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french-vanilla-in-the-clouds · 2 years

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𝐅𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐏𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

Sherlock x Reader

Summary: When Eurus entangles Y/N in her violent game of intellect, Sherlock must sacrifice something he never expected to care for. As he looks back upon what he will lose, he sees only the fragments of his shattered heart...

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Sherrinford, High Security Prison

“If you want her out of the game, you’ll have to burn her out of it.”

“Sister, please. I beg of you... don’t.”

Sherlock Holmes stood hunched before the monitor, his tone bleeding with desperation.

“I’m afraid this is non negotiable. It’s either her heart or her life. Choose one or I’ll have no choice but to take both. Of course, the bit about her heart won’t be in the metaphorical sense, you understand.”

A red light blared throughout the room and Jim Moriarty’s jives echoed off the walls. Sherlock’s fists clenched as he looked up at Eurus’ sickly smile of triumph.

“I can’t... I won’t destroy everything we’ve built...” he whispered to himself. “Not like this.”

Doctor Watson placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Your sister is insatiable and that makes her dangerous,” he said in a low voice. “There’s more at stake here than just your pride. Soldiers, remember? Maybe you should-”

“Not now John! Don’t you see? I love her!”

Sherlock blanched at his own admission. Y/N was the light of his life and he couldn’t let Euros jeopardize that.

John’s jaw clenched as he stared back with a look of sorrow. “That’s exactly why you need to do it. You need to break her heart to save her life.”

Sherlock looked down at the mobile phone in his hand. As the seconds ticked by, his beloved Y/N came closer to her demise. Eurus had set an assassin after her and unless he complied with his sister’s task, Y/N would face a swift death.

He felt a million passions ricocheting in his heart. There were no more tricks up his sleeve. Sherlock had to submit to his sister’s will or face the consequences.

“I won’t lose her...” he whispered. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock turned to John and nodded steadily. “Soldiers.”

With shaky hands, he dialled Y/N’s number and listened to the timbre of the rings.

He closed his eyes as the world spun around him, and his mind raced in reminiscence. Sherlock could suddenly see thousands of snapshots of the beautiful life which he was about to destroy...

***

“John, I’ve told you before, I haven’t the time for your little friend. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but I have a case to solve!”

The doctor sighed and rubbed at his throbbing temple. “If you would just hear her out-”

Sherlock stepped over the coffee table and walked to the door. He made a point to swing it open with great emphasis. “Forgive me,” he said to the girl with a smile that was anything but polite. “But I am very busy. If you would kindly take your leave before-“

“It was the perfume, Mr Holmes.”

Sherlock paused at the girl’s quiet declaration. “Come again?” he asked, eyes narrowed.

Y/N cleared her throat. “The perfume,” she repeated. “The victim smelled of perfume the day her body was found.”

“I’m aware. Did you have a point?”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “Mrs Thewlis was allergic to Ethanol, the prime ingredient in perfume. She wouldn’t be wearing it unless someone forced her to.”

She crossed her arms as she continued on. “I asked Molly to run a toxicology test and the report came back positive. Traces of poison were found in Thewlis’ bloodstream, seemingly absorbed through her skin.”

She paused for effect. “My theory, Mr Holmes is that somebody sprayed the victim with a sort of chemical infused mist and that there was no murder weapon at the crime scene because the victim was wearing it the entire time!”

Sherlock said nothing. He simply observed the girl in curious silence before closing the door and walking towards her.

“You’re saying that somebody doused her perfume with poison?”

“Yes, Mr Holmes.”

“What’s your name?” he asked, cocking his head to the side.

“Y/N.”

“Y/N,” he repeated to himself. “Well Y/N, congratulations on cracking your first case.”

Sherlock couldn’t wrap his head around it. How could this girl have possibly picked up on something that he had missed? Normally he’d have felt a wounded pride, a violent jealousy at her intellect, but strangely enough, he felt nothing. On the contrary, Sherlock was intrigued by her sharpness. He suddenly felt a burning desire to know more about her.

Sherlock was snapped back to attention by the sound of her voice. “I’m glad that I could be of assistance. Good day, Mr Holmes.” Y/N gave a curt nod as a means of farewell and was just about to leave the flat when she felt a hand on her wrist.

She turned around and saw the consulting detective. “Please,” he said, extending a gloved hand. “Call me Sherlock. Will you stay for tea?”

***

A soft amber light streamed in through the gossamer curtains of 221B Baker Street. The delicate London breeze danced in through the window, making the thin veils flutter.

Y/N hummed softly as the quaint disturbance roused her from her sleep. She tilted her head to the side and caught a glimpse of the time. 5:45 on a Friday morning. She felt movement to her right, and was suddenly exposed to the morning chill as her blanket was yanked away.

Turning on her side, Y/N was met by Sherlock’s sleeping frame. She gave a shiver and was just about to reprimand him for hoarding the covers when something struck her.

She drew a breath at the sight of him lying next to her. His tousled hair was pressed against the pillow, soft and unruly. His bare chest heaved in slow breaths, moving up and down steadily. His face was unmarred by the stress of his waking moments. Sherlock looked comfortable and at ease.

Though she had been waking up to this same sight every morning for the past few years, Y/N felt as though she were seeing him for the very first time whenever she caught him in these quiet moments of dawn.

She reached out to touch him just to prove to herself that he was more than a perfect illusion. Her hand lingered mere inches away when Sherlock spoke, his voice heavy with sleep. “You’re awake.”

“Yes, a chill woke me. Somebody was greedy with the covers...”

He opened his eyes and grinned. “How tragic.”

With a soft groan he shifted and pulled Y/N closer, wrapping an arm around her so that she lay with her head in the crook of his arm. She sighed contentedly and grazed his skin with her fingertips. Resting her palm against his chest, she felt the steady beat of his heart.

“What are you thinking?”

Y/N paused for a moment. “I’m thinking that this might be too good to be true.”

“You’re right,” Sherlock said, propping himself up on an elbow. He looked down at Y/N and smiled. “This is much too good to be true, but I would be a fool to question it.” With his free hand, Sherlock cupped the back of Y/N’s neck and brought her close to his upturned lips. “I’ll be damned if I let anything come between us. I swear to you, I’m not going anywhere.”

Sherlock finally kissed her. As the morning rays shone through the airy curtains, Y/N took comfort in the thought that their love was infinite.

***

Gone was the music.

A familiar burning sensation prickled at the back of her eyes, but still, Y/N denied herself the tears.

She sat quietly in Sherlock’s old armchair, staring at the bullet ridden wall.

“Yoo-hoo,” called a voice from the doorway. Y/N hardly stirred as Mrs Hudson came bustling in with a tray of tea and biscuits.

“Morning’ dearie, I brought you a cuppa’! I thought you might fancy a treat,” the kindly landlady said, forcing a cheery tone.

She took a look around the room and frowned at the gathering dust and drawn curtains. “It’s a bit gloomy in here, isn’t it?”

Grief had taken its toll since Sherlock’s fall, and Y/N was a transparent reflection of it. Her eyes were bloodshot and held an emptiness to them as she reflected within the abandoned flat, lost in her memories.

“It’s fine, really,” Y/N said a weakly.

Mrs Hudson’s gaze shifted. Y/N was wearing Sherlock’s old coat. A mahogany patch stained the collar. A reminder.

“It’s been two years, love. It’s time to let go.”

A glossy trail streamed down Y/N’s cheek, but still she smiled. “He’ll be back,” she said, her voice cracking. “He promised me that he wasn’t going anywhere. If I just wait here, I’m sure-”

“He’s not coming back,” Mrs Hudson said gently.

Y/N turned away. “I told him it was too good to be true.”

Mrs Hudson smiled sympathetically. “I’ll be downstairs, love.”

Y/N grabbed hold of her chair’s armrests and squeezed. She winced as a hot trail of tears slicked her cheeks.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Sherlock wasn’t supposed to have been on that rooftop. He wasn’t meant to leave her grieving.

He wasn’t supposed to be gone.

Perhaps Mrs Hudson was right. Maybe it was time to move on like John had. Y/N ran a hand through her hair and let out a shaky breath. She was just about to reach for her tea when she heard a loud crash and a scream come from downstairs.

“Mrs Hudson?” Y/N stood up in a panic and rushed downstairs, heart racing.

“Mrs Hudson!” she cried out.

Y/N found her landlady in the kitchen, shattered porcelain on the floor. “Are you alright?” she asked warily.

“I’m sure she’ll be fine. It was simply a mild shock.”

A chill ran up Y/N’s spine at the sound of that distantly familiar voice. It can’t be... she thought incredulously. Carefully, she turned her gaze upwards and noticed for the first time the man standing at the doorway.

“Hello,” he waved awkwardly.

Standing at the other end of the room was Sherlock Holmes.

Y/N stared as he shifted uncomfortably under her critical gaze. Dressed in his signature trench coat and dress pants, he looked the same as the day she had lost him.

“New coat?” she asked, stunned.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Yes, actually. Unlike yours, I suppose. I see you held onto the old one...” He looked to the floor. “it... well, it suits you, mind the gore.”

Y/N ignored his attempt at humour. “You’re back,” she whispered.

When he looked back at her, his eyes glistened. “How could you expect me to stay away?”

***

“You can’t be serious!”

“I swear it’s true!”

Y/N listened carefully from the hall as John, Mary, and Greg conferred in 221B. From what she could hear, they were talking about her and Sherlock. Though it had been months since they had reunited, the pangs of lost love still inflamed their passions.

“He actually said that to you? Those exact words?”

Y/N frowned at the excitement in Mary’s tone as she grilled John on something that Sherlock had allegedly told him. John laughed and Y/N peeked through the crack in the door to catch him kiss his wife lightly on the nose.

“Those exact words,” he affirmed softly. “Sherlock is thinking of proposing marriage to Y/N.”

Y/N let out a small gasp and clamped a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound of her surprise. She blinked as a wave of emotions crossed through her. Marriage? Sherlock? These two words were foreign in the same sentence and she had to take a breath to contain herself.

“Bloody hell...” she heard Lestrade mutter from the flat. “Our boy’s found it,” he said softly. “He’s found his heart.”

“Keep your voice down!” John whispered sharply. “Y/N will be here any minute, and she can’t know!”

Y/N stepped back and leaned against the wall, closing her eyes. She felt her heart race and couldn’t stop smiling. Sherlock Holmes, the man that she adored more than she ever imagined she could, was on the verge of proposing to her.

“Sneaking about, are we?"

Y/N gave a start when she opened her eyes and saw Sherlock standing before her, brow upturned.

She straightened herself and smiled nervously. “I was just about to head inside.”

“Is that why you’re lurking just outside the flat, plastered against the wall?” Sherlock asked sarcastically.

Y/N shrugged, not knowing what to say. Just at that moment though, Greg opened the door to meet them.

“Oi, we could hear you gabbing out here. Are you coming in or what? We’ve been expecting you.”

Sherlock peered past the Detective Inspector’s shoulder and found John and Mary grinning guiltily inside. His lips twitched in a hidden smile as he deduced what exactly was happening. “Yes,” he said slowly. “We’ll be right there.”

When Greg stepped back inside, Sherlock turned to Y/N. “You haven’t been eavesdropping on others’ conversations, have you?” he asked sweetly.

She looked at at him in feigned shock. “I would never!”

Sherlock studied her, his smile growing as he regarded the charming glint in her eyes. In that moment, he caught flashes of a future with her. Since they had met, Sherlock had reimagined his previous notions of the dullness of domesticity. Though marriage had once seemed a burden to him, Y/N had changed that, and Sherlock knew that nothing would be grander than a quaint life by her side.

“What have I done to deserve you?” he asked softly. Y/N watched as Sherlock pressed her gently against the wall, and wrapped his arms around her. He kissed the crown of her head before leaning forwards and grazing the shell of her ear. “I love you,” he whispered delicately. Sherlock closed his eyes and whispered again, “I love you.”

***

Sherrinford, High Security Prison

“Hello?”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. He scanned the room, disoriented. He had felt safe for a moment, caught in remembrance, but the sterility of Sherrinford’s cell had cut through the dream.

He caught a flash of Eurus frowning from the monitor and looked back to find John standing solemnly behind him. Y/N's voice blared from hidden speakers. Nothing had changed.

“Hello?”

Sherlock drew a breath at the familiarity of the voice on the other end of the line. His task became clear once more. He pinched the bridge of his nose and gulped.

“Hello love,” he said, his tone strained.

Red lights flashed in warning and Sherlock looked up. “This isn’t a social call,” Eurus said icily. “Don’t try and mitigate the blow with pet names. It’s her heart or her life Sherlock, I think I’ve made that clear.”

A pang of alarm shot through him. There was no way out.

“Sherlock, is that you?” Y/N asked from the other end of the line. “Are you alright?”

Sherlock walked to one of the cell’s walls and leaned an arm against it, seeking purchase. He thought of Eurus’ hire, trigger finger itching for a clean shot.

“Sherlock?” she called again. “Can you hear me?”

Sherlock needed to burn her out of his story. "I pray you'll forgive me..." he whispered to himself. Standing tall, he straightened his collar and detached himself from the warmth that Y/N had inspired in him throughout all their years. Sherlock Holmes became ice.

“Y/N?” he said. “I need you to listen to me.”

"I'm listening," she said uncertainly.

Red lights flashed and Moriarity’s malarkey reigned.

"About us," Sherlock continued, "We've come far."

Y/N laughed. "You called to talk about us? What’s this-”

"Don't interrupt," he said curtly. "I need to fix this."

There was a moment of silence before Y/N responded. "What are you saying?” she asked slowly.

"I mean to say that I'm ending this. Our experiment."

"Experiment?” she scoffed.

Sherlock's voice was brisk and steady, devoid of feeling. "Indeed. You see, our relationship was was only ever a simulation of sentiment. A psychological examination. A game of science."

He could hear Y/N’s breath hitch and he clenched his fist in guilt. He was slowly approaching the end.

“It’s all been a rouse,” he said tensely. “ A clever experiment to test the naivety of the human mind, and you Y/N, were the ideal subject. Insecure, wide-eyed, and unduly retentive; you were foolishly loyal to a man that never cared, and it has proved your undoing.”

Sherlock waited for Y/N to hang up the phone. To curse him or yell obscenities from the receiver. He waited for her anger, silently praying she would cut him off. It was the only way Eurus would spare her, and Y/N’s acrimony against him was well worth her life.

She said nothing.

Subconscious sirens hammered in his mind. Sherlock couldn’t know for sure if she had believed him. He had to push harder. “ You’re nothing more than a failed enterprise,” he said sharply. He heard his voice rise until he was sure he sounded manic. “ You have nothing left to offer, so I implore you to leave me be!”

Silence dragged on until Sherlock finally heard Y/N sniff. She let out a shaky breath and spoke. “Sherlock,” she began softly. “I’m not sure what you’ve gotten yourself into, but you can’t expect me to believe a word of what you just said.”

no. no. no. no. no...

Sherlock shook his head furiously. She wasn’t supposed to be kind. She was meant to be hurt.

Y/N gave an unsettled laugh before continuing. “I love you, Sherlock,” she whispered. “I love---”

Shattered glass and silence.

Sherlock collapsed to his knees. “Y/N?” he asked gently. A shiver ran up his spine at the blackout stillness. “Y/N!” he cried out. His hands trembled in horror and bile rose in his throat. It isn’t so... he thought. it can’t be so...

“I’m afraid you’re out of luck, brother.” Eurus said softly.

Sherlock looked up at his sister, his eyes bloodshot.

She cocked her head to the side, feigning sympathy. “You failed,” she said simply. “Let’s move on, shall we?” The screen went dark and the cell lit up with crimson light.

Sherlock stayed abased, kneeling on the cold flooring. A damp heat trailed down his cheeks, but he made no move to wipe it away. He thought of Y/N. He thought of her smile. Her laugh. Her silence.

He thought of their thousands of moments past and the finality of her fall.

He kneeled in sterile reminiscence.

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*psssst!* try reading Corpses and Roses!!!

I FINISHED IT! I FINALLY FINISHED IT! THIS CURSED FIC HAD BEEN TRAPPED IN MY NOTES SINCE THE SUMMER BUT I FINALLY FINISHED IT!!!!

Hey you guys!!! What’s going on??? This fic is very heavy on the whole Molly x Sherlock ordeal back in Sherrinford, so I hope that’s something you’re into! I just thought it would be cool to write about snapshots from Sherlock and Y/N’s relationship, soooo yeah! Thanks for reading!!!!

If you’d like to be tagged in any future Sherlock fics, just tell me in the comments! (and if you’d rather not be tagged in ALL Sherlock fics, please specify; EX: Reader x Sherlock, Reader x John Watson...)

oh yeah, and visit my multi fandom taglist!!!

REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

HAVE A BRILLIANT DAY!!!

Tagging the wonderfully fantabulous: @twisted-monster @starryeddie @high-functioning-lokipath @the-chaotic-cow @turkisherlockian @kabubsmagga @aephereal @andthevillainshallrises @cosbloos @cookiemumster1 @eternal-silvertongued-prince @i-beg-your-pardon-laufeyson @lucywrites02 @danzalladaggers

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zhonks · 2 years

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really crappy bbc sherlock x reader story

A/N: ok it’s rlly late and this is my first tumblr post ever so sorry if it sucksss(it does). Sorry if i make any mistakes, english isn’t my first tlanguage hahhaha Basically some thoughts and headcanons about sherlock my beloved ♡ ´･ᴗ･ `♡, I use you and she/her for reader !

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

WARNINGS : none ! just good old fluff maybe sherlock is a bit (extremly) ooc but eh who cares

having a plush

You recently bought an otter plush at this aquarium you John and Sherlock went to for a case. I mean, since you were there, might as well grab a cute plush. It was so fluffy and soft. You took it because it slightly reminded you of the tall detective. The two men were now used to your sometimes quite childish manners, they didn’t really mind it since you were responsible and serious when you needed, plus buying a plush wouldn’t disturb the investigation too much. You sat in the taxi, squished between your two roomates and squeezing the poor plush.

“it kinda looks like you sherlock” you giggled

sherlock glanced at the otter and gave you a confused look

“It doesn’t” he said

“kinda does, I always thought otters were your spirit animal too” commented Watson with an amused tone

The day after, as you were working on the computer, scrolling across the latest murder cases, sherlock went to check on you. He noticed something sitting in your lap, once he was close enough he saw the plush, now with a blue scarf tied around its neck, similar to the one Sherlock always wears. He stared at it for a bit before picking it up and walking away. You didn’t question it, you didn’t really mind, as long as he didn’t throw it away in the trash...

