be pushed away and reprimanded for selfishly violating him and his trust.I expected to be looked at indifferently and told in no uncertain terms that he was still married to his work. I did not expect his hands to find their way to my neck, or his tongue to be the one to push itself into my mouth. I imagined the noises from him to be protests rather than the guttural and raw moans of my name filling my ears in bursts of pink glitter. I never expected his body to be completely receptive to my touch and willing to press itself so intimately and tightly against my own. I expected it to be over in 30 seconds, not reaching well over five minutes of nervous fumbling and slow caresses.
When we finally did manage to prise ourselves apart, the room was filled with stunned silence. Neither of us had saw this coming. We spent a good five mins just catching our breaths and staring at one another, trying to work out how we had ended up at this point. It was Sherlock who broke the silence first. He started laughing.He was laughing the way he had done in our very first night together. It felt surreal.It wasn’t the time for laughing, not really.We were the dearest of friends. Our lives together and what we did with them mattered to a great many people. We had just decided to gamble with those lives and things weren’t ever going to be the same again. How could they be? No matter how much we would try and convince ourselves, we had just drew a very final line under the last ten years. What happened from now on would be a new beginning. It had to be. I didn’t feel like laughing was the appropriate response to that. Confusion and being scared shitless was the appropriate response to that. However, Sherlock’s laughter filled the room around us.It was infectious.I began to laugh as well.It was ridiculous.We should have been talking.We should have been working through what just happened.Instead we were standing in the kitchen of 221B Baker Street laughing our heads off.We had nearly ripped the clothes from each other’s backs, that how passionate we had gotten only ten mins before, and now we were standing at a distance with our laughs mingling in the air between us.
We didn’t have the talk that night.
Mrs Hudson appeared to tell us that Lestrade had tried to phone several times but there was no answer. That’s when the laughing quickly stopped. The game was on. We could never discuss this whilst the game was on.
Two days later and the case was solved.We still hadn’t talked about what happened in our kitchen.I went straight to the clinic after we left the crime scene and Sherlock agreed to go home and see to Rosie.It was a further 16 hours before I entered Baker Street again.
A similar and comforting sight met me when I emerged from the entrance of the flat into the living room.There was Sherlock lying sprawled on the couch, cradling Rosie in his arms.Face full of glitter.Faint scratch on his neck from were I had clawed a bit too possessively two nights before. The scene felt normal and abnormal all at the same time.
I made my way into the kitchen and was met with a tea tray of biscuits, a vase with a single red rose and a red envelope with dad/John written on it.Intrigued, I opened it and this is what was inside…
Dear Dad,
Sherlock helped me to make the last card because he felt that it was very important that you know how much I love and appreciate you. I think that you are the most wonderful father and that you have a very fetching name.Thats why I asked him to help me sprinkle it in pink glitter on the card.
However, this card is not from me. I am just helping Sherlock write it because he’s useless with feelings. After discussing it with him, I’ve come to the conclusion that he is completely in love with you. Has been for years.He was just too scared to admit it to himself up until now.He wants to spend the rest of his life with you. He doesn’t want to waste anymore time. He knows this changes everything and he’s glad of it.Quite frankly ( if you want my opinion and Hudders opinion regarding this situation) you’ve been living with one another for years anyway, so you both might as well get some sex from this situation. What do you say?
Love Rosie x
P.s if you agree to this then come into the living room and wake Sherlock up with a kiss.
I started laughing again.I started laughing again and then I kissed him.
Why have I bothered to tell you all this? It’s not a real case after all.So why have I chosen this very intimate story about our lives together, to be the first thing I’ve blogged about for years? Well, It’s because I think it’s about time that the world knew the secret that’s been kept for a very long time. The Secret of Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock Holmes is so much more than the legend that’s been built up around him by myself and the media.The Valentine’s story is a symbol of who he really is.The heart as well as the brain. Not a freak, not a sociopath. Sherlock Holmes is the man who commands the whole of Scotland Yard one moment and then covers himself in pink glitter the next, all because my daughter demands it. Sherlock Holmes is the man who prides himself on being the smartest person in the room, but will mortify himself at the drop of a hat, all to show me that I am loved.
That’s who he really is.
I am so grateful that is who he really is.
I love him because that is who he really is.
—————————————————————————————-
“What do you think?
Sherlock had been perched on the seat next to John the whole time he was reading his blogger’s newest creation. The only indication of how affected he was came from the roughness of his voice when he finally decided to reply.
“Thank you John.Thank you.Though always remember that I would be nothing without my blogger.”
Sherlock bent down and kissed John on the head before deciding to speak again.
“You know you can’t actually post it though, don’t you.”
John shut the laptop over and sat it next to them on the couch.He turned to Sherlock and worryingly pulled the younger man’s hand into his own.
“Why not?”
Sherlock began to slowly run his fingers up and down John’s wrist as he traced circles on his skin.It reminded him of all the times previously that their hands had touched.In friendship, tragedy, anger and love. He was eventually pulled out of his thoughts by the soldier who was nervously licking his lips whilst impatiently staring at him.
“Mary was right, John .Who we really are, doesn’t matter. Not to them.Not to the ones outside Baker Street that read about our cases and sit in our client’s chairs.The only people it matters to are us, our friends and our Rosie.What you have just written is truly wonderful to me but …”
“it’s private…”
“Yes, John…”
“Okay, Sherlock. Okay.I won’t publish it.”
John lifted his laptop, opened the tab and began typing a sentence before clicking a button on the computer that allowed the draft copy of his blog to start printing. It was now Sherlock’s turn to wait patiently for John to explain what he was doing.
“Before I delete it from existence, I’m firstly going to print it out, frame it and put it in our bedroom. For our eyes only.It’s my valentine’s gift to you.”
Sherlock excitedly pulled the paper from the printer and couldn’t help but notice an obvious change to the piece that he had read only moments before.
“You changed the title, John”
“Yes. Seemed more fitting.”
“The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes.That might be your best case title yet, John!”
John grabbed Sherlock by the hand and began leading him towards their bedroom.
“Let’s go pick a spot for this.”
“Could take a while, Doctor Watson.There are a few positions I would like to test out
‘Oh,believe me, I’m counting on that, Mr.Holmes.”
HAPPY EARLY VALENTINE’S DAY, JOHNLOCKERS! Don’t stop believing!
#sherlock#johnlock#the johnlock conspiracy#johnlock fanfic#johnlock fluff#johnlock ficlet#tjlc is real#tjlc#tjlc forever#tinhatting#john watson#sherlock holmes
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