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giggly-squiggily · 4 months

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Hiyaaa, Squig! You've reached Fabian! How are you doing. This candy heart event thing you do is so cool! I've never done it before, so I thought I'd try! Could I please request 🩷 Be My Valentine: "I know all your weaknesses!"** with MtP Sherliam, if that's okay? Your choice between who's doing the wrecking!

Have a lovely day! ^^

{Candy Heart Prompts: OFFICIALLY CLOSED!}

Heyo Fabian! My dear friend- I hope you're doing alright :) Thank you for the kind words and for the Moriarty prompt- I appreciate it immensely! I decided to go with Lee!William cause like- I had too ajkrkjeajkreajr I hope you like it :D

I don't know where this takes place manga wise so potential anime spoilers below!

“I suggest you think this through more, Mr. Holmes.” William felt his back hit the walls of his study, eyes never leaving Sherlock’s gleaming ones as the detective grew closer. “I know all your weaknesses, and I’m not afraid to share them all if you choose to pursue me.”

“Ah, a sound threat if I believed you.” Sherlock barely held back a laugh as he drew closer, watching the mask William put on slowly crack with nerves. “Alas, I know all your weaknesses as well.”

There was a brief standoff, neither man moving as they sized the other up. Then-

“Sher-” William made the smallest of movements, triggering Sherlock to lunge. “Mmph!”

“Come now, don’t act like you're immune, Liam.” Sherlock growled in his ear playfully, fingers worming into the spaces between each rib, sending ticklish pulses up the blonde’s nervous system. “I know all the spots to go when I want a reaction out of you.”

“E-ever the scoundrel, H-Hoholmes!” It was small, but one giggle was all it took before the dam broke. Clinging to the detective so his legs wouldn’t give out, the blonde pressed his face into Sherlock’s shoulder as he laughed. “Hohoohohld ohoohon nohohoohw!”

“Hmm, no- I think I won’t.” Sherlock snickered, jumping when his back ribs were pinched. “Oh that is it! I was going easy on you, but now the gloves are coming off!”

“Yohoohu weehehahr glohoh-AH!” William’s knees gave out when Sherlock tightened his hold on him, scribbling along his spine. The result left him completely defenseless to the attack- his only option being to keep the noise level down in case Louis overheard them. “Shehehehherly, dohoohohohn’t!”

“Ah, so it’s Sherly now? And here I thought I was Mr. Holmes.” The detective gave his boyfriend a gentle bite on the shoulder, the final attack to send the blonde straight to the ground in a heap of tired giggles. “Hehe, look at that- I’ve bested the great lord of crimes once more.”

“Oohoho hush.” William groaned, unable to hide his smile as Sherlock laughed and laughed.

#Candy Heart Valentine Event #chve2k24 #tickle #tickle dabble #fluff #MTP #william james moriarty #sherlock holmes #sherliam #I love them your honor kakjrakjerjkea #I'm rewatching the series and showing it to my sister for the first time so William's been on the brain kearjkajekrjkaerjakjl

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lilaccoffin · 2 years

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LMAO I’M GLAD SHE DOVE INTO THE WHOLE THING ABOUT HIS SISTER AND KABRU

#I always thought that was a really funny detail like #is Kabru being...flirty with Holm's sister?#BUT FOR SURE SHE'S INTO HIM AT LEAST LMAO #Holm just being that sibling who is like EW MY SIBLING IS DATING? is so funny #I love him I love him I love him #dungeon meshi #holm kranom

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agirlinthegalaxy · 2 years

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In which I am casually hyperfixating over Sherlock’s protective tendencies towards Enola in those two scenes. (Y’know the ones. Just casually being the observant thinker and then screeching to a halt and the climax which *ahhhhh*) And like. fic? Someone gimme fic of protective Sherlock with Enola please, I need it.

#enola holmes #i love them so much i wanna scream #i've literally been watching edits of those scenes on tiktok for the last hour #just sherlock being protective of his baby sister #i just love hurt/comfort and siblings man idk what else to say #someone gimme recs i need it!!