You yawned, streching and closed the computer, it was already dark outside. Before going to sleep you headed to sherlock’s bedroom to retrieve your otter. The door was slightly open so you took a quick look inside and saw your sociopath roomate, lying on his back and staring intensly at the otter. You couldn’t help it and let out a small giggle, he turned his head and looked at you, dead serious :

“you should’ve knocked, what do you want?”

You pursed your lips to hold back your laughter, the scenery was just too cute. You breathed in and stepped in the room

“Could you please give me back my plush, i’m going to sleep”

“why, do you need it to sleep?”

“yeah” you looked away, a little embarassed

he looked back at the plush

“you know, if you want to sleep with me you could’ve just asked, i’m not a fan of this plush replacing me” he frowned

“WH-WHAT? IT’S NOT BECAUSE I WANT TO SLEEP WITH YOU? I-” You turned red at his words

“mhm, sure” he joked

you looked down at your feet too flustered to say anything, I mean, maybe , just maybe deep down you-

“come here” he shifted to the side of the bed and gestured to come lie down besides him.

#sherlock #sherlock x reader #bbc sherlock #fanfic #sherlock holmes #sherlock x y/n #sherlock x you #fluff #idk lol #i suck at words

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astudyinsoulmates · 2 years

Note

for a fake fic title: lavender

Lavender

represents purity, silence, devotion, serenity, grace, and calmness

A calm wind leaves an icy kiss upon his face as if in greeting once he crossed the threshold of the cottage backdoor: An early promise of autumn leaves and scarf shopping that was due in a month. His eyes sweep across their little garden, noting the array of colours that lessened the dullness of the countryside view, lingering for a moment over the lavenders that remind him of their need to be pruned once fall arrives, before finally settling over the bustle of long limbs and greying curls tending to the beehives that occupy quite a large part of their yard. John mindlessly lets out a breath of fond contentment, settling against one of the rocking chairs they have bought off a secondhand store on a whim, and just lets himself bask in the last remnants of summer sun. His eyes follow Sherlock's routine, quietly observing the man’s ministrations as he tends to his beloved bees. A curl of his lips revealed the warmth that ensconced itself inside his chest, feeling very much as if the sun’s golden light had seeped through the pores of his skin and made a home in his heart. John finds himself stealing a quick mental image of this memory, engraving it next to all the others that he holds dear, hoping that the wear of age will never blur them out.

It had been years since the last time he had much thrill shoot through his spine like ecstasy. Those were back then, when adrenaline ran high between alleyways and on rooftops. Then, during sleepless nights and conversations between him and his Consulting Detective regarding cases that sometimes stretched on for far too long. Then, when the screeches of violin had felt more of a lullaby than a nuisance. Even then, when the grief riddled John into a hollow being, when the pain was too great and the loss was unbearable. Then, when the world collapsed beneath his feet, when the lies and constant betrayal drove him further away from the only person he had realised he wanted and loved. Then, when legs still held up and backs didn’t ache.

But John finds this new life, in contrast to back then, much better. Better now that everything trickled like ripples of water in a calm river. It ebbs, it flows. The steady silences, the soothing tea, and the companionship proving to be more than sufficient for John Watson, who was once a man that lived his life at the edge of a precipice.

Seasons changed, hairs silvered, knees weakened, but John is reassured day and day again that his beloved, who continued to busy himself amongst his bees, will remain the ever constant in this world of change; That the love and devotion that burned like a fireplace, enough to warm two people, would always survive even the harshest of winters.

John momentarily takes his eyes off Sherlock, instead drifting over his garden and thinks: I should take care of my lavenders soon.

i'm so sorry that this took so long, i never noticed the inboxes until recently :( also, i dont't know if i did this fake fic title game right. i just wrote a whole oneshot/drabble based on the 'title' but anyway...

#lavender #fake fic titles #my writing #pinkystrings #bbc sherlock #johnlock #tjlc #ask games

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ofglitterandgold · 3 years

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DATE NIGHT | Sherlock Holmes

A YNM Sherlock Holmes oneshot wherein he met his s/o after a week of not seeing each other.

Fem!s/o

Walking by the cobblestone sideways of Baker Street in the clear afternoon of London, Sherlock Holmes had his eyes focused on the roadway in front of him with Mr. Watson tailing behind him. The two had came from a new case that went for hours, and they were almost drained to the bone, the small rocks that was scattered along the way crunching under their heavy footsteps. Sherlock remembered that they went off when the early sun was out, and now the sun was setting by the horizon, painting the skies with varied colors of orange, pink, and purple.

Sherlock was known to be talkative especially after their successful job, constantly babbling about how the other member of the yard failed to notice a noticeable evidence. However, their walk towards 221B was unusually silent— melancholic, if you asked the person who met them along the way. With a sigh, Sherlock twisted the knob of the main door and invited himself in, letting Watson close the door behind him as he started to take his valubles in his pockets.

The place was silent, and he did not get to hear Miss Hudson greeting him by the doorway.

“Is she perhaps out for an errand?” Sherlock questioned himself.

Sherlock climbed his way up to the second floor where his room was located and he was able to hear muffled giggles from where he stood. Confused, Sherlock turned his head to the direction of his room, only to see a light from the bulbs peeking through the space under the door. He was even more confused, he locked the door of his room before they went to the job, and that's for sure. With a furrowed eyebrow, Sherlock took fast steps and opened the door of his room, startling the women that was sitting on the couch.

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief upon seeing a familiar face sitting beside Miss Hudson smiling brightly. His body immediately relaxed, and braced himself from the impact of his lover who stood up from her place.

"Sherly!"

"Why, hello there, my little flower. What brings you here?" He questioned, laughing while he held her close to him. She had launched herself unto him, and being greeted like this after a long day at work is something that he wouldn't trade for the world. He felt at ease, something that isn't completely new with their unbalanced social status.

"Oh, I just missed you, 'tis all." She answered, looking up at him, resting her chin on his chest and smiled. The smile on his face never faltered— instead, it got wider.

"Is that so? I say let's go on a date. Right now. To make up the week we haven't seen each other."

ㅤㅤㅤ

Sherlock opened the door to a barhouse not that far from the flat he had shared with John Watson in Baker Street. Clanking of glass against glass hits their eardrums, along with the loud laughters of the customers in every part of the bar. Despite being only in a barhouse for a date, none of it matters for them; all that mattered is that they are in the comfort of their beloved.

He would've taken her for a picnic– Sherlock knew of a great place for picnics as he knew all of the streets in London. Though picnic is out of the talk:

“it is better when the sun is up,” Sherlock thought.

The couple sat on the bar stool, giving out their regulars on the bartender whom they managed to get familiar with. They say beside each other, relishing in the tranquility that was shared between the two despite all the noises in the background. The bartender slid their glasses in front of them, and they took a small sip of their drink. Sherlock placed his glass down and turned to face his lover who seemed to be in deep thought with a smile adoring her face. He rested his head on his hand and decided to take her thoughts back to him.

"Is something the matter, darling?" He asked. He did not give a second thought, he knew that she was thinking of something good— relieving in her life. She was pulled out of her trance and turned to her boyfriend who was staring at her. "Oh, it's nothing. Just had a good week."

"Oh, really now? Tell me about it." She perked up at his response, her eyes practically gleaming. And so, she started her narration of what had happened in the week where Sherlock was kept by his work with such enthusiasm that never failed to warm the detective's heart.

"So, there's this couple who dropped by my shop on Monday– they seem to be parents with how they carry themselves. They were quite in a rush, I quite can't put a finger on it, but I am guessing they were getting something for their daughter..."

Sherlock couldn't help but admire everything about her. She's gorgeous, far more attractive than the women he came across with during work; she is impressively intelligent, he could talk about the cases with her all night long only if she isn't a sleepyhead; she prioritized others than herself. Sherlock may have scolded her about it, saying she should make herself the top priority even for once, but she disregarded a half of his ramblings and continued on helping others. There is still a lot of things about her that he could list, and to top it all, he loves the feeling when he is with her.

When he's with her, he can feel his heartbeat being calm. He feels at home whenever she's around, a homely feeling when he had her close against his body. Right now, even when they're in a barhouse, with her talking about her week with a smile in her face, nothing ever mattered to him except her. It was like his connection with the outside world gets cut off when she talks, everything seemed to stop when she is close to him. His focus is on her and her only.

ㅤㅤShe is his only love.

ㅤ

"Oh no, I forgot my wallet, can you pay for this for now? I'll make it up on our next date, I promise!"

"Sherlock, this is literally the 10th time you forgot your wallet."

"I promise I'll make it up to you tomorrow- if I have no cases, that is. I'll even help you around your shop if it satisfies you."

"You're lucky I am in love with you and I have my wallet with me today."

He lowkey intended on leaving his wallet behind.

#yuukoku no moriarty #anime #sherlock holmes #sherlock holmes x reader #sherlock holmes x you #moriarty the patriot #sherlock intentionally leaving his wallet behind

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shezzaspeare · 3 years

Text

Pilot/Episode 1: Patching Things Up With Pastiche & Fanfiction

Hi, hello, and the wait is finally over! My name is Blessie, and welcome to the first episode webisode log installation I've decided to call these things an episode for now because why not also let me know what do you actually call these things episode of The Science of Fanfiction, where we take a closer look into our beloved works of fanon because we've all got plenty of time to spare till Season 5. Before I continue, I would like to thank everyone who's liked and reblogged the last few posts before this one. It means a lot for a small and growing Tumblr user like me, and your support is something I cherish more than my modules. You guys rock!

Anyways, like with most things, we have to talk about the boring and bland stuff before we proceed with the fun stuff. For today, we are going to settle the difference between a couple of things: first being the confusion between pastiche and fanfiction; then the distinctions between tropes, clichés, and stereotypes, which we'll tackle the next time. It's important for us to establish their true meanings in order for us to really understand what fanfiction truly is, even if it's merely just a work done for the fandom. I know – it's boring, it's something that shouldn't be expounded that much, but I believe that all forms of writing (unless it's plagiarised) is a work of art — and fanfiction is not something we always talk about. I hope that by the end of this, you'll learn about what they really are as much as I did. Let's begin to talk about the—

[Image ID: A flashback of John (left) and Sherlock (right) finding an elephant (not in the screen) in a room in The Sign of Three. End ID]

. . . I did say that this GIF will always have to make an appearance here, didn't I?

So, just as with Sherlock Holmes, all other works of fiction have their own pastiches and fanfiction, and many more original works out there have taken inspiration from them to create their own books. Although they've gained popular attention, this will not be possible if they did not have taken inspiration from the materials their writers had at the time.

[Image ID: Various actors as Dracula. Jeremy Brett in 'Dracula' (1978) (upper left), Adam Sandler in a voice role for 'Hotel Transylvania' (2012) (upper right), Gary Oldman in 'Dracula' (1992) (lower left), and Bela Lugosi in 'Dracula' (1933) (lower right). End ID]

For instance, Bram Stoker's 'Dracula' (the second most adapted literary character, next to the consulting detective himself) has been portrayed on the screen over 200 times — from Gary Oldman to Adam Sandler — and has spawned off numerous books and pastiches of its own such as Stephen King's 'Salem's Lot'. Its cultural impact served as a basis of how we see vampires today, since some characteristics of the Count were made by Stoker himself. Stoker's creation is the brainchild of his predecessors and inspirations.

[Image ID: Vlad the Impaler (left) and a book cover of 'Carmilla' by J. Sheridan Le Fanu (right). End ID]

Other than the ongoing hysteria over dead back then and the existing vampire folklore, Stoker also took his inspirations from the published books on vampires he had at hand. He is said to have taken inspiration from Vlad the Impaler, a Romanian national hero known allegedly for having impalement as his favourite method of torture. He is also said to have been inspired by the J. Sheridan Le Fanu's 'Carmilla', a Gothic lesbian vampire novella that predates Dracula by 26 years. I could go on, but hey, we're going back to Sherlock Holmes now before I deviate any further. However, if you want to know about Dracula's literary origins, I suggest you watch Ted-ED's videos about the subject matter such as this one or this one.

Very much like Stoker, ACD didn't just conceive Holmes on his own. He took his own inspirations from what he had available at the time.

[Image ID: Dr Joseph Bell (left) and Edgar Allan Poe (right). End ID]

As we all know, ACD's biggest inspiration for Sherlock Holmes was one of his teachers at the Edinburgh University, Joseph Bell. He was famous for his powers of deduction, and he was also interested in forensic science — both characteristics which Holmes is greatly known for. He also drew inspiration from Edgar Allan Poe's sleuth, C. Auguste Dupin ('The Purloined Letter' & 'Murders in Rue Morgue'). As ACD himself has said at the 1909 Poe Centennial Dinner: "Where was the detective story until Poe breathed life into it?" Some other writers he took after are Wilkie Collins, Émile Gaboriau, and Oscar Wilde.

Now, what does this say about us Sherlockians/Holmesians (depending if you're the coloniser or the one that was colonised)? Basically, ACD laid the groundwork for us with Sherlock Holmes: his humble abode 221B that he shares with his flatmate Dr. John Watson, his adventures, memoirs, return, casebook, last vow, and all that. Now that we have this material at hand, we can now make our own versions, takes, or even original stories featuring the characters of the Canon. Our inspiration comes from ACD's Sherlock Holmes, and we now get the chance to make our very own stories/conspiracy theories about them.

As I have mentioned earlier, Sherlock Holmes is the most adapted literary character in history. He has been adapted in over 200 films, more than 750 radio adaptations, a ballet, 2 musicals; and he's become a mouse, a woman, a dog, even a bloody cucumber. On top of all that are numerous pastiches and fanfics, and finally, we have arrived at the main topic of our post!

Fanfiction and pastiche are often confused together since they have three common elements: they take after the original work, they usually use the characters in that original work, and more often than not do are they set in that same time frame/period or not long after that. The common misconception is that pastiche are printed fanfiction, which is only partly true. While pastiche is definitely fanfiction in some ways and vice versa, there are fanfictions out there that aren't necessarily classified as pastiche that have been published.

Let's get on with our definition of terms to clear up the confusion a little more. Pastiche, according to Literary Terms, is:

. . . a creative work that imitates another author or genre. It’s a way of paying respect, or honor, to great works of the past. Pastiche differs from parody in that pastiche isn’t making fun of the works it imitates – however, the tone of pastiche is often humorous.

A good example of a pastiche is Sophie Hannah's 'The Monogram Murders', which is her take from Agatha Christie's Hercule Poirot.

[Image ID: A book cover of 'The Monogram Murders' by Sophie Hannah. End ID.]

Although this was a commission from Christie's estate, it's still considered as a pastiche as:

It's takes after Christie's writing style;

It is set in the early years of Poirot's career (1929), which is still within the time frame that the author wrote him in;

It features Poirot and;

It pays respect to Christie in a sense that it stays true to her (Christie) characters and way of storytelling.

Meanwhile, our good and slightly unreliable friend Wikipedia defines fanfiction as:

. . . is fictional writing written by fans, commonly of an existing work of fiction. The author uses copyrighted characters, settings, or other intellectual property from the original creator(s) as a basis for their writing. [It] ranges from a couple of sentences to an entire novel, and fans can both keep the creator's characters and settings and/or add their own. [ . . . ] [It] can be based on any fictional (and sometimes non-fictional) subject. Common bases for fanfiction include novels, movies, bands, and video games.

To avoid any copyright infringement issues if I ever use a popular fanfic in the fandom, we'll use my (unfinished and unpopular) Sherlock Wattpad fic, 'Play Pretend'. You can read it here.

[Image ID: The second self-made book cover of Blessie/shezzaspeare's 'Play Pretend'. End ID]

Why is it considered a fanfiction and not a pastiche?

It takes after an adaptation of Sherlock Holmes (BBC Sherlock) which is a TV show, not the ACD canon itself;

The author (in this case myself) uses her own writing style and does not take after the original story's style;

Although it is set well in modern-day London and after Season 4, it also features scenes decades before the actual fanfic is set and outside of London;

I added a considerable number of characters, i.e. siblings to canon characters;

I had my own take some of the canon characters' personality especially after the events of Sherrinford;

It is written by a fan – myself. It is a work of fan labour and;

It is only a work of fanon, and isn't likely going to be considered by the show as its writing style is different from the actual show.

To put it simply, you can have more freedom in a fanfiction as it does not necessarily restrict you to follow or take after the original stories. Alternate universes (AUs) such as Unilock and Teenlock are perfect examples of this thing.

So can a pastiche be classified as fanfiction? Yes.

Can a fanfiction be classified as pastiche? Not all the time.

What's the difference? While yes, they share the basics, pastiche is technically leans more onto the original work's fundamental elements whereas fanfiction is a broader range of works inspired by the original work but doesn't necessarily follow all or any of its fundamental elements.

In order for us to understand it more, I'll give another example.

[Image ID: The 'Enola Holmes' title card (upper left) and Henry Cavill as its Sherlock holmes (upper right). Underneath it is a a scene from the opening titles of BBC Sherlock (lower left) and Benedict Cumberbatch as Sherlock Holmes in A Scandal In Belgravia. (lower right) End ID]

Most of you are familiar with these 21st-century adaptations of Holmes: the 2020 adaptation of Nancy Springer's Enola Holmes books and BBC Sherlock, which needs no further explanation – but for those who don't know, it's basically Holmes and the gang if they were alive today. I specifically chose these two as they are the ones that I believe would get my points across best. Though both are considered as wonderful pastiches with a well-rounded cast and awesome visuals, if we break them down bit by bit, we'll see which one is more of a pastiche and which one is more of a fanfic. (Yes, I know they're both screen adaptations. However, as Enola Holmes was based on the books and BBC Sherlock's fanfiction has the show's scenes written out in most fanfics, hear me out.)

They share these characteristics of a pastiche:

They feature characters from the Canon (Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes, and Lestrade);

They have additional characters added by the writers (Including but not limited to Molly Hooper, Eurus Holmes, and Philip Anderson for BBC Sherlock while Enola Holmes has Lord Tewkesbury, Eudoria Holmes, and Enola herself) and;

They pay respect to the original Canon as their stories are based on the cases (BBC Sherlock) or simply what was going on around them (Enola Holmes).

