#Sherlock Holmes x OFC
Text
Wails of Wedded Bliss
Chapter 6 || Masterlist || Chapter 8
Chapter Summary: Upon meeting the Baroness you are enamoured by her devotion.
Pairing: Sherlock Homes x wife!reader
Chapter Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, (No Smut), typical historical misogyny and sexism, mentions and discussion on miscarriages. Implied domestic abuse and infidelity.
Word Count: 9k
Author Notes: This is an important but rather sad chapter. I beseech you all to read the warnings. The details of this chapter are important to the plot of the missing Baron Thaddeus Pennicott.
Inspiring Song: "Flightless Bird American Mouth" by Vitamin String Quartet
8:30am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England.
Sherlock tucked your arm into his side as you three entered the Groveland house foyer. The floor was made of fine marble tile and with ever step a light echo raced down the halls.
The inspector called upon a nearby dusting maid to fetch the head of the house. Who returned was a thin and tall man in a butler’s uniform with a sliver pocket watch hanging from his chest. His hair was the colour of autumn leaves and his face littered in freckles.
He bowed, “I am mister Edward Redmayne, head butler of the Groveland estate, how may I assist you?”
The inspector shook his hand and stated quickly, “We spoke on the telephone yesterday? A telegraph was sent.”
The butler smiled with a relieving gasp, “Detective Holmes?”
Lestrade sheepishly looked over his shoulder to you and your husband. He nodded. His expression wore a emotion of embarrassment mixed with annoyance. Perhaps he was jealous of your husband’s successful published case stories. You wished you could have told the constable not to fret as Sherlock was nothing short of a arrogant mule...yet again- the mark on his face...he probably already knew that.
8:42am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England.
Upon meeting the lady of the house, you stood frigid by your husband. You felt somewhat self conscious by her grey eyes that lingered over your dress. Perhaps you should’ve worn your Sunday best before meeting a woman of such a high status.
The baroness was unmistakably pregnant. Her belly was bold and rounded beneath her maternity gown. She had been sitting calmly on a resting chaise, knitting a small bonnet for her future child. Her hands were covered in fine burgundy velvet gloves to match her modest dress.
Her face was framed by a light brown curls, that appeared almost white in some places, twisted into a bum at the base of her neck. Her pale face was blotchy with pink flecks and slight acne.
“Lady Pennicott, I am Inspector Braydon Lestrade of Scotland Yard,” the British officer proclaimed as he bowed dramatically forward. You withheld a girlish giggle by how low the man had bent his head and presented himself foolishly, and from the corner of your eye you manage to catch the whisp of Sherlock’s smirk.
The inspector waved his arm behind him and moved aside, “-and with me is Detective Sherlock Holmes and his wife, Mrs Holmes.”
You produced the baroness a respectable curtsy, your eyes glued down to the beautifully patterned carpet. You wondered how the servants could keep it so clean and freshly unstained by dirty guests.
It must have been new.
The baroness shuffled her knitting needles and ball of woollen yarn into a Whicker basket and disposed of it beside her.
A slow stretching smile graced her thin lips as she spoke to you, “Oh, are you the little dear who solved that factory match girl incident?”
You weren’t sure how to answer her question. You weren’t entirely sure what the baroness was referencing until Sherlock stepped closer with your arm still cradled in his.
“No dear Baroness,” Sherlock pat your hand gently, “That would have been my sister Enola Holmes, she has her own detective office at present moment. My wife is here on my invitation. I wished to gift her a sight of the grand park and estate while I was here upon duty.”
The Baroness cocked her head, from her ears hung pearls that swung and hung like rain drops.
“Come forth dear,” she lifted her hand and beckoned you, “I would like to have better view of you.”
You wondered if she could smell the sweat beginning to drop down the back of your neck. You bit your tongue and tried to refrain from trembling. You were nervous. Her eyes were cold but her smile warm, two conflating details that you couldn’t understand. The last thing you needed now on top of a terrible start to your marriage was to be scrutinized by a haughty pregnant baroness.
She flickered your fingers for you to bend down to her. As you leant down, you swore you could smell copper, a metalic scent. A vein on your scalp pulsed. She scanned your face of its details. You dared to wonder what she was searching for. And then it clicked...the smell...
‘Dear god, you prayed, please don’t let her smell my blood, please let this not be my blood...’
You should have sprits on some perfume before leaving baker street.
She glanced behind you and questioned angelically, “How does it feel having such a clever husband?”
Your lips opened and closed. You resembled a fish. You were stumped to answer quickly.
‘Miserable, infuriating, torturous, pleasurable mixed with a cup of agony...’
She lifted her brows until you hurriedly blurted, “He is...formidable and righteous...” you stood up tall and took a step back, adding with a monetarism of truth, “I am very lucky to have become his bride.”
‘Lucky, while incredibly resentful.’
You reached back, Sherlock adopted your arm back into his hold once more.
Lady Pennicott rubbed her belly, her eyes started to twinkle, “And soon you will have a plethora of children that will look like him I gather.”
Your eyes fluttered. Sherlock’s hand tightened around your glove and his throat bobbed. You felt hot in the face.
Yes that’s right, that’s what normal husband and wife did isn’t it? They have children. That was your role, to be the mother of Sherlock’s offspring...
You couldn’t answer.
And there. That dear girl is when you questioned for the first time. ‘Is this what I want?’ and ‘Do I want Sherlock’s children.’ Because having a knowing of his barbarism conflated a fear in your belly...would Sherlock hurt his own children if he could easily hurt you, his wife?
When you hesitated for too long to answer her again, Sherlock said with a strained tone that was masked in a hopeful joy, “One may only hope, Baroness.”
“Lady Pennicott,” Graydon interrupted, “We have come to ask you on the whereabouts of Lord Pennicott and the evening he was last sighted.”
Her eyes narrowed at the inspector and with an annoyed twinge she muttered and wiped her hands on a nearby blanket, “I already informed the police of what I was informed of by our butler Edward.”
She glanced up next her right. Mister Redmayne observed her, looking down. The pair smiled to each other. She reached out to him. She grabbed his hand and they squeezed.
The inspector laughed nervously, “Indeed but Detective Sherlock Holmes was not presently involved in the case until yesterday.”
Her eyes flickered quickly to your husband and her face flared with confusion quickly to be matched with a impressed smile, “Of course, please sit all of you as I am near a indisposition with my child,” she gestured to the mirroring chaise and a chair beside the fireplace, “Edward, please tell Martha to bring tea and biscuits for our kind service men and Mrs Holmes.”
The butler bowed to you all and left the sitting room.
Lestrade took his place on the lone chair while Sherlock sat you beside him on the chaise. You took your time to lower yourself. Sitting on your bruises was uncomfortable while another cramp hit you. Your fingers dug into his palm.
From Lestrades breast pocket he pulled out a notebook and small pencil.
“Lady Pennicott,” Sherlock softly hummed, “Please, could you tell me what your husband is like as a person?”
The woman who you believed was in her late thirties smiled and stated softly, “My Thaddeus is a noble man, good taste in wine and very devoted to his work. He likes to go hunting and we share a passion for gardening,” she glanced up at the ceiling and paused, “He prefers to plant vegetables to donate to the church and orphans, whereas I have always loved to grow my flowers.”
The way she described him, her devotion was deep and honourable. She touched her round belly.
Sherlock looked over to the fire place behind the baroness. On the mantle was a magnificent portrait twice your height, painted on the canvas was who you recognised as Lord and Lady Pennicott. He was sitting up straight on a fine red cushioned chair with his dirty blonde hair and softened mutton chops while she stood at his right and her ringed hand on his shoulder. The similarities were there but Lady Pennicotts hair had lightened in reality perhaps from all the years that separated her likeness and her reality.
“I was informed Lord Pennicott is a father of five?” Sherlock asked.
The Baroness smiled proudly and pat her tummy softly, “Six soon.”
You couldn’t help notice something was missing from the painting, Sherlock also had a similar thought.
Where were the children in the portrait? Where was a family portrait in the house?
“Forgive me,” a breath of air escaped from him, “are the children away at school?”
“Oh,” her uncanny smile remained while her brows angled down, her throat tightened as she spoke, “I fear they are in the loving embrace of angels now. All of them were taken from us by God,” her eyes glanced to you, “They came out sleeping.”
Your heart sunk to the pit of your belly with sorrow and pity.
Five babies lost, five babies gone…five pregnancies… four and a half years of pregnancy and for what? Five angels.
A woman had one holy role in life, to bare her husband children, and when a woman was defective or produced a sickly child, it was a symbol of failure in society. But you never saw it that way...you imagined it must’ve been agony to lose so many babies. One or two was a common occurrence but five? Five was a curse to experience and relive over and over.
“Well,” you interrupted Sherlock rudely, cutting him off from his next abrasive question by squeezing his hand a little too hard.
You could see the mourning in the baroness’ face. You saw the classic look of all women made uncomfortable by something a man has said. What the hell would the detective know about a woman’s emotions after how coldly he has treated all women and yourself.
You shuffled on the opposite chaise and smile softly, “I will pray this one will come swiftly and feel the warmth of their mother.”
The baroness’ face lifted and warmed. She smiled happily and nodded, “Thankyou, oh I’m just so excited! This one really is a big one, I can feel it. I hope it’s a boy.”
Sherlock was staring at you intensely as the maid Martha finally delivered a pot of tea and poured the steaming liquid. His brows were knitted and his eyes held suspicion as he kept you in his sight. You politely nodded your head once at him before reaching for a hot cup and lifting it to your lips.
Sherlock sighed and turned back to his questioning, “You would say you liked your marriage?”
The baroness appeared offended by your husband as her face wrinkled and a sneer spread her thin lips, “Of course, any woman who doesn’t like her marriage should not be married in the first place. She is a burden to her husband if she cannot perform her duties as a wife.”
Lady Pennicott leant forward and collected her own cup of tea, she delicately pinched a biscuit and dunked it into the contents.
…you felt Sherlock drag his thumb across your fingers. You felt chilly, could he read your thoughts? Did he know truly how much you already hated him and his ideas of intimacy in your marriage? He clear his throat when both your glancing eyes caught each other.
“Can you tell me what happened,” Sherlock pressed, “The night of your husbands disappearance?”
“Well...after dinner,” the baroness sighed in thought and nibbled on her moist biscuit, “Thaddeus wanted to speak with me in his office about a spending I had made a week ago. You see, I had bought a cradle for the nursery. The one we had originally was broken and beyond repair, we disposed of it a month prior. Thaddeus was not pleased with the price and claimed it was an unnecessary purchase,” she paused and set her cup aside before she touched her belly again; rubbing in soft slow circles, she began to blushed, “He was sorely hurt by my choice. He then became very cross with me and left his office in a huff.”
She looked to the yarn, to the tea pot and then finally to the painting on the mantle, “I deemed that he would find forgiveness in his heart by the morning and brush it off. I returned back to the nursery to tidy up before I went to my rooms and went to bed to sleep in my quarters of the east wing. Thaddeus keeps himself to the west wing most nights.”
The detective nodded, “What time do you believe it was when you went to your bed, Baroness?”
She hummed softly while pursuing her lips, “A quarter to nine in the evening.”
“And how did you realise your husband was missing?” Sherlock stole a scone off the tea tray and lifted it to his lips. He paused amidst chewing it slowly.
The noble woman sighed and recollected, pragmatically, “In the morning Mr Redmayne informed me on how Thaddeus took off into the night astride Arion, our prize stallion Clydesdale. Thaddeus had not returned by the next morning and that is when concern drew near. I sent members of my staff to the factories to investigate his whereabouts and none had come upon him. I knew something had to be wrong so I alerted the authorities by the second morning.”
Your husband took a deep breath and discarded the half bitten scone, he wiped his hand unceremoniously on his jacket and throatily asked, “Do you recall if Lord Pennicott has any potential persons he might be deemed as an enemy towards?”
“Only his company competitors, Detective,” She said saccharinely with her smile, “He was a very loveable man.”
“Do you have a list of the names of staff who were working that evening here in Groveland House?”
The butler stepped forward and cleared his throat, “That would be in Lord Pennicotts office,” he pulled out a pair of keys, “I can you show you gentlemen in and where he keeps his accounts and other paraphernalia to his business if you’d like?”
Both Sherlock and Lestrade smiled and stood up.
“Baroness,” Sherlock gently requested, “Would it be overly bothersome if my beloved wife remained and kept you company while the inspector and I look in your husband’s office.”
Your heart jumped to your throat. What was Sherlock doing leaving you behind with the Baroness by yourself!?....what if you spoke out of turn or said something too presumptuous for your status!?...
“Most certainly not,” she beamed “I will gladly accept such delightful company,” She held out a hand, palm down to her right. The butler speedily stepped to her side and leant her his hand. She winced as she scooted forward on the cushioned lounge before struggling to rise to her feet.
Sherlock leant down and kissed the back of your wrist again, so scantily in front of the baroness. You tried tor refrain from loudly gasped and bringing anymore dangerous attention to yourself. Your husband left your side and followed the butler with Lestrade out of the sitting room.
So the party turned to two married women. The baroness was pleased.
She stepped closer to you and reached for your arm. You were surprised by her familiarity but you would not deny the assistance of a woman so desperately swollen and ready to birth any day.
“My dear, would you care to have a stroll with me in my garden?” She smirked and jerked her chin, “Knowing how dear Thaddie kept his space organised I suspect the gentlemen might be a while.”
You nodded and quickly made the warning assurance, “Are you in a condition to move great feets Lady Pennicott?”
“Fret not,” She giggled girlishly and waved her hand casually, “The physician told me fresh air is delightful for the health of the babe,” she tapped the top of her belly, “I have a month or so before they come.”
Your eyes widened, she looked huge enough to give birth now, surely she wasn’t a month away!! Maybe she was going to be blessed with a pair of twins. You had such a limited knowledge of pregnancy in women. Your grandmother hadn’t given birthed a child in the last forty years before your birth!!!
She pointed the way out of the main mansion to enter the garden paths. The sun was perfect today amongst the clouds. It was neither cold nor hot nor humid and dank...it was pleasant and you could smell the fresh nature of bushels and flowers.
“How long have you been known as, The Mrs Holmes?” She inquired cheerfully with her shining silver eyes.
“...Not very long,” you replied warmly before risking a white lie, “We recently finished our honeymoon.”
She grinned and waddled passed a wooden bench, she took a quick stop to rest and pat the seat for you to join her instead of standing dumbly.
“Shall I share some words of advise?,” She hummed, “From a woman that has been married for twelve years?”
“I would be ever so grateful,” you said rushed and desperate. You wouldve listened to anything she had to say. A woman of her standing must’ve held adequate wisdom.
She warmly cupped both your hands and squeezed them. And yet there was an ice creepy into her gaze. She appeared to dissociate, her voice losing its youthful lilt. Her lip wobbled slightly.
“Men are visual creatures. While you are so young and beautiful, you must become pregnant as soon as possible,” Lady Pennicott ran her palm across your waist, her eyes like razors cut across the yard to a bush of red rose buds, “It is inevitable that our husbands will stray their gazes to other women, it is in their nature,” those grey stones in her face rolled back and weighed you down, “as I said- visual creatures. The sooner you make a babe, the easier his devotion comes,” A joyous grin returned to her thin lips, she playfully tapped the tip of your nose and stated, “Trust me upon this.”
You clenched your hand behind you and strained a smile, “I thankyou for such wise words Baroness. I will endeavour to do what I must to conceive.”
At this moment in time Sherlock had proved himself a monstrous villain. Would it be possible for you to fall pregnant?
You looked out at the divine lush greenery and exhaled softly.
“Do you garden Mrs Holmes?” the baroness queried.
You chuckled softly and removed your gloves, you flashed her a sight of your palm, “I am afraid my hands have never been introduced. My grandmother preferred I focus on mastering piano and embroidery.”
The grey orbs fluttered back at you with a surprised him, “Embroidery is a lovely skill,” she pat your hand and pointed across the field, “Please help me up Mrs Holmes, let us take a look at my lilacs.”
You stood straight up and leant out your arm, she was surprisingly light for a woman her size. She leant against you and took small timid steps to her flower patches.
She stood and admired the flower patches, pointing to different types and explaining the breeds of flowers she hoped to grow in the future.
You finally bent over enough and cupped the petals of purple to hold up to your nose and took in a wiff “They smell lovely,” from the corner of your eye was a line of crimson, “I see your roses will soon be in bloom.”
She pinched a bud that was peaking to bloom soon.
“Oh yes, the soil is rich and healthy,” she giggled, “I can’t wait for Thaddeus to return, he liked the roses. He would stand here for a while and think. I know he will love the red colour. It is his favourite shade you see...” She sighed dreamily with her eyes scanning the bushes of scarlet rose buds, “I miss him terribly. I hope he’s alright. I want him to come home soon before the baby arrives.”
A fly smacked into your eye and you sputtered, battering it away. When you gracelessly composed yourself, you stood back up to your feet beside the Lady of Groveland.
You could see how her eyes puddles with droplets of mournful tears. You felt bad for any woman that did not know where her husband was. Especially if there was a rumour about him fleeing the marriage and abandoning her in her serious pregnant condition.
Taking the chance, you boldly took both your hands into yours and now squeezed them. Another buzzing from a fly sat on your shoulder.
The day was growing warmer and a bead of sweat rolled down your neck. The fly tickled your neck and suckled along your salted skin.
You tried your best to ignore the annoying creature.
“I am sure he will Lady Pennicott,” you soothed with a soft welcoming grin, “And he will be most happy when he returns.”
She sighed solemnly and glanced back at the rose bushes. You felt obligated for her happiness in that moment. Glancing back to the house you felt a opportunity come to you.
“May I visit your nursery Lady Pennicott, so I may have references for my own in the future?”
Her eyes flickered up, her face shine bright and her hand tightened over your wrists excitedly as though she was still as youthful as a school girl.
“Why of course Mrs Holmes,” she spun on her heel and wobbled a slight, she lifted her hand and called to the maid Martha still packing the china set inside, “Please inform the detective that I am taking his wife up to the nursery.”
“Yes Baroness,” she said with a humble curtsey and scurried off while Lady Pennicott took you totally inside the house and up a grand stair case from the foyer.
9:03am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England.
Up, up, up you both climbed the stairs. You noticed how the stairs didn’t bother her ladyship once, she was fit and stridden widely whereas you were breathing a little hard by the top step.
She pulled you down a hallway to a white painted door.
She excitedly opened the door wide and practically skipped inside to show you around her future child’s room.
The walls were covered in light blue and yellow paint. There were small peonies covering the trim of the room. There was no carpet but who needed one when you had a newborn.
“Welcome to the resting nest of my baby,” Lady Pennicott proudly exclaimed, spreading her arms out at the room around you.