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andromedasummer · 10 months

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everybody please look at the Penguin Books x T2 collab sets T2 just released theyre themed after classics novels and fiction genres and come with an infuser mug, a copy of a classic book with matching cover pattern, boxes of tea designed to look like book covers and tea inside themed around the books and genre of the set i have NEVER wanted a spare $85 MORE

#i rly love the designs of all of them #but esp the general fiction (p&p) and romance (wuthering heights) ones even if i already have those books #mind you i have all these books already #my sister wants the mystery/thriller (sherlock holmes) one as well

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korixae · 1 year

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blessing my sister by showing her the unaired pilot bc apparently she’s never seen it before??🤗🤗

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theres-a-bea · 1 year

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birthday cake

#you know those dreams where you have a kid and you raise them #so maybe i've never known grief but #when i was sixteen i dreamt i had a little brother #i was eight again and holding my sister's hand as we watched the door of the delivery room with sleepy eyed stares #she's four and holding her jellycat with me because i insisted i didn't need one because i was eight #it's midnight in germany. i'm holding my knees waiting #waiting #someone comes out and tells us it's a boy #i saw the joy in my father's eyes #i felt it in mine too #i watched him through the glass of the observing deck #he was new and he was beautiful and they'd called him alistair and i loved him #he grew to love cats and rockets and know all the lyrics to all the queen songs and be good at maths #he had my sister's eyes and my hair that was always grown out #he hovered on the doorway of my bedroom #his shadow was a permanent fixture in the landscape of my childhood room #he ate a lot of sugar but refused to eat chocolate #because he knows i can't have it #he played the violin because sherlock holmes did #his jokes are awful #but we laugh anyway #my sister and i taught him to swear and swim and play the piano #when i woke up i felt an inconsolable grief knowing that i was sixteen again and he never existed #everyday i'm forgetting his face little by little #so if dreams really are different universes then he's twelve today and i'm at home and i've just made his birthday cake

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lcs-scar · 3 months

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OMG WHAT IS THIS EXTRA COMIC OF HOLM'S SISTER !!!!!

The meme thing I made is based after this comic!!

I think this is the only instance of seeing her apart from the sibling chart Ryōko Kui did, and there is mention of Kabru & her relationship in the Adventurer's Bible.

#dungeon meshi #delicious in dungeon #dunmeshi #holm's sister #holm kranom #holm dungeon meshi #📩 -- standard mail #//i love these characters so so much I'm so happy to share!!#//even added a few more info because i'm normal <3

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moinsbienquekaworu · 1 year

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Okay I'm at three different "secret 3rd Holmes sibling" stories, and my conclusion is if it's a fanfic I trust the author if it's a published work I do not

#i read enola holmes and watched bbc sherlock so i was pretty turned off of secret 3rd holmes siblings #but the fic i'm reading has a secret 3rd holmes brother and he's fun #i like him #because he fits in with everyone else lol #like. the Themes and Comparisons between him and sherlock. especially with their relationship with mycroft??#like i'm sorry but i am SO easy actually just put some mycroft development in there and i'm sold #there's just something eminently crunchy and chewy and incredible about him especially as an older brother #as an older sister myself he's just So Crunchy. holy shit. Crunch crunch crunch. i am chewing on him.#like oh my god seeing Him interacting with mycroft and comparing it to sherlock and AAAAH biting biting biting #going insane over bbc mycroft honestly. i love that man. or uh the idea of him i guess lol #wow i have a ramble tag now

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norawalkerspantry · 9 months

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you know my mother doesn’t usually permit other cooks in her kitchen.

I didn’t ask permission.

#Nick Brody #Brothers and Sisters #Rachel Griffiths #Sarah Walker #ABC #I swear to God I love Nick Brody omfg that’s why I love Mark Holmes 😭

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holylulusworld · 6 months

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Mrs. Sherlock Holmes (1)

Summary: Your marriage starts rocky.

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Wife!Reader

Warnings: angst, injured reader (light), mentions of getting robbed, angry Sherlock, implied innocent reader

A/N: A collection of drabbles on how you became Mrs. Sherlock Holmes.