They also share these characteristics of a fanfic:

They are made by enthusiasts of Sherlock Holmes (Moffat has called himself and Mark Gatiss 'Sherlock Holmes geeks', while Nancy Springer's Enola Holmes books are not just one or two but six);

They follow a common trope (we'll discuss these tropes in the following episodes) that goes on in the fandom (Sherlock's Sister & Modern AU)

They are based on a fictional subject (Sherlock Holmes);

They used characters and story elements that are copyrighted by the author/author's estate (fun fact: prior to the production of Enola Holmes, the Conan Doyle Estate filed a lawsuit against Springer & Netflix over Sherlock's emotions since he was more 'sympathetic' than he was portrayed in the Canon – this was later dismissed by both parties) and;

Their writing styles don't necessarily follow ACD's.

Despite these similarities, there are very obvious differences between the two that separates them from being a pastiche and a fanfiction.

Enola Holmes embodies pastiche more as it doesn't stray far away from the original elements of the Canon. It's still set in Victorian England. While Springer added characters of her own and definitely twisted the Canon to suit her series, she didn't necessarily place them out of the social construct that was going on around the characters. It follows ACD's writing style more as Enola Holmes' setting still remains within the Canon's original setting.

Meanwhile, we can safely say that BBC Sherlock is a work of fanfiction. While it did give us The Abominable Bride, the main series focused on Holmes and Watson in 21st-century England, which is drastically different from Victorian England. There are phones, black cabs, and cellphones — things which ACD Sherlock Holmes doesn't have. It also diverted from the Canon in the characters themselves, which is mostly seen in the names: Henry Baskerville became Henry Knight, Charles Augustus Milverton became Charles Augustus Magnussen, the H in Dr Watson's name stood for Hamish and Sherlock's full name is actually William Sherlock Scott Holmes. They also changed the personalities of some Canon characters: Mary was actually an ex-assassin, Mrs Hudson was an exotic dancer who drove a kick-ass sports car, Irene Adler is a dominatrix, to name a few. Moffat and Gatiss created a world of their own featuring the characters of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, which is really what most of us fanfic writers do with Mofftiss' rendition of Holmes.

In conclusion: while pastiche and fanfiction could have been the same thing, they're actually not. There's more to them that just printed fanfiction or pastiche e-books, and we all should take some time to see and observe them in a closer perspective.

And that's it for our first episode! I hope you enjoyed it. It was a lot fun for me to write this, especially now that I'm only starting. I would also like to note that while intensive research has been done on this series, some parts of this comes from my own observation and opinion, which may vary from yours. I am very much open to criticism, as long as it is said in a polite and civil manner. I'm still young, and to be educated as I go is something that could really help me with this series.

Like and reblog this you like it. It helps out a lot. Be sure to follow me as well and the tags underneath if you want to see more of TSoF.

See you soon!

Blessie presents – The Science of Fanfiction: A Study In Sherlock (2021) • Next

Follow me! • My Carrd | My YouTube Channel

SOURCES • Pinterest, Google Images, Wikipedia, Literary Terms, Conan Doyle Estate, Definitions, The Sherlock Holmes Book, and Google

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addaellisplaysgames · 3 years

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((Just something inspired by the new Mysteries of the Lost Gold Trailer. Probably not canon-compliant and at least a little OOC. Luke x MC/ Raven x Rosa.))

WC: 1854

His Rosa was scrutinizing something from a market stall when he found her. Luke watched fondly for a while before softly tapping her and taking her hand, careful now to startle her. She rewarded him with a relaxed smile.

“Look, it’s seaweed!” She showed him the hair clip. At first he thought it was a regular poppy flower, carved out of wire and cloth. But as his Rosa had observed, the texture of the flower, the thin carved veins on the surface, and the way it was folded resembled red seaweed with small silk beads for stamens.

“I didn’t even know red seaweed looked so different,” she mused. “It must have taken a lot of effort to carve the flower like that.” She set the hair clip down and turns to him. “Did Adjudicator get in contact with the dealer?”

“Yeah,” Luke replied. “We’ll talk about the details later.” He pinned the hair clip on her, replacing the usual clip. “It’s cute. You should get it.”

“You always say that,” she said, but her cheeks blushed happily from his compliment.

“Well, you’re always cute.”

“You silly….”

“Excuse me storekeep, how much for the hair clip?”

———

Rifle. Check. Scope. Check. Ghille. Check. Wind. Check. Target…in sights.

Luke carefully tracked the man between his crosshairs as they walked to the meeting point. He looked up and could see Libra and Rosa standing a few feet away, calmly keeping the target in position. He hated that she was so close yet so far away, and he hated that she was in danger again. But he was proud of how calm and brave she was even facing off a notorious criminal who called himself the “God of Death.”

Luke returned his eye to the scope. In the National Security Bureau, snipers were sometimes called gods of death themselves, for being able to rain silent death from afar. He preferred his Sherlock Holmes moniker, but if being a God of Death was what it took to take down this criminal, then that’s what he would have to be.

Luke took a deep breath…And fired.

Luke’s heart jolted when the rifle went off. It wasn’t the recoil or even the dulled bang of the gun. It wasn’t even the prospect of killing another human, even if the shot had been lethal. But just as he’d fired, he could have sworn he’d seen a flash of familiar red through the crosshairs.

———

Artem Wing was having a very surreal day. Raven and Rosa flirting over a hair clip was nothing unusual, and neither was arguing with King or even Adjudicator agreeing to this whole ridiculous plan with a creepy smile. But the sunny beaches and clear waters seemed too idyllic to be hiding a gang of murderers. For the legend of gold to be poison…this whole paradisal island was built on poison and blood.

Still, setting the target up for a sniper’s bullet—even if it was simply a tranquilizing bullet—sounded awfully like an assassination to him. Artem was an attorney after all, a pillar of justice and legal operation. Due process wasn’t just a motto, it was a creed he solemnly swore by. But the dealer this time was a confirmed killer, and had already escaped justice multiple times. Taking him down by normal means was simply out of the option. And if Raven was as good as he was confident, if they got the right suspect immediately…then this could be over in one shot.

The meeting and conversation itself seemed to go smoothly. Too smoothly. It was like he was in a dream world, and he didn’t even have to think to say the right words to placate the dealer. As the interaction was wrapping up, his partner suddenly whispered to him. They had the wrong guy. This had been a set up—They had to let Raven know the right target right away before a potential innocent was hurt in the crossfire—

But when that one shot happened. Artem watched in slow motion as the supposed dealer was flung back, clutching his shoulder and screaming in shock. His partner collapsed on the ground. Her eyes squeezed shut. There was blood in her hair.

Next to her laid the tattered remains of the poppy hair clip. The tiny beads scattered like dark red grains of pepper sunk into the pristine sand. The carefully carved red seaweed folds were torn to mangled shreds of cloth, like another life sacrificed before the golden alter of the God of Death.

———

According to the plan, Artem would be doing most of the talking. She glanced around, noting the dealer’s bodyguards around the space.

The dealer seemed nervous, but that wasn’t itself unusual. They were attorneys after all, and anyone would be hesitant to talk to lawyers, regardless of how many times they had gotten away. But she studied how his too-casual crossed arms contradicted the fidgeting with the cuffs of his sleeves—which were a tad too long for a dealer that could more than afford to have every suit hand-tailored. Yet his head seemed unusually still, as though the hat on it was a crown. Hm…

She kept one ear on the conversation as she studied the bodyguards again surreptitiously. The dealer hesitated. And then she saw one bodyguard shift—his face barely moved, but his neck moved as though he were speaking. He stopped, and the dealer spoke again.

She suddenly remembered how the ex-con had said the dealer was particularly paranoid, and how he continued to avoid capture and death. Calling himself “God of Death”, he seduced his victims with golden poison, and commanded loyalty through fear and an antidote just out of reach. All who voiced complaint would mysteriously vanish….

The conversation was coming to a close. The dealer signaled for his bodyguards to leave, and she knew the way were running out of time. The suspicious bodyguard was turning around to leave, and she noticed he was slightly taller than the dealer. And his shoes—brand new boots, without a scratch.

“This is the wrong man,” she said quietly to Artem. “The real culprit—“

She held her hand up to reveal the decoy, and suspicion and alarm flashed through the fake dealer’s eyes. He dealer grabbed her, pulling her in front of him and shouting for Artem not to move, else he’d snap the pretty girl’s neck. But before anyone could do anything, an invisible force whistled past her head, throwing the fake dealer back. He howled, but all she felt was ringing in her ears and a forceful tug, like someone yanking her braids. The world around her turned black for a moment, and she found herself on the ground, covered in sand.

“The bodyguard!” She called out, pointing. She struggled to move but her legs felt like jelly and her head was spinning like she was thrown into a centrifuge. She tried calling out again, because Artem wasn’t looking—he was kneeling by her side, eyes blown wide with concern and fear. “The bodyguard is the real dealer! He’s getting away!”

The suspicious bodyguard was running without a backwards glance for his decoy, and the groups as quickly collapsing around him. She fought through the throbbing in her head to keep an eye on him. Marius was nearby, she knew, ready to be backup. Her fingers trembled on the phone. “King! The real dealer is reaching the road now, the one on the motorcycle—don’t let him get away!”

———

It was over. Marius had pulled some crazy motor-cross stunts and managed to take down the suspicious bodyguard. The police had arrived to take all involved into custody, and the decoy had joined them once the tranquilizer wore off. As obnoxious as the little brat was, Luke had to give Marius credit for understanding what happened and taking down the target before they could get away.

The real hero though, was perched on the couch talking to him. He handed her a cup of tea, and took the ice pack from her ankle. “Wasn’t this supposed to be for your head? Are you feeling that much better already?” He asked lightly.

Rosa simply nodded, sipping lightly on the tea. Luke had made sure it was cool just enough so she wouldn’t be dangerous even if she did spill it. “The ringing stopped a while ago. I think I twisted my ankle trying to run in the sand though.” She sat up straight. “Are you okay?”

Luke sighed self-deprecatingly. “Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that? You’re the one that nearly got shot.”

She set the tea aside, cupping his cheeks to look her in the eye. “Dr. Ritcher said there doesn’t seem to be any damage, psychological or physical. I guess I was too focused on the case to realize I was nearly shot. You and Artem were the ones that had to watch.”

He nuzzled into her soft touch. “My heart nearly stopped,” he confessed. “He moved so suddenly. I thought I’d accommodated for that, but then I saw you fall….”

“But it was a tranquilizing dart, not a real bullet.”

“But he’s a much bigger person!” Luke exclaimed. “That dose might have been lethal for you. And it wasn’t supposed to be delivered to your head! And then…there was blood in your hair…I’m so sorry.”

His Watson—his brave and clever Watson—was undeterred. She patted him gently as she explained again. “It was just the decoy yanking my hair so suddenly and the sound of the dart so close that startled me. And it was his blood. I’m fine.” She smiled brightly, banishing the dark clouds that had been swirling around his heart with radiant confidence. “I never doubted you’d hit your target precisely. You’re my beloved Sherlock, right?”

He hugged her close, hoping he could shelter her from everything, even himself. “I’m yours.”

———

It had been a few days since they returned to Stellis. The bell of his antique store announced a visitor, and Peanut’s excited chirp announced his girlfriend. “In all the commotion after the case I forgot t give this to you,” she said, approaching the desk. She paused to hold out a finger to Peanut, who landed with a happy trill. “I thought your old keychain could use a well deserved break.”

Luke took the tissue-paper wrapped gift. It was a keychain of a distinctive detective’s hat and pipe, carved out of a seashell and coated in resin. “This was what you had gotten? I thought…I thought you’d gotten yourself a present.”

“A present for you is a present for me, silly,” she replied, entertaining Peanut with a toy. “Do you dislike it?”

“No, it’s amazing,” he said, immediately attaching the keychain to his camera. “Actually, I have a surprise for you too,” Luke said. He set a hair clip in front of her: gentle red cloth and wire, etched to look like red seaweed, but folded like a flower.

“The hair clip! You remade it?”

“Except this time as a rose,” he said shyly.

She pinned it to her hair immediately, twirling to show it off. “How is it?”

“Cute,” he said, wrapping his arms around her gently. “You’re always cute.”

“I think I like this one better,” she murmured against his chest. “You made it for me after all.”

“I do too. Truly, a rose represents you best.”

#tears of themis #luke x mc #luke pearce #artem wing

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blogstandbygo · 3 years

Text

Fic Review - Eye of the Beholder by SailorChibi

Title: Eye of the Beholder

Author: SailorChibi

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/620748/chapters/1120179

# of words: 10,776 - 10 chapters

Rating: Explicit

Date published: 2013-02-21 (between S2 and S3)

Key Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Greg Lestrade

Themes/Tags: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Sex, Sherlock doesn't think he's attractive, John is out to prove him wrong, detailed sex

Review:

Benedict Cumberbatch has said in a number of interviews that he doesn’t understand this ‘sexiest man’ thing, that he really doesn’t see himself as a beautiful person. I’m not sure if this is what inspired this author to write this fic, but you can see the roots of that same complex present here. Sherlock is so convinced that he isn’t beautiful, he gets defensive (aka rude and huffy) with John when John describes him as such. There follows some pretty glorious Porn with Feelings™ of John making Sherlock believe him. While I personally believe that Cumberbatch (and therefore Sherlock) is objectively jaw-dropping gorgeous, it must also be said that love makes the beloved beautiful.

The words that took my breath away:

“I know what you’re thinking. I’ve been waiting for this and I’m going to take my time with you, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock lifts his upper body and slides his dressing gown off first. John helps him, pushing the sleeves down his long arms and spreading the gown out around them until it's like a little nest.

If you like this, try:

As Long as it takes, by PlainJane

Bread and Wine and Curry Once a Week, by cwb

Reblog to share the fic love! Let me know if you want to be tagged, or untagged for future reviews.

Send me your recs! Reccing yourself is welcome!

@missdaviswrites

@fearlessdiva930

@amindamazed

@hubblegleeflower

@pippn-frodo

@quantum-sparrow

@weneedtotalkaboutsherlock

@disaronnus

@addictedstilltheaddict

@headcumbernerd

@prettyrealisticjohnlockfanart

@daringlydomestic

@totallysilvergirl

@pipmer

@otter-von-bismarck

@shirleycarlton

@onwallsjcfwrites

@shamelessmash

#bbcsherlock #fanfic recs

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dragon-kazansky · 4 years

Text

A rose in shadows - Chapter two

Chapter 2- John's getting married in the morning

John enters the flat after giving Gladstone a nice walk. He lets the dog off his leash once the door is closed behind him and he stand to his feet, tucking the leash away.

"Mrs. Hudson?"

There is no response.

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson?"

Still nothing. He goes up stairs and knocks on the door with his cane.

"Holmes? You in there?"

It's silent. He opens the door and lets out an amused laugh as he sees the whole room is surrounded in plants. This is of course Sherlock's doing.

"Your hedge needs trimming." John jokes.

Watson pushes some leaves to the side with his cane and enters the room. There are plants in every direction. He cannot see anything at all.

"Where am I?" He hears an airy whisper through the trees.

"I don't care where you are, as long as you're ready." John comes to an opening and some turkey's gobble to his right. He looks at them.

"I'm waiting." Sherlock's whisper breaks out.

John turns to the window and sees Sherlock looking out the window, or at least, it's supposed to seem like he is. Even John can see it's a dummy in Holmes' clothes.

"I'm not going to play this game. Remember, I have to catch the last-" A dart hits him in the shoulder. John looks over his shoulder to see it, then raises his eyes over to the animals gathering on the opposite of the room. There is a goat with the turkey's now. "-train."

"Oh, that's you dead I'm afraid." Sherlock says.

"You win." John sits down with a newspaper, sounding as unenthusiastic as possible. A parrot flies across the room. John scans the trees for any sign of the mad man. "I lose. Game over."

Sherlock shoots another gun which pierces through the newspaper that John was holding up.

"Still don't see me."

John folds the paper down and looks ahead.

Sherlock laughs and moves away from the wall. He is wearing a full body suit that blends in with the pillar and bookshelf across from where John is sitting. He was very well hidden. He removes the mask when he stands in front of Watson.

John doesn't look impressed.

"I'm not going out with you dressed like that."

"Would you prefer I joined you in the fashion faux pas of wearing fine military dress with that heinous handmade scarf... clearly one of your fiance's early efforts?"

"Oh, how I've missed you, Holmes."

"Have you? Why?" Sherlock leans in close to him. "I've barely noticed your absence. Then again I'm knee-deep in research and I have Y/N for company." He turns his back to John as he looks around the room. "I'm extracting fluids from the adrenal glands of sheep and designing my own urban camouflage. All the while verging on a decisive breakthrough in the single most important case of my career, perhaps of all time." Sherlock leans in again.

The leaves by the door rustle.

"Mrs. Hudson, Y/N, how are you both?"

You follow the landlady into room.

"Oh. Oh, I'm so pleased to see you, Doctor." Mrs Hudson says. "Thank you for inviting me tomorrow."

"And thank you for looking after Gladstone." John stands up to greet you both.

"It's good to see you, John." You step over and smile at him. He returns the favour. You don't miss how Sherlock rolls his eyes beside you both.

"Dear, dear... sickly sweet nanny, might I have a word?" Sherlock takes a step toward Mrs. Hudson. He pulls the cloth which was on the tray Mrs. Hudson was carrying. It reveals mice trapped under a clear case. "Yummy. Fess the snake, woman."

"You feed it."

"Touchy, touchy." He takes the tray from her and backs away slowly.

"Doctor, you must get him to a sanatorium." She pleads with John. You chuckle quietly as you remove the dart from his shoulder. "He's been on a diet of coffee, tobacco, and coca leaves." Mrs. Hudson explains. "He never sleeps." You nod at Watson as he looks at you. "I hear multiple voices as if he's rehearsing a play."

"Leave him to me." John chuckles.

"Don't you have a goat that needs worming?" Sherlock asks, popping up behind Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh, how kind of you to remind me." Sarcasm drips from every word. "So much to look forward to. What would I do without you?" She turns and leaves. "Good luck with your patient, Doctor." She calls over her shoulder.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock asks.

You look Sherlock dead in the eye.

"He's getting married tomorrow."

John stares at Sherlock.

"Oh! Embrace me." Sherlock pulls him in to an awkward hug, he pulls out the dart which was still in John's back. "Watson's getting married."

"You've lost a few pounds, Holmes."