There was a tall shelf filled with stuffed animals and teddy bears. There was a rocking horse, a doll house, spinning tops, tin cars and rubber balls all waiting, collecting dust, awaiting the arrival of a playmate. There was a permabulator by the window sill. There was a rocking chair in one corner and against the wall closest to the door- you smiled and swaggered over curiously, “Is this the cradle you bought?”
It was made of fine cream painted wood. You chewed your bottom lip in the thought. It was a lovely crib, why was Lord Pennicott so upset by such a delightful purchase? He didn’t have money issues. You put it down as that you didn’t understand the way men thought and men will never know what women think.
“Yes,” Lady Pennicott chirped, “it is from William Whitely department store in Baywater next to the Howard & Co dress department.”
The Baroness sat down into her rocking chair and slowly moved it back and forth, watching you admire the nursery she spent hours and years consistently curating.
You clenched the edge and looked over the railing down at the empty bedding. There was a teddy lamb in the corner, you pinched it’s fluffy white tail and sighed. For a brief moment you let your eyes close and your imagination wander far.
One day you’d have this...with Sherlock. An empty cradle to be filled. You caught the vision of a tiny hand squeeze around your finger and the sound of soft gurgles with the warm pressure of a hand on your waist...was that Sherlock’s hand? Was that your child?
One day you’d have a baby to care for, to provide these things that meant love...yet, was any child of Sherlock’s capable of love? He certainly wasn’t as far as you were concerned.
You bit down a shudder and opened your eyes, feeling hot tears glide down a cheek. You pushed back and sighed, “I am most confident on one thing Lady Pennicott.”
“And what is that Mrs Holmes?” she said softly, she could see the unspoken pain in your face. You swallowed hard and your face fell into a smile, you flashed her a wink.
You laughed softly, “Your child will be spoilt rotten by the love you give.”
She chuckled with you and nodded.
“Have you thought of a name?” you inquired, waltzing over to the chested drawers of baby knick knacks on display.
“Thaddeus Colin if it’s a boy,” she hummed, “or Theresa Grace if it is a girl.”
“Theresa?”
She giggled gently, “That is my name dear.”
Mrs Theresa Pennicott. It suited her. Her old soul eyes reflected her devout name.
A shine of glass pierced a ray of sun into your eyes, you pinched the glass object carefully. You touched a long black tube pulling out of it. You couldnt understand it’s purpose, your eyes narrowed at the rubber end that was shaped like a thumb or a cows udder. There was a second tube attached to the first with a rubber squeeze ball at the end.
“What is this?” you humoured.
“Oh that? It’s a fantastic invention,” The baroness said, “It’s a pump for breast milk with a tube that syphons the milk into this baby feeding bottle. When babies start to teeth they can scar your breasts. This is an effective and modern method I look forward to trying.”
Your eyes widened, scarring!? Babies teeth could scar a breast!?
You placed the bottle bump back and helped Lady Pennicott when she beckoned to stand back up from the rocking chair.
“Have you ever felt the sensations?” She suddenly, “In which they kick within?”
Your face must’ve looked idiotic as you asked plainly, “Kick?”
She giggled and nodded, “Give me your hand, perhaps you may feel them moving.”
She plucked your palm and pulled your glove off your fingers. She pressed your entire hand intimately to her belly. You felt a sense of taboo shame, she was making you touch such a beloved spot.
“Do you feel it?” she then asked.
Felt what? Confusion flooded your mind. Your hand moved around her belly slowly.
“I am afraid I don’t know what I’m meant to be feeling?”
She moved your hand and again you felt absolutely nothing.
“They are very brutal on my body,” Lady Pennicott sarcastically assured, “trust me there is a kick.”
She made a point to push your hand harder, but all you felt was the hard material of her corsetry beneath her main dressing materials.
“Baby’s kick you inside?” you marvelled with stunned horror. This was the first time you’d ever heard of such a notion of a baby beating it’s mother inside.
“Not out of malicious intent Mrs Holmes,” she reassured, “mostly it is the baby using its limbs to move their cramped bodies inside or excitement at the sound of voices, I truly believe they can hear us while still inside. Fear not, to you it will feel like a faint touch like this-”
Lady Pennicott softly tapped your wrist, “Like that.”
And there again was new knowledge you heard from a woman on matters of pregnancy. You moved your fingers around, seeking the supposed feeling of a kick...
Still nothing. You frowned, was there something wrong with you that the baby was choosing not to reveal itself.
“How interesting...”
A soft knock on wood alerted you both to glance at the door.
“Mrs Holmes,” the butler from earlier politely spoke, “the detective is requesting your return, I believe he intends to depart.”
Your face fell. You couldn’t believe it but you’d found this experience immensely enjoyable. You had surprisingly made a friend of the Baroness.
The fair lady hugged your side and sweetly exhaled, “Then I shall escort you back to your husband, Eddie fetch me my cheque book.”
He nodded and walked ahead of you both. You solemnly shut the nursery door, trying to remember every precious detail as possible. It was a innocent place to escape from the crude world.
You returned to the bottom of the foyer and smiled at your husband that stood by Lestrade at the front doors.
By the bottom step you faced the noble woman and curtsied.
“Thankyou Lady Pennicott for your kind hospitality and agreeable cooperation to the case,” you heard Sherlock’s voice float over your shoulder.
“Of course detective, please,” the Butler returned with her cheque book, “find my beloved Thaddeus.”
She scribbled speedily with a modernised ink pen, a sharp tear of paper flashed to his direction, “Here. Thirty pounds. I am sure you are busy with other clients considering your reputation, but I beseech you to seek out my husband quickly.”
Sherlock bowed his head as he deposited the cheque into his pocket, “We shall try our hardest. Good afternoon Lady Pennicott.”
Your mouth might’ve collected flies. Thirty pounds. THIRTY pounds. That was a hefty wage for a year to many men.
Sherlock was granted his coat and walking cane along with Lestrade.
He opened the front door and left slowly, glancing over your shoulder back at the heavily pregnant Baroness.
9:21am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England.
Sherlock and you walked up the gravel path in silence for sometime. You weren’t in much of a mood to speak to him despite well knowing conversation would need to spark eventually.
The three of you slowed down beside the inspectors horse cart.
Thankfully it was Sherlock who destroyed the silence with a stretched sigh. Lestrade grimly smiled at that sigh and rocked on his heels.
“Lestrade, show a useful skill,” Sherlock slapped a coin purse into his chest, “Find my wife and I a decent ride homeward. You still need to return back to the office and finish writing those reports on the Spring heeled Jack sightings....��� he snickered.
The mutton chop male grumbled and left you pair alone to walk down the path into the main parklands to hail a cabriolet or another hackney carriage.
Sherlock pulled out his pipe and lit it quickly, he inhaled fast and asked curiously, “Did you learn anything else from our suspect?”
You squinted and felt a gasp pop from your lips, your hand snapped out and dug your nails into his arm with a scolding hiss, “Suspect? Look at the state she is in Sherlock. She clearly loves her husband. How could such a indisposed woman do anything to her husband?”
He smirked, “Perhaps a jealous one?”
Your brows pulled together. Jealousy wasn’t something you would’ve describe Lady Pennicott as especially with such a privileged life. Such an emotion wouldve been beneath her...but.. ‘It is inevitable that our husbands will stray their gazes to other women, it is in their nature.’
Sherlock pinched out a piece of card from his pocket, a business calling card, he flashed it through his fingers and let you carefully pluck it from his hand.
“it is no wonder Thaddeus Pennicotts name was so familiar,” Sherlocks huffed a puff of air, “He visits a like minded establishment.”
On the front of the card was a single image, a dove holding a olive leaf, and when you turned the card around there was a woman modelled in immodest clothing with text and an address in perfect hand writing.
“The Mayfair Row Dove club.”
You almost dropped the card in the mud at your feet.
He tucked the card back into his breast pocket and hooked his arm around yours, walking you closer to Lestrade waving his hands back at you both.
“I’m curious who his go to bird is there,” He chuckled.
You shook your head and scoffed in disbelief, “but she’s pregnant.”
“Men have needs,” Sherlock sighed, “I thought you’d have learnt that from last evening?”
Your nails dug harder into his arm and grit your teeth. Not everyone was as depraved as Sherlock, surely not. You couldn’t imagine Mycroft or your grandfather practicing such atrocities on women, especially women that weren’t their wives.
You noted snootily, “She said her husband liked to stand out by the roses to think. Perhaps he regretted his choice.”
Sherlock laughed cruelly and hard enough to almost drop his pipe from his lips. He plucked it out of his mouth and kissed you hard and squarely in front of Lestrade and any passing people that shook their heads in disgust at such public affection.
The taste of his tobacco filled your cheeks and floated down your throat into your chest. You could feel how his breath became your breath. Your head grew dizzy from it. His release left you trembling and collapsing against him briefly. His arm grabbed around your waist and held you totally against his chest.
“You see too much good in the worst people,” he whispered wetly into your ear.
“Not true,” you panted, you blinked your eyes hard and tried speaking again. You weakly pushed away from him back onto your own two feet. From the corner of your eyes you could see the inspector standing beside another hackney carriage.
“Not true,” you repeated and swallowed hard, “...I don’t see any good in you Sherlock.”
He grinned devilishly and walked you both to the carriage, He ignored Lestrade entirely except for retrieving his own purse.
“None at all?” Sherlock asked as he helped you step up inside of the carriage. It jostled as he plotted himself next to you instead of opposite.
You thought hard on his question for a time. You shouldn’t have ever been as petty as him. So you kept your silence before you could decide on a eloquent response. You did try to find the good in him. The trouble was you barely knew Sherlock and the side that you’d encounter was nothing short of a blagged, insufferable man that happened to be very experienced in the arts of the bedroom. So you tried to think about qualities you hadn’t seen in him but had at least heard of him.
“You help solve cases and even sometimes restitution, these deeds could be counted as decent and beneficial...perhaps good...”
He smirked until you finished hastily, “However your mistreatment and lustful addiction is nothing short of that than a person that suffers in his sin.”
A long annoyed sigh drew from his lips, however the corners jerked up.
He tug out his pipe and tapped it’s contents out the moving window, “Might I ask Mrs Holmes...” he inquired as he tucked in his pipe, and wiped his lips thoughtfully, “Do you think yourself better than me?”
The silence shared between the horses trotting along the cobblestones allowed you a chance to glare long and hard at Sherlock.
It was a jab, a jibe, a joke, a trick, a trap...
He wanted you to say yes... You could see it in his eyes the way they flicked to your lips and almost drooled with anticipation. He wanted to start a fight.
You didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking at you, you turned your head away and scoffed, “You may have quick wit and a expansive knowledge Sherlock, but I at least carry myself with the fairest morals.”
And that? The reply was granted a omen of Sherlock’s sickly chuckles and his heavy warm hand to sit over your thigh, running his them over the fabric of your skirts.
“We will see how fair a baker street whore morals really are when we arrive home then shall we?”
You leant against the wall of the carriage and chose to ignore him. You closed your eyes and held Sherlock’s hand to prevent it wandering anywhere else. His thumb rubbed along the back of your gloves hands.
You couldn’t understand Sherlock. And feared you never would.
HELPLINES:
If you are a victim of sexual abuse, assault or domestic violence or know someone who is please reach out to these links that share helpline services, phone numbers or emails. Consent and respect is important in every relationship whether between friends, family or even strangers.
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⌕ yuukoku no moriarty • sherlock holmes.
like or reblog if you save/use.
#moriarty#moriarty the patriot#yuukoku no moriarty#moriarty icons#yuukoku no moriarty icons#moriarty the patriot icons#sherlock#sherlock icons#sherlock holmes#sherlock holmes icons#sherlock holmes x reader#sherlock holmes x you#sherlock holmes x ofc#anime#manga#anime layouts#anime icons#animes layouts#manga icons#twitter layouts#manga layouts#anime packs#anime icon
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Prompt because your work is aMAZing: when it’s before Sherlock and y/n’s wedding day, and he’s being an insufferable gentleman but she bats her eyes going “do you not want me” and he absolutely loses it 😏😏
Your Only Warning
Character: Henry Cavill as Sherlock in Enola Holmes
Summary: Alone in the library with his betrothed, the Reader, Sherlock fights to remain a gentleman…with limited success.
Content: 18+ for incredibly filthy language, explicit description of future sexual intimacy, dominant, angsty “I AM A GENTLEMAN” Sherlock, with a side of mild “look what you’ve made me do” rhetoric from our dear detective, but for the benefit of the very eagerly consenting Reader who absolutely intended to make him do precisely what he’s done.
Notes: Thank you so much for the prompt; I loved it, and hope you like the story, Anon!
It is a rare occasion that your future husband allows you to be alone with him.
Ever the gentleman, ever possessed by the fine arts of propriety, justice, compassion, and self-discipline…all the qualities for which you find yourself more deeply in love by the day…Sherlock has become increasingly distracted, sometimes even dismissive, of your endeavors to cultivate closeness, as the day of your wedding draws near. You do not know what precisely has caused his detachment; never once has he expressed any regret for his proposal, nor suggested he does not wish to proceed with the marriage, but something has changed.
You cannot recall the last time he was tender—if ever he truly was. No soft words, nothing of your beauty, certainly, rise to your memory, even as you entertain the recollections of shared laughter, discussions of books or music, your eager interest in his cases and his equal enthusiasm to share his work with you. Meanwhile, you long to pour out your heart on the subject of his handsome face, his gorgeous eyes, how much you long for his touch, his kiss, his…
Well.
Sherlock’s true feelings for you are a mystery that only he could solve, and finding the time alone to ask him to unravel his secrets has been nigh impossible. But tonight, at another interminable dinner party for your family and his, a challenge from Enola to discover the secret passages of the Holmes estate has led you to the library, opening a hidden door behind a bookshelf to your delight…and the surprise of Sherlock, whom you discover pensively staring out the wide window behind his desk. He looks back over his shoulder, slightly startled, but smiles when he recognizes your familiar form emerging from the shadows.
“Very well done, Miss —,” he praises you, and your heart flutters happily at the accolade. “My sister will be most pleased to have such a companion as yourself with whom to roam these halls. When we can coax her back home, that is.”
“I hope you will find me a fine companion, too,” you offer, stepping out from the passageway and into the library proper. You look about you: no one else is there. Good.
“Naturally,” he replies, leaving the sanctuary of his desk, but still keeping a polite distance. “It will be entirely pleasant to share a home with you, here or in London. I have too long breakfasted alone, beginning the day in sullen silence, only to let supper grow cold, too, for want of more companionable nourishment.”
“Yes, I quite look forward to that, too,” you reply politely, a few tears of disappointment pooling in the corners of your eyes. His once ardent interest truly does seem to have waned into a wish for company over meals. Still, your hope preservers; perhaps this is only a gentlemanly demurring from more intimate matters? You have had some success in delving into his captivating mind. What line of inquiry might unlock his heart?
“And you must never hesitate to make use of this library.”
“Thank you. But…Mr. Holmes…”
“Yes?”
“I mean…certainly we shall share other…other rooms, too?”
“Of course. You must be honest with me in the correction of my bachelor habits.”
“Yes, and you must similarly address the conventions of my customary solitude.”
These mirrored platitudes are maddening. You steel your courage and make a bolder proposition.
“But is it not true that, as is only proper, to my understanding, that when we marry, we will be…as one?”
At this, he meets your eyes for a brief, flickering moment, then turns away from you entirely, and begins to meticulously examine the books on the shelves, uttering a monosyllabic: “Ah.”
You wait.
And wait.
And wait.
At long last, he clears his throat slightly and says, “I hope that if you should have any concerns of that nature, you might seek out the counsel of a recently married woman of your own age—Mrs. Watson, for example, is a lady of faultless virtue and excellent education, and might allay your fears—“
“I have no fears!” you exclaim. “I have…great anticipation. Longing, for a closeness I thought you equally desired. Sherlock, please I long to know and be known as a wife, to share with you every facet of my life, including—my…our—“
“Please, Miss —“
“But of late you scarcely look at me—“
“Dear girl,” he interrupts again. “I beg you to cease this line of inquiry!”
Your frustration bubbles over. Determinedly, you cross the room to where he stands, and slip around his hulking frame, insinuating yourself betwixt him and the bookcase, demanding his attention whether he will or no.
“What is it, Sherlock?” you ask, gazing up at him through your eyelashes, feeling your pulse quicken at his nearness. “Do you not want me?”
“Do I,” he growls through gritted teeth. “Not want you?”
In an instant, he has you restrained against the bookshelves, one hand pinned above your head and the other left to grasp frantically at his lapel, feeling the hard muscle and pounding heart beneath his fine coat, like an ember burning beneath your fingertips.
“Every moment I am plagued with wanting you! Do you not understand why I have withdrawn from you, why I must keep my distance from the woman I love?”
Sherlock lays his palm against your cheek, then slides his fingers down your neck, across your collarbones, coming to rest against the heaving swell of your breast over your gown.
“This is why. To prevent this.”
Hands over hearts, you are more closely entwined than you have ever been, and you can see with perfect clarity that his eyes burn with deep, profound emotion as well as increasingly unbridled yearning. Pinioned there by his full weight and bulk, you are completely helpless to his whims, and nothing has ever felt so freeing in your entire life. Finally, finally, finally, you exalt in your mind, and you sigh his name, unable to suppress a slight moan, which only seems to afflict him further.
“Oh, Sherlock…”
“I am a gentleman of unimpeachable conduct, but you would turn me into a brute. The more time I spend in your presence, the closer the day draws near when you will be mine, the more I find my resolve tested,” he despairs, drawing in a deep breath, and shuddering as the scent of your hair, your skin, permeates his senses. “Look at us, look what you have done! All this time I have resisted, but you undo it in a mere minute…”
His lips are practically touching yours, his grip on your wrist grown tighter, the press of his unmistakable hardness against you firm and unyielding.
“This,” he explains, his voice gone ragged and low. “Is your only warning, my dear sweet bride. If you speak another word of wanting before I may lawfully, licitly show you every way a man may possess his wife, if you touch me—or, or, you perfect minx, my gorgeous tormentor, if you with all your whiles force my hand…if you insist I kiss your glove in public, or ask for my arm to cross the street…I will make you pay for it the minute we are wed. I will turn you over my knee and spank your backside bruised. I will have you in every room of the house; damn who might see us. I will hunt you down across the estate and take you in the fields or the forest like an animal, for so you make me, darling. I will bind your hands to my bed and make you come for me over and over again until you have not a single thought left in this brilliant little mind, and then I will fuck your pretty weeping cunt until I’m sated and you are dripping with my seed. And that for a start.”
Sherlock, eyes glittering with his barely leashed lust, presses a light, chaste kiss to your cheek.
“Are we understood, Miss —?”
“Yes, yes,” you gasp, and, with the final indulgence of skimming the pad of his thumb across your trembling bottom lip, he very gently, courteously releases you, and then promptly flees to the opposite side of the room to pour himself a substantial drink. He downs it in one gulp, then takes several very deep breaths, and though he keeps his back to you, you can tell, with a secret thrill down your spine, that he is adjusting his clothes in a futile attempt to disguise his arousal.
“You were best return to the drawing room at once,” he instructs, almost bashful at his body’s insistence against his mind’s prudence. It is incredibly endearing. “I must compose myself.”
“Of course. Forgive me, sir, that I have discomposed you so.”
“No, no, it is I who must apologize. Can you forgive me, dearest girl, that I have not made clear to you that you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen? I was never a man of sentiment until now, and feared that to linger too long on the object of my desire, might make me lose all control. But I will tell you every day, ten times a day—from now until the end of my life, that your loveliness of body and soul is to me as vital as the air I breathe.”
“Are you becoming a poet, Sherlock?” you tease, melting all the more at his rush of tenderness, so looked for and longed for.
“Only for you,” he sighs, and you almost faint away as his hand drops to palm the outline of his cock through his trousers. Realizing the nature of his reflexive gesture, he gives a frustrated groan and points at you accusingly. “Only a romantic fool, and only a devious, seducing scoundrel, because of you.”
You laugh together, and, sneaking one last fervent look over your shoulder as he sinks into his chair and begins to unfasten his trousers, you close the door behind you depart, practically skipping through the halls of the home that will soon be yours, too, to rejoin both sides of the family in the parlor.
About ten minutes later, Sherlock rejoins the party, too, and no one seems to suspect anything untoward, clearly a relief to you both as your eyes meet across the table with a shared, secret glow. Once all parting pleasantries are exchanged, Sherlock follows you and your family out to the carriage, keeping a painfully respectful distance all the while. He offers only a formal bow and a stern, “Good evening” by means of farewell, but you have other designs.
“Good evening to you, too, Mr. Holmes,” you reply with a cheerful smile, and then, in front of the whole company, you elegantly present your hand to your fiancé to be kissed…
I am so, so honored by all your kind replies and reblogs! Thanks to those who commented on my other prompt fic, Pulse Point:
@fluffycutecevans @madeanaccounttoreadfanfics @nana1000night @writing-for-marvel @raccoon-eyed-rebel @sarcastic-coffeedrinker-reads @holmesbunny @peachyvulpixie @sillyrabbit81 @mayloma @inlovewithhisblueeyes @kingjuli3n 🥰 🥰 🥰 🥰 🥰 🥰
#Sherlock Holmes x Reader#henry cavill sherlock#henry!sherlock holmes#sherlock holmes x you#sherlock holmes x ofc#enola holmes fanfic
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Danse Macabre
Summary: She cannot tell who she is anymore, nor where she is. All that she knows is that Sherlock is not the man he pretends to be and that every night he comes to her bedroom to feast on the delights of her body...
Pairing: Vampire!Sherlock Holmes x Virgin OFC (no mentions of body type or ethnicity)
Word count: 2.2K
Warnings: 18+, Dark, horror, dubious consent, sex, supernatural themes, I guess we can say monster sex? Mentions of blood, hinted Stockholm Syndrome, loss of virginity, metaphors, obsession, hinted hypnosis, bites, vampire sex, mind manipulation.
A/N: I don't own Sherlock Holmes or Enola Holmes.
Many thanks to my angels: @agniavateira for beta'ing my work and supporting me, and to @notabronte for giving me feedback and encouraging me to post. Please reblog and leave a comment if you enjoyed it. 🖤
Danse Macabre 🕯️
How long has it been; a month? A year? An eternity?
Time swayed differently in Mister Holmes’ mansion — if it moved at all.
The nights seemed endless, and the days… she couldn’t remember the last time she was awake during daytime. Perhaps this was a nightmare, or maybe it was the cold tentacles of death that pulled her into an abyss; but then, if the dead couldn’t feel pain then why did his kisses hurt?
It was in the bawls of midnight when Sherlock stalked into her bedroom— his jaw stern, cheekbones sharp and strikingly distinguished by the flame of a single candle held in his hand. Hunger filled his careless face, and his eyes flickered brightly like glowing orbs of ice.
Unable to scream or move, she watched him behind the ghostly veils of her bed. Hot wax dribbled down his fingers—little white tears of sorrow that she wished she herself could cry, but Sherlock had not only drained her of such force but by some enchantment, coaxed her to submit to his sacrilegious desire
“Undress,” he demanded from the doorway where he stood, shrouded by the crimson haze of the poorly lit corridor. Whatever was behind him, she could never see, the width of his bulky figure blocked the path like a monster from a children’s tale.
‘Monsters are real, Momma. They look like men in tailored vests and shiny leather shoes.’
Her fingers trembled, hands stiff and heavy. Yet she did what she was told without question, allowing the straps of her nightdress to fall down her shoulders the way a dying leaf falls from a branch.
Eyes a shade colder than ice, his glare fell to her breasts, and his chest puffed with a rumbling growl. Slowly he stalked forward, treading like a spider on its web. The tips of his fingers turned black as if dipped in poison whilst his nails grew long and sharp at every step.
“The duvet. Set it aside.”
His voice was the rumble of an inching thunder, an echo inside her head that made her bones rattle. Whenever he spoke, it felt as if invisible strings wrapped around her wrists and persuaded her limbs to do as he commanded. Even when her soul begged her to give a sliver of resistance, her hands still lifted to obey this dark ventriloquist and pushed the blanket away.
The stem of Sherlock’s throat clenched at the delicious splendour: bare, youthful skin, so tight and so supple. A thing that should have never been touched, should have never been spoiled and yet he yearned for nothing but to leave his marks at the depth of her soul.
The scent that emanated from the flesh between her thighs elicited a guttural groan from his chapped lips. In his throat pulled the ghastly hunger. Setting the candle on the wardrobe, he stalked toward the bed, his shadow metastasizing and devouring every shred of light that dared enter the chamber.
Both the mattress and her heart sank once he placed a knee on the bed and began to crawl between her parted legs, slowly and predatorily, dragging himself closer to her heat. Black, sharpened nails graze their way up her inner thighs, admiring the pureness of the forever-young flesh.
Encased in a glass coffin, his young ward would forever be protected from famine, disease, and time; and what was Sherlock if not a warden fulfilling his duty?
‘A monster! God, please! There is a monster in my bed!’
If only she could scream, if only God hadn’t abandoned her. Instead, all she could do was shiver, her heart giving no sound as Sherlock forced himself between her thighs. One razor-sharp fingernail traced the plumpness of her breast, tenderly circling and caressing the nipple.
“Mine,” he growled and slipped his nail down the valley of her torso, casually tugging the remains of her gown to expose her pure mound. Red glinted on those piercing shards that replaced his eyes—red like a flicker of fire from a match. “Look at me,” he demanded, though there was no need for him to ask.
That same gaze that possessed her had sliced through the tendrils of her mind.
Nodding, she lifted her gaze to meet his, her lips parting in a quiet plea as the ghastly, pointed talon made careful strokes amidst the swollen petals to collect the honeyed dew that gathered at the seams of her untouched cunt.
“My poor little dove, it’s so lonely in there…” he keened, attempting to slide his long monstrous finger inside of her. But her maidenhood, still obstinate to protect her from the vile urges of men, forbade him access.
Foolish.
What strength did her flesh have against such a sinister entity if even iron locks and carved religious figures couldn’t keep him away? Huffing with scorn, he drew an icy fingertip around the outlines of her slit, further spreading the sinful wetness across the seams of her cunt.
She mewled, despite herself, her waist moving in a smooth tidal sway.
Sherlock could never tire of this, not of the terror in her eyes whenever she saw him at her bedroom door nor the moans she emitted as he traced her engorged flesh with a finger or his tongue. But what he favoured above all was the sensation of his cock as it tore through her seal and those heavenly pained cries that eventually turned into the moans of a whore.
What a great fortune it was that they had an eternity of this dance.
Hovering above his prey, he propped his knees between her legs, the fabric of his trousers brushing against her inner thighs as he lowered his weight upon her. If there was any air in her lungs, she would have let out a shuddering breath; but what came instead was a silent gasp, and only her lips quivered as she prepared herself for the familiar twinge of his invasion.
Reaching for his groin, he freed his hardened cock and stroked a hand across its length before nudging the heart-shaped crown at the gates of her purity. Not yet pushing in, he teased himself up and down her narrow slit, treating her the way a lover treats his delicate mistress— the way a cat toys with a mouse.
Lips swollen and tingling, she whimpered, her yet-empty hole twitching as if heeding a primal call. How could she fear and need him at the same time? Did she loathe herself so much that she wanted him to defile her? Tears began to rim her eyes, and from quivering lips, she whispered, “please…”
Letting out a low rumbling chuckle, he lowered his head and pressed a kiss to her forehead before whispering in her ear, “You, my ward, are such a mystery…”
Her mouth opened to speak but a scream followed instead. One unceremonious thrust and he sunk into her lush depth, his girthy cock devouring the sweetness of virginal flesh. Indifferent to her pain, he pushed further and deeper past her folds until every inch of him was buried within.
Cries and squeals sputtered from her mouth—the monster had tore her innocence, the pain had seared, and in pathetic pleas for mercy, she slapped against his bare chest and tried to shove him away. But Sherlock knew no mercy, for truly he was a beast, not just by the breadth of his shoulders and untypically muscular figure, but by his blunt absence of elegance and heartless mien. Giving her no moment to adjust, he had already began to pump himself inside of her now-defiled cunt.
Such a mask of virtue did her warden wear; to the world, a perfect, eloquent gentleman. But behind closed doors, lurked a sick, sinister man who only wished to desecrate this tender maiden in this dark sacrament.
Over and over, he pulled away only to plunge into her again, each thrust harder than the last, each thrust ending with the slap of his sack against her cunt. And the moans that came from him - had the most debauched resonance, as if she was a long anticipated feast to a voracious man.
Unable to meet his vigour, her walls whined a protest and squeezed around him in a futile battle to drive him out; yet for Sherlock, this tightness was nothing less than an aphrodisiac. If any, her insubordination did nothing but provoke the ungodly creature within him. Reaching a clawed hand to her chin, his fingers pressed into the hollow of her cheeks, forcing her to stare directly into his bright-red eyes as he began to fuck her in a punishing pace.
“I am already inside you, little dove. There is nothing that can be done,” he rasped while his hips continuously snapped into hers, every second rut bringing her closer to surrender as friction drew that which she so religiously wanted to resist.
“Give in to me, and I will give you pleasure like no other.”
His words were but a spell. Briefly, unbidden, a spark inside her womb ignited, giving life to ecstatic flames that cascaded through her canal. While a part of her wanted to stay pure and deny this vicious man, an unbearable ache for his return struck her every time he pulled out from her slit. In mindless despair to hold him close, she had finally caved in and wrapped her legs around his waist to hold him near.
Triumphant grunts rumbled in his throat. Appeased by her surrender to his whims, he lifted his upper torso, his taut abs flexing as he rose to hover above her. With his hand still around her jaw, he pressed her deeper into the mattress while pummeling her cunt.
“Make us whole…” he begged, his voice a husky—almost pitiful—groan.
“Make us whole again.”
Depraved as an animal, he ravaged her with the selfish degenerate intent of a man yearning to impregnate his mate. Though this union could result in nothing of that sort, still she thrashed against him in an archaic frenzy, her screams unfurling into the night as her body became enslaved to the same foolish wanton. Soon her trenches began to tighten around him in demand of his seed, and the whispering embers that smouldered in her womb had suddenly imploded into a wave of molten fire that scorched through her completely.
It was in that moment when her cunt devoured him completely, when he felt her heat gush and hug around his shaft so longingly that his eyes glowed bright red, and his fangs flashed sharply before her dazed eyes. Even though she had seen this play out numerous, endless times, she couldn’t help but gasp as he lowered his mouth to her neck and drank her pleasure-tainted blood.
Eyes staring into the ceiling with shock, she trembled like a thing that was about to be shattered. The waves of her ecstasy ebbed away as Sherlock stole from whatever maw of force she had left. Black mists began to waft around her, blurring her sight and pulling her down below. And suddenly, she was limp and heavy at the same time while a cold, strange tingle jittered through her veins.
‘Death…’ she smiled with her eyes half-shut, ‘Oh, finally… Release me!’
Just then, a secondary implosion spasmed through her core and caused her entire body to jitter with delight as the sensation elicited from his bite was an unlikely aphrodisiac. Mouth agape in a silent cry, she threw her head back and stared through the open window while the monster inside her continued to feast on her throat.
The moon—it was covered in blood, painting the room in a crimson shade.
Lost in this trance, Sherlock hummed; the blood of a newly deflowered virgin was sweeter than ambrosia; after decades and aeons of searching, he could sense the wind on his skin, feel the thrum in his veins and abruptly… in a moment passing, he felt a rumble in his chest as his heart pumped once again.
‘Make us whole.’
‘Make me whole.’
‘Make me feel alive again.’
Losing his control entirely, he thrusted into her with a few last powerful strokes and then finally lifted his head with a savage-like shout while his thick elixir overflowed her womb. Cum seeped around his cock at the same manner of the blood that trickled down his square chin.
He licked the corner of his lip, eyes red and sated, peering down at his prey.
“Oh, my sweet little flower,” he murmured and carefully lowered his head to kiss her. She returned the kiss, uncertain if by choice, little did she care now. Her body still tingled and the taste of her own blood had an odd sweetness to it that had made her thirsty. Once he broke from her lips, she suckled them dry.
Like petals plucked from a rose, she laid raw beneath him. Not dead. Not yet. Not ever. She no longer remembered her life before him, no longer remembered who she was. All she knew was that when she would wake the next day, it would be night again.
And he would return to claim her, again.
His fellow companions warned him of such abomination; it was dangerous to drink from his own kind, or so they claimed. It poisoned the mind and the body according to the myths, but whether it was true or not, Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to care.
No matter the fashion, he came every night, drank from her veins, deflowered her and left.
And every night, she woke up a virgin again, clueless as to who and what she was.
But Sherlock knew the one and only true answer.
She was his.
For all eternity.
#henry cavill#enola holmes#enola holmes 2#sherlock holmes fanfiction#sherlock holmes x reader#henry cavill x reader#sherlock holmes x ofc#henry cavill fanfiction
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Sherlock and his cane...
Sherlock Holmes (Henry Cavill) x Female OC
TW: impact play, light bondage, sex… (as always, 18+ only)
Word Count: 2,593
Sherlock sighs, gripping his cane as he enters the New Year’s Eve party his brother, Mycroft, was throwing. He hated these parties almost as much as he hated his brother. But he knew that two things would make it worth it; one being the whiskey and two being the girls his brothers would hire. The girls were always top-notch and down for whatever he wanted to do. And to say that he needed a release was an understatement.
He allows the young maid to take his top hat but keeps a tight hold of his cane as she blushes under his gaze. He smirks, basking in the hold he had over women. He shakes his head gently as he hears her giggle before turning to rush away from him. He turned swiftly, entering the lounge where women danced in the middle of the room as gentlemen pretended to remain composed, drooling over themselves.
He rolled his eyes, crossing the room to the bar to pour himself a drink. He brings the glass up to his lips just as he feels someone smack his shoulder a little too hard, causing him to spill some on his jacket. “Fuck…”
“Ah… language little brother. A foul mouth makes you sound uneducated.”
Sherlock scoffs at his brother, refilling his glass as Mycroft comes to stand beside him. He brings the glass up again, this time the amber liquid disappearing down his throat. “What do you want, Mycroft?”
Mycroft laughs, grabbing the bottle to pour them both a new glass and nudging Sherlock’s shoulder. “Come on, why so gruff?”
Sherlock doesn’t answer, only turning around to take in the sight of the half-dressed women. A few of them threw looks at him as he stared back, taking them in. They were all the same… all a little *too* eager. No, he wanted someone different, someone more timid, unsure… inexperienced.
“Oh… on the hunt I see,” Mycroft offers with a snicker as he watches his brother finish his second drink before pushing away from the bar, stalking slowly through the crowd of people.
A few women come up to Sherlock, running their hands on his chest as he shakes his head, shrugging them off. He stops near the door where a young, brunette girl he didn’t recognize danced slowly, stopping as he approached her. She hung her head down as he took in the sight of her dusty pink lingerie hugging her curves. He grabs her chin between his thumb and forefinger of his left hand, lifting her chin up to him as she blushes. He was drawn to her, her innocent face pulling him in. He couldn’t help but to take in the sight of her full cheeks and pouty lips. “You’re a pretty little thing, aren’t you? I’ve never seen you at a party here before. You new?”
“Yes, sir,” she mumbles shyly as Sherlock’s grin widens, moving his hand to tuck a tendril of dark hair behind her ear.
“Are you a virgin?”
Her eyes widen as she swallows hard, shaking her head. “N—no, sir.”
He makes a clicking noise with his cheek, dropping his hand to his side. “Should have lied.” He watches her squirm in her spot, rubbing her thick thighs together as he chuckles. “No matter. Come with me.” He grabs her hand, obediently following him as another man stands up to grab her other hand, causing them to stop.
“You can’t just show up and take who you want, Holmes.”
“Funny, because that’s exactly what I’m doing…” Sherlock brings his cane up, smacking the man’s hand, forcing him to release her with a grunt before he shoves the end of the cane into the man’s abdomen, causing the man to fall back onto his chair. He ignores the other men grumbling and drags the girl up the stairs to his bedroom, practically tossing her onto the bed as he slams and locks the door behind them. “Name, girl.”
She swallows, suddenly more nervous now that she was alone with the infamous Sherlock Holmes. “I—Is—Isabelle, sir,” she manages to stutter out as he grins, pulling her to her feet in front of him.
“Get undressed, Isabelle.” He moves to the chair in the corner of the room, relaxing back into it as he watched her drop her robe to the ground. She began to undo the ties of her corset as his cock began to grow in his slacks. “Slower…” he demanded as she nodded, pulling at the laces slower before dropping the corset onto the ground, displaying her breasts, nipples turning hard against the cool air of the night.
She sits on the edge of the bed, rolling down her stockings slowly as she felt Sherlock’s eyes burning through her, the heat in the room rising. She stands back up, facing toward the chair as she tucked her thumbs into the bands of her underwear, stopping when she sees Sherlock stand up.
“Turn around and drop them.” He shrugs off his jacket, setting it neatly on the arm of the chair before kicking off his shoes as he watched her comply, bending over slightly as she dropped them to the ground. He cocked his head to the side, seeing just the hint of pink between her legs, glistening and ready for him.
She shifted nervously in her spot as she felt him approaching her from behind. This wasn’t her first time with a client, she got into the business only a few months prior when her mother kicked her out, no longer wanting to feed and house her. But this was the first time with someone as well-known as Sherlock Holmes. And she knew all too well a few of his favorite proclivities. The excitement and anticipation filled her as he moved to stand in front of her and she darted her eyes to the ground.
“Stop looking at the ground. Look at me,” he demanded a little too harshly as he grabbed her chin to force her blue eyes up to his. “Good girl. You only look down if I tell you, you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hands behind your back.” He smiled as she raised her chin, straightening her back as she placed her hands behind her back, pushing her breasts out. “Good.” He stands in front of her, bringing a hand up to her neck, dragging his fingers gently down to her right breast, grazing over her nipple as she squirmed slightly.
She saw him smile before moving behind her, feeling his breath on her neck. Her eyes fluttered at the feeling of his lips on the base of her throat just as she felt him wrap something around her wrists. “Wha—”
“Shh,” he whispers, using one of her stockings to tie her wrists together behind her back. “Here’s how it’s going to go. You’re going to do what I say when I say it… and if you’re good I’ll take care of you. You understand?”
“Yes, sir.” She sucks her lip into her mouth as she feels arousal pooling between her legs.
“Good. Now… if you want me to stop at any time, you say peach.” He smirks as she giggles and he reaches around to wrap his hand around her throat, lifting her head toward the ceiling, “that funny?”
“No,” she breathes as he nips at her ear.
“Then say it, say peach…”
“Peach,” she whimpers as he releases her swiftly, pulling away from her.
“Good girl. Now bend over the bed and wait.” He watches her hesitate before doing as he commands, bending over the bed with her head facing to the side, bottom in the air. “Spread your legs. I want to see your pussy.”
Isabelle spreads her legs as she hears rustling behind her, the anticipation growing in her core as she breathes heavily.
Sherlock takes his time, undressing as he sets his clothes neatly on the chair in a pile. He grabs the base of his cock, giving it a few relieving strokes before grabbing his cane and approaching her from behind. “You have a marvelous backside, dear Isabelle.”
She opens her mouth to speak just as she feels the stinging of the cane on her flesh, forcing tears from her eyes with a gasp.
“Now what do you say? I complimented your beautiful, round, bottom, Isabelle. What do you say to that?”
“Th—tha—” Another gasp as the cane comes down once more, this time on her other cheek and she squeezes her eyes shut.
“Do you want me to stop?” He runs his hand along the two new red marks that were already welting as she whimpered.
“No…” Through her watered eyes, she sees him lean over to look her in the face, the stinging subsiding as the pain turns to pleasure, shooting down to her pussy.
“Have you ever been caned before?”
“No,” she repeats softly as he smirks.
“Only a few more then,” he promises as she nods, swallowing as she braces herself.
Only a few more turn into more than she can count, tears now streaking her cheeks as she barely mumbles out a “peach.” Her head spins slightly, as if she were floating, causing an almost euphoric feeling.
“Sorry…” Sherlock tosses the cane onto the floor with a huff, looking at the welts that now began to bleed against her delicate white skin. “I lost myself for a minute.” He leans over to brush some hair out of her face, wiping her face with his hand. “Are you okay?” He watches her nod slowly, whimpering as he smirks, bringing her back to him as he almost lost her in her sub space. He keeps his eyes on hers, giving her a few minutes as he runs his hand down her back, over her bottom to her wetness. He drags his middle finger along her slit, down to her clit, rubbing gently as she moaned softly. “Good,” he whispers, standing up behind her once more.
She squirmed against his hand, trying to push back against him as he slid one finger into her, turning his palm toward the ground to curl his finger down. She moans as slips a second finger into her, thrusting them in and out slowly.
Sherlock groans, feeling every ridge inside her as he moved his fingers slowly. “You’re so tight and wet for me. I can’t wait to feel you gripping my cock, Isabelle. Do you want that?”
“Yes,” she practically begged as Sherlock chuckled, removing his hand. He grabbed her wrists, pulling her down onto her knees at the foot of the bed before turning her back toward him.
“First… open your mouth, sweet girl.” He smiles down at her as her blue eyes shine up at his and her mouth falls open, her tongue sticking out. He moans softly as he pushes slightly forward, rubbing the tip of his cock along her tongue.
She rolls her tongue around the tip, before flicking the underside as he hissed above her. She giggled softly, allowing him to insert his cock into her mouth as she wrapped her mouth around him. She hollowed her cheeks, sucking him into her mouth, uncontrolled drool dripping down her chin as she did.
Sherlock panted, resting his head back as he gripped her hair, guiding her on him. “Fuck…” he grunted, pulling his cock from her mouth. He gripped it, holding it as he guided her mouth onto his balls. He presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth as she pulls a ball into her mouth, sucking gently before pulling off with a small pop. “Yes, you’re far more experienced than I was expecting. Stand up, I want to feel your pussy.” He helps her to her feet, crushing his mouth hard against hers, one hand around her throat, the other on her back, keeping her body pressed to his. He kisses her for a while, taking his time to lay claim to her mouth with his tongue as she whimpered, against him, arms straining.
She stumbles slightly as he pulls away abruptly, causing him to chuckle. She gasps as he nudges her back, making her fall onto the bed as she tries to shimmy up to the pillow.
Sherlock laughs, crawling onto the bed toward her, flipping her onto her stomach, pushing her shoulders down as he pulled her hips up. “Ready?” He asks, not waiting for a response as he thrusts his cock into her hard, her moan stifled by the pillow under her. He stills, his head falling back as his fingers dig into her hips. “Fuck… I was right, you feel so fucking good.”
“Sh—Sherlock,” she begs softly, turning her head to the side for him to hear.
“I know, sweet girl.” He keeps hold of her hips, pulling out before pushing back into her hard, over and over again, feeling her hips shaking under him. With every stroke out, her pussy gripped him, pulling him back in again. He grunted as she pushed back against him. “Your pussy is so needy, isn’t it?”
Isabelle doesn’t have to respond as he grips the stocking around her wrist with one hand, his other hand wrapping around her. She moaned as he pressed his middle finger to her clit, rubbing in small circles as his cock stretched her.
Her moans were barely audible, coming out as almost gasps as she gripped him. He moved into her faster, no longer wanting to hold back as her sweet moans filled the room. “I need you to come apart all over my cock… grip it good, Isabelle.”
She whimpers and moans, her eyes fluttering closed as her entire body tightens, the orgasm rolling through her like crashing waves, her mouth falling open, screams falling from her.
“Yes,” he grunts, leaning forward to wrap his hand around her throat once more, feeling her pulse and contract around his cock. He leaned down to her ear, “that’s my sweet girl,” he growls, thrusting hard into her one last time, burying himself deep inside as he emptied himself in her.
She whimpered as he pulled away, feathering kisses down her back as he undid her wrists, allowing her to collapse onto the bed. She doesn’t say anything, just laying as she hears him walk over to the corner of the room to the small water bowl as she hears the ringing of a washcloth.
Sherlock sits on the bed beside her, dragging the cool towel along the welts on her bottom as she winced under him, turning her head toward him to watch him. When he finished, he used the cloth to clean between her legs, standing up to take the cloth back to the bowl. When he turned back to the bed, Isabelle was snoring softly as he chuckled. He grabbed the blanket, pulling it up over her before pressing a kiss to her shoulder.
***
Isabelle woke up with a groan, sunlight burning her lids as she turned away from the window, forgetting about the stinging on her bottom as she flinched. She whimpered, looking around to find herself alone in the bedroom. She moves to stand up beside the bed, finding a note on the nightstand along with a small tin jar, a single rose, and a bag of coins. She smiled, lifting the rose first to take a small whiff before opening the note.
Salve for that beautiful bottom of yours
Rose for the sweet blush of your cheeks
Coin in hopes to see you again…
You know where to find me…
-SH
#henry cavill#Sherlock Holmes#henry Cavill Sherlock Holmes#Sherlock Holmes x ofc#henry Cavill fanfic#henry Cavill fanfiction#Sherlock Holmes fanfic#Sherlock Holmes smut#henry Cavill smut
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I know I’m not a big part of the xReader community, as I rarely read it and even more rarely interact, but I wanted to try making some friends there so I’m going to be posting a Sherlock Holmes x f!Reader multichap soon! Usually, I like to write 4k+ chapters and to have everything completed before posting the first chapter, but since this multichap will serve as my entries for July Break Bingo, I’m going to try something different this time.
Each chapter will be whatever length it ends up being at first (I’ll bolster them all in the revision stages later), and I will post them here as soon as they’re done. Once every chapter is posted, I’ll go back and edit, and then I’ll post the new version on AO3. I look forward to sharing the journey to a good copy more closely with my readers!
However, that does mean there will be some inconsistencies to be suffered through. Especially since this multichap will be a case fic, I’m expecting plot holes as well as OOC moments to abound. I apologise in advance, welp.
Now, for the more fun info!
Below is my empty JBB card if you are curious to see what will be giving the fic some direction. I intend to get a blackout with this multichap. 👀👀👀
Synopsis: Your father hires Sherlock to investigate your husband’s death…a decade after it occurred. Why is your father suddenly concerned foul play was involved? And what is motivating Sherlock to take on a case that has every expectation of being dry and uninspired? (Takes place in the world and time after the Enola Holmes film but before the sequel.)
Warnings: please see this post for those and feel free to send me an ask if you need more details (I’m keeping them separate to avoid spoilers)
Masterlist: A Galling Yoke Part 1 … Part 2 … Part 3 … Part 4 … Part 5 … Part 6 … Part 7 … Part 8 … Part 9 … Part 10 … Part 11 … Part 12 … Part 13 … Part 14 … Part 15 …
Status: on hiatus [as of 2023-11-27] (but Part 15 should be a satisfying ending until the next update) – please let me know if you would like to be tagged with updates! :)
Thank You, God, for letting me write this and thank you, dear reader, for reading. <3
#enola holmes#sherlock holmes#sherlock holmes x you#sherlock holmes x reader#sherlock holmes x ofc#henry cavill#henry cavill sherlock holmes#henry cavill sherlock x reader#a galling yoke#the erasable ink
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Part 1
Masterlist
Series Masterlist
Part 2
A reverse harem vampire AU ft. Mikey, Marshall, August and Sherlock
Series summary: Somehow, you've managed to live with your boyfriend and his roommates for months before finding out they're vampires, but the real shock first comes when they find out you have a special quality. A quality the guys would love to make use of...
Warnings: This is a vampireAU!!! There will be blood, there will be biting, there will be graphic depictions of both. It's not going to be a gorefest, though. Also there will be smut. Eventually.
Word count: 2.5k
A/N: Are we leaning into some serious monsterfucker vibes with this one? Oh absolutely hell yeah we are. Am I ridiculously scared to even post this? *Yes.* You literally can't overestimate how much I'm trembling right now.
I took some (a lot of) creative liberties with the vampire lore for this one, so if you're very heavily into traditional vampire lore, this may not be for you. It's my first time delving into anything fantasy-esque like this, so bear with me! (Friendly tips are always welcome.) Also, this is probably going to be weird. So there's that. We're doing kinky vampires, ok? Like. I can't make this more normal than what it sounds like.
@geralts-yenn As promised 🥰
@deandoesthingstome @summersong69 you both asked for a general tag... This is what that gets you. 🙈🙈🙈
“V-vampire? What do you mean you're a… You can't be.” It felt like the ground disappeared beneath your feet, and you were freefalling into darkness. You’d been dating Mikey for months, and now he… It couldn’t be true. It had to not be true.
“I am.” Mike looked at you, an apology clearly displayed on his face and in his voice. As if that was going to be enough. “I'm sorry I didn't tell you, I thought you knew…”
“And exactly how the fuck was I supposed to know?”
Mike shrugged. “The mandatory health classes in high school shou…”
“I was homeschooled.” Your anger dissipated somewhat. Apparently, at least part of this was your parents’ fault for misinforming you about vampires in general.
“Oh shit… I had no idea, sorry. Eh… What were you told about us?”
“That you're monsters…” That was the gist of it. You’d never believed much of it, and it had made you curious rather than scared. Less scared of vampires, at least. Your father, now that was a whole other story. “I-I'm so dead. My father… If he finds out…”
“He'd be pretty pissed if he found out you're living with a bunch of vampires?” Mikey’s casual tone was way out of place, but you knew he couldn’t help it. He was Mike, after all. But was he really? Was he still the Mikey you knew? The Mike you… loved?
“Of course it's all three of you. Fuck! Yes, he'd be pretty mad, to say the least. And he'll for sure disown me if he knew I let myself be defiled by one. God! I can't believe this. I slept with you. I… Vampire… Fuck.”
“Defiled? Jesus, please don’t say things like that. You’re making me feel like a monster.” He paused for a moment while he gathered his thoughts. “Are you scared of me?”
“No…” It wasn’t a lie, per se. You weren’t scared of the Mike you knew; you just weren’t entirely convinced that your Mike hadn’t changed.
“Do you want to leave?”
“No.” Apart from the fact you had nowhere to go, you didn’t see much reason to leave. If he was telling the truth when he said he genuinely believed you’d known all this time, then you had no reason to fear them, or to leave. If they wanted you gone, you’d be gone, one way or another.
“Do you hate me?” He looked as if he knew it was a ridiculous question, but he was still asking. You couldn’t help but wonder why.
“Mikey, stop, no. I… I'm not like my family, but this is hard. Even if I didn't believe everything they told me growing up, there's still a lot in between not believing vampires are the devil and fucking one.”
“Whoa, thanks. We're just screwing, then?”
“Mike, that's not what I meant. I just… That's what makes me so pissed you never told me! I really liked you. I still do.” You were fifty shades of confused right now, trying to make sense of the fact that your boyfriend hadn’t quite lied about yet still omitted the fact that he was a vampire.
“I'm really, really sorry! I genuinely thought you knew!”
“How was I supposed to know? You're out in the sun! I've seen you eat… Food. I've seen you eat garlic. You show up in pictures and in mirrors.” As soon as the words left your mouth, you realized it was entirely possible that the information you’d gotten from your parents and their – generally lacking – education may not have been entirely correct.
“Ah. I see some inaccuracies are still alive and well in the homeschooling department.” Somehow, saying something like that was something Mike could get away with without sounding like a massive dick. There was something in his tone that made it abundantly clear to you that you weren’t at fault for this whole… Misunderstanding? Was that the right way to describe it, or was it a gigantic understatement?
“Well enlighten me.” Mike quickly offered to make you a cup of tea while you had that conversation, which you gladly accepted. Mike put the kettle on and gestured at you to sit down on the couch.
“Get comfortable, we're in for a long talk.” You grabbed a blanket and waited for Mike to join you on the couch. He handed you your tea and you smiled a little nervously. “Fuck, Sweetcheeks, can I hug you?” Mike seemed genuinely upset at everything that was happening right now, which didn’t make you happy – you hated seeing him like this – but it definitely did make you feel more comfortable knowing that he had really never meant for this to happen.
“Where do we start.” You still couldn’t believe you were having this conversation. It seemed like a weird thing to find out about so late. Then again, you’d gone years without knowing your childhood best friend was left-handed, and you hadn’t known your English Literature professor was gay until a friend had pointed that out to you somewhere in the past week. You just weren’t very observant. Apparently.
“I'd like to apologize again, that's for sure. And after that… Do you have any questions?” He then proceeded to answer every question you had as they bubbled up in your brain in seemingly random order.
“Is this why you're so cold sometimes?” You felt silly asking these questions. It all suddenly really felt like you should have learned these things by now. Like making toast or stacking a dishwasher or doing laundry. Alright, you still weren’t completely clear on the laundry part, but you knew more about that than vampires. As it turns out, it was highly unusual for humans to even notice the difference in temperature, but you were on the right track with your question.
“It is. I'm colder when I'm hungry. And warmer after eating human food.” Apparently, it took up more energy to digest human food.
“Compared to eating people?”
“Whoa, Sweetcheeks, we don't 'eat people', okay? We drink blood, that's different!” He actually looked insulted when you said that, and maybe he was right to feel that way…
“You suck it out of people,” you said in a small voice. The comparison seemed logical…
“Shit, Sweetcheeks, you've sucked things out of me, do you 'eat vampires'?” Of course. That was such a Mikey thing to say…
“Why do I always have to be around when he says something stupid like that?” You immediately froze when you heard the dark, smooth baritone of Walter’s voice.
“Terrible timing? You somehow managed. He chuckled softly – the sound always gave you chills, but in a good way. Maybe a bit too good.
“Or so it would seem. As always, I apologize for his existence!”
“It's alright, I forgive him.”
“What were you even talking about? Wait, do I want to know?” Marshall decided to join the both of you in the living room. Mike didn’t protest, and you weren’t opposed to a second teacher to help explain all of these things. You just hoped that August wouldn’t show up; he wasn’t very good at hiding disdain, and he’d certainly have plenty of it stowed away for moments exactly like this one.
“She had no idea we are vampires.”
“You've been living with us for months? Did they teach you nothing in hi-“
“Homeschooled,” Mike clarified quickly. You felt a blush creep up to your cheeks; you definitely hadn’t felt like this in a long time. Like a clueless child in dire need of adults to tell her how the world worked. It reminded you a little bit too much of the way your parents had always treated you.
“Ah. My bad. And you're trying to rectify the situation using phrases like that?” Luckily, it was Mike that was being judged by Marshall, and you sighed in relief.
“She accused me of eating people,” Mike said, looking like a sad puppy; pouty and adorable.
“Alright, that's a gratuitous overstatement.”
“How do you even eat? Drink? Feed? ... You don't kill people, do you?”
“Love, this isn't the dark ages, there's safe ways for us to feed – ‘feed’ would be the most commonly used term.” Marshall chuckled. “And most importantly; the 'people we eat' are willing to let us feed.”
“Why would they do that voluntarily?” It seemed kind of weird to you to just, what? Walk up to vampires and go ‘here, suck my blood?’ Another Marshall-chuckle tore you away from your thoughts.
“Well, they’re not volunteers, per se. It pays pretty well.”
“It's a job?” That made more sense, but something about that felt… obscene and perverted? Though you did recognize that that was probably your upbringing talking.
“Yes, it is. It’s quite popular among students; you're just sitting around, with plenty of time to study.” Marshall’s explanation didn’t come across as judgy or mocking, he just explained. Nothing more, nothing less. “Some are purely in it for the money, and are really freaked out about the bites. It always sucks -pun not intended – when you get one of those.” That had you curious, and you asked about the ‘why’ behind that.
“Fear makes blood taste weird,” Marshall said. Apparently, it had something to do with the hormones humans released when scared.
“I bet August likes it,” Mikey said with a massive grin on his face.
“A little adrenaline from excitement and anticipation, sure,” Of course August came home right that second. You remembered what your parents had briefly warned you about; vampires had keen senses. You wondered if Mike had heard August coming. “But genuine fear? Might as well feed during finals week.” Another tidbit of information that would have been infinitely more informative if you knew the first thing about vampires and their feeding practices, but you didn’t. Therefore, you had to ask again – and this time, you had to ask August.
“What?”
“Lots of stress doesn't make it taste any better, either. Why are we teaching Vampire Health 1 to an undergrad?” There it was: some good old, signature August derision to feast on.
“Homeschooled,” the three of you said in unison.
“My apologies,” August said. He seemed sincere, and his attitude disappeared immediately.
“The feeding... I take it it's not a fun little restaurant experience?” You asked your question carefully, afraid to have been misinterpreting everything the whole way through, but you were met with three looks that proved you right beyond a shadow of a doubt.
“It definitely isn't. It's a long wait, and you basically have no idea of what you're going to get, no choice at all, and you're out of whack for anywhere from three days to a week.” Mike said, shuddering at the thought.
“Why would you feel out of it?” That didn’t make any sense. Wasn’t eating supposed to make you feel better, not worse?
“They dose you with garlic,” Mike answered as if that explained everything. You gave the boys a quizzical look.
“Oh good grief, this is why Sherlock spends most of his time at the clinic dealing with transitioning homeschooled kids.” August growled. His exasperation wasn’t aimed at you, per se, you noticed. The guys seemed to be very sympathetic towards your status as a nitwit homeschooled kid.
“I'm completely lost, guys.”
“You're completely lucky you're not one of us, princess.” August said. His voice was more mellow than it had been a few moments ago, as if he was trying to make it clear to you that he wasn’t frustrated with you. That being said, he didn’t quite succeed; he still sounded pretty pissed, and you weren’t convinced it wasn’t aimed at you. “Not that being a vampire is so bad, but it shouldn't be an accident.”
“What were you told about becoming a vampire?” Marshall shot August a look that clearly meant he needed to calm the fuck down.
“You get bit, you become a vampire.” You shrugged. That was basically all your parents had told you about the process. “Oh and that it's the most painful thing ever. And there was something about the fires of hell. Actually, the fires of hell got mentioned quite a lot.” The guys laughed at that, which made you very happy. It had been a joke, after all – well, the ‘funny because it’s true’ kind – and it did break the tension a little. It also didn’t seem to be something they hadn’t heard before.
“Alright, they weren't wrong about the biting part, per se. It's not a given, but there's a pretty decent success rate.” Marshall explained.
“'s where the garlic comes in. You were probably told that vampires and garlic don't mix?” You nodded in reply to Mike's question. “Alright. Not necessarily a lie. Garlic does make us easier to kill, which is what the hell-yellers choose to interpret as 'vampire eat garlic, vampire die'.”
“Which can't be true, because you're all still here.”
“Exactly. What it does do,” August continued, ”is weaken us. We're slower, less strong, and it fogs our brain a little. What it also does, is weaken the toxin our teeth secrete when they come into contact with human blood.”
“Not animal blood?”
“Imagine a vampire tiger or bear, princess, and then consider whether or not that's a sound idea from an evolutionary point of view.” August took one look at your face and laughed. It was something you didn’t hear often, and even if you did it was usually mixed into the laughter of the others. It was nice, though. “Exactly.”
“So garlic is what? Vampire contraceptive?”
“Pretty much,” Mike said, “and since the places where we feed can't trust everyone to take their daily dose, they OD you on the stuff to the point where you can't see straight. There's a reason most of us only go once a month or so.”
“This is a lot...”
“Yeah, this was the speed run of maybe just about half of a ten-week high school course,” Marshall said, “and most of those kids have been given information from a very young age. Correct information.”
“What about the sun? And reflections? Do you need to be invited into houses?” Whenever you thought you were out of things to ask about, something else came to mind.
“Sunscreen, myth and yes,” August answered your questions effectively, which was nice, given the fact that you were really approaching the limits of how much information you could handle in a single day.
“Su- no.” That was an explanation that was so devilishly simple that it couldn’t be true. At the very least it was incredibly anticlimactic.
“He’s not lying to you, love,” Marshall said, “we've been around for ages, give me one good reason why your scientists have come up with something that prevents you from burning in the sun, but ours wouldn't have?”
“Vampire scientists?”
“You can meet one, if Sherlock ever makes it back.”
#walter marshall x ofc#sherlock x ofc#mike x ofc#august walker x ofc#henrycavill fanfic#henry cavill characters#henry cavill fanfiction#henry cavill#mike (hellraiser)#mike hellraiser fic#mike hellraiser#hellraiser mike#august walker fanfiction#august walker#walter marshall#walter marshall fanfiction#sherlock holmes#henry cavill sherlock holmes#hc sherlock#sherlock holmes x ofc
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Chance Encounter
As I entered the small Strand restaurant where I had asked Watson to meet me, I saw at once that it was unusually crowded for that time of day. As I searched in vain for a table with two empty chairs together, I noticed a young woman sitting by herself at a table for two, reading a recent issue of the Strand. Her molasses-brown hair was up in a loose coif, though a few locks had come free. Her apparel was fashionable, but not extravagant, and her boots were of a style not frequently seen in London.
I stayed where I was, intending to wait until she had left before claiming the table, but presently she glanced up and caught my eye. She indicated that I should approach, though I did not recognise her and she gave no indication of recognising me. Out of curiosity, I walked over to the table.
"I will be leaving shortly," she remarked once I had arrived, "So you needn't worry that you or your friend will be left standing."
"What led you to believe that I was expecting someone?" I asked, my curiosity piqued by her comment.
"If you expected to remain alone," she replied, "you would have simply taken one of the solitary seats in the restaurant. As it was, you hesitated in the doorway and scanned the entire dining area, apparently looking for a table with two or more chairs together. It isn't usually this crowded at this time of day."
"I hadn't noticed you here before," I said as I sat across from her.
"I haven't been here before. You glanced at your pocket-watch as you came in, and you looked annoyed at the crowd. Hence, you were expecting it to be empty enough now for both of you to sit."
Not to be outdone, I observed, "You're very keen, for a left-handed, unmarried, secretary,recently returned from a travel to America who hadn't the foresight to take a cab here on such a windy day."
She arched an eyebrow at me. "How do you know all that?"
"The indentation of a pen is plain upon the second joint of the middle finger of your left hand, though even had I not observed that, one can see that you turn the pages of your magazine with your left hand rather than your right. You also do not wear a wedding band, nor is there the shadow of where one might otherwise be. The skin on both hands is overdry, as might be expected when one handles a lot of paper in their profession.
"Even before you spoke I noticed your boots, which are of a style manufactured chiefly in America, which told me that you had certainly been there when you purchased the boots. I could see you had walked here, as there is road-grime splashed on your boots, and the stiff wind has blown some of your hair free of its pins."
"Hum!" she said when I had finished, and she sat back. A slight smile played at her lips. "Well, even a left-handed, unmarried, secretary - whether or not she has the foresight not to walk in the wind - can easily spot someone who smokes tobacco, favoring the pipe when he is feeling meditative; who is a deep thinker on many puzzling issues and has a very keen eye for the minutest details; who is a lover of classical music and in fact plays the violin himself; who is a bachelor but takes a roommate; who takes a great interest in chemistry; who is a master in the art of theatrical makeup and disguise; who is a pugilist and fencer; who takes little interest in anything which he finds boring or irrelevant or which does not otherwise engage his intellect; and who is quite disinterested in romance or in fact in women as a gender outside of the necessities of his line of work."
She picked up the magazine and continued reading as I sat, slightly stunned. Finally my curiosity overcame my pride, and I said, "That is quite a detailed catalogue. Perhaps you might explain how you came to these conclusions."
"Well, there are two possible answers to that question," she said, "A long answer and a short answer."
"The long answer first, then."
"Certainly," she replied, "The smell of pipe tobacco is dreadfully difficult to get out of one's clothing, particularly if one smokes heavily at a stretch, so it has quite permeated your clothing, defying all efforts to remove it.
"Your powers of observation were quite clear from your own remarks about myself, but as they were quickly deduced it was clear that this process takes very little time at all. Nonetheless, there is a pronounced furrow between your eyebrows which naturally forms when one knits the brow in deep concentration.
"Your choice of musical instrument is evident by the broad callouses on the pads of the fingers on your left hand where they would touch the strings, and the narrower callouses on the fingers of your right hand where they would grasp the bow, and the slight indentation on the underside of your chin where it would rest on the body of the instrument. One who plays the violin could hardly be uninterested in classical music.
"The lack of a wedding band indicates that you are not married, but your clothing is well-worn, indicating that your income has not been substantial enough for you to afford new clothing for some time. The only way a gentleman in such a financial situation might afford reasonable living quarters is by going halves with a roommate.
"Your interest in chemistry is as plain as the chemical-stains and acid- burns on your hands, though I daresay a home laboratory would cause your roommate no little annoyance.
"Your lean frame is not indicative of a sedentary lifestyle. Furthermore, your upper body appears to be well-muscled, as would be necessary in boxing, and your right arm is slightly more developed than the left, which would occur in someone who practiced in fencing or played singlestick.
"Your interest in theater is evident by the slight smell of cold cream, used by professional thespians to clean off their greasepaint. All the same, there is a thin line of greasepaint at your hairline - hardly noticeable, mind you - which might result if you had washed it off your face in poor light.
"Your selective interest in most topics underlies most of these, particularly the fact that you have a keen interest in such diverse topics as chemistry and theater. It would be difficult and frustrating to cultivate such a level of expertise in all topics, so you pick and choose those which are most interesting and useful to you. The fact that this list does not include women was indicated by your bachelorhood, the lack of any indications - such as the use of cologne - that you are courting anyone, and your apparent reluctance to approach this table in the beginning and ask me if the seat you are now occupying is taken."
She thus concluded her explanation, and returned to her magazine. I sat silent for several minutes, digesting her essay on my personal habits, until I could no longer contain my curiosity.
"The long answer covers every detail," I said, "So what could be the short answer?"
She glanced up at me over the edge of her magazine, and silently folded back one half of it to reveal the full-colour title page of "The Adventure of the Speckled Band," which depicted me thrashing away at a rearing adder with my stick
"Occam's Razor," she said quietly, "How quickly you forget your own fame, Mr. Holmes!" With that she got up and left.
I was still laughing when Watson joined me and asked me if I was quite all right.
Head on to my sequel
the adventure of the trading trinkets
To find out more about her.
#sherlock x y/n#sherlock holmes#sherlock hound#sherlock holmes x ofc#sherlock holmes x reader#sherlock holmes x you#sherlock holmes x oc#sherlock x you#sherlock x reader#sherlock holmes fanfiction#sherlock holmes fic#sherlock holmes fandom#sherlock holmes fluff#henry!sherlock#henry!holmes#henry!sherlock x reader#henry sherlock#acd sherlock holmes#acd sherlock#victorian sherlock#ronald howard#ronald howard holmes#sherlock holmes 1954#1954 Sherlock Holmes
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Sherlock Holmes x OFC (Emily)
Warnings: • DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT • Somnophilia • Non-Con • Implied kidnapping • Drug use • Breeding Kink • Lactation Kink • Daddy Kink • Oral sex • Penetrative Sex • Creampie • Knife play
Summary: Sherlock is pent-up and agitated. Luckily he knows exactly what to do to blow off some steam.
Author’s note: My first foray into dark fic! Will it sink or will it swim? Who knows. Honestly I've been plugging away at this for god knows how long that I'm not even sure if it's good. At this point, everything is just a blur of words.
I would like to thank Anne Rice for inspiring this little trash piece. Have any of you ever read the The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty? No? Well you should. Definitely fucked me up.
I also would like to thank @littlefreya for encouraging me to write this and helping me figure out some things. You're the best babe!
Please Anne Rice's lawyers don't sue me. This isn't a fic of her works. For God's sake I was inspired by it.
Anyway, enjoy! Or not. I can't tell you what to do.
Sherlock took the stairs two at a time. He was on edge, every muscle in his body wired with tension, frenetic energy coiled deep in his belly begging to be released.
He stood at the threshold of her room and admired the delectable sight laid out before him.
Her dark hair spilled over the pillows like ink bleeding onto paper, and her nightgown of loose, gossamer fabric revealed her rounded breasts and the shadow of her nipples. He pulled the heavy damask curtains that shrouded her room in darkness. The late afternoon sun trickled into the room and - he gasped - she was as lovely as a painting, tender eyelids that gave way to long lashes that swept down to her rounded cheeks and dusky rose lips.
She was perfection and she belonged to him.
Depositing himself beside her, he traced her delicate brow with his tongue and the bridge of her nose and made his way to the shell of her ear.
Curious. For she did not stir.
He drew out a dagger he kept hidden within his boot and slipped the blade between her breasts - oh no, he had no patience with these laces and ties and strings - letting it rip through the fabric.
Her breasts were wonderfully plump and firm. And his rough hands pawed at them, cupping each breast, moving them about, almost as if he were weighing fruit at the market.
Her brows drew together into a frown.
Curiouser and curiouser, he thought. For she still did not stir.
Carefully as to not draw blood, he ran the tip of his dagger round and round her nipples until they hardened like berries ripe for the picking. He latched onto them like a suckling babe, and a sudden thought flashed through his head.
Her perfect breasts, round and heavy with milk, her stomach swollen with his seed.
He inhales sharply.
Yes. He should put his baby in her. Stuff her tiny cunt with his cock; fuck her full till she's leaking. Fuck her till everybody knows who she belongs to.
He palms himself through his trousers, knows he is already thick and throbbing with need. But he can wait. He's always been a patient man.
He cut away the rest of her gown and threw it to the floor. Her body was now bared to him, a smorgasbord of delights.
Sherlock ran his hands all over her body, marveling at the young, supple flesh. He caresses her dainty feet with kisses, worships at the altar of her milky, white thighs before his tongue debauches her center.
Like a man starved, his lips latch on to the sensitive nub between her lips. Sucking and lapping at the wetness like it was ambrosia from the gods, skillfully working his tongue until she arched her back and rocked her hips on his face.
A smirk grew on Sherlock's face, satisfaction heavy on his mind at the needy whine that spilled forth from her lips. Even in sleep, her body responded to his ministrations, trained her little cunt so well that she needn't be awake to feel pleasure.
He doesn't waste time undressing, mounts her, parts her legs, grasps himself at the root and runs the blunt head between her lips, coating it in her slick. He sheathes himself to the hilt, growls at the wet heat that engulfs him.
"What a perfect cunt, my Emily. So hot and tight, my darling girl." he rasps, snapping his hips, watching as his cock disappears into her drippy cunt.
Obscene squelching sounds fill the room as he begins to pick up his pace. He places his thumb at the nub of flesh between her puffy lips and draw figure-of-eights. Her reaction is instantaneous; she mewls, mouth in a little moue of distress.
"You like that, my darling girl? Like it when Papa fucks so deep into you?"
He almost wishes she were awake, just so he could gaze upon her face, half-crazed with confusion, terror and pleasure. Sherlock knows he is a wretched man, but the rush of power he feels at her helplessness is a powerful aphrodisiac.
As he feels her cunt tighten at every thrust, Sherlock watches her tits bounce. Soon they'll be swollen and leak milk. A growl rises from him as he envisions his tongue swirling over her nipples, the cloying taste of sweetness at the back of his throat.
"Fuck, Emily. Fuck, fuck, fuck."
Her cunt clamps vise-like against his cock, it drives him over the edge. He spills into her; the force of his climax leaves him light-headed. Panting, he thrusts slowly one, two, three more times before he withdraws. He catches his spend pooling out of her abused cunt, scoops it and tucks it back inside.
Sherlock wipes at the sweat gathered at his brow and drags a hand through his curls, fixing himself to a semblance of decency. He gets up and pushes a pillow under her hips, to ensure that he takes root.
He putters around the room, dips a washcloth in the creamware bowl at her vanity, and wipes away their combined fluids on her thighs.
Sherlock looks at the assortment of bottles on her bedside table, picks a bottle and holds it up against the fading light of the sun. Ah, he's almost out. He uncorks it, and five drops of reddish brown laudanum disappear into the glass of water.
It'll calm her when she wakes up.
It'll steady her hand and keep her his pliant, little girl.
#sherlock holmes x ofc#sherlock holmes x original female character#sherlock holmes fanfiction#sherlock holmes imagine#henry cavill#henry cavill sherlock holmes
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Wails of Wedded Bliss
Chapter 3 || Masterlist || Chapter 5
Chapter Summary: Sherlock fulfils his husbandry duty and desires to play some more with your weak resolve.
Pairing: Sherlock Homes x wife!reader
Chapter Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Period Sex, Blowjob, Bondage, Pet Names, Fingering, Forced Orgasm, Forced Pubic shave, Humiliation.
Word Count: 9k
Author Notes: This chapter involves description of period blood and sex, please be warned!!
Inspiring Song: "Copy Cat." Billie Eillish classic cover
•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•
6:39pm Tuesday 6th May 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.
You had no choice. Not really...he was your husband and you were his wife. His threat of infidelity brought a great fear to your mental strength than your threat to murder him without a solid plan.
Oh how you hated him for this. You despised him with every sense. You weren’t sure how you’d be able to forgive him.
You knew he wasn’t a good or kind or even gentle husband, but a husband is meant to be faithful. And if humiliating yourself to pleasuring him with your mouth kept him straying in sin; by god you would obey.
You crept closer to him and slowly lowered yourself on one knee, then the next. Your eyes could not leave his face. A sick and twisted smile spread over his rosy cheeks.
In his palm was his half hard cock. His large hand made it appear smaller. The memory of its violent entrance had not been forgotten however.
It stared you back in the face. The pink head peaked up and out of his pale skin. His thumb rubbed over the pink head.
You felt cold and strange in comparison to your usual jitters. You fluttered your eyes closed. Your hands sat in your lap on your thighs.
‘He just wanted a kiss. I can kiss it...’
You leant forward and puckered your lips. His skin was feverishly warm. You pulled back fast and blinked up at him with wet eyes.
He chuckled meanly and touched your damp cheek in his other hand before moving his fingers under your jaw and guiding you closer to his cock.
“Lick the top with the tip of your tongue.”
Your lips trembled nervously. You weren’t sure if this was worth it. The thudding of your chest made you forget what he had asked.
Visions of the lewd novel in his chest flashed in your mind.
“P-pardon?”
His thumb pressed against your mouth, forcing its way past your lips and teeth. You knew better than to bite him. You weren’t an animal...you didn’t want a repeat of the night before where you had bitten his tongue.
“Stick out,” he pulled your tongue out with his thumb, “this little tongue.”
He pulled you closer by the chin and held his cock upwards.
“Lick.”
You whined softly and batted your eyes. Did you have the guts to do this? To truly perform fellatio? You didn’t really have the choice. You had to do this.
He let you go and waited patiently. He undid his cuffs and rolled the shirt off his shoulders.
“Are you so dim witted?” he gruffly asked, his fingers grabbed at your jaw after you took too long,
“Need I repeat myself once more?”
You shuddered and shook your head side to side. It was just so scary. Why did you have to have such a cruel husband!?
“No,” you licked your chapped lips, “I am sorry Mr Holmes.”
His eyes widened, his face softened but his lips smirked, “So polite, little lamb...”
Your lower half tingles with delight at the warmth of his sudden praise...
‘Little lamb, how do I despise it...yet feel warmth within?’
You pushed your face closer. You stuck out your tongue again and this time, glided it over his hot red tip. The gleam of your saliva and his desire shone in the soft candle light of a kerosene lamp on his bedside table.
You tucked your nose quickly back to your chest. You flushed.
Fluttering his eyes, Sherlock clenched the covers. His gasp on his breath was a sound of pain you originally believed.
“Again,” he said clearing his throat, “Come now, I grow tiresome to your reluctance.”
You wanted to spit at him. He knew you didn’t want to do this and yet still made you do it. You licked him again. His hand clapped on the back of your neck, forcing you closer and blocking you from pulling away.
You fell into him slightly, forced to need to grab his pant covered knee and thigh. Your fingers squeezed his trousers to stabilise your balance on your knees.
You looked back up into his eyes. Perhaps it was easier to look him in the eye instead of looking at the brutal beast between his thighs.
You opened your mouth and licked his cock little by little...his thumb pushed up your nose, opening your mouth wider. He pushed his cock into your mouth. His eyes were glued on you. He appeared relaxed.
His skin lacked any flavour. It was like licking your palm...but after a while there was a hint of salt in the taste buds.
You kept your mouth open, you kept your tongue out as he moved his hips in and out. His hand pushed you down and pinched you back up.
Your eyes remained only on him. He was grunting and sighing. A twinge of triumph tickled your heart. You were pleasing him! He would not want to seek out the unsavoury company of whores or any other woman overall.
He paused and leant down. He grabbed at your wrist and picked up his hand and rested your fingers around his length of his cock.
Your blinked and stared at the placement.
“Squeeze, and rub me up to the tip, down to the sack.” You nodded, his cock still rested on your tongue.
He chuckled and rested back on his hands. He waited for you to take over.
This was it. This is what would bring him pleasure. You cupped his shaft and moved the way you were instructed. You did it at a pace where he appear to struggle how to breathe. His words were nothingness under his breath.
He looked to the ceiling and moaned.
The skin was hot and twitched under your finger tips.
He let out a choking groan. The back of your mouth felt that harsh slapping squirt of his release.
You pulled back in horror. Your bottom slid across the rug. You weren’t sure what it was really. In fact you feared he had the audacity to piss in your mouth. You spat on the floor and coughed.
“Ugh!”
He cackled at the mortified look you had written over your sweet face.
He sighed and chewed his bottom lip. He slowly clapped his hands.
“Well done... Forgive me, I had intended to finish myself over your sweet breasts, little lamb.”
He cocked his head to the side and hummed, “Take off my shoes.” He lifted his foot to your direction.
You thought he was entirely despicable! You wiped your mouth with a growing glare. It didn’t go unnoticed by him, in fact, he took glee in your narrowing look..
“You wish to be a wife? Act as a wife. You want my loyalty? Well, you must be my whore...and whores suckle their johns cream with pretty smiles on their painted faces. Wives help their husbands undress from long days of work.”
You felt...weak and disgusting. You felt like an idiot. In your grumpy defeat you crawled back to him and began to unlace his shoes. In the corner of your eye you saw his hand reach back to his front and touch his thick meat. The looser the laces, you lifted your hands and rocked his heel out of his shoe.
Demurely you sat both his shoes aside. His socks smelt of his sweat and the filth of London street ways. You gagged and pinched the wool socks away from his calves and flung them from his toes.
A cramp waved through you and forced a grimacing groan out of your quiet misery.
Sherlock stopped laughing, his smugness dissipated. His face fell. He tucked his cock away with an annoyed sigh.
His hands unexpectedly tucked beneath your armpits and lifted you off the floor. He pushed you lightly onto his mattress onto your front. You felt your breath hitching, worrying what he would do to you. It wouldn’t be right for him to have sex with you during your menses.
He palmed his giant hand over your bottom. Hoisting your night dress up your thighs and over your back. He slapped one cheek lightly and chuckled at your cry and hiss. He grabbed your shoulder and held you down slightly. Your fingers gripped the covers of his top blanket. You had washed and changed this set. They smelt of a sweet lemon citrus.
His lips touched your bare shoulders. His hot breath tingled in your ear.
You flushed and squeezed your eyes shut. God it felt strange and ticklish.
“Look at this perfect little arse,” he admired, groping at the flesh, “Plump and ripe for a needed disciplining. Your grandparents let you get away with far too much.”
He slapped you harder. A scream bellied from you. Your spine curled up and you desperately reached back to scratch his bare arms.
“Stop it! Or I will bite you again!” you shouted.
The detective smacked his lip and hummed, “Ah that reminds me, thankyou little lamb.”
In two fingers he held in front of your eyes his cravat. He stuffed the material deep into your mouth and slapped you swiftly when you tried nipping his hand. Tears poured like boiling water.
He tied the rest of the fabric tightly behind your head. You violently shook your head and fought against him, you tried pushing away only to be shoved down by his strong hands.
He rolled you into your back and used your nightgown to tie your wrists together, over your hands. Your claws were contained from clawing his eyeballs out.
The bonds were pushed above your head. He attached a loose part of the arm of your clothes to the headpost.
He smacked your thighs apart hard. You shrieked behind the gag.
He tore the sanitary apron away and tossed it across the room. You turn your nose into your arm, too embarrassed to look at your husband who played with your body.
You twitched and tried to kick at Sherlock as his hand tickled down your side and between your thighs. The wicked man smirked as he watched your pleading eyes water. He pushed two fingers inside your red hot messed cavern. You felt ill. This was an abomination! He fingered you and held your upper body down, watching you like a hawk as you struggled.
His digits within you flexed and curled. You felt them touch along the top of your walls while his thumb rubbed down into your forbidden button. You whined and shook your head. He removed his hand all together. You clenched your legs back together.
“Oh my, Mrs Holmes,” he purred, glancing down, “You secret slut...this isn’t blood,” he held his fingers up to the light, “Why...this is arousal...”
His lips curled, flashing those pearly white gnashers.
Your eyes widened with horror. You were humiliated. Surely it wasn’t possible that you could be enjoying this? Why did he have to be so handsome. Why did your fear mix in with attraction so easily.
With the clear gleaming on his hand, with little pink streaks, he kissed your cheek and pinched
your nipples.
You shook your head and whimpered. Your legs were buzzing at the pain inflicted increased a desperate certain warmth within you.
“My was that a moan? Interesting,” he whispered cheekily.
“and if I...do this...” he asked as he shoved his hand back onto your snatch, rubbing in fine circles ontop of your clit. Your hips lifted and your thighs trembled. Your toes curled hard and your head rolled back. God it felt delicious and evil.
Amongst your lustful whines, Sherlock chortled happily, “How perfect you might be dear wife...I had no little hope for this morning, but now,” his nose shoved into your ear, “...oh you’ve just gone and damned yourself for good.”
He tugged at your pubic mane lightly, it didn’t matter, it made you squeal and howl in pain.
Your husband sat up and left the bed. Your arms were still bound above your head. You lifted your knees protectively to your chest.
“All this hair...” He tutted, “it shall not do.”
You heard him wonder across his bedroom. Out of his personal drawers he found a straight razor. He also brought forth the basin of water he had near the door way. With a cloth napkin and tiny sliver of soap, he returned and forced your legs down on to the bed. He knelt on your spread ankles and lathered your nether curls.
It was when the soap started to foam that you realised what he was intending to do. It was impossible to word the begging but he knew...you knew he knew what you were pleading out.
You knew how sharp a razor could be. What if he mutilated you!?
He glided the cold metal over your wet sensitive skin.
He licked his bottom lip as he scrapped away your mass of pubic hair.
“Hold still wife or I will cut you,” he scolded sarcastically as he went through the white bubbles.
Cleaning the razor in the water before returning it back between your thighs he hummed, “I am displeased you didn’t confer with me about the states of my accounts before deciding to pay them all off yourself. That dowry was meant for dresses, and necessary accessories such as calling cards...” he tapped the razor on the basin bowl, “now we must both rely on Mycroft and my cases for wages...stupid girl.”
The way he stared into your eyes as he held the blade up to the light...was he threatening you...was this...a warning.
You squeezed your eyes shut and took a deep shuddering breath. Tied to his bed and at his whim you were significantly helpless.
His hands took the towel and wiped your cunt clean of the hairs and soap still left behind. He whistled dramatically and smirked.
“My, my, what a pretty pussy you have.” He mused as he tossed the razor into the basin and moved the water bowl under the bed, out of the way.
His middle finger pushed inside. You gasped. The stretching intrusion took you off your guard.
“So tight still. I might need to train you to take me.”
He tore it back out and touched your naked clit lightly.
You gasped and choked behind the cravat. With deep moans, you wept pathetically.
“Oh look at that reaction,” he cooed condescendingly, he caressed the skin with his knuckle, “and all I’m doing is touching your clit. So sensitive.”
He licked his bottom lip and smirked, he pulled his hand back and slapped his palm across your labia. You squeal as the hot fiery pain rose up under your skin and spread out a dark shade with the rushing of your blood.
“Splendid responses to the nerves,” Sherlock noted before running the stinging flesh, you whined and turned your face into your arm.
“Bit sore I gather?” The man mocked, “Poor Lamb. All mine and bloody for sacrifice.”
A horrid in taking sound came from him. He spat on his fingers and pushed the wetted digits against your labia, dragging them down before sliding in home.
“There we are, squeezing so tightly around my finger, feels filling?”
He paused and listened to your heavy breathing behind the man made gag he had over your mouth. Listening to your ragged gasps and wheezes made his cock stir. You were so innocent and confused, he could see through your prudish and proper demeanour so easily. He fingered you until you were on the brink of insanity. Your eyes were becoming hazy, strained and almost crossed.
He thought it incredible...a true virgin. Not some pretender whore that his friend Miss Adler supplied. You were the authentic innocent.
“Now that you are properly tied up and without risk to harm me,” he whispered wetly, “-And decently groomed... I will complete our union.” He removed his fingers slowly out of you.
You closed your eyes and took a deep breath. You needed to compose yourself. You wanted to pretend you were back home with your grandparents. You imagined yourself in the gardens with your cousins playing balls. Oh back then life was a struggle but comparing to this...it was truly childsplay.
You yearned for your girlhood once more before you felt him move off the bed a moment only to shove your thighs wider apart and sit the head of his cock on top of your naked hairless lips.
Here the devil had come to steal all girlhood for good and inflict the agonising curse of
womanhood.
He entered slowly. Clearly he had learnt from yesterday that this task would only be accomplished with patience.
Indeed yesterday would’ve been considered a consummated marriage...so why he cared so much to refer to this as a completion of union alluded you.
You whimpered softly and peaked through your wet lashes to see his invasive entrance breaking into you.
To say you were full was placing it lightly. This man stole all possible space inside. He left no pocket of air as he pushed along and settled within.
His hands were tightly holding each ankle apart.
You now understood why he touched you with his hands before...your slickness welcomed and slid him deeper into you.
“Oh, my poor little lamb, taking in her masters thick cock so bravely,” he praised and then laughed as you struggled against your own nightgown binded to the headboard, “unable to nip or kick back at him.”
You grew silent in defeat. You submitted to the chance of zero hopelessness. Your legs fell limply.
He released your ankles.
You were plagued in your own paralysis.
You felt like he was pausing before pushing more inside. He was huge. There’s not many you could compare it too as a recently deflowered woman but you were confident his size must’ve been abnormal. Even he winced every so often at the tight squeeze.
When his pelvic bone pressed against your cunt, he sighed, “There...truly man and wife...at last...” A small scoff was heard.
You said something behind the gag that caught his ear. It was too muffled.
He pulled the gag harshly down your chin.
“What was that?”
You narrowed your eyes at him and huffed stubbornly, “Hu-husband and wife. Not man and wife.”
You wanted to remind him exactly who he was doing this to and why he could do it...because you allowed it.
“Correct you are, my darling,” he let a laugh escape him before he moved back, “Now if I just pull and twist my hips like this.”
He re-entered and this time he put his thumb on your clit as he went inside. Your eyes blew wide and you began to babble.
“Oh oh oh! Wh-what wait, please!” You started to moan and whine.
Your husband cackled proudly, “It feels good doesn’t it?”
You foolishly nodded in truth. Something sparked a flame that flooded your insides.
He did it again and again. He repeated and rubbed down into you. The filling of his member rubbing against all parts of your inner skin made you clench and groan.
You felt increasingly needful to collect the same high feeling he had delivered on you before. You were climbing an imaginary hill. The urge to release your bladder made your eyes widen.
Desperation took you into the most needful begging, “N-no! I need to use a bedpan please
Sherlock, please, I am going to make a mess! Stop! I’ll do anything.”
Your little gasps and desperate moans spurred your husband on.
His hips were making a fast speeding pace that made you dig your knees into his sides.
You wanted him to stop. You were scared of pissing over him, especially in his bed.
“I want you to let go,” he moaned and shoved his nose against yours. His breath entered your mouth as he raggedy groaned, “Release, trust me...it will feel good.”
You didn’t trust him. You didn’t know what he meant. How could this behaviour be acceptable.
“No, no, no, no, ugh, ugh, stah-, Sher-, ugh, pl-please!”
He slammed himself harder and licked at your chest, “Such a pretty beggar, dear lord, I predicted you to be a homely creature, I have been proven wrong. In this light, you are rare gem of the seas of Venus. Oh sweet lamb, give me your release.”
You couldn’t hold yourself in containment any longer. You let your lower half go. You clenched hard down onto him.
You found your spine curl and your mouth wordlessly wailing.
“Breathe dead, breathe,” you heard Sherlock call above your silent choking before unleashing a brutalising scream. It was like taking your first breath, being reborn.
When the air released, your chest burned. You gasped and cried out as some mighty string was torn within and drowned you in a flooding dam of pleasure.
Sherlock followed your desirable agony and let his mind go. His grunting was feral and full of need.
Your muscles released and you cried with the feeling of warm melted gold ran through you.
You weakly called out, “Sherlock...”
His hot lips kissed against your sweaty skin. He kissed your neck up to your chin and cheek and engulfed your own mouth in a sloppy sensation of saliva and soft lips.
When your eyes focused and found a semblance of sane sight, you beheld a pleased man. You felt his fingers touching along your arms and wrists.
“I am going to untie you, hush you are safe...”
You shut your eyes. The last tears to come derived from pleasure and a overwhelming sense of joy that was foreign to you. You trembled, still drinking in the vibrations of your body.
You were stuck in a blanket of bodily pleasure. You had never been so relaxed and warm in your entire life.
You enjoyed what he had done and you didn’t know why especially since you heavily disliked your own husband.
Was this what Mrs Hudson referred to? Screaming followed by smiles?
‘Oh’, you thought, ‘never again will a woman have what I just claimed. This is mine and always shall be.’
“I...need...um...I...words...I...you’ve...I can’t think...I am spent,” you mumbled dumbly.
A part of you wanted to thank him and have him leave you alone to wallow in sleep. Another wanted him to do it all again.
“Pretty Lamb,” he cooed in your ear as your hands limply fell to the mattress, “I am going to carry you now.”
He had tucked himself away and scooped his hands under your legs. He moved your arms around his shoulders and pushed you to sit up before clamping his arm beneath your back. His nose tucked into your neck where he left another kiss.
Carefully he lifted you off his bed and stepped out into the dining parlour where he turned and took you to your room beside his.
He pulled the blankets and sheets away before sliding you down beneath them.
He pulled the cover up to your chin and you whimpered, “I...am sore.”
His hard face softened, he pressed his lips to your cheek and asked, “You are?”
You nodded your head, “I...feel...light...tired.”
He left your side to shut your door. The light disappeared completely. Only the moon that casted light over his face helped you see as he faced you again. He wondered over and invaded your bed space.
He climbed in along side you. The wood creaked with his added weight. You were slightly alarmed he was coming into your bed and not returning back to his room.
You were drowsy and moaned.
“Sleep, in my arms,” He said as you weakly tried rolling away.
You turned back and stared at the shadows of his face. His eyes were black with only small specks of the light reflecting.
His skin was sticky and hot... But tonight it was cold and windy...you needed him...he wanted you...you succeeded.
In the darkness, you decided to reclaim some small pride...you pushed your face up and kissed his lip. Breathing him in you could finally smell him and taste him. Chalk, blood, and tobacco.
You shut your eyes and imagined the joy of your grandmother if you could tell her how you finally became the wife of Sherlock Holmes before the rites of Godly flesh.
He was silent and still. He said nothing. Did nothing.
When you pulled back from the kids he rested his head softly back on the pillows with a light hum. His fingers tickled up your naked back, holding you close. You rubbed your cheek into his bicep and listened to his heart beat and breathing until you passed into the dreamlands of sleep.
•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•
6:04am Wednesday 7th May 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.
You dreamt of your father and mother. Two people who never married, but at some point were in love. You never had the chance to see them together in happiness.
They were well dressed and strolling in the park pushing a perambulator. And as you followed them it had not struck you that this was a dream. Inside the baby carriage was nothing at all...it was odd.
Yet your parents smiled and both leant in to kiss each other....their hands both held wedding bands.
If you had never been born, you suddenly thought, would they have been able to marry and be happy?
Your mother as she loved upon your father shoved the perambulator away. It rolled fast down the path and you followed it for a moment before hearing a terrible wail of a baby inside. A baby that wasn’t in the carriage before suddenly appeared, pulling back a blanket that covered it.
You chased after the carriage as it sped up and went down a hill. Your heart ached with terror. You struggled to keep up and reached out your hand to the handle bar. It was rolling just out of your reach!
You sobbed as the carriage crashed into Tree and fell to its side. Out rolled...a bleating lamb...the creature rose up on its four wiggly legs and bleated again. It’s long wagging tail flickered around anxiously.
You landed on your knees before the lamb and kept crying. Not even you knew the reason for your tears. You held the small animal to your torso, checking it over for any broken limbs. The baby sheep was fine.
A tap on your head made you look up and standing above you was a dark faceless shadow of a man. The shadow sucked you in and you screamed at the darkness before waking up.
Above you was a face you did know...your husband’s. His eyes danced around your features. His lips curled into a smirk, “Good morning Mrs Holmes, how did you sleep?”
You blinked and peered up at him warily before slowly you sat up and away from him. His hand touched your shoulder, your hand grabbed his wrist.
What was he doing in your bed? Why were you nude!? Ah the revaluations if the previous evening re-established back into your memory. He had fully fucked you. He had claimed you...and in your drunken sleepy state, you kissed him. You flushed.
“I slept fine...” you lied, “Please let me up,” you glanced between him, the door of the bedroom and your wardrobe, “I need to start my day.”
You swallowed hard as you looked over his broad chest.
“Nonsense,” Sherlock stated before dragging you closer to him by your waist, his hands were huge and warm, it would be too much to say even comforting.
“We have plenty of time before Mrs Hudson climbs up the stairs.” His lips touched your jaw and peppered down your neck..
“Mr Holmes...please,” you cleared your throat as your hand pushed his chest to force a pause. You flushed with embarrassment. He noticed very quickly at your strained tone.
“Oh...I see...you recall the events of last night...your self deduction?”
His hands under the blanket slid downward to your thighs. He touched the soft shaved skin of your pubis. You felt twice as sensitive...
“H-humiliated, st-stupid and angry,” you shuddered.
You had let him hurt you again...and yet this time it came to a pleasant conclusion. You were disgusted in yourself for obeying him so quickly, so willingly I’m regards to giving him fellatio.
His fingers pressed your clit and he smiled at your gasp.
“And now?”
You gulped and turned your face into the pillows away from his eyes.
It was hard to deny how much you enjoyed the jumping buzz in your lower belly.
His laugh was crude to your ears, “See how easy it is to feel that sweet entrapment?” He rubbed his hand between your legs and marvelled at your heightened reaction, “My goodness look at you, your cunt is pulsing against me, hot and hard in my palm.”
Your breath hitched and your hips accidentally rolled into his touch. Your body craved the addictive buzz. Your thighs parted for him...he accepted the invitation and moved a finger inside while he ground his palm against your bundle of nerves.
“Oh, are you going to release again?” he whispered proudly.
He chuckled at your shaking head. Your pathetic attempts to mentally deny it. You were close by how tightly you fluttered around just his lone finger. Your knees shook and clamped together. His finger continued jerking in and out.
“Oh ride the sweet death, come to be me, come, come, come to me little lamb.”
His mouth ducked down to your nude chest. He licked across your nipples and suckled them into his cheeks loudly.
Your hand grabbed the blankets and his wrist. You rolled your head back and sighed as whatever that spell was took over you.
“Did you know,” he smacked his lips across your breasts, before tonguing a single nipple, “you’ve the most delicious teats?”
You groaned and blushed. You were trying to catch your own breath.
He pressed his cock against your leg before taking your hand and forcing you to hold him.
“Touch me, hold it and slide your hand up and down like a silk pole.”
You did as he asked while he kissed your mouth openly. Your eyes fluttered shut and jerked him off until you felt a wetness glide down your hands, he moaned.
This is the kindest he has ever been to you presently.
You pulled your hand away and up to the light of the morning. Your eyes widened at the white goop stuck on your fingers and back of your hand.
“Wha-what is this?”
He chuckled and kissed your cheek proclaiming, “My seed.” Seed...to make children...but it was so...
“Its...liquid,” you disagreed, “and wet and sticky...it’s like mucus.”
He raced his fingers along your hip and patiently explained, “When drained inside of you,” his hand touched your lower belly, “it goes up and impregnates. But you are still bleeding so it washes out and won’t catch in your womb.”
You blinked and let your dirty hand fall back on the top of the covers.
“Oh...”
You felt him sit up and you mirrored him. You slid out of the bed as his warmth left you. Watching him pull his trousers properly back up over his hips and waist made you fluster from the sight of his bare arse.
It was such a plump bottom.
He pulled away your blanket, unveiling your nude self to the cold morning.
He turned around and brought back your water basin and a cloth. He soaked the material in and pressed the wet cloth to your thighs.
“Stay still,” he said softly, “I’m just washing you.”
You paused before you spread your legs for him and awkwardly nodded, “Thankyou...husband.”
Surely you could’ve cleaned yourself. You hissed as he scrubbed the dry blood and release from you thighs. The cold water on your hot dirty skin was soothing.
You stood out of your bed finally and hurried to your dresser to find either some padding tubes or a sanitary apron.
Your rolled the bandage up quickly and turned away from Sherlock as you inserted the material.
You felt...strange doing this in front of him. A part of him you were sure might be repulsed at the sight.
Except he had his back turned to you, he was washing himself in the basin while he asked, “How did you find the carnal pleasure?”
You froze and felt your mouth dry up. Had he forgotten that he had tied you up?!
It was hard to meet his eyes. You wrapped your arms around yourself. Your husband turned to you.
You felt the need to cover your privates with your hands.
“Strange, it...felt correct...but...wrong...” you cleared your throat, “forbidden, despite our vows.”
He smiled and nodded to the bed while he passed you to your wardrobe and investigated the contents, “Many young ladies new to it have expressed the same condolences...that is sex. That is coitus. That is what husband and wife do. To make babies, and to feel pleasure.”
Your nose wrinkled. Sherlock was significantly older than you. You trusted this wisdom. He was clearly an experienced man from the prices spent at Mayfair.
“Why did it hurt so much the first time?” you asked.
No one had prepared or explained why having sex with your husband would hurt. He was so brutal the first day. And last night it hurt but not as much...
He sighed and pulled out dark navy blouse and a skirt to match. You felt the urge to correct his choice as he held them up. It was an outfit for outside outings. You weren’t meant to leave the home during this delicate time.
He asked over his shoulder, “Have you ever ridden horses?”
“I have,” you answered honestly.
“Side saddle?” His left brow raised.
“Sometimes,” you pursed your lips and watched him lay out your clothes on your bed, “It was easier for balance when riding as men do.”
He nodded and went to collect a pair of your boots, “And that hurt your thighs the first time?”
“First few ride like that yes,” you agreed, huffing impatiently, “Where is this conversation leading?”
He pulled you closer by pinching your hip. He pushed a chemise over your head. Your eyes widened, this wasn’t his role...to help you dress. It was your responsibility and Mrs Hudson if you were inclined to ask for her assistance.
“How did the pain go away?” he asked.
You rolled your eyes and answered the obvious explanation, “Because my body accommodated and my muscles for the riding evolved to accept the saddled position.”
He passed you a pair of open crotch bloomers. You pulled the material over your legs and tied the strings to your waist over the corset.
He smiled and pinched your chin, “The same is said for sex. The more you practice, the better it will be for you and...your health.”
You flushed and turned your face away from him...you felt foolish with the way his eyes ran over your bare body. He turned you around and helped pull a corset over your head and began fighting the strings in the back.
“I...it hurt and felt good...I felt...suffocated...I thought I saw a bright light,” you grunted as he tugged.
Your husband shut his eyes and with a smile he hummed pleasingly, “La petite mort.” “The Little death?” You gasped.
He flicked his eyes open. He sounded amused, “ah you know French little lamb?”
“of course I do,” you scoffed lightly, “any self respectable lady must learn French.”
Not his sister, “I suppose so.”
He pulled more of the ties closer. The corset grew taunt and supportive of your chest. His fingers tugged down further.
“Why did you go to Scotland yard yesterday?” You asked him as he finished tying the laces together.
“And who did you have a fight with?”
You tapped your face with a soft finger. He passed you a hose suspender belt. You clipped the hooks behind your back while the belt sat on your waist.
“There’s now a bruise under your chin that I most certainly did not cause Mr Holmes...” A part of you wished you had. He would’ve deserved it from you. He rubbed the dark spot and smirked.
Your husband sat on your bed and plucked your stockings. He pat his thigh and opened the stockings up. You lifted your leg and rested it on his thigh. You clenched the wooden canopy pole to steady your balance.
You were embarrassed. At this angle he would be able to see your cunt stuffed with the white fluff soaking up your menstruation.
He showed no care or disgust. He slid the soft cotton up your leg and kissed your knee cheekily.
He clipped your stocking to the suspension strings.
“I inquired upon the Pennicott case,” he claimed,” his thumb rubbed dangerously over your thigh...
God, you felt a spark at the touch.
“I thought you said it was obvious,” you stuttered, “He ran out from his wife.”
“I did, and...I rethought it,” he admitted, he slid the other stocking up your other leg, “Pennicott is a Baron and a owner of many warehouse factories. His wife comes from a well off family too and she is pregnant last heard, baby number six now. Why would he disappear off the face of the earth?...”
He stood up straight and forced your arms above your head before he slid a petticoat across your waist.
“A lover?”
He smiled as he tied the strings at your waist and shook his head, “No, men like Pennicott would just keep their arm candy and refer to them as a niece of a distant cousin. And if he was attached so lovingly, he would just move to another country but to completely eradicate and leave all his finances? To leave his wife in her state? It makes not much sense. He was making a fine quarter profit! So why is he missing?”
He passed you the blouse and skirt.
“Well,” You pulled the skirt over your arms and buttoned the buttons up to our neck “Perhaps he’s been kidnapped, for ransom?”
Sherlock hummed, “Maybe Watson, but I do wonder still.” You blinked...
“Pardon?” you gawked.
He raised his brows to your exclamation.
“You called me Watson.”
“Oh dear god,” he chuckled and passed you your skirt, “it’s already happening.”
You slid on the final layer and wrinkled your nose at him, “What is happening?” Sherlock stood up from the bed and clapped his hands.
“Come with me,” he softly begged, “Today I will be visiting his wife. The Baroness. I am investigating the case.”
Your eyes fluttered. Your thoughts couldn’t keep up. You sputtered as you tried to find sensibility. “Sherlock, it is our honeymoon and I am bleeding,” you whispered, “It is improper. I need to conduct laundry. Both our bedding must be soaked in...” you cleared your throat, “the blood.” He winked at you and pulled you close to his nude chest by your covered waist.
“Isn’t it marvelous that we have a housekeeper for such things?”
You narrowed your eyes... “A housekeeper is not a maid and I would not subject Mrs Hudson to cleaning that. She has told me herself that linens is not of her department.”
The tall man bent down and offered, “Mrs Hudson will clean the laundry, trust me..”
Despite his assurance, It wasn’t right for you to be out and about in public like this.
“And what would I be doing,” you tested, “Running after you as you speak to the Baroness?”
“Sitting pretty,” Sherlock stated, “And looking for clues.”
Your eyes sharpened, “Clues?”
Your husband tapped your nose, “Yes, you seem to have a hint of talent in that department. You just don’t know where to deduce the end results for the clues.” You blinked....
With a soft mutter you stated, “I suppose it would allow me more insight to your profession and a chance to bond and learn about each other...”
Before you could continue anymore questions you heard a soft knock on your bedroom door.
“Mrs Hudson,” you both whispered, glancing to one another.
Helplines:
If you are a victim of sexual abuse, assault or domestic violence or know someone who is please reach out to these links that share helpline services, phone numbers or emails. Consent and respect is important in every relationship whether between friends, family or even strangers.
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#dead dove fic#dead dove do not eat#sherlock holmes x y/n#sherlock holmes x female reader#sherlock holmes x poc!reader#sherlock holmes x you#sherlock holmes x ofc#sherlock holmes x reader#sherlock holmes#enola sherlock#henry sherlock#henry cavill x female reader#henry cavill x y/n#henry cavill x ofc#henry cavill x you#henry cavill x reader#wowb
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Happy Christmas, Mr. Holmes
a Sherlock Holmes x OFC fic
summary: Christmas comes to Baker Street, in a form Sherlock Holmes had never envsioned. There is a sweetness in seeing the holiday through someone else's eyes, and there are lessons in holiday spirit and the nature of giving--as well as how Love makes the season even brighter--to be learned. Part of a continuing romantic series, this is the tale of Sherlock & Tessa's first Christmas together. It just proved too irresistable for me not to tell!
rating: general audience; chapter 1 of 4
Chapter One - a Christmas 'thing'
(Sunday, early December)
"I’m off then," Tessa was busy buttoning up her coat, as it was an extremely chilly day in London.
Sherlock glanced at her from behind the paper, the brunch she’d prepared for him half-eaten, his coffee growing cool. He looked at her quizzically "What for?" he asked, surprised to see her bundling up to leave the flat. He’d thought they had the afternoon ahead of them, perhaps a dvd or two to watch while relaxing quietly, fire in the hearth, her head upon his shoulder, few words spoken but for commentary about the movies, comfortable as any old couple who knew each other’s ins and outs. With Christmas approaching his caseload had lightened significantly and he counted on Tessa to fill the hours with him, as John was in Northumberland, attending a retirement celebration for another doctor from his unit in Afghanistan, and so was away all weekend long.
"You weren’t listening again," she replied, her tone indicating this was no surprise to her. "Sherlock, I told you, I have some Christmas shopping to do—some of my favorite people are still on my to-do list, and that,” Tessa’s eyes lit with mirth, “includes you." She was pulling on her gloves, and headed in his direction, presumably for the ritual she could seldom do without—the Goodbye Kiss. She would get no proffered cheek until he’d had his say.
"Well, at any rate, shopping shouldn’t take all afternoon." Sherlock stated this as an established fact," Surely you’ll be back before too long." Then the afternoon could proceed as he’d expected.
"Well, actually…." Tessa paused, sighed and continued, "I’ve got a thing this afternoon, so I won’t be back till after dark."
"A ‘thing’? And just what sort of ‘thing’ do you have?” She’d piqued his curiosity now and he wouldn’t settle for less than a full explanation.
"A Christmas thing, Sherlock. A thing at a church." She was smiling at his growing consternation, at making him ask instead of volunteering the information herself. She’d learned he listened better when he had to work a bit for it, although the telltale scowl forming on his face warned her not to push the tease too far. She patiently repeated what she’d told him several days before, "Sylvie and Jasper’s girls are in a Christmas pageant at their church. They’ve been practicing for weeks, and I promised Syl I wouldn’t miss it."
The sigh he gave was rife with irritation; he closed his eyes a moment and asked, trying his best to minimize any aversion in his voice, “And where exactly is this pageant to take place?”
Tessa narrowed her eyes, shaking her head slightly, “Um….Saint Mary’s of the Angels, on Moorhouse Road in Notting Hill.” She bit her lip and held her breath a moment before deciding to ask, “Why would you want to know that?” Tessa downplayed the sudden hope that he just might be interested in joining her there. That was a near impossibility, although she’d be more than happy if he did.
"Because, my dear, perhaps we could meet for dinner afterwards, and it would be best if we met close by, don’t you think?" Sherlock turned the page of the paper, indicating he thought that the matter was settled. "What time is this performance going to begin?"
"4:00, this afternoon. I wouldn’t imagine it will run more than an hour or so." Tessa found she was disappointed; dinner would be fine, but she really would’ve loved to share this little holiday presentation with him—though she’d never dare to ask.
Sherlock took a deep, dramatic breath, as he completed the debate inside his head, yes or no to an idea. He lowered the paper, giving Tessa his full attention. ”Only an hour then?” Tessa nodded yes, and he continued, “You know, I could join you there. At the church. If you’d like me to.” His face was impassive, but for the slight amusement in his eyes.
Although Tessa was speechless in her surprise, Sherlock could see from her face that he’d hit the mark. He usually could read her very well, and it was obvious this time that she wanted very much for him to join her. He realized she hadn’t invited him, not because she feared him declining, but simply because she knew the idea would be naturally anathema to him.
Recovering from her shock, Tessa felt obligated to caution him. “Sherlock, this is a group of five and six year olds we’re talking about. Far from disciplined, excited about their play, excited about Christmas. You do understand what you’d be getting yourself into?”
He suppressed the cringe that would normally have been on his face. ”Tessa dear,” he said, reminding himself he needn’t sound magnanimous, “let’s just consider it an early Christmas present, shall we?”
Tessa was still skeptical. ”Um…you should know—from what Sylvie says, there may even be a couple of sheep.” She waited for a response and when he remained silent, she added with great emphasis, “Live sheep, Sherlock. Are you sure about this?”
He nodded, certain he’d followed the right course. “Never surer. I will be there, count on it.”
The smile she gave him was surely worth all the irritation and boredom he expected to experience in the church. He started to lift the paper up to read, when she knelt beside him, hugged him tightly, and nuzzled his neck sweetly. ”Sherlock,” she said into his collar, “sometimes you can be such a dear.” She moved back a little, just to see his face; saying in complete sincerity, “What have I done to deserve you?”
He answered her most dryly, giving her the half smile he knew she adored, “You must’ve been a very good girl as a child.”
Tessa’s only answer was a loving smile and a lingering kiss. She rose to leave without another word, but as she reached the door, Sherlock called to her, “If you’re thinking of getting me new gloves, the only ones worth investing in can be found at Harvey Nichols.” He lowered the paper, wanting to stress the importance of the details he was about to impart, “Cashmere lined, with five-finger, precise touch technology.” He started to return to his page, but then flicked it down a moment, adding “I’d prefer them in black, of course.”
Tessa tilted her head, acknowledging his request as one would acknowledge the victor in a well fought contest. “Of course,” she replied with a smile, before turning to leave. She hoped the other item she had in mind would come as a complete surprise, for he had so few of those in his life and she knew he enjoyed them when they came.
Tessa reached the church nearly a half-hour early, having dropped her Christmas packages off at her flat beforehand. She didn’t mind arriving early; as she headed to a pew off to the side, she saw the children were just finishing up with a final rehearsal of their pageant. She smiled at their obvious excitement—in a space designed to echo with prayer and song, there was their happy laughter ringing out (along with the attendant shushing of the adults around them). She hadn’t told Sherlock, but her family parish at home had a similar tradition, celebrated for almost fifty years. She had even played the Christmas Star when she was five, and it was one of her earliest, dearest Christmas memories.
Truth be told, it wasn’t just her promise to Sylvie that brought her here—it was a deep longing for a connection to her family so very far away, at this family-centric time of year.
Tessa had left her phone on vibrate, in case Sherlock should text her to beg off coming to the church. At 3:55 she felt it go off, and was fairly certain it was him, perhaps with a brief apology or explanation for why he wouldn’t attend. She didn’t expect him to carry through, and wouldn’t blame him in the least if he didn’t; she understood him enough to realize how uncharacteristic it would be for him to appear at such a function.
She pulled her phone from her coat pocket and clicked on his text. ”I’m in the church vestibule. Where are you?” Her eyes widened in surprise, her delight clear to anyone who cared to look her way. She quickly texted back, "3rd row, far left hand row of pews." Tessa turned to watch the doors at the back of the church, and within moments she saw him, his classic greatcoat swirling behind him at his rapid stride, collar upturned against the cold (and in his usual nod to vanity, she knew). Sherlock’s face was set in her direction, looking crisp from the cold, his curls gently tousled so that she just wanted to reach out and tame them a bit. He slipped into the pew beside her.
Tessa couldn’t help herself; she stood on her toes to kiss his cheek. Her lips were warm against his chill, and she whispered in his ear in amazement, “You’re really here.” Sherlock, looking down at her, answered in a tone clearly saying there was never any doubt, “Of course. Did you really expect any less?”
Tessa looked down herself, demure in the moment, “Well…I wouldn’t have held you to it. But now you’re here, I’m very glad.” She twined her arm around his, facing forward, saying, “I just hope you won’t regret it.”
Sherlock teased her gently, his voice a soft, deep rumble for her ears alone, “With you by my side, how could I?” He glanced forward at the activity around the altar and the final preparations. The quiet of the church was broken by a growing hubbub of murmurs as those in attendance waited to see their own come down the center aisle and begin the pageant. Tessa had leaned her head against his shoulder for the moment, and as always he found it made him happy to have her assume such a feminine pose.
A teenaged girl stepped up to the podium to the left of the altar, and gave a brief welcome to the crowd, and then began to narrate the tale the children would be enacting. There was a choir of tweens in the loft, who, with each section of the play, would sing a carol fit for the story. The younger children reacted in a variety of ways to performing; some embraced it with seriousness and all due attention; some allowed themselves to be led to the altar, looking frightened and unsure, their teachers coaxing them along; some were easily distracted, waving at their families in the pews, or turning back to watch the choir, or focusing on the sheep (the ones led in by a couple of older boys playing shepherds, as Tessa had predicted). The little girl playing Mary looked angelic, though her nerves got the best of her and she planted her thumb firmly in her mouth the moment she reached the altar. There was a bevy of angels in white and gold and silver, wings of feather or foil or painted cardboard, depending on the ingenuity of the parent making the costume. One carried a large gold plywood star, and went to stand on a step stool behind the Holy Family, so that the Three Kings could find their way.
The wise men presented their gifts, and the teachers then moved forward to lead the children in singing “Away in a Manager”, which they mimed—again with varying degrees of success—using simple motions that fit the gentle lullaby. At the conclusion, the audience broke into appreciative applause.
Sherlock had not made the performance his only focus. Throughout the little play, he glanced sideways at Tessa, enjoying her response to the music and the pageant, her hand resting comfortably in his, lying soft against her thigh. She had sung along with every carol the choir had performed, her voice rising clear and bright on the Glorias of “Angels We Have Heard on High”, singing it out with all her heart. He knew it was his feelings for her that colored his reaction, but still he thought it was the sweetest he’d ever heard them sung. And he surprised Tessa when he joined in himself, on “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” and “Joy to the World”. She slipped her hand in the crook of his arm again, squeezing it tightly and smiling up at him, as he showed a velvet baritone she hadn’t expected. He would tell her later that he’d served his fair share (as had Mycroft) in church choir at his parents’ behest, until his voice changed and proved for several years to be ungovernable. Oh, but she enjoyed the surprise of it in the soft light of the church.
The pageant complete, the lights of the church were unexpectedly dimmed, and the crowd was hushed in anticipation of the finale—the lighting of the towering Christmas tree to the right of the pulpit. As the bright white lights on the tree came on, the crowd “ooohhhed” with satisfaction. The choir began to sing “Silent Night” with almost all present joining in. Sherlock heard Tessa sing along with the first few words, and then she fell silent. He turned to look at her; her head was bowed, her lips were trembling, her breath hitched at times. It was clear she was doing her utmost to fight back tears—and despite her best efforts, she appeared to be losing. She took her hand from his arm to reach into her bag and get a tissue, dabbing at her eyes, still with her head bowed.
The choir sang all three verses of the carol, and the music died away. The lights in the church came back up, and the narrator then invited all in attendance to the basement for Christmas refreshments. Parents, children, families, began to move from the pews back to the vestibule where the stairs were located. Tessa remained still, not yet looking up. She shook her head and took a deep breath, remaining seated, still without a word. Sherlock sat beside her, not asking yet, simply waiting.
When she appeared to have recovered her composure, she finally looked at him. Her lashes were still wet from crying, but she was gamely trying to smile. This time he had to ask, gently, solicitously, “Tessa, why the tears?”
The small smile that dimpled her cheeks was pure but bittersweet, "Oh, you know me. What day could pass without at least a few melodramatic tears?” But she could see that answer wouldn’t satisfy his disquiet on her behalf, and so went on, "Really—it’s the music. It never fails to move me. I think it sounds…" she looked down again, perhaps afraid emotion might overwhelm her if she kept looking at the puzzled concern upon his face, “I think it’s the most beautiful of all the carols. Simple but pure, you know?" Sherlock nodded, not in agreement, but to encourage her to continue. "I’ve always thought it was inspired by Heaven. I’ve always thought it sounded like coming home at long last, after years of being lonely and far from those who love us." Tessa turned back to him, her eyes bright with emotion, "It’s just…this time of year…I get a little homesick. For my family…well, what’s left of us. And our traditions.” Tessa took a deep, bracing breath, more in control of the sentiment that had overwhelmed her earlier, “It’s different for me here, and somehow it sort of aches. You know what I mean?”
Sherlock had his own aches aplenty, but for most of his adulthood he had successfully kept them to himself. Seeing Tessa so vulnerable—and so pretty in her unvarnished emotion—made him feel protective, almost possessive in an archaic kind of way; made him want to be the one to whom she turned. After all these months he was still surprised that she could evoke such feelings in him. The simple, very human, nature of this—which he’d so long prided himself on rising above—turned out to be pleasant and fulfilling after all. He supposed the greatest love stories had that at their core—the feminine cleaving to the masculine as Nature intended all along. What she’d given him from their beginning was unconditional acceptance and understanding; it stood to reason that he would fiercely want to provide for her happiness. As he felt at this exact moment.
Without a word, Sherlock folded her gently in his arms and pressed his lips against her hair, making Tessa relax easily into him. Holding her so, in the now quiet church, he noticed how the small white lights on the Christmas tree strikingly brightened the white and gold decorations gracing the branches—stirring him to reflect on how they were so very like the illumination Tessa had brought into his life. Seeing things through her eyes had opened up parts of the world he’d never taken time to notice before, and it came to him that she was doing the same now, showing him Christmas from a soft and sentimental point of view that had long since vanished from his lexicon, as far back as his discovery that Father Christmas wasn’t real after all. What sort of gift, he wondered, could he give her in return, and how might he temper with some Christmas joy, her homesickness for her family so far away?
“We’ll dine in tonight,” he told her softly, knowing her well enough that she’d likely want to spend the evening quietly and as close to him as possible. She nodded her grateful assent and they started down the aisle to the back of the church. As they left, his arm wrapped protectively around her waist, Sherlock felt the beginnings of a plan start to form. It would require time, it would require effort, but if anyone could do the task, he knew that it was him. There might even be some favors he’d need to call in, but he had a wealth of those saved up, and Tessa was certainly worth whatever cost might come to bear.
(to be continued)
If you enjoyed this, I'm hoping you would be so kind as to reblog it. Being stuck in shadow ban prison has severely curtailed exposure of my work here on tumblr. Any reblog you could give me would be sure to share this story with many others, and maybe get this piece some much-needed love. Thank you!
buy me a coffee?☕
#my writing#Happy Christmas Mister Holmes#bbc sherlock#fluff#Christmas#Christmastime#sherlock Holmes#Benedict's Sherlock#established relationship#Sherlock Holmes x OFC#Sherlock x OFC#Christmas comes to Baker Street
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Can I request an nsfw fic sitting on Sherlock Holmes’ lap while he explains a case to reader, she start kissing his neck and he starts stuttering 😩😩 (also, Im literally in LOVE with your works 😫 😭)
Pulse Point
Fandom: Henry Cavill as Sherlock in Enola Holmes
Summary: To help him relax in the midst of a trying case, Reader exploits Sherlock’s only vulnerability.
Content: 18+ for smutty smutty smut, Sherlock’s filthy mouth, unprotected sex, and pure domestic bliss.
Notes: My first prompt! Thank you thank you thank you, Anon; I love this so much. I wrote it quite quickly and unedited, so apologies for any imperfections!
“Come, sit with me, darling girl.”
Standing in the door of your husband’s study, you fall even more in love with Sherlock Holmes. He sits behind his desk in his leather wingback chair, attired in his shirtsleeves, coat discarded, posture tense—it has been hours since you saw him come home, carrying a crate of papers and wearing the expression of determination and passion that lets you know the game is well and truly afoot.
Eager to be of help, you follow his directive at once, crossing the room to his side. He settles you on his lap and places a chaste, gentle kiss to your temple, pausing to breathe in the scent of your hair. A little of his tension seems to melt away with your closeness, and you return his kiss—but on the lips, this time—with a smile. He smiles, too, and whispers, “I love you so.”
“As I love you! Now, tell me the matter of the case,” you prompt, with another light, teasing peck. “Begin at the beginning, and perhaps some new detail will reveal itself in the telling.”
Sherlock smiles, a little wearily, but with a clear relief at your presence and enthusiasm.
“Yes, pray lend me a little of your brilliance, Mrs. Holmes, for I am at my wit’s end.”
“Nonsense; your wit is endless,” you scoff, and at last he laughs, too. You share another kiss, deeper this time, and he settles more comfortably into the chair.
“It is Moriarty,” he sighs, loosening his cravat and tossing it aside. “It is always Moriarty, the spider in the center of the web. But for once, he torments me with leisure, not urgency. There is no captive aristocrat, no explosives planted, no threat of impending murder; and thank god for it. But instead, he spins me an ever-expanding list of riddles, each more obscure and particular than the last. To what end I do not know.”
He tips his head back against the chair, exposing the long line of his throat to your gaze. Though you would find it nigh impossible to select a favorite part of your husband’s body—for truly, it seems that every night as he fills your aching channel so perfectly, so completely, there is some new, glorious detail of his physique thrown into prominence—Sherlock’s neck is especially tempting. It is a singular point of vulnerability in such a massive, muscled man, and one you love to exploit: you know well that so much as a single kiss can bring the man to his knees, or else drive him to bend you over the nearest surface and make you his in the most primal, profound way.
“He boasts of the reach of his accomplices by infiltrating those systems in which we have the greatest trust, so much that the average man may not even notice anything has changed.”
You simply cannot help yourself.
Delicately, you shift upon his lap, wickedly delighted that he has fixed his eyes upon the cluttered wall opposite his desk, where his series of pinned-up schedules, diagrams, and ciphers distract him from your intentions.
“But I first noticed that the regular seven o’clock train from Trafalgar to Charing Cross was delayed on Tuesday—“
With a slow deliberation, you kiss the point where his pulse beats steadily beneath his jaw.
“—initial—initially—by seven—“
You part your lips ever so slightly and kiss him again.
“—by seven—se—“
A large, lissome hand lands heavily on your thigh. You do not let this deter you; no indeed, it only incites you further, and you press your lips more firmly against his neck.
“By seven minutes!” he concludes in a rush, and you take advantage of his pause for breath to trail your kisses lower, pulling aside the collar of his shirt for a better vantage.
You lightly sink your teeth into his flesh, just at the juncture where his neck and shoulder meet, and he moans.
“Angel—oh, my g—god…”
As you work your way back up to his pulse point, he still stutters out a little more on the subject of the case: “Angel, the—the trains—I am—tr—trying to—explain…“
You raise your head up innocently.
“Shall I stop, sir?”
Sherlock kisses your lips hungrily, squeezing you tighter, and you wriggle in delight, feeling him grow hard at your ministrations. It gratifies you to no end, when this stern, controlled man falls prey to his own lusts, unable to help the way his length strains at his trousers—and all for you.
“No, no—“ he breathes, and you take your cue eagerly, shifting to straddle his thighs, their breadth forcing your legs wide apart. “Don’t stop, my sweet—ah—angel.”
He fumbles with the fastenings of his trousers, but can’t seem to manage the simple motor function, such is his arousal, especially as your lips return to his neck.
“Let me help you,” you offer, murmuring against his throat as you pepper it with more kisses. “Let me please you, please, Sherlock…”
“God, lo—look what you’ve—done to me,” he sighs, throwing up his hands. Laughing breathlessly, you finish the job yourself, a rapturous smile of triumph gracing your lips as your hand wraps around his freed cock, already leaking and flushed with desire. “You…you undo me completely,” he groans, thrusting up into your grasp. “Fuck, please, my darling girl, please, let me feel you—“
“Yes, Sherlock, anything you want!”
This seems to reinvigorate him, and he growls, pushing aside your skirts roughly. He does not allow the time for you to rise and doff your undergarments, but instead simply tears the delicate fabric at the seams to reveal your dripping petals.
“I’ll buy—buy you more,” he promises, as you rock your wet heat against his achingly hard cock. “What do you want, angel? What can I give? All the lace in the world. A dozen gowns, a hundred, anything for you—emeralds or pearls or—oh, Christ, you are so fucking tight I can hardly—“ This as you sink down on him, sheathing him to the hilt with your own a cry of ecstasy. “I’ll give you the world. Oh, my love…”
You continue to besiege his neck as you ride him, finding out each sweet spot that makes him clutch your hips all the harder, with Sherlock babbling out a litany of absolute filth mixed with romantic nonsense:
“That pretty, pretty mouth god your lips—you will be the death of me, angel!”
Sherlock hardly lasts a moment more after your climax causes you to clench around him, holding him tight and deep and perfect, and he gasps your name and a stammering profession of love as he spills himself inside you. You gaze into his eyes as they come back into focus, and you share a little panting laughter, for you are both an absolute mess of half-discarded clothes, dripping seed, and riotously disheveled hair. You have even left a clear mark on his neck, which makes you feel as grand as the empress of the earth, to have laid such an intimate claim upon his otherwise unassailable body. Murmuring quiet, loving little praises, you help one another to undress fully, till you stand before one another fully natural, each drinking in the sight of the other.
“My god. Just look at you, Mrs. Holmes.”
“You are the most beautiful man alive!” you cannot help but exclaim, and he tosses his head in evident pride at the compliment. How you love to make him vain.
“And at last, I am thinking clearly—for the first time all day!” he says, making you laugh again, then he lets out an exultant “Ha!” and strides over towards the gallery of evidence pinned to the wall. “You’ve done it. By Jove, Mrs. Holmes, you have knocked the scales from my eyes. I see the whole design now…”
“Then let me fetch you fresh clothes—and some water to wash, hmm?”
“Yes, give me leave a little while to dole out justice upon Moriarty. And then turnabout’s fair play for you, wife: I think your lovely neck deserves a mark or two of its own…”
If you enjoyed, please do leave a comment, reblog, or visit my Masterlist!
#Sherlock Holmes x Reader#henry cavill sherlock#henry!sherlock holmes#sherlock holmes x you#sherlock holmes x ofc#enola holmes fanfic
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Non ducor, duco Aesthetics
Aurora Moran
Alex Smallwood
Taglist: @khaleesihavilliard
#bbc sherlock#BBC Sherlock x OC#sherlock holmes x ofc#Sherlock Holmes#mycroft holmes#Mycroft Holmes x ofc#my ocs#bbc sherlock fanfiction
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𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲: 𝐂𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 , 𝐋𝐨𝐬𝐬 𝐎𝐟 𝐕𝐢𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲 , 𝐆𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐟 , 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 , 𝐊𝐢𝐝𝐧𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 , 𝐕𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞
HOLMES
𝗜 . 𝗘𝘅𝗲𝘂𝗻𝘁 𝗢𝗺𝗻𝗲𝘀 OUT NOW!!!
𝐈𝐈. 𝐆𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐃𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐁𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬. 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐨𝐨𝐧!!
#henry cavill#sherlock holmes#sherlock holmes henry cavill#sherlock holmes x ofc#sherlock holmes fanfiction#sherlock holmes x black!plus size oc#Enola Holmes
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Clementine was getting very annoyed with the way Mycroft was treating her. What made it even worse was Sherlock never even tries to stand up to Mycroft when he insults her. It sometimes makes her think that Sherlock doesn't truly love or cherish her. She knows that those thoughts are silly, but sometimes she feels like he just asked her to marry him because he pitied her or he was lonely and she was an easy option. Deep down she knows why he doesn't say anything, but that doesn't make his silence hurt any less. "Why do you have to be such a wagtail!", Mycroft yelled at Clem. She glanced over to Sherlock, who looked at her with an upset expression, but didn't say anything. That was the moment that she finally broke. "I'm going to my room, I need to be alone for a little bit.", she sadly said. "Of course you're running. You're useless anyways, I don't see how my brother made such a big mistake courting you in the first place.", Mycroft yelled, trying to get the last word. Clementine just kept walking, and when she got to the room she and Sherlock shared, she started sobbing while sitting at the edge of the bed. She was feeling very insecure about herself, and if Sherlock really wanted to marry her. She also was upset that Mycroft would say such things to her. They were soon to be a family, and he still couldn't even pretend to respect her. She wondered if she should just end her engagement and disappear until her body gave out. She knew that she would never be able to find someone she loved like Sherlock. She would never even get the chance to if she wanted to anyways. No one wants a woman who broke off her engagement to two different men. Also, she would be seen as tainted because her and Sherlock were never a traditional couple. They had kissed already for gosh sakes. She felt hopeless. Clementine spent a few hours in that room, staring at the wall after all of her tears had been shed, when Sherlock finally decided to check on her. He felt horrible for not saying anything, but he also didn't want to anger his older brother. When he saw her face fall, he knew that Mycroft had hit a nerve, and his silence didn't help. He never used to believe in love and soulmates, he always thought that none of it was real, until she came along. At first he was just trying to save her, but after a few weeks he started feeling true love. When he opened the door, he saw her just sitting there staring off into nothing. "Hello Sweetheart", Sherlock said as softly as he could muster. She still stared into nothingness. That's the moment that he knew Mycroft really broke her. She wasn't as fiery as normal. She seemed almost empty. That's when he decided to try a new tactic, physical touch. He grabbed one of her hands with one of his, while his other hand gently cupped her face. "Sweetheart", Sherlock whispered this time. Clementine finally looked at Sherlock. When their eyes connected, she broke down again. Sherlock hugged her to his chest to help calm her and keep her grounded. "I apologize darling. I should've said something. I didn't mean to allow you to hurt like this, I swear it.", Sherlock said in despair. "I know. I love you.", Clementine muttered into his chest. Sherlock cupped her face, with both hands now, and pulled her out of his chest before responding "I love you too, for the rest of eternity." They both knew that she was still hurt, but they spent the rest of the evening cuddling, before falling asleep in each others arms. They didn't know what the future held, but one thing was for certain, their love is eternal.
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A Galling Yoke is getting updated 👀
Yup, it only took me eleven weeks after posting Part 8 to get Part 9 queued up. xD
But hopefully this update will feed you enough to make up for the miiiiiinor famine I put you through. I don’t want to spoil anything, but I will say you do find out some stuff (related to the case? not related to the case? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯) in this chapter.
Since my queue won’t be posting the update until tomorrow, here’s a sneak peek by way of my revised JBB card—
The plot will go in a bit of a different direction from Part 10 onwards, so I wanted to take the time before then to ask y’all your thoughts and theories as of Part 8. Are you suspicious of any of the side characters we’ve met so far? Do you have any idea who might be the killer or what might be their motive? What is your opinion of Mr Edmund Sulyard? Please let me know, I am so curious about how the mystery is looking from the other side of the curtain!
If you need a refresher on A Galling Yoke, see this post for the fic’s main info.
#enola holmes#sherlock holmes#sherlock holmes x you#sherlock holmes x reader#sherlock holmes x ofc#henry cavill#henry cavill sherlock holmes#henry cavill sherlock x reader#a galling yoke#the erasable ink
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