Mrs. Sherlock Holmes masterlist

“Where is my brother? We need to talk about Enola and the upcoming event. She needs to make her debut…” you hear Mycroft downstairs. He’s usually a stoic and silent man, but you kinda like he’s silent and leaves you alone most of the time. “Where is the lady of the house? Maybe she can help my sister correct her behavior."

You hear his voice grow louder as Sherlock’s head housekeeper raises her voice. She always acts more like the lady of the house than a servant.

“Mr. Holmes,” you gracefully walk down the stairs, putting on a strained smile hurting your bruised face. “I’m afraid my husband is not at home. He’s solving another case.”

“Again?” Mycroft holds out his hands. He presses a quick kiss to your offered hand. “He should’ve left his lovely wife all alone so short after your wedding.”

“Sir, it’s fine,” you flutter your eyes shut as you try to keep the wrong words from spilling from your lips. It all became too much lately.

Sherlock's absence, and his displeasure in participating in your marriage. The head housekeeper acting like you are not Sherlock’s wife but a peasant.

“My dear, what happened?” Mycroft gasps when his eyes finally see your swollen left cheek and your split lip. “Please tell me my brother didn’t raise his hand on you. If he did, I’ll make sure he’ll regret putting his hands on you.”

“It wasn’t my husband,” you reach out for Mycroft and grab his hand. “He’s a little distant and mostly interested in solving cases but…he would never. I swear, Sir. It was my fault. I shouldn’t have gone to town on my own. But Mrs. Demeter refused to send for a carriage.”

“What happened, my dear,” Mycroft worriedly asks. He offers his arm to you, and wonders if you are lying to protect his brother. “Please do not fret. Tell me everything.”

“I left the house to get the books Sherlock wanted,” you sniff. “I paid for the books and carried the books out of the store. A woman ran into me, and I dropped the books. I tried to pick them up and then…” You choke out a sob. “There was a masked man. He ripped my bag out of my hands and hit me with it.”

“My dear!” Mycroft gasps audibly. “Did you tell my brother about this?”

“He wasn’t home,” you drop your gaze, ashamed about your weakness, and inability to stand up for yourself. “The owner of the bookstore helped me pick up the books and accompanied me to Scotland Yard but…they didn’t want to listen to me.”

“Did you tell them your name?” Mycroft is furious. “How dare they ignore a young lady in need.” He huffs as you tell him repeatedly it was your fault for not telling them your name. “Stop blaming yourself, my dear. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s my brother’s for ignoring his wife.”

Downstairs it sounds like a war is going on. Sherlock and Mycroft yell at each other. And you are afraid, Mycroft is winning.

Your betrothed falls silent after a while, and you hold your breath as you repeatedly hear your name. The last thing you wanted was to cause a rift between the brothers.

They already have their hands full with their younger sibling. Now you are causing trouble too.

You wring your hands while hearing footsteps on the staircase. You hold your breath and step away from the door. “Wife,” Sherlock grumbles as he opens the door. “Where are you?”

“I’m here,” your voice cracks. “Sir.” You add, in the hope of appeasing your husband. He steps inside your room, eyes roaming your body. “Please accept my apology.”

“What for, Precious?” He steps closer to cup your face with both hands. “Why didn’t you send for me? I would’ve come here to take care of my wife.”

“I didn’t want to disturb you, Sir. It’s nothing,” you close your eyes when his gaze gets too intense.

“You got hurt. This is not nothing,” he raises his voice but gets a grip seconds later. “No one touches my wife.” His lips press against your swollen cheek, but you only feel the warmth of his soft pillows, not the slight pain. “I will call for Lestrade. We will find the man hurting you.”

“I think he worked with the woman running into me,” you explain while Sherlock inspects your injuries. “She distracted me long enough for the man to steal my bag.”

“Why did he hurt you?”

“I-I didn’t want to give the bag to the man. You gifted it to me,” you shyly batt your eyelashes as Sherlock angrily furrows his brows.

“You are fearless, my dear,” he cracks a smile. “I am sorry about my absence. After our wedding, we should’ve…” He clears his throat. “I'll send for a doctor.”

“She’s well then?” Sherlock sizes the doctor up. “I need to know every detail. Please don’t shelter me.”

“Her cheek is swollen, but the cut on her lips is already healing. She’s mostly frightened of the person attacking her,” the doctor says. “I’d suggest not leaving her alone for the time being.”

“Sir, what are you doing?” You almost screamed when Sherlock entered your room. He softly whispered your name and picked you up in bridal style to carry you toward his bedroom.

“I’m bringing my wife to my bedroom,” he carried you out of the room. His chest swelled when you rested your head on his chest.

"Sir, I think...you have a case and..." you whimper. If he wants to finally have your wedding night, you are not sure you are ready to be with him.

“I shouldn’t have taken case after case. We didn’t have the chance to get to know each other better. I know this was an arranged bond my mother and your father agreed to. But I…I want you to know that I’ll protect you from now on.”

>> Part 2

Tags in reblog.

#sherlock holmes #sherlock holmes x reader #sherlock holmes x you #henry cavill is sherlock holmes #sherlock holmes x y/n #Mrs. Sherlock Holmes

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dunmeshistash · 1 month

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do you have favorite little detail about a side character? there's so much to choose from, everyone is so compelling! personally my favorite is that holm's older sister has a crush on kabru and holm hates it LOL

My favorite side character is Kiki so I love both her teasing Namari with her legs and when she's consoling her brother <3

She knows what she's doing to Namari. And I love how she baits her into complimenting their legs more so Kaka feels better <3

#dungeon meshi #Kiki Floke #Kaka Floke #Namari #kiki dungeon meshi #Ask #anonymous #dunmeshi thoughts

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 months

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Unraveled 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: A curious man wanders into your dress shop with a lot of questions.

Characters: Sherlock Holmes (Cavill)

Note: I hope you all enjoy this random idea.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

One hand guides the fabric as the other turns the wheel. Your work is slow but steady, every stitch perfect, every seam precise. Your fare may be modest and your product simple, but its quality cannot be contested. Your labour as yourself is honest and plain.

The noise of the machine is your only company. The one-room shop nestled behind the butcher’s rarely sees a customer through its door. Instead, the orders are sent from the factories, returned with the printed adverts you disperse outside their doors. The writs are sent along with an envelope of pence and shilling and you complete each with equal diligence before sending them back bundled in paper and twine.

The operation isn’t especially fruitful but the profit is enough to subsist. Enough to guarantee your independence; a small apartment just above and a pot of stew to last you through each week. This humble existence is preferable to any marriage you’ve witnessed.

The letters from your sisters reaffirm your spinster’s fate. You’d rather a hand wheel and a needle than a brood and broken back. A husband seems to provide several jobs at once, you’ll happily settle for one.

As your hands work from memory and your head wanders from tedium, the bell above the door gives a single sharp toll. You ease the wheel to a halt and leave the seam unfinished. You peer up above the black iron machine, reminding yourself to fix your hunch as a client enters. You can’t but wonder if he may have come to the wrong shop.

By his attire, he is a class above the factory women who require gray skirts and simple stays. His waistcoat is embroidered and his jacket is pressed and clean. He is tall, locks part tidily so his curls lay gracefully. His face is fresh-shaven, square jaw with a cleft, and shoulders broad and strong. He does not share the same sinewy gauntness as the labourers with the coal-dusted noses.

He carries a fine leather bag. Another clue to his status. His shoes, another. Polished and without creases.

You stand to greet him, “good afternoon, sir. Might I help you with something?”

His answer is not prompt. He takes in the finished dresses hung by the east wall and turns to examine the rolls of wool and cotton. At last, he returns his attention to you.

“Afternoon,” his deep timbre fills the small space, “you are the dressmaker.”

It isn’t a question, but you answer, “I am.”

He narrows his eyes as he approaches your desk, the sole fixture in the space. From without, the shop is just as bare. The blackened windows offer not insight into the business, its only suggestion the sign hung above the door, though the paint requires a fresh coat.

“And the shop owner?”

“That is me as well, sir,” you assert. The presumption is not uncommon.

“Ah,” he accepts your explanation without comment, “so, you will have sewn this.”

He puts his bag on the desk, nearly knocking your shears from the corner. You try not to flinch as they teeter near the edge and he pulls open the top of the leather bag. He pulls out a swath of grey. You recognise it and