Sherlock steps back. "Yes, you've picked them up, noshing on Mary's muffins, no doubt." John chuckles. "Pour us a brandy. The stag party has begun!"

"I'll leave you two to it then, shall I?" You chuckle and gather your coat which has been draped round the back of a chair.

"It was good to see you, Y/N." John smiles and kisses your hand before letting you turn to the door.

"Yes, you too. Do try to keep out of trouble Sherlock, and John, don't drink too much." You smile at the boys. Sherlock barely spares a glance your way and John nods at you before looking at his best friend with a furrowed gaze. You leave them be.

Sherlock disappears behind the curtains that had been drawn closed, closing off the other side of the room.

"It is our last adventure, Watson. I intend to make the most of it."

John opened the curtains and found himself face to face with something completely different from the rest of the room.

Diagrams, maps, photos, newspaper clippings and other notes handwritten by Sherlock himself, were all pinned up on the wall leaving no space at all. Red string was pinned up across each piece, connecting everything one way or another. This is Sherlock's investigation on Moriarty.

"I see you've made good use of my old office." John comments.

"Do you like my spider's web?"

"Is that what you call it?"

"That's what Y/N called it, I just stick to her ideas." Sherlock peeked out from behind the screen he had gone to get changed behind. "Follow that strand."

John follows it.

"Question: What do a scandal involving an Indian cotton tycoon, the overdose of a Chinese opium trader, bombings in Strasbourg and Vienna, and the death of a steel magnate in America all have in common?"

John follows the strands to see they all point to a photo of a man.

"Well, according to your diorama, Professor James Moriarty."

"Indeed."

"Mathematical genius. Celebrated author and lecturer."

"Boxing champion at Cambridge, where he made friends with out current Prime Minister." Sherlock states.

"Do you have any evidence to substantiate your claim?" John asks.

Sherlock chuckles as he steps out from behind the screen. He grabs a strand and follows it down to the wall near him where an article is pinned to the wall.

"This."

John steps over and looks at it. Beside the column was a photo of a man, above read 'DR. HOFFSMANSTAHL'S FATAL HEART ATTACK.'

"Now do you see?" Sherlock asked.

"Dr. Hoffmanstahl's death?"

"Yes. I've heard you speak of him, extolling his virtues." Sherlock says.

"Hoffmanstahl was at the forefront of medical innovations, a true pioneer."

"Just the other day, I averted an explosion that was intended for him."

"Says he died of a heart attack." John looks at the paper.

"Has all my instruction been for naught?" Sherlock looks at John disappointed. If it was you he was talking to, you would have understood right away what he was getting at. In fact you had been. "You still read the official statement and believe it." It's a game, dear man, a shadowy game." Sherlock poured a drink. "We're playing cat and mouse, the professor and I. Cloak and dagger."

"I thought it was spider and fly?" John looked at him and then down at the bottle Sherlock had put down. Formaldehyde.

"I'm not a fly, I'm a cat."

"Not a mouse, but a dagger. You're drinking embalming fluid."

"Yes. Care for a drop?" Sherlock exhales slowly after drinking from his glass.

"You do seem..."

"Excited?"

"...Manic..."

"I am."

"...Verging on..."

"Ecstatic?"

"...Psychotic. I should've brought you a sedative."

"I'll give mt life to see his demise." Sherlock said. "He must be stopped before his evil machinations come to a crescendo."

"What about Y/N?" John asks.

"What about Y/N?" Sherlock bites back.

"I couldn't help but notice how.... lonely she looked when she left. I thought things were going well for you both?"

"Aren't they?"

"I don't know, Holmes." John furrowed his gaze at his friend and then sighed. "Ans how will he do all this?" It was clear Sherlock wasn't in the mood to talk about you, perhaps you would talk to him later.

"Don't be a dingy bird. Bad people do bad things because they can." Sherlock was more interested in talking about Moriarty right now. "No one, not the victims, the police, the governments, not anyone..."

"Except the great Sherlock Holmes..."

"Correct."

"...On this diet, will work it all out."

"Right."

"Or thereabouts."

"Thereabouts, not quite there."

"Here's to your good health." John raised a glass, filled with alcohol. Sherlock raised what was left of his choice of drink. "Dingy bird."

Gladstone whimpered and them dropped to the floor.

"What have you done to Gladstone now?" John goes over to his beloved dog.

"Ricinus communis. The fruit is highly toxic."

"He's barely breathing."

"What an excellent opportunity. This may be just the thing." Sherlock kneels down beside John and stabs Gladstone with a needle. The dog whines. "Sorry, do you mind terribly if I try my adrenal extract?"

"How many times are you going to kill my dog, Holmes?"

Gladstone barks as he gets up quickly off the floor and scurries off.

"Took off like a monkey from a box. I may need one of those in a few hours."

"Consider it a wedding gift." Sherlock handed over the small roll the extract had been kept in.

John made his way downstairs.

"Watson, might we use an alternative exit?" Sherlock asked. John turned on his heel and faced Sherlock who had dressed after him.

"Is there something different about you?"

"I'm under observation." Sherlock was wearing a long beard and had a pipe in his mouth, his coat was old and scruffy.

"As you should be."

"You drive."

Both men left through a different door.

Tags:

@hufflepuff-pide-honey-badger @theatricalbride @phantomofhogwarts @awyr @fandombeehive @charmed-asylum @sigynbandraoi-blog @procrastinatingmurder @madshelily @photography-to-all @sitkafay @melancholicsthings

#sherlock holmes #sherlock #a rose in shadows #chapter 2 #sherlock holmes x reader

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guardmesherlock-rowan · 4 years

Text

“And the day was saved thanks too...”

Anon: This is kind of a crazy hc request: MC inadvertently saving everyone? Like her s/o is in kidnapped and she happens to walk into the same place he is being held. As she goes thru she accidentally sets off all the surrounding traps without noticing but makes it all the way to her s/o and the villain and the s/o watches it all on the security feed. Their possible reactions seem pretty funny. MC knocks out the villain when she opens the door (cuz he was ranting and didn’t see her)?

Everything about this man screamed ‘supervillain’. The way he had them tied down on a table, the large monitors on the wall, and the way he rambled. One push of this big red button and a signal would go out to his little minions to tell them to start on his diabolical scheme. He was waiting for everyone to be in place, and he wanted them to watch. Or to gloat. He started up on the backstory, why he was inspired, but really what had caught their attention was one monitor behind him.

MC slipped through it, she looked both ways carefully. But somehow she has picked the right moment where the security wasn’t immediately in the hallway. Trying her best to stay stealthful she walked down the hallway, apparently trying to find them. As she moved off screen they had to search the other monitors to find which ones she was still on. They held their breath as MC knelt down to fuss with her shoe just in time to avoid being hit in the head by a swinging knife. What kind of mad man actually put traps like that in his own hideout? The kind that also told them about their failed plots and the times they tried to dress up as supervillains they admired and committed petty crimes.

They watched MC as she traveled down different hallways, narrowly avoiding darts, spikes, and even at one point she turned down a different hallway at the last second, avoiding the pitfall that had started to give way just as she pivoted. No way this building was up to any kind of code or regulations. Finally, MC approached a door and leaned in listening very intently.

The villain was running out of steam and started to turn away, towards the monitors, so they shouted “you’ll never get away with this!” The villain smirked and started strutting around the room, boasting about how far they’d gotten already. When suddenly he fell forward. Hitting his head on the tray of torture devices he had threatened them with earlier before starting on his rant. Where he had been standing now MC stared down at the unconscious form from the open doorway.

“Is he?” She worried but quickly hurried to the side of their beloved to release them.

Sherlock Holmes: wonders if it was really all by accident that she had avoided all those traps, but is proud and looking forward to mocking the villain about how easily they were foiled later.

John Watson: worried and needs to look over MC to make sure that she really did avoid all those traps and there weren’t any little injuries. With a madman like that John wouldn’t have been surprised if he also had used poisons.

James Moriarty: soft tender caresses to let MC know she doesn’t have to worry anymore. Sebastian should also be taking care of things and Jack would be by soon for clean up. All that’s left is letting MC know he is completely thoroughly alright.

Mycroft Holmes: he first comes across as upset, because he was so scared watching MC stumble through it all. It’s taking everything in him not to get worked up and do something to that horrible man. But after making sure MC is safe, he contacts a team to let them know the situation.

Jack Stillman: the first goal, get MC somewhere safe, the second goal, get rid of this man. There was no reason for MC to get involved, he’s not surprised, she tends to wander into danger more than is good for her, but that doesn’t change the fact that this villain put her in danger. Now he gets to see what a ‘bad guy’ really looks like.

Sebastian Moran: carefully looks MC over, and then moves her into the corner of the room, somewhere not immediately visible from the door. He has a job to take care of, and if she is hurt in a way he can’t see there’s nothing he could do about it in that instant. However, he is now itching to ask James if he can take care of the guy.

Jeremy Cassel: “you’re so beautiful and brave! My own hero!” plays it up and kisses MC softly while also checking her pulse discreetly to gauge if she is upset. He tries to keep this light hearted as he goes about finishing disrupting the plans of this cad.

Hercule Poirot: heartfelt thanks, though he’s uncomfortable having been tied down for that length of time. Now, keeping MC at his side, it’s time to wrap things up so they can go home and make sure that the other is truly okay.

Arthur Hastings: smiles, thanks, and will gush later about how cool it was that MC avoided all those traps. Inquiring if she really had missed all of them or if there were hints that she had initially ignored.

George Lestrade: panic. Pushing MC behind him while he checks on the man to make sure he wasn’t dead and goes about calling in backup. Only remember to let them know about the traps as he glances back at MC and thinks about what she had gone through.

Mikah Hudson: if he could’ve punched the guy, he would’ve. He doesn’t think about the case anymore and focuses on getting MC out of there. Surely Sherlock had already contacted Lestrade and they were on their way. The best thing to do it make sure she was safe and away from all those traps.

Henry Jekyll: a light smile, a nod of appreciation, and then he goes to work in contacting Mycroft to let him know what was happening. Giving MC’s hand a squeeze as they wait for backup as they watch the guy and make sure he cannot contact his minions.

Edward Hyde: immediately tries to fight the unconscious man. Takes MC calming him down to get him to tie the guy down on the same table that Edward had been trapped on. Gives MC compliments at how well she handled everything.

‘Irene’ (conwoman hc): she takes the rope off the table and goes over to tie the guy up where he was. No sense in straining themselves getting him back on the table. She turns to the system the guy had and starts work calling off the plans, or at least sending the information about the henchmen’s locations to Scotland yard. Meanwhile, she keeps glancing at MC out of the corner of her eye to make sure she was holding up alright. This all called for a serious spa night together.

#Shall we date #shall we date guard me Sherlock #Guard Me Sherlock!#guard me sherlock

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strangelock221b · 4 years

Photo

28. taking a walk in the snow

The illustration on the cover was by Anna Whelan Betts. X

May All Your Days Be Bright ch 1 (AO3)

“Is it too cold? Even with all of those skirts, you can’t be adequately insulated from this wind.”

Molly chuckled at her fiancé’s bout of overprotectiveness. “It’s fine, Sherlock.” She gave his arm an affectionate squeeze as they walked through the gently falling snow down the lane that led from the inn they were staying at. Yes, the bottom few inches of her skirt and petticoats were covered in snow and even the slightest breeze seemed to cut right through them, but in that moment, just two days before their wedding, the winter chill was the last thing on Molly’s mind.

They were in the north of England for a case, one that Sherlock swore would be his last case until February. Molly wasn’t about to hold him to his promise, not after seeing the various things he had done out of boredom. Even I can’t expect to hold his constant attention forever. With the case wrapped up, they planned to take the first train in the morning back to London, but until then, Molly had her fiancé all to herself.

Sherlock chuckled. “Yes, a warm and happy heart is the best protection against the cold.” He paused for a moment then murmured, “Are you certain you’re alright with a delayed honeymoon?”

“Of course. Who travels abroad in winter?” She smiled softly. “Besides, I would rather start our married life, and our intimate relations, in our home.”

The smile he gave her was softness and warmth itself, with the ever-present, it seemed, spark of desire beneath. “As would I. It’s settled then, the Continent can wait until Spring.” He led her over to a fallen tree beside the lane then dusted the snow off it before sitting down and gently pulling her into his lap.

Molly chuckled softly as she curled up against him. “I feel as though this has become my natural place to sit.”

“It has,” Sherlock agreed, his eyes dancing. “If I had my way, you’d never leave it.”

She smiled a bit. “I can just picture it – you telling Mrs. Hudson you’re unable to see any clients because your wife is sitting in your lap.”

He chuckled. “Actually, I fully intend to leave a note on the door advising all potential clients that, as a newlywed man, I am only see them for an hour a day, whichever hour I can bring myself to leave our bed.”

The sudden warmth in her face was more than enough to chase way the chill, but the love in his eyes made her smile. “Sherlock!”

His grin was unrepentant. “Perhaps not?”

She giggled. “I think that once you start taking cases again, we should schedule our … bedroom activities outside of the hours you receive clients, and not the other way around.”

He gave a most put-upon sigh. “If we must…”

Molly rewarded his humor with a soft, loving kiss.

***

As they walked back to the inn, Sherlock marveled at the contrast between the cold around him and the heat inside him. His heart was on fire for his Molly, as well as his loins, and he was grateful that their rooms were at opposite ends, so any temptation to visit her during the night would remain just a temptation.

We have waited this long, what’s two more days?

Still, he had to excuse himself once they had arrived at the inn, telling Molly he wanted to change but in reality, he needed cold water on his skin before he was ready to spend more time in his beloved fiancée’s company. By the time he joined her in the private sitting room they had rented, she was having a cup of tea and his fire had lessened to the ever-present spark.

“There you are,” she said with a smile when he sat down in the chair beside hers. “I took the liberty of ordering dinner for us.”

“Good,” he said as he poured himself a cup of tea. “I apologize, it took longer than I anticipated to find everything in my bags.”

“Sherlock,” she murmured, “you don’t need to hide anything from me. I’m a doctor, after all. I knew you were past the point of endurance, and I apologize for getting you there, again.”

He chuckled a bit as he relaxed. “Thank you, my dear, but it wasn’t just you, it was also the knowledge that in less than forty-eight hours, we will be husband and wife and free to do whatever we like.”

Molly smiled a bit. “I’m just thankful the wedding is at noon; I doubt we’d survive if we had to wait until evening.”

Sherlock nodded. “The vicar assured me the ceremony is only half an hour. Another half-hour at the reception, then we should be home by a quarter after one.”

“Do you really think my mother will let us leave our own reception after only half an hour?” she asked, smirking.

He smirked back. “Watson has agreed to distract her at my signal.”

“There’ll be hell to pay the next time we see her, then.” Her smile indicated she had no issue at all with his plan.

“Undoubtedly, but we’ll deal with that when the time comes.”

Molly nodded. “I await her lecture on social etiquette with bated breath. Lord knows I’ve heard it often enough.”

“We’ll simply give her two minutes before I escort her out the door.” He reached out to take her hand. “I won’t have her upset you, not when it’s within my power to prevent it.”

“Thank you, my love,” she murmured, squeezing his hand lightly.

#fandom christmas in july #granada sherlolly #granada holmes #bbc sherlock #sherlock holmes #molly hooper

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ithinkthereforiamfandom · 5 years

Text

Scars

(We're back with the boys and this one should probably come with a side order of *tissues*)

John stared horrified as Sherlock cringed away from him, frozen he witnessed the best and most brilliant man he knew weep under the rapidly chilling shower and beg him to leave.

"John, John please! Please go, you were never supposed to know. John please..."

The heartrending pleading was interspersed with shuddering breaths because Sherlock was scarred and he had hidden it from John. He'd been tortured and made it home. John realised his own tears had blinded him and he quietly left the bathroom. Poor Sherlock had to be feeling so vulnerable, but if he stayed in his room till morning would he be giving Sherlock his privacy or just hiding away from the truth.

...

It had started so wonderfully. The newly returned Sherlock had been responsible about his own care and exacting in following his doctor's orders. The years away had broken something open inside him, he reached out more frequently for John, who had been careful to respond appropriately and maybe overly professionally at times.

Sherlock had resolved John's dilemma by pressing him against the kitchen counter and cradling his face those deliciously huge hands, cool fingers wrapped around his skull and soft tentative lips and pushed against his own. "It was all for you." Brushed gently from Sherlock's lips to his own before the kisses deepened.

He had gone into the bathroom tonight to finish up the teasing that started on the couch and now it all lay in disaster like the beautiful man huddled in the bottom of thier shower.

...

Pacing his room John realised what he had missed, Sherlock had been the primary instigator and lead in thier physical activities. He had kept his own hands on John and managed to avoid John having too much time to get curious. The shower shut down and John decided half an hour would be enough.

Five minutes later there was a knock at his door.

Naked and tired Sherlock did the only thing he could think of, what he always did when nothing made sense, when lost Sherlock Holmes went to John Watson. John let him in and startled blue eyes took in his towel covered body. He took John's hand as he moved to the bed to lie down, towing John behind him.

All the scars, everything, John could have all of him as he lay down on John's neat bed. His hair had been ruthlessly towelled dry and he knew it was a mess but also, neither of them cared. A delicate surgeon's touch counted the three burns on his chest and the old stabs in his belly. His thighs bore more evidence and he didn't realise he wasn't breathing until a gentle kiss released him.

The kisses started at the now bald gash in his calf, a burn had left it's painfilled memory in his flesh and John patiently kissed it away but it was not until the silver gold head of his Beloved reached his chest that he realised John was speaking. "Home" "Brave" "Love" John whispered to each scar before pressing his lips reverently to the maimed skin.

"Oh my Beauty" pressed kisses to cigarette scars on the heaving chest before John knelt up to sink his hands into the wild crown of dark curls Sherlock still wore. "My Lovely, I've got you." Breath huffed out of him as Sherlock drove him to his back and seemed determined to hide himself about two inches behind John's sternum. The tears slowly wound down and John held on tightly, not just for the scars but for the two years apart that they had both suffered.

"How am I still Lovely?" Red eyes clouded over and John gripped a few curls. "Because you are extraordinary. You saved us, you took down an entire network." A puzzled look preceded parting lips. Sherlock was clearly about to argue so John yanked him into another kiss. "You're mine and I say so! You're my Lovely, my LovelyLove. Okay?" A watery chuckle floated through the room. "Only an idiot argues with his doctor" "Exactly."

John adjusted his pillows for two and Sherlock shifted them under the covers, arranging John to his liking before long limbs wrapped contentedly around a solid Army frame. John was delighted that Sherlock, once discovered, had the nudity shyness of a cat and invitations to pajamas were met with a jealous clinging around his torso. "Marvelous" John grinned to himself, he was in love with an octopus and as the body enveloping him grew heavy with sleep he decided he would never let go.

@mofftissfan @sarahthecoat @loveismyrevolution @riorothbates @underestimatemethatwillbefun @anotherwellkeptsecret @benaddictedandsherlocked @johnlockismyreligion @almosttomorocco @superwholocklmt @strangeps3lyricsmuffin @chinike @loves-to-read-fanfic @sillystring111 @ben-locked @jobooksncoffee @johnlockunicorn @chained-to-the-mirror @thinkanddoodle-batch @melmey-fanfics @the-persian-slipper @melsesowieso @morgendaemmerung89 @shiplocks-of-love @pri1982 @kitten-kin @221b-gone-feels @theconsultinglinguist @francj96 @sabrina-phynn @colourfulwatson @thejohnlockoutlet @lady-phoenix-of-tardis @shoshililly @mrb488 @yaycoffee @pippn-frodo @barbsiebabe @skullinitium @boisinberryjamarama

#whump drabble #whumptober19 #no.15

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pennywaltzy · 4 years

Text

Of Floral Arrangements, Tattoos and Brotherly Reconciliation (1/?)

This was the fic I started for Holmestice that I just let get away from me, so I’m posting it now. It’s Johnlock, Mystrade and Hoopervan, and it’s an AU involving tattoo parlors and flower shops, so let’s hope it gets more cohesive as I go on because there’s a background case too!

Of Floral Arrangements, Tattoos and Brotherly Reconciliation - For years, the Holmes brothers have owned shops next door to each other, and for years, there's been a rift between them. No one except their sister knows why but now, after Mycroft agrees to marry his long-time love Gregory, their employees and friends conspire to mend that breach between them...for better or for worse.

Read Chapter 1 @ AO3

Very few people realized that the flower shop and the tattoo parlour that were next to each other in the Regents Park area on Marleybourne Road were owned by a set of brothers who barely spoke to each other. Mycroft Holmes, who it was said spoke the language of the flowers from both the Victorian Era and the modern era with such fluency that even Her Majesty wanted the Palace covered in his creations, had had a falling out with his brother Sherlock, also known as Sheeza, the most accomplished tattoo artist in the whole of England. Only their sister knew what it was about, and as she didn’t care for either of them herself, not many people knew what it was all about, nor why they avoided each other upon the opening and closing of their respective shops, not even giving a nod or a grunt of recognition.

Sheeza had an assistant, a woman named Molly who did some of the most amazing macabre art mixed in with flowers and bits of nature. She was quite popular with the goth crowd. His apprentice, John Watson, was something more than just an apprentice and was slowly inching into a romantic relationship of some sort, or at least as much of one as he could imagine himself in. John specialized in the geometric work that was beloved by the millennial and Generation Z crowd and could make almost any set of geometric shapes come off as works of art. And then there was Sally, the shop’s all-around woman and Molly’s wife, who had the sharp wit needed for the wankers who came in without reading the rules.

As much as Sherlock didn’t want to speak to his brother, his brother’s creations were always at the front, every day. Turned out Sally’s mate Greg was Mycroft’s lover (not that Sheeza cared about that, just as Mycroft didn’t care for John more than just a glance) and an assistant at the shop who spoiled the women with the lesser creations that weren’t up to the level of perfection that Mycroft had. Mycroft didn’t seem to mind what he would normally consider trash going to his brother’s shop; Sally and Molly took them home and pressed the flowers into the homemade paper that Sally turned into lovely cards and stationery sets.

And so for years, it was this way, until Greg proposed marriage to Mycroft. And then he made one demand: mend the breach with his brother. Mycroft refused to speak to Sheeza, and so Greg decided to do it himself.

He went next door with his newest bouquet later that day, when Sheeza had gone to take his lunch break with John. It was an extravagant bouquet, something with a dozen red roses at the heart of it, and a note for Sheeza. “Oh, this is lovely,” Molly said, pushing a strand of hair back behind her ear. She smiled up at Greg. “We don’t normally get roses, especially the red ones. What’s the occasion?”

“My engagement,” he said. “I asked Mycroft to marry me, and he said yes.”

“Congratulations!” Sally said, going out from behind her counter to give her friend a hug. “Oh, I’m so happy for you. Despite what Sheeza says, Mycroft seems like a wonderful bloke for you.”

“We get on well,” Greg said with a soft smile. “So today, you get a premium Lestrade creation. But it comes with a string attached.” He set the note on the counter. “I want Mycroft and Sherlock to mend their breach. Ever since I apprenticed with Mycroft ten years ago, before all of you came around, he’s been quarreling with his brother and I have no idea why, but I want it to stop.”

“Oh, thank God,” Sally said, shaking her head as she put a hand on her heart and let out a breath. “It looks as though Sherlock is holding John at arm’s length and we just want the two idiots to be happy. If he fixed whatever his issue with his brother is, maybe he’ll give John a true chance.”

“Good,” Lestrade said, breathing a sigh of relief. “So you’ll give Sheeza this note?”

“Absolutely,” Molly said. “I hope they start talking again. I think it would do them both a world of good.”

They all chatted a bit more, and then Greg excused himself and made his way back to the shop. Mycroft was in the back and Anthea, their counter clerk, was fixing up the showroom. “Has he left the workroom yet?”

“Not yet,” she said. “He’s in a Mood with a capital M. Someone is taking pictures of his creations before they’re given to his clients and copying them for social media.”

Greg sighed. “I told him we should have gotten our own accounts. I know he’s old fashioned, but how-to videos and an Instagram account would be helpful.”

“Well, now he’s doubled down on no sharing any of his creations whatsoever.” She moved a vase of fake flowers that showed what Mycroft could do with everlasting flowers towards the back of the display area and moved a new vase forward.

“One of yours?” Greg asked with a smile.

She nodded. “I thought we could have a splash of yellow for the spring.”

“I think you did a good job. And on that note, I’ll go whisk Mycroft away to the flowers market so he can pick some things for the Buckingham Palace job.”

Anthea brightened. “We got it?”

“Yeah,” Greg said. “Even if someone is trying to copy us unless they’re undercutting prices, we’re still in demand with Her Majesty.”

“Well that’s something,” she said. She paused. “You know, I heard his brother looked into things once upon a time, as a hobby. Maybe...”

“I’m one step ahead,” Gregory said. “But we have to get them on speaking terms before we can ask for a favor. But I think it will work out.” He smiled at Anthea, but inside, his stomach was roiled in knots. This theft of ideas was a big breach. There were the three of them in the shop but Mycroft had others who came in from time to time as he was trying to figure out a fourth person in the shop. It looked as though Phillip would get the apprenticeship, but if he was the one photographing the works before they were officially unveiled…

Well, then that would be very bad. Hopefully, they could figure out a way to stop it before the next exhibition, which was happening after the engagement at the Palace. And hopefully, in the end, the brothers would be on speaking terms again.

#sherlock #johnlock #mystrade #hoopervan #fanfic #fanfiction #sherlock x john #Mycroft x Lestrade #sally x molly #greg lestrade #sally donovan #molly hooper #anthea #gift #Multipart: Of Floral Arrangements Tattoos and Brotherly Reconciliation

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janeofcakes · 5 years

Text

Chapter 15

** This is a long one! But a great one. Nuff said. Enjoy. **

John falls back in his chair as if he’d been struck. His expression displays the pure shock that courses through every inch of his body. He can’t think, has no idea how to think and can’t make himself speak. There are no words to say anyway. His mind has completely shut down, the only words are Sherlock’s echoing hatefully in his brain.

“You hated me,” Sherlock continues in a panicked tone. “You kept me from you daughter and refused to see me. I forced you to help me with one last case and you despised me for it. You saved my life and then Eurus.”

Somewhere in the middle of Sherlock’s confession, John’s eyes closed and his face fell into his hands. Another pane of glass shatters and John can see it - Mary’s death. She threw herself in front of Sherlock. She saved his life after having nearly taken it. She gave him back to John. She knew. John loved him and she knew it. But John was so angry and confused and he blamed Sherlock. He tortured Sherlock.

John gasps, his breath catching in his throat loudly and he struggles to breathe for just a moment. His eyes pop open and stare at Sherlock in horror as another pane shatters.

“The morgue,” he rasps. “I beat you, kicked you. I could’ve killed you.”

“I deserved it.”

“No, you didn’t. No, you fucking didn’t,” John nearly shouts. “No one deserves that. I was stupid, Sherlock. Incredibly stupid.”

“I’d killed your wife!” Sherlock cuts in.

“No, you didn’t!” John cries, dropping to his knees in front of the detective. He rests his hands on Sherlock’s knees and leans into his space. “I remember, Sherlock, I remember now. She saved you because she knew I’d be lost without you. She knew I couldn’t lose you again. It wasn’t your fault and I shouldn’t have blamed you. I was just so...lost. I was a fool. I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’m so sorry I hurt you.”

Tears fall down the detective’s cheeks and he is shaking his head. For a moment, John is afraid he’s going to argue the point, but then he sees Sherlock’s face. Really sees it. Relief, joy, sadness, forgiveness. He swoops John into his arms in a crushing embrace and weeps on his shoulder. John envelopes his friend and holds tightly.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” he mumbles, meaning it more than ever in his life.

“I thought you’d hate me,” the detective breaks the silence after what seems like a very long time. “You hated me so much then.”

“No.”

“You kept her away from me and then I adopted her right under your nose. Gave her my name and your old room. Everything in defiance of your wishes.”

“No,” John doesn’t know whether to pull back to look him in the eye or just keep holding on. He finally elects the former and meets the detective’s blurry gaze. “You did everything right. I can’t think of anyone else I would rather have raising Rosie. You did it to honor our friendship, not destroy it. And you brought her every day to see me. You told her all about me. She probably knows more about me than I do.”

John smiles fondly and squeezes his hands where they rest on Sherlock’s hips. The detective sniffles, his red-rimmed eyes wet, but his features are more relaxed than they have been in days. John knows he shouldn’t say a word, shouldn’t spoil the peace between them, but he cannot pass up the opportunity. Sherlock could whisk out the door and bury himself in cases again. John slides his fingers from Sherlock’s body and bites his lip. The detective takes the hint and slowly begins moving his hands off John’s shoulders and down his arms.

“Why do you call her Watson?” John stares at his flatmate in surprise at the words that sprang from his mouth. It is not what he meant to say at all and now that he has, he isn’t sure what to do. Sherlock looks just as taken aback.

“I started it straight away,” the man begins before John can apologize. “From her first night in the flat. She was only a few months old and did not resemble either of you yet. It wasn’t until later that she had your hair and smile, your eyes. We visited you every day, but when we were at home and elsewhere I wanted…”

Sherlock stops and swallows hard, as though struggling with words he has kept inside for so long. He fixes John with soft eyes and squeezes his biceps just above the elbow.

“I...I missed you so much and wanted you with me always,” he breathes. “Each time I said Watson I felt closer to you. Almost like a part of you was there.”

“Sherlock,” John’s voice is light as a breeze. His hands are on his flatmate’s hips again and he leans forward to bring his lips to Sherlock’s, but the detective lurches back and stands quickly. John falls back on his ass, his back thumping against the chair. He stares up at Sherlock, astonished as the tall man declares something about tea and bounds to the kitchen.

After he has disappeared, John leans into the chair and hugs his knees to his chest. He rests his chin on the hard knot of his left kneecap and lets his eyes drift around the room. The animal skull with headphones, the beloved violin on the desk, the human skull over the fireplace, and then he sees it. He frees his legs and stands to approach the unfamiliar object. It is a 5x7 photograph in a plain black frame. In it, are himself and Sherlock standing close together. He is holding an infant Rosie in his arms and one of Sherlock’s arms is draped around his back, his fingers visible on John’s far shoulder. It must have been taken before Mary died. Perhaps she was behind the camera.

John takes it from the mantle and holds it in both hands. His eyes take in every detail of their body language and smiles. A very calm happiness settles over him and he brushes Sherlock’s face on the photo with his thumb. They look like a family. A proper family. A smile ghosts over John’s lips and his mind clears of all else. That’s the family he wants. It’s what he has always wanted. He may not remember his entire life with Sherlock, but he has remembered enough. He knows how he felt at the wedding. Like the wrong person was walking down the aisle. Like he was making a mistake. But how could he stop it right there? Then Sherlock deduced the baby. John’s first surge of excitement was for himself and Sherlock. His grin had faded the second he felt Mary squeezing his fingers in hers and his vision of the future went from tall curls to short blonde. He’d seen the same look in Sherlock’s eyes and then he disappeared, left the wedding and god, John had wanted to go after him. He had wanted to stand outside the sitting room window of 221B on the pavement below, doing one of those stupid things they do on bloody awful rom coms. Hold his mobile over his head playing “In Your Eyes” at full volume or hold up enormous notes for Sherlock to read. ��I know we can never be, but to me, you are perfect.”

Perfect.

Was there ever anyone more perfect for him than Sherlock?

John closes his eyes abruptly, struck by a sudden wave of memory that pulls him under. A pane of glass shatters and he sees himself in a lab at Bart’s. The man from the park, Mike Stamford stands close by as John passes his mobile to Sherlock. For just the smallest of seconds, their fingers brush and electricity tingles through John’s whole body. And those words, smooth and silky in that beautiful baritone that has secretly tickled John’s spine ever since.

Afghanistan or Iraq?

“John?”

John’s eyes snap open and he turns to see Sherlock standing not four feet away. When had he come back in? He is looking at the photo in John’s hands.

“Oh. Um,” John fumbles for words and replaces it on the mantle. “Sorry. It caught my eye.”

The detective wears a soft smile and has a far away look in his eyes as he studies the photo.

“It was taken shortly after she was born. We were so happy,” he mutters wistfully. John watches him, unable to tear his eyes away from that face and those eyes. This man is his life, the very air he breathes, and it becomes more obvious every moment John spends with him.

Sherlock senses John’s eyes on him and clears his throat. He straightens his spine and the whole atmosphere of the room changes. Sherlock addresses him in a businesslike tone and heads for the kitchen.

“Come, John, the tea is getting cold.”

***

“Can you come to the mini-dance marathon on Friday, Daddy?” Rosie asks at dinner that evening.

“Erm. The what?” John looks up from slicing a piece of chicken. She had just told a story about she and her friends playing at recess, so it seemed a sudden change in topic. Granted, she was prone to doing that, but John was still getting used to it.

“The mini-dance marathon. I knew Papa wouldn’t tell you, but you finished those exercise visits with your doctor and can walk just fine now,” she grins at him, cup in both hands, and milk mustache on her upper lip. “You can sit down if you get tired.”

“Oh, yes. Yes, I could.”

“You could dance with Papa for the slow songs!” she squeals.

“Your father may already have plans, Watson,” Sherlock pipes up suddenly, a fork full of potatoes hovering between his plate and mouth. “Perhaps with Lestrade.”

“Ha, ha, nope,” she snickers into her cup. “Uncle Greg and Aunt Molly are going to a fancy restaurant on Friday.”

“You’re going to be there?” John asks in a light tone.

“Every child must be accompanied by an adult,” he shrugs. “You’re under no obligation.”

“No, I’d love to go,” John interjects with a smile on his lips. “I’d like to see you dance. Wouldn’t you, Rosie?”

“I have!” she says proudly, putting her cup on the table and licking off her mustache.

“You have?” he leans in conspiratorially, glancing at his flatmate mischievously. “Is he any good?”

“Mmm. He’s okay.”

They grin at one another and laugh quietly. Sherlock cocks a brow and raises the fork to his mouth.

“Wait until Friday,” he grumbles almost petulantly. “We’ll see who can dance, John Watson.”

“I look forward to it,” he flashes Sherlock a brilliant smile.

***

“Good night, my angel, time to close your eyes,” John sings quietly as Rosie blinks slowly, nearly asleep already. “And save these questions for another day. I think I know what you’ve been asking me. I think you know what I’ve been trying to say.”

He hears the click of movement, bones cracking in an ankle or knee from the door. He doesn’t want to turn away from Rosie and give her any reason to employ delay tactics. Instead he continues the song. He knows Sherlock is listening. He doesn’t care. He’s done the same thing to get a sense of their routine - how many chapters, who reads to whom, whether or not songs are sung - but mostly just to see Sherlock in his element. He may be a magnificent detective, but he is an excellent father. John has never seen anything like it. Not that he knew much about fatherhood at this point, but surely Sherlock Holmes exemplifies the perfect one.

He and Rosie are so much alike and communicate on a level all their own. They do experiments together, identify countries and cities on maps, build together and keep notes on it all. There are notebooks upon notebooks of observations and test results in the bottom right drawer of Sherlock’s desk. John is sure there are more stored somewhere else too. They sometimes read things on Sherlock’s laptop together. Rosie whispers questions and Sherlock answers just as quietly. John loves to watch them read and play and cook together, even if he sometimes feels an intruder in their lives.

“I promised I would never leave you. Then you should always know wherever you may go, no matter where you are, I never will be far away,” John lets his voice fade. He snugs the covers up under her chin and gently smooths back her hair. His lips curl up and he leans to kiss Rosie’s forehead.. He tip-toes out of the room and closes the door without a sound.

John pads down the stairs and finds Sherlock in the sitting room at his desk. The fireplace and the laptop screen are all that lights the room. He smiles in the detective’s direction and heads for the kitchen.

“It’s all washed up and put away,” he says. John stops to focus his gaze upon the man.

“Thank you.”

“You bathed Watson and put her to bed,” he says while rolling his shoulders, not looking at him. The doctor lingers.

“I believe I’ll have a drink,” John tells him casually. ”Would you like one? Wine maybe?”

Sherlock meets his eyes with an intense gaze and parts his lips, but pauses before answering. John can feel the heat of his stare and has the sudden urge to rush to the desk and sit in his lap.

“Red, please.”

“Of course.”

John walks into the kitchen. He opens the cupboard and removes two wine glasses. Placing them on the counter, he goes for the wine and corkscrew. He tries to clear his mind as he twists the handle and fails. It could be so perfect, the three of them, just like in the photograph. John is certain Sherlock shares his feelings, but they aren’t a couple. Sherlock said so himself. And who is this other person? Is it possible for him to love them both? Will Sherlock ever admit how he feels about John? Or maybe the proper phrasing of that question is how he felt about John.

John shakes the thought from his mind and concentrates on opening the wine. He pours and carries the glasses into the dimly lit sitting room. He saunters over to Sherlock’s desk and places one glass next to the laptop. The man’s eyes slide up to meet John’s. The gaze is wary but intrigued. The corner of John’s mouth curls. Sherlock raises a brow. John slips by and sits in his chair, leaning back comfortably. He sips from his own glass and smiles lazily at his flatmate.

Sherlock stands, gracefully picking up the glass and walking to his own chair directly across from the doctor’s. He drinks, not moving his eyes from John’s. His lips quirk up and he looks at the glass.

“This is delightful,” he remarks.

“Don’t sound so surprised,” John snorts. “I do remember a thing or two about wine, you idiot. And what it pairs with.”

“Mm. Yes, this would have gone very well with dinner,” he pouts his gorgeous lips and licks them slowly to taste the wine more thoroughly, ignorant of the effect it has on John because if he knows, he is a monster. John can physically feel his knees turn to jelly and is extremely happy he is safe in his chair and not still standing by the desk. He takes a rather sizable swallow and turns his head to watch the fire.

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock’s voice is near silence. When John shifts his gaze, the detective wears a most sincere expression. “These memories are...difficult. I wish I could provide more comfort instead of only painful answers.”

“S’not your fault,” John slurs. “I mean that, Sherlock. Especially about Mary. I’m sorry I reacted the way I did back then.”

“You don’t need to apologize.”

“But I do,” John cuts him off. He slides to the edge of the cushion and rests his hand on Sherlock’s knee. The detective’s intense stare returned the moment John’s fingers touched the soft fabric of his trousers, but it has a different quality and emotion behind it this time. “I hate that you had to live for the last five years with that in your mind. Thinking I despised you. I’m sorry.”

“Watson kept them at bay,” Sherlock replies in a choked voice. John smiles fondly now. He doesn’t move his hand.

“She is wonderful,” he sighs. “It’s always been the two of you against the world, hasn’t it? You’re like two peas in a pod.”

“The same has been said about you and I,” the man answers and sips the wine. He seems relaxed, but his eyes dip to John’s hand on his knee for just a fraction of a second. It’s all John needs to see to know his friend is actually ill at ease and, recalling what happened last time, he takes his hand away. He leans back into his chair again and takes a short pull.

“Tell me about a case,” he says. “What’s Greg had you working on?”

Sherlock fills him in on the double murder he closed most recently and describes a few minor cases as well. By the time he has finished, both men are in danger of dozing off right there in the sitting room. The detective yawns before he can begin another story and his doctor waves him off.

“We should go to sleep. Rosie has school tomorrow.”

“Yes. Yes, you’re right.”

John rises, picking up both of their wine glasses from the elaborate area rug. He goes to the kitchen, rinses and leaves them in the sink. Instead of leaving via the other door and heading down the hall to their bedroom, John goes back to the door he entered. He leans against the frame and watches Sherlock, who has moved back to the desk and is staring at his laptop again. The light of the screen illuminates his angular face with an eerie blue glow, the fire in mere embers now.

“Aren’t you coming to bed?” John asks. Sherlock raises a tired gaze to look at his friend.

“John,” he wets his lips and rubs his hands over his face, “you know about the wedding. You remember it. I told you all that happened after. You know we were never a couple.”

I know. I love you.

“I also know that you haven’t been sleeping,” John tells him instead, “and the easiest way to make sure you do is having you next to me.”

The detective stares and finally opens his mouth to protest.

“Sherlock, you’re exhausted. Come with me please. It’s fine. It’s all fine.”

He closes his eyes for a long moment and nods when he opens them. Standing, he closes the laptop and follows John to the bedroom. They take turns in the loo and settle in next to one another, lights off and both staring at the ceiling in the darkness.

“Sherlock,” John whispers into the silence, “I know you’ve been avoiding me.”

“John…”

“Please don’t. You don’t have to. No matter what I remember, I will never turn you away again,” he pauses and has to add the other reason Sherlock needs to be around the flat. The main reason. “And Rosie needs you. She misses you.”

He hears his friend swallow and then sigh. Sherlock shifts in the bed and runs his hand through his curls. John turns his head toward the man and can just make out his features.

“Yes, I know. I miss her too. I’ll stop taking so many cases. ”

“Thank you, Sherlock.”

John can see him turn his head and look at him. He also sees Sherlock smile.

“You’re welcome, John.”

***

The morning goes smoothly, as usual. It took no time at all to incorporate John once he was finished with physical therapy and “up to snuff”, as Rosie puts it. Sherlock takes her to school on his own, having an appointment with Greg to complete the police report for a recent case. Tedious, both he and Rosie declared with smiles on their faces. John bids them goodbye and does the washing up. He can’t help but think about the dance marathon coming up. Even without all of his memories, he is quite certain he has never seen Sherlock Holmes dance. He grins at the picture it paints while drying the dishes and putting them away.

When finished, John walks into the sitting room with a cup of tea and the plan to read a book. He stops in front of his chair, about to sit when he sees Sherlock’s laptop is open and on. It still displays the website the detective was reading last night, clearly a blog. John frowns. Sherlock doesn’t seem like the blog sort. Rather more like one who would consider it a waste of time, really, and that’s what makes it absolutely essential that John read this blog.

John leaves the book on his chair and goes to the desk. The site’s title has him stumbling into the desk chair instantly, his cup clinking against the table and nearly spilling. The Personal Blog of John H. Watson.

“John Watson is no longer updating this blog,” he reads aloud. The paragraph goes on to refer visitors to Sherlock’s consulting detective website. John glances through the blog titles with interest - The Mayfly Man, The Hollow Client, A Study in Pink, The Blind Banker - nearly all past cases Sherlock has told him about. Then the words ‘About Me’ catch his attention. “ ‘I am an experienced medical doctor recently returned from Afghanistan.’ Afghanistan?”

Afghanistan or Iraq?

“Oh, shit,” John breathes. That’s what they had told him. He had been invalided out of the army while touring in Afghanistan, though he still had no memory of it or any of his time in the service.

John clicks on The Mayfly Man and begins reading. He stops almost immediately and blinks in disbelief. He goes back to the beginning and reads aloud.

“ ‘We’d just returned from a quiet, civilized evening in the pub when our latest client arrived at Baker Street.’ We?”

John continues until he reaches the end of the case. He goes back to the homepage and reads case after case. He doesn’t eat when lunchtime comes and goes. He is completely enveloped in the website. He reads the tale of Sholto and his wedding to Mary, and the Hound of the Baskerville. By the time Sherlock walks in the flat’s door, John has read all but two cases. He stares at the screen unseeing, trying to remember even one of these cases. He closes his eyes and can see blackened panes of glass labeled now with case titles. He stands before them in his mind’s eye, willing rocks to appear in his hands so he can hurl them at the glass. But his hands remain empty.

“John?” the sound of Sherlock’s voice coaxes his eyes open and he stares at the detective. Sherlock looks back hesitantly, not sure what to make of his flatmate’s tense, troubled, pained expression. Suddenly he remembers what he had been reading the night before and then again this morning. Rosie had pulled him away from the laptop before he could close it. Sherlock fixes him with wide eyes. “John.”

“It’s me,” the doctor blurts. “It was me. The cases you told me about, I was your partner.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies cautiously.

“And then I wrote a fucking blog about it.”

“You did,” the detective nods once slowly, trying to ascertain John’s reaction. He is certainly in disbelief, but is he also angry? Will he be shouting soon?

“I just, I can’t believe it. What…” John’s face appears to be all astonishment.

“You read all of the cases?”

“All, but one.”

“Do you remember any of them?”

“No,” John presses his lips together and lets out a disappointed sigh. “Nothing. Why can’t I, Sherlock? It was my life for years. You were my life. You still are. There are so many things I should know about you. I should know everything! Why can’t I remember?”

“It’s all right, John,” Sherlock steps closer, wanting to calm him and wondering how to do it. “You have only been home a few weeks and only just learned of this. Give it time.”

“Damn it, Sherlock! I remember things about Molly and Greg. Why not you? How much time can it possibly take when it’s someone so important?” he snaps, his anger and frustration reaching the boiling point. He is about to start shouting when he feels a strong hand on his shoulder. John looks up at the detective. He looks more determined than John has ever seen him, and he is close. He is so close now. John can feel the heat rising from his body like a fire. He wants to touch him, create more points of contact between them.

If Sherlock can tell what is in John’s mind, he doesn’t let on. He gives him a stern but encouraging look and squeezes the shoulder beneath his fingers.

“We have all the time in the world, John,” he rumbles in that low, sexy baritone. John’s knees are as weak as they were the night before. “And we can make new memories in the meantime. We already are with Rosie. And together.”

“I know and I’m glad for that. I am,” John’s eyes slide to the laptop again. “I just wish I knew more about you. About our past.”

“It will come, John. It will all come back to you,” Sherlock smiles warmly.

“When did you get to be so patient?” he jokes. “Am I in another dimension?”

Neither able to resist, they both descend into giggles. Sherlock breaks into a loud belly laugh when John gives a little snort with his chuckles and he is struck silent. It is the most glorious, perfect sound John has ever heard. He wants to hear it again and again, for the rest of his life.

“Come with me,” Sherlock’s voice beckons as he quiets to soft chuckles.

“What?” John blinks in confusion. “Where?”

“On a case. Come with me on twelve cases. Your knowledge of medicine is vast. You could advise me like you did then.”

John’s eyes sparkle. Sherlock looks so excited and John is thrilled. Absolutely thrilled. He wants to say yes. Oh god, yes. He would love nothing more. The chance to use his skills - he is not ready to try working at a surgery again, not yet - the potential for danger - he isn’t sure why that is so appealing - spending even more time with Sherlock - god, Sherlock. Every time John lays eyes on him, he wants to touch him. Maybe more panes of glass will break if he spends more time with Sherlock doing what they used to, retracing old steps.

“I’d love to,” he replies with a grin.

“Perfect,” Sherlock’s lips quirk up. God, John wants to kiss them. “I will inform you when I have a suitable case.”

“Great. That means a lot to me, Sherlock. Thanks.”

Sherlock lifts his hand from John’s shoulder and disappears into the kitchen. John’s skin, even with his jumper on, feels the chill of not having Sherlock touch him. He wants the warmth of his flatmate’s body next to him again. John sighs and leans back comfortably in the desk chair with a wistful expression.

“John?”

He bolts upright in the chair when Sherlock’s head pops into view from the kitchen doorway.

“You haven’t had lunch?”

“Uh, no,” John shifts his eyes away from his flatmate and back again, mildly confused. How would Sherlock have even noticed that? “No, I haven’t.”

Sherlock sashays into the room, positively preening. He stands in front of the desk, pushes the laptop closed, and allows his doctor to admire the view. At least, that’s what it seems like to John.

“Let’s go to lunch,” his voice has a delightfully excited tone. “I know a cafe reasonably close to the school. We could go slowly, take our time, and pick up Watson after we’re finished. It used to be your favorite spot for lunch.”

“As if I needed more convincing,” the doctor rises with a grin. “How fast can we get there? I’m starving.”

***

When the trio arrives in the school gymnasium that evening, music is already blaring and kids of all ages are moving about the room recklessly. Rosie tugs off her coat and all but throws it at Sherlock while she scans the mass of people for her friends. John is about to comment when an excited squeal cuts through the music and a tall red-haired girl rushes up to Rosie, who responds in a similar way. They throw their arms around one another in a tight hug.

“He’s here! He’s here!” Rosie shouts. She turns toward her fathers, hand grasping her friend’s. “This is my daddy, John Watson.”

“Hi!” the girl thrusts her other hand at John and he shakes it while the big brown eyes study his face thoroughly.

“Hello,” he answers. Just when he is beginning to wonder if Sherlock has taught all of Rosie’s friends about the power of observation the girl looks back at Rosie.

“His are really just like yours!”

“I know right!”

“Watson, are you going to introduce your friend?” Sherlock prompts, folding her coat over his arm.

“Oh! Oh, sorry, Daddy. This is my friend, Annika. She’s in Mrs. Thompson’s kindergarten class. We play at recess and after school.”

“It’s so nice to meet you, Annika,” John smiles, leaning toward the two girls to better hear as the music gets louder. “What a pretty name.”

“Thanks. It’s Swedish.”

“It’s lovely.”

Annika grins unabashedly and starts jumping in place as a tall blonde woman approaches.

“Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!” she cries, no less excited than Rosie and John is sure they will both be hanging from the basketball hoops in a minute or two. “Look, it’s Rosie’s daddy!”

“Ah, so this is the framed John Watson,” she greets him warmly. “Rachel Reynolds. I’ve heard so much about you. From Rosie.”

She adds the mention of Rosie to ward away the uncertain expression on John’s face and they both laugh as she shakes his hand. Her’s linger when John’s fingers let go and he immediately feels wary. To say Rachel is attractive would be an understatement. If she and Annika are truly of Swedish ancestry, this woman fits the bill with long blonde hair and blue eyes.

“Have you seen Jack and Eliza?” Rosie suddenly yells over the din. John slips his hand out of Rachel’s while she is distracted by the girls.

“They’re over there,” Annika points. “I came over to get you.”

“Papa?” she looks to Sherlock expectantly.

“Yes, Watson, you can go.”

“Yay!” the two girls cheer and run away.

“John,” Rachel is suddenly at his side, nudging her nose into his personal space. The music is loud, but she needn’t be so close for him to hear her. “May I call you John?”

“Of course,” he keeps his tone even in spite of his growing discomfort. She is far too close for his liking and not just because Sherlock is standing on his other side.

“I’m so glad Annika has a friend like Rosie. They have so much in common.”

“They do seem to be very good friends,” John tilts his head away to look her in the eye. Christ, the woman is as tall as Sherlock. Her hand is suddenly on his arm and he resists the urge to pull away.

“I’d love for them to spend more time together,” a sly smile spreads over her lips. “A playdate in the park perhaps? I have a blanket you and I could sit on. We could...chat. Become better acquainted.”

Rachel whispered the last few words into John’s ear under the guise of the music being too loud. Her breath is hot on his neck and he does step away from her this time. Frankly, he is surprised he doesn’t run himself right into Sherlock. That is, until he turns to see the detective is gone. John glances around almost frantically and catches sight of him a few yards away, leaning back against the wall with a petulant grimace on his face. John looks back at Rachel and gestures in his flatmate’s direction.

“Sorry,” he gives her an apologetic smile. “Excuse me.”

He is against the wall next to Sherlock in a second, breathing a sigh of relief. The detective keeps his eyes on the dancing mob, no doubt scanning for Rosie.

“My god,” John says under his breath, leaning a bit closer to Sherlock. “I can feel her eyes still on me all the way over here.”

“Yes, Miss Reynolds doesn’t worry over subtly,” Sherlock remarks, still not looking at John. “She is both a good mother and has a healthy appetite.”

“What?”

“Sex, John,” Sherlock finally turns his head slowly and meets the doctor’s confused gaze with one of steel grey. “An appetite for sex. And her methods of flirtation are very effective.”

“Oh,” John is speechless. Sherlock searches his flatmate’s shocked countenance and turns his head away, out at the dancing throng of children.

“At least she has good taste,” he shrugs. “You have her number. I suppose you’ll want to go on the playdate.”

“No,” John says simply. “I don’t have her number and I don’t want it.”

This declaration takes the detective by surprise, more than anything has in some time. Not since the first time Rosie blew out her diaper, in fact. Messy business, that. He swivels his neck quickly and stares at John, the very picture of consternation. John, on the other hand, is very irritated. Why the fuck would he want this woman, or any woman’s number? Has the bloody brilliant man not deduced his feelings or is he denying them? In spite of the anger and frustration threatening to bubble to the surface, John chooses to ignore Sherlock’s ignorance for for the moment. This is Rosie’s event and is meant to be fun. The last thing he wants to do is disrupt it with an argument.

“Neither here nor there,” he forces a smile, pushing back his ire and affecting a casual posture. “I can’t believe she’d choose me over you anyway.”

“She’s already tried.”

“Of course she has,” John snickers, casting a glance around the large room. “I bet they have all tried. You could have any single woman in this room.”

“I don’t want any of them.”

“Neither do I,” John’s voice is steady and sure.

Sherlock’s head snaps to the side. John meets his startled grey eyes with his own deep blue and determined gaze. It’s like he can see right through into that big brain within and watch the synapses firing. He knows Sherlock has correctly interpreted his meaning, but neither says a word about it.

They talk and laugh together for the next two hours with a few interruptions from Rosie and her friends, who easily entertain themselves dancing with seemingly endless energy. John feels oddly refreshed and comfortable, even with all the activity around them and all the other parents ambling up to meet him throughout the evening. It feels like one of the best times, the best conversations he and Sherlock have ever had.

With only an hour left in the marathon, Jack tilts his bag up and lets the remainder of his popcorn tumble into his mouth. He jumps to his feet and wads up the bag in his hands.

“Ready?” he asks around the mass of popcorn.

The three girls start nodding and shovel in one more handful of popcorn. Rosie has a swig from a water bottle as all three pop up to their feet. The group looks each other over and then dives back onto the dance floor. Sherlock wears a huge smile as he watches them from across the gym. Finally taking his eyes off that brilliant smile, John glances around toward the door they came in. He places a gentle hand on his flatmate’s wrist and when Sherlock’s eyes meet his, they look worried. John smiles quickly to allay his concerns and raises his own brows in question.

“The loos?” he asks and Sherlock’s shoulders relax. John hadn’t even realized they were tense. The detective nods toward the door.

“Turn right. It’s a few feet down the hall on the left.”

“Thanks. Won’t be a tick,” John winks and walks away. This time he can feel Sherlock’s eyes on him and he grins in satisfaction. And with the buzz of excitement cracking through his body. He moves just that smidgeon faster so he can return to Sherlock’s side quickly.

Once in the hall, he heads right and finds what he’s looking for with no trouble. He sees a long bank of sinks when he walks in. An opening in the center of the opposite wall leads to a short hall with stalls and urinals on one side, and shower stalls on the other. Those must be for the older kids to use after P.E. He wonders briefly, while standing before a urinal, how they keep the younger children from drenching themselves for fun. That is certainly what he would have done as a child. John chuckles to himself as he walks to the sinks and washes his hands.

John dries his hands with a paper towel as he approaches the door. Tossing it in the rubbish bin, he pulls the door open and steps into the hall, only the sight that greets him is not what he expects. A large rectangular swimming pool lies before him.

“What the hell?” John frowns. “How did I manage this?”

He is about to turn around when he notices the music. Is the pool connected to the gymnasium? There are doors at the other end of the pool that John is betting lead right into the dance. Surely they are locked on that side to keep the mob from diving in, but would likely push right open on this side. John walks briskly along the long side of the pool, but slows to a stop half way almost without realizing. Something is shaking loose in his mind. A pane of glass, one that is darker than the others, rattles quietly. Then louder and louder, more violently until John has a hand on either side of his head to ward away the pain of it.

The glass cracks and dark, evil laughter bursts through, chipping out a piece and freeing the black ooze of fear within. John watches in horror as it falls to the floor and shatters, the black pudding landing upon it and crawling toward him with a life of its own. John is petrified and can only watch as it gets closer. The rest of the glass suddenly follows in an earth-shattering explosion that pushes John a few steps back, but he stays on his feet. He closes his eyes against the impact and hunches over as if in pain. A low, sinister laugh finds his ears and he opens his eyes, staring straight ahead. He sees a pool like this one and a man. A man in a tailored suit walking toward him with a gleam in his eye and a cruel smile on his lips.

Everything rushes back and it’s so much, so fast, too much. John falls to his knees, his hands still clutching the sides of his head. And the man gets closer, his smile getting wider until he is right in front of John. He squats before him, his lips shaping words. His voice is a menacing hiss in John’s ear.

James Moriarty

“No, no,” John says mournfully, pain filling his voice. He squeezes his eyes shut tight and presses his palms hard against his ears. He can’t shut it out. He can’t stop it from coming.

“Hello, John Watson. So nice to finally meet you,” his voice is conversational, but his eyes are black and evil. “You’ve made our great detective even sharper. I should be angry, but it’s made the game much more fun.”

“Fuck off,” John had growled. The semtex vest was already strapped to his body. His hands were tied behind his back.

“I don’t know what he sees in you, honestly. You’re so ordinary,” Moriarty had smirked, looking at his watch. “He’ll be here soon, John. Time to put on the parka and play this round.”

“No!” John cries out and it echoes around the humid room. The smell of chlorine fills his nose and mingles with the scent of Moriarty’s aftershave. It’s all so clear. Every scent, every feeling, every heartbeat, every...tiny...red….dot. Floating, floating, hovering over Sherlock’s face and his heart. Oh god! It all plays out in his mind and it won’t stop. It won’t stop! John clutches at his stomach as if in pain. He feels sick. It’s so real and it’s too much, too much.

John gasps desperately. Think! He has to think, to concentrate on something else, some way out of this. Sherlock. Sherlock! Opening his eyes, John scrabbles for his mobile and draws it from his pocket. John stares for a long moment as if he can’t move. Moriarty’s voice rings loud in his mind, laughing, cursing, mocking, making promises about the torture awaits Sherlock and how he’ll make John watch. John finally slides his thumb over the mobile slowly, pushes emergency and holds it to his ear. He closes his eyes again, but it doesn’t stop. He doesn’t want to see it. Or hear it. But it won’t stop

“I can stop John Watson’s heart.”

He had wanted to tell Sherlock to go, to save himself, but could say nothing. Only what Moriarty told him. Sherlock’s eyes, his face, his voice. Moriarty’s voice. They had talked and taunted. John had tried to end it when he grabbed Moriarty and held him, but the sights were on Sherlock then. One tiny red dot on his forehead and another on his throat and another on his heart.

“John?”

He doesn’t even hear Sherlock’s voice on the mobile he now holds loosely in his hand, completely lost in the memory.

“No!” John shouts. “No, no!”

“John, where are you?”

“Moriarty! He’s here. I can’t stop it.”

“John, tell me where you are!”

“Pool. There’s a pool.”

The mobile slips from John’s fingers and clatters to the ground. He clutches at his stomach again, clamoring and clawing, wanting nothing more than to make the memory stop. He falls over on his side, folding his legs in. Tears drip from his eyes and run down his face as full-blown panic sets in. Moriarty’s voice is harsh and demanding in John’s ears, reminding him of everything he said and all he did, every gut-wrenching moment. Sherlock...no, Sherlock.

John vaguely hears a door crashing open somewhere behind. Someone runs toward his body as he lies trembling at the pool’s edge. The footsteps skid to a stop and he drops to his knees next to John. It is Sherlock. His Sherlock.

“Sherlock, no,” John mumbles into the damp air. He feels small and weak. “Sherlock, run.”

“It’s all right, John, I’m here. I have you,” his hands touch John gently, help him sit up. His deep, glorious voice fills John’s ears, driving away Moriarty and his memory. John opens his eyes and looks at his flatmate desperately. He reaches for the taller man and pulls him close, unable to speak. His heart is racing, his rapids breaths incredibly shallow.

“Just breathe. Go slowly,” Sherlock’s voice is soothing and his touch warm, comforting, the best thing John has ever felt. After a few minutes, John begins to regain control. “That’s it. Good, John, good.”

“I remember,” John gasps, “a pool.”

“Yes,” Sherlock nods, “I know. It’s all right.”

He gives John more time, as much as he needs. All the while Sherlock smooths his fingers over John’s hair and brushes fingertips on his tear-stained cheeks.

“John?” his voice is quiet and gentle, “can you stand? I called for a car. It will meet us at the door to the school.”

“What? We can’t leave Rosie!”

“Mycroft will take our place at the dance. She will stay the night with him,” Sherlock assures him. “She will be fine in his care.”

“Right. Uncle Mycroft,” John says, his breathing is almost normal now. “Okay, okay. I’m...I’m good.”

As John begins to rise slowly, Sherlock tucks his arm under John’s and wraps it around his back. He helps him to his feet and they walk carefully, deliberately until they reach the school’s outer door, the same one they entered only two hours earlier. One of Mycroft’s sleek black cars is already parked in the loading zone. The back door opens as they approach and Anthea climbs out.

“Good evening, Mr Holmes. Doctor,” she greets. “Your brother will be here shortly. I will be with Rosie for the interim. Do you need anything at the flat?”

“No,” Sherlock tells her as he helps John into the car. He turns to face her. “We’ll be fine. He needs to rest now.”

“Of course. Please don’t hesitate to call,” she nods.

“I will. Thank you,” Sherlock answers and climbs in. John isn’t sure why, but he has the odd feeling that things between Sherlock and Anthea have changed dramatically over the last five years. Something suddenly cracks and he knows they were never so friendly before. Is it Anthea? Is she the person in Sherlock’s life? John rests his forehead against the cool glass the window and watches London pass by without seeing a thing. A voice in his head says ‘Of course it’s Anthea. No doubt Mycroft asked her to help as often as anything else.’ while another tamps it down and John finds himself too exhausted to think.

@echosilverwolf @technicallywiseoncns @vvaticancameoss @cow-mow@philliphooper@whodwantmeasaflatmate@swissmissing@gloriascott93@kingdomofbrokenhearts@srebrnafh@thetranslucentwallaby@britishaccentfan@plasticstrawsmuggler@spazzz32@absentmindedsstuff@shuukichan @annecumberbatch@maeliandmyself@welcometomyharddrive

#Sherlock Holmes #Sherlock #sherlockholmes #sherlock fanfic #john watson #johnwatson #johnlock #Johnlock fanfic #hurt john #season 4 #S4 fix

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willsherjohnkhan · 5 years

Text

An Abominable Scandal

Chapter One: The Dismissal

***

221B BAKER STREET

The door to Holmes' flat flew open to reveal a clearly irritated, and very annoyed Doctor Margaret Hooper. As soon as she crossed the threshold she stormed over to Doctor Watson, who was in the process of evacuating his chair.

"How could you?!" Molly demanded of her erstwhile colleague, as she brandished the latest edition of 'The Strand Magazine' that contained Watson's account of the case he had titled 'The Abominable Bride'. "Thanks to you I've been dismissed from St Bartholomew's."

***

To the Rescue

221B BAKER STREET

There was very little that penetrated Holmes’ sub-conscious while he was deep within his Mind Palace. He was of course well aware of everything going on around him, but he had trained his brain to tune out anything he regarded as irrelevant.

And so, although he was aware of Hooper’s dramatic entrance, he ignored it as he did everything else.

That was until...

“Thanks to you I’ve been dismissed from St Bartholomew’s.”

Holmes’ eyes snapped open. He got to his feet and headed out the door, only to return a moment later when he realised Hooper and Watson hadn’t followed him.

“Come on,” he snapped impatiently. “We haven’t a moment to lose.”

This time when he raced down the stairs, Watson and Hooper were in hot pursuit.

***

ST BARTHOLOMEW’S - MORTUARY

When they entered the mortuary it soon became clear that their presence wasn’t welcome, from the newly promoted Head Pathologist Phillip Anderson at least.

But as he was not the one the detective was here to see, Holmes did what he always did when it came to Anderson, and ignored him. Instead he made his way over to the other gentleman in the room, Stamford, the hospital’s administrator.

“This is intolerable,” he exclaimed. “I refuse to work with that witless, snivelling buffoon,” he stated emphatically as he pointed at an outraged Anderson.

Stamford was entirely sympathetic to Molly’s situation, for it was he who had employed her, in the full knowledge of her gender, and had been complicit in her masquerade as a man. He was a kindly soul, and was well used to the world’s only Consulting Detectives overbearing ways. Totally ignoring Holmes, Stamford turned to Molly. “I am so sorry my dear, but once the Hospital’s Board of Governors became aware of your status, thanks to Watson’s write up of the Ricoletti case, I was given no option but to dismiss you.”

While Molly was more than willing to accept Stamford’s apology, given all that he had risked in allowing her to work as a pathologist in the first place. Holmes was not, and so he continued to rail against the situation.

“I prefer my pathologist to be competent and intelligent. And that is Hooper. I will not work with anyone else.”

“Well that’s fine with me,” Anderson stated smugly. “Because there is no way she will ever be allowed to work here again.”

“Oh you think not?” Holmes replied, an inexplicable solution to the problem at hand taking form in his mind. Without giving himself time to consider all the implications he put voice to his solution. “Hooper may not be able to work as a pathologist as a single woman, but that rule does not apply to a married one. Therefore to ensure that St Bartholomew’s continues to maintain the services of the best and brightest forensic specialist I will apply to my brother to procure a special licence, and use his influence to reinstate Hooper, in her female state.

“And to whom am I to be married?” Molly asked cautiously.

“Me, obviously,” Holmes stated, clearly pleased with himself.

Everybody else however, was understandably stunned by Holmes’ solution, their expressions ranged from shock, confusion, disbelief or horror, depending on how they viewed Holmes’ statement.

Holmes, completely oblivious, swept out of the mortuary, calling over his shoulder. “Come Hooper, come Watson. There is much to organise.”

With little other option, Molly and John followed him.

***

A Marriage of Inconvenience

24 hours later.

And cold hard logic has reasserted itself...

HANSOME CAB #1 – OUTSKIRTS OF LONDON

“Be fair Holmes,” Watson cried his expression a mix of hurt and regret. “I take great pride to ensure that my narrative of our cases is a faithful and accurate one.”

“Yes,” Holmes responded testily. “And it is entirely due to your determination to be so faithful that I now find myself in this damnable position.”

Before Watson could defend himself, the cab came to a halt, and both men exited.

***

HANSOME CAB #2

Meanwhile, a few minutes behind her groom, the bride was also having second thoughts.

As much as Molly appreciated Holmes’ gallant offer, she was becoming increasingly worried. For truth be told his hand had been forced, having been more or less goaded into it by Anderson’s assertions that she would never again be allowed to step foot into her beloved mortuary.

With these thoughts whirling around her head, she began restlessly fussing with the small bunch of flowers that were clutched tightly in her hands.

Her companion was Watson’s wife Mary, another woman who refused to allow her gender to define who she was, and what she was capable of when she applied her mind to it.

Mary smiled reassuringly as she placed her hand over Molly’s, effectively preventing her from bolting when the cab came to a halt.

“Everything will work out in the end,” she promised.

***

COURT HOUSE – JUDGES CHAMBERS

The ceremony was brief, but included all that was required to make it legal.

It was witnessed.

Vows were made.

The groom slipped a simple gold band onto his bride’s ring finger, before leaning down to place a chaste kiss upon her lips.

Or at least that had been Holmes’ intention.

But the moment his lips touched Molly’s he was taken off guard by a tingling sensation that began at the point where their lips met, before travelling like wildfire through his body. Its effect most notable as blood rushed to a strategic point between his legs, causing that part of his anatomy to swell, making it rigid and uncomfortably erect within the unfashionably tight trousers that he wore.

His mind that valued cold, hard reason beyond all else shut down, to be replaced by one eager to explore the possibilities of these exquisite sensations that were currently raging through him.

It was only when Molly’s encouraging moan penetrated his subconscious, it was enough to break the spell he was under, snapping him out of his stupor.

The change was instantaneous. Once again in control of his senses Holmes deftly removed Molly’s hands that had become entangled in his hair. With as much dignity as he could muster, he disengaged himself entirely from their embrace, stepping back to ensure a safe distance, in an attempt to avoid the temptation she had so unexpectedly aroused within him.

Holmes ignored the embarrassed expressions of those gathered, the heightened colour in his wife’s cheeks, not to mention his own heavy breathing, Instead he quickly moved to thank the Judge for agreeing to officiate at such short notice. He then took Molly by the arm, and led her briskly from the room.

***

OUTSIDE THE COURTHOUSE

If Holmes believed that his hasty marriage would be of little interest to the press, he was to be sorely disappointed.

No sooner had he and Molly exited the Courthouse then they found themselves surrounded by reporter’s, who were all attempting to outdo one another in asking inappropriate questions.

“Will Hooper be wearing the pants at home too?”

“Have a thing for women dressed in men’s clothing, eh Holmes?”

“Are we to expect a new addition soon?”

Holmes was certain that the red spots on Molly’s cheeks had more to do with indignation than embarrassment. Nonetheless he did all he could to shield her with his body as they fought their way to the waiting cab.

HANSOME CAB

When the couple were finally safe inside, the cabbie took off.

But as they pulled away Holmes spotted, skulking in the shadows, the two individuals responsible for tipping off the press. Phillip Anderson and Janine Hawkins...

***

Masquerading, Fakery and Untruths

221B BAKER STREET

As soon as the cab pulled up outside 221B, Holmes leapt out, paid the cabbie, and assisted Molly out before hastily getting them both through the front door.

He then ushered Molly upstairs, in order to avoid his landlady, Mrs Hudson and her need to engage in nonsensical chatter.

***

SHERLOCK’S FLAT

Once through the door to the sanctuary of his flat, Holmes shut it firmly, leaning his back against it, he let out a sigh of relief.

But that sense of relief was to be short lived as the other person in the room made her presence felt.

“Why was Miss Hawkins at the Courthouse, Sherlock?” the sound of his Christian name on her lips caused Molly’s heart to skip a beat.

But she immediately reprimanded herself. She could not allow such a thing, no matter how thrilling to distract her from finding out the circumstances of the woman’s unexpected appearance.

It was clear she was in league with Anderson, and that they had been responsible for the notifying the press to what was supposed to be a private ceremony. She knew Anderson held a grudge against her. But why was Janine there?

And then she remembered what had happened at the de-sanctified church...

DE-SANCIFIED CHURCH

Janine removed her hood, and stepped forward with purpose. “Emelia thought she’d found happiness with Ricoletti, but he was a brute too. Emelia was our friend. You have no idea how that bastard treated her.”

SHERLOCK’S FLAT

Molly remembered Holmes’ expression when Janine revealed herself. His eyes had widened in shock. And as she spoke, he looked decidedly uncomfortable.

Janine’s words, she realised held another meaning, one that was directed at Holmes, and his discomfort confirmed that he understood exactly to what she referred.

So clearly they had history. And that made her more determined than ever to get to the bottom of it.

She walked directly up to Holmes, and demanded “Why does she bear you ill will?”

Holmes had hoped that Molly wouldn’t spot, yet alone recognise Janine Hawkins. But he should have known better. For ‘Hooper’ never missed anything of importance. In resignation, he indicated the chairs by the fireplace. “I think it best as this explanation may prove a long one it be given sitting down.”

Once seated, Holmes began...

“I doubt you’ll recall the case of ‘The Master Blackmailer’ as Watson termed it, it took place a couple of years before you began working at St Bartholomew’s.”

He paused, to give himself a moment to compose his thoughts, and then continued.

“Charles Augustus Magnussen was a loathsome creature, a cruel and cunning individual who preyed upon the vulnerable. He paid easily motivated maids and valets generously to illicitly obtain letters and private papers that contained the intimate secrets of their masters and mistresses. He then waited for the most opportune time in which to strike. Contacting his victims, and advising them of what he has obtained, and the price, always well in excess of what the victim could afford, to be paid for the return of the documents. One such victim came to me in the hopes that I might be able to obtain better terms. Magnussen was threatening to give her letters to her fiancé’ a few days before they were due to be married. Should her groom read the letters, the end result would see the wedding cancelled.”

“But what does this have to do with Janine?” Molly asked. She knew Janine was not a woman of means, so she was unlikely to be the victim of such a man as Magnussen.

“Janine was Magnussen’s housemaid,” Holmes explained. “After Magnussen rebuffed my proposed offer that I put forward on behalf of my client, I set upon a plan to steal the letters from under his very nose. To do that I needed to learn the plan of his house, Appledore Towers, and Magnussen’s daily routine.”

Molly nodded her understanding, before silently urging him to continue.

“I disguised myself as a plumber, Escort by name. It was then that I cultivated a relationship with Janine, who was always more than willing to tell more than she ought about the goings on of her master. Unfortunately to obtain some of the more pertinent details I was left with no option but to become engaged to her.”

Holmes paused at Molly’s surprised gasp.

“Watson was naturally scandalised by my behaviour, but it was absolutely necessary that I discover the whereabouts of the letters. And once I knew all I needed to know, I allowed Miss Hawkins to discover my true identity, when I visited Magnussen again, this time at his home, as my true self.”

“Hell hath no fury...” Molly murmured.

“Quite so,” Holmes agreed. “Although I think you’ll find Miss Hawkins scorn had more to do with what happened to her after Magnussen’s death.”

“His death?” the concern in Molly’s voice was clear.

Holmes was quick to reassure her. “As much as I would have happily ended that vile little man’s life, that pleasure was left to another.”

“Go on,” Molly encouraged.

“It was my intention that Watson and I perform a little burglary. But our plans went awry when Magnussen instead of being sound asleep, entered his office just as I had successfully opened his safe. We were forced to conceal ourselves behind some curtains. It soon became clear he was waiting for someone. Shortly after his visitor arrived, a woman entered from the outside door. Magnussen believed her to be a ladies maid with incriminating letters, but it was not so. It turned out she was one of his previous victims, and she had come for her revenge. She shot him a number of times, before grinding the heel of her shoe into his monocled eye.”

“Were you able to retrieve your client’s letters?”

“Magnussen’s cries had alerted his household, that didn’t leave us much time. So I grabbed every document and letter that was contained within the safe, and threw them in the fire, destroying them completely. Then Watson and I had to make a run for it.”

“And what of Janine?” Molly queried.

“There are hundreds in this great city that would turn white at the mention of Magnussen’s name. Miss Hawkins was known to be in his employ, so I’m afraid she was tainted by association. That meant finding a new situation difficult, and I have no doubt she fell on hard times, for which she may well have held me responsible.”

By now it was quite late. Mrs Hudson brought the up a cold supper that they both ate in silence.

After they had finished Holmes got to his feet. “I’ve asked Mrs Hudson to prepare Watson’s old room for your use. I’m certain you’ll find it more than adequate.”

Holmes was making his way to his bedroom when he was pulled up short by Molly’s response.

“Certainly not,” she stated adamantly.

“I beg your pardon,” Holmes responded, clearly flummoxed by her vehement outburst.

“I said certainly not,” Molly reiterated sternly. “This may be a marriage of convenience, but it will definitely not be a fake one. We will sleep together in the same room, and the same bed.”

Holmes was left completely stunned, his brain quite unable to come up with a reasonable argument.

Taking his silence as agreement, Molly made her way determinably down the hallway and entered the bedroom at the end, leaving Holmes to follow meekly behind.

***

Chapter 5: Start As We Mean To Go On

***

221B BAKER STREET – BEDROOM

It was a rare occasion indeed that would find Holmes asleep in his bed for the whole night. With a mind as constantly active as his, he was usually too restless to settle enough to allow his mind to calm down for long. A couple of hours on the sofa were usually sufficient to reinvigorate his deductive processing abilities.

So it was with some disorientation that he woke up to find himself in his bed. He closed his eyes to better focus on the most recent memories to assist him in reconstructing the events that had led him there.

The answer chose that moment to snuggle up even closer to him, causing Holmes’ eyes to fly open in realisation.

Hooper... Molly... His wife was currently fast asleep on her side, facing him, her expression one of serenity and peace. It was a feeling Holmes definitely did not share. Now fully awake, he was painfully aware that his body was once again betraying him, his cock was once again erect and, more disturbingly he became aware of how dangerously close Molly’s hand was to it.

Moving cautiously so as not to wake her, Holmes edged his way back to his side of the bed, before getting out and exiting the bedroom. His destination the bathroom, where he intended to rid himself of his extremely inconvenient bodily condition.

“Molllyyyy...”

The strangled cry was muted by the closed bathroom door. But it was enough to rouse Molly from her fitful sleep.

Far from being embarrassed by the unmistakable sound of Sherlock bringing himself to orgasm, Molly instead felt a spark of hope that Sherlock’s need to find sexual release was a sign that he did have feelings for her, a fact that was further emphasized by her name being wrenched from his cupids bow lips.

Unfortunately it was equally clear that he had stubbornly deemed it necessary to deal with his erectile problem himself, instead of the obvious solution, that of requesting his wife’s participation.

‘But that was Sherlock Holmes for you’, she acknowledged. ‘Completely blind to the obvious, especially when it came to her.’

She should tread carefully was the counsel of her head, her heart however had other ideas. Getting out of bed, Molly grabbed Sherlock’s blue bathrobe, and put it on before making her way to the kitchen.

221B - BATHROOM

Holmes stood before the mirror viewing himself now that he had washed his hands, and had tamed with the aid of cream his unruly curls.

Except for a slightly flushed complexion, his reflection showed a man back in control of his faculties.

‘The brain without a heart, the calculating machine.’

That was how Watson described him in the write up of the Ricoletti case. It had been one of the Doctor’s finest descriptive achievements. Not that Holmes would ever admit it out loud.

Satisfied that everything was back to normal, he left the bathroom to return to the bedroom to dress.

221B – KITCHEN / SITTING ROOM

When Holmes walked into the kitchen, he found Molly had made breakfast for them both.

However before he could say a word he caught sight of Molly in his bathrobe, and his brain once again shut down, while his traitorous genitalia went into overdrive.

Molly smiled before indicating with a nod of her head that he should sit at the table, in the place she had set for him.

The scene of domesticity was enough to snap Holmes brain back into gear, ignoring Molly’s silent request he grabbed two pieces of toast before making his way to his chair in the sitting room.

Setting the toast aside, he sat back in his chair, his elbows resting on the armrests, his palms pressed together, resting under his chin. He took solace in his Mind Palace, where he came up with the perfect plan of action with regards to his all too distracting wife.

Decision made, he emerged to find Molly sitting in John’s chair, waiting patiently.

Molly braced herself. If the look on Sherlock’s face was any indication, whatever he was about to say she was certain was not going to be to her liking.

In the same cool, detached tone that Hooper was all too used to hearing, Holmes stated. “As you are aware I hold reason and logic in high esteem, and I never allow sentiment to cloud or interfere in my decision making processes. The same is true of my decision to enter into this marriage state,” he paused a moment to allow his words to sink in, before he continued. “My primary concern in marrying you was to ensure that you were reinstated to your position at St Bartholomew’s, so that we could return to our usual routine as quickly as possible. This is purely a business arrangement. If you insist upon our continuing to share a bed, then it is done on the understanding that there will be no expectations of romantic entanglements.”

When Molly made no immediate response, Holmes took this as agreement.

“Well I’m pleased we have that all sorted,” he exclaimed as he got to his feet. “I’ll be out for the rest of the day. Lestrade left a message that he has a case that has him quite baffled.”

And with that he left the flat.

Molly remained where she sat for several minutes. All her hopes that Sherlock might actually feel some affection for her, was now utterly destroyed by his pronouncement.

His words hurt her, and she doubted that he would ever fully comprehend just how much. But she would be damned if she was going to let him see.

***

Over the next few days, when it became clear that he had indeed returned to his cool and callous ways, both at work and at home, Molly became more and more withdrawn emotionally, and physically.

Holmes either didn’t notice, or was quite unaware, until one night he returned to the flat, to discover that his wife had removed herself, and all her possessions, and moved into Watson’s old room.

It was with some surprise that he felt a little upset with this particular development. But then his cold, hard reason reasserted itself, and he reasoned that it was probably for the best.

And he went to bed, alone.

***

One week later...

221B BAKER STREET

Holmes was reviewing some old, unsolved cases. It was something he rarely did, but he was desperate for the diversion. It was better than allowing his thoughts to drift to his...Molly. She barely spoke to him now, only at Bart’s, and only to give her findings on any particular autopsy he was interested in.

His ears picked up the familiar tread of Inspector Lestrade as he made his way with surprising haste up the stairs.

“What is it Lestrade?” Holmes snapped impatiently. “Another little girl’s rabbit mysteriously vanish from its cage?”

The reminder of the contents of the note he’d used as a means of escaping the uncomfortable situation he’d created between himself and Molly, pulled the Consulting Detective up short.

In an attempt to cover up his sense of shame over this little deceit, he moderated his tone as he again addressed the Scotland Yard Detective. “How can I help you Lestrade?”

Lestrade took a moment or two to regain his breath.

“There’s been an explosion at St Bartholomew’s Mortuary...”

Lestrade got no further before Holmes dropped what he was doing, rushed down the stairs, grabbed his coat, but forgot his hat, then rushed out the front door and hailed a cab.

***

ST BARTHOLOMEW’S - ENTRANCE

No sooner had the cab stopped than Sherlock was out, and rushing towards the mortuary.

He was temporarily delayed as he fought his way through the barriers the police had put in place to give the Fire Department easy access, while keeping the hospital staff, and members of the public at a safe distance.

But Sherlock didn’t give a damn about his own life all he cared about was finding Molly...

ST BATHOLOMEW’S – MORTUARY

“Molly! MOLLY!” Sherlock’s voice grew more and more desperate as he rushed towards the Mortuary that even from a distance was clear had suffered substantial damage.

“Sherlock,”

Sherlock’s frantic movements slowed as he heard his wife’s voice. He turned to find her sitting on the floor a few feet away from the mortuary. He rushed over to her, and crouched down so that he could assess whether her injuries, should she have any, were serious or not. To his relief he found her to be completely unharmed.

It was only when he felt Molly’s hands brushing away the tears from his face that he realised he was crying.

“I’m all right,” Molly assured him. “I told Lestrade to let you know there was no need to be concerned. Clearly he didn’t.”

Sherlock felt his cheeks flush.

“Well he might have if I’d given him the chance to explain fully. All I heard was that there had been an explosion at the morgue, and I couldn’t bear the thought that I might have lost you.”

His impassioned words made Molly’s heart sing. Taking his face in her hands she met his incredible aqua coloured eyes head on as she made a solemn vow. “You will never lose me Sherlock, even if you wanted to.”

He pulled her into his arms. “I am such an idiot,” he confessed.

“I know,” she responded, before snuggling into the reassuring warmth of her husband.

Sherlock heard the smile in her voice, and he thanked God, even though he still regarded it as nothing more than a ludicrous fantasy designed purely to provide employment for the village idiot, that this incredible woman was not only in his life, but more importantly his wife.

‘But a wife in name only,’ his conscience chided him.

Breathing in her familiar scent, he felt his heart, and his body respond. This time however he was determined to no longer ignore what he felt for her.

And he intended to leave her in no doubt of his feelings. But he refused to do so here. What he needed to say, and do, required privacy.

***

221B BAKER STREET

A trail of hastily removed clothes littered the floor from the sitting room, down the hall and into the bedroom. An honest proclamation of the need to feel naked skin against naked skin, and to become as close as was humanly possible.

Sherlock and Molly’s ecstatic cries as they finally became intimately acquainted with one another had their landlady, Mrs Hudson rushing to get a sleeping draft to ensure she spent the rest of the night in absolute oblivion...

***

Chapter 6: Wedded Bliss

***

221B BAKER STREET - BEDROOM

The morning found the couple blissfully satiated. Even in repose their limbs remained entwined.

Sherlock lay on his side, Molly’s back against his chest, her bottom pressed into his groin. One of her hands rested on his hipbone, while the other was enclosed by his as he clasped her securely to him, his arm wrapped around her waist. His other hand cupped her left breast.

They awoke languidly. Awareness of each other’s presence confirmation that what happened the previous day was not a dream, or a drug-fuelled hallucination. But fact, an absolute reality, and one that could be explored, and enjoyed over, and over again.

Sherlock was forced to relinquish his hold when it became clear that his wife wished to turn over.

However once they were face-to-face Sherlock felt an immediate renewal of those passionate feelings they had spent the entire night engaging in to their fullest satisfaction.

When Molly reached up to slide her fingers through his unruly curls, grasping them firmly as she pulled his head down so that their lips met, it was clear she felt the same.

But their passionate exchange was interrupted by another form of hunger, one where the nourishment needed to sate it came in the form of food.

221B – SITTING ROOM

Sherlock sat in his chair, a bed-sheet wrapped haphazardly around him, with Molly on his lap, dressed in his blue dressing gown.

They had finally finished eating breakfast. A task that took considerably longer than normal as the couple insisted upon feeding each other, in-between pressing increasingly heated kisses to any area of naked skin within reach.

But when Molly reached up to suck energetically at the mole on Sherlock’s neck, she was made aware of something in one of the pockets of the dressing gown.

Curious, she reached inside and pulled out Sherlock’s pocket-watch. Before he could stop her, Molly had flipped the case open. On one side was the watch, while inserted into the other side was the photograph of a woman, a very beautiful woman.

As Molly gazed at the woman’s striking appearance, she recalled a conversation she had overheard in the mortuary several months before between Sherlock and Doctor Watson. They had been discussing an older case that had revolved around a lady that both men only ever referred to as ‘The Woman’.

Based on the little information being offered up at the time, Molly had formed the opinion that this woman was a high class harlot, come blackmailer. But who was nonetheless someone Sherlock held in high esteem. Something that was extraordinarily rare and practically unheard of when it came to the fairer sex.

Now confronted with a photograph of someone who could only be that woman, Molly felt an overwhelming need to understand.

“Who is she, Sherlock?”

“Her name is Irene Adler,” Sherlock replied honestly, taking the watch from Molly as he continued his explanation. “I have kept her photo because at the time I believed I would never come across another woman who could stimulate me, intellectually,” Sherlock confessed as he removed the photograph and threw it in the fire without a second glance, before placing the watch on the little table by his chair.

He then turned back to Molly. “Since then however I have had the good fortune to meet two others. One, Watson was clever enough to marry, while I have been blessed to marry the other.”

Once he had finished his explanation Sherlock found himself feeling quite nervous. How would Molly respond?

He didn’t have long to wait.

After a minute or two spent in contemplation Molly turned to her husband, a frown marring her brow. “You find me merely intellectually stimulating?” she queried, her tone cool.

But Sherlock caught the teasing glint in her expressive brown eyes, and the tension inside him immediately evaporated.

He had no doubt that his Molly would require a full explanation, but that was for later, much, much later if he had his way. And judging from his wife’s expression he was about to get his wish.

When she ran her hands through his errant curls, her fingers again gripping them firmly as she impatiently pulled his head down to capture his lips with her own. Sherlock let out a groan, as he came to the conclusion that having ones hair follicles grasped in such a fashion by his wife was one the most erotically, stimulating sensation he’d ever encountered, and one that required further and immediate investigation...

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes!”

Caught completely off guard the usually unflappable World’s Only Consulting Detective reacted as one caught by his mother doing something he shouldn’t. In this case the literal truth. Bolting to his feet, while ensuring Molly was not left exposed, as he quickly manoeuvring her so that she was behind him. The same could not be said for himself, as his sheet started to descend at a rapid rate, and it was due entirely to Molly’s quick actions as she grabbed hold of the sheet before it could cause a very public spectacle.

“What the devil are you doing here?” Sherlock spluttered as he gazed wide-eyed at the elderly couple standing in the doorway.

“Don’t use that tone with me young man,” the formidable lady shot back. “Just when were you intending to inform us of your marriage? We had a right to know.”

She was absolutely right of course, Sherlock acknowledged as he gazed into the eyes that were the exact replica of his own. He read the hurt his decision to not inform them immediately had caused.

“My apologies Mother, Father,” he responded, his tone genuinely conciliatory. Standing back to reveal the petite woman who had stolen his heart, “I’d like to introduce you to my wife, Doctor Molly Holmes. As to the circumstances of our marriage...”

“Sherlock was only trying to protect my reputation,” Molly began.

“Your reputation was never in question,” Sherlock protested. “This is all down to Watson’s need to be so damned accurate in his write up of our cases.”

“Perhaps my dear,” Mr Holmes suggested. “It would be better we continue this intriguing tale over dinner tonight. By then I’m certain Sherlock and Molly will be more properly attired.”

“Of course,” Mrs Holmes responded. “A splendid idea, we’ll see you both at Mycroft’s at 8.00pm.”

And with that they turned to leave.

But before Sherlock could shut the door, his mother had other ideas. She turned back to him, a determined expression on her face. “I want grandchildren Sherlock We’re not getting any younger you know.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes in exasperation. “As it so happens,” he informed her. “We were working on it, but were interrupted.”

Satisfied his mother finally headed down the stairs.

With a sigh of relief Sherlock closed the door, before making his way over to Molly.

“Now where were we?” he asked, as he let his sheet fall to the floor.

***

Chapter 7: Nine Months Later...

***

221B BAKER STREET - BEDROOM

“That’s it Molly, one more push. You can do it,” Mary Watson’s reassuring words reached Molly through the exhausting haze of childbirth.

“Ohhhhh.... Awwww... Ahhhhh...”

Sherlock’s right hand was completely numb thanks to the tight grip Molly had on it, but that didn’t stop him moving swiftly to support his wife’s back with his left arm as the final contraction caused her to go from a horizontal position to a semi vertical one.

Not long after their child was announcing its presence to everyone in the room.

“It’s a girl,” Mary informed the new parents, as she wrapped her up in a blanket before handing her back to her mother. “Have you decided on a name for her?”

Molly nodded. “Victoria Margaret,” she responded softly.

Mary made her way to the door, turning back she smiled as she observed the once cold hearted detective, still in his nightshirt, climb onto the bed and take his wife in his arms, cradling her protectively as she cradled their daughter.

Neither could take their eyes off the tiny scrap of humanity they had created together.

Sherlock was vaguely aware of Mary leaving the room. He needed to thank her for coming so quickly when Molly went into labour early. But for now he was content to stay right where he was, cataloguing and committing to memory every single detail about his baby daughter, while knowing Mary would forgive his tardiness.

He was brought out of his revere when Molly made an unexpected suggestion. “If our next child is a boy, I think we should name him John.”

Sherlock paled at the mere suggestion. Not because he didn’t want more children, but because after witnessing Molly going through all she had in delivering Victoria, he didn’t want to put her through it all over again.

But it was clear that Molly appeared to have immediately forgotten all the pain and effort she’d gone through bringing their daughter into the world.

As he watched his wife’s contented expression as Victoria began to suckle eagerly at Molly’s breast, he didn’t have the heart to argue with her. The same could not be said for her choice of name for their future son. “Why does it have to be John?”

“Well if he hadn’t been so accurate in his write up of The Ricoletti Case, we may never have found ourselves where we are now,” his wife pointed out.

Sherlock acknowledged that she had a point, not that he’d ever admit as much to Watson. But that was a discussion for another day.

Because all that mattered right now, as they settled more comfortably in their bed and closed their eyes, was that they had found each other and their lives had become infinitely better for it.

***

#Sherlolly #Post TAB #The fallout from the write up of the Emelia Ricoletti case #Fun and games #Mizjoely's chapter scramble challenge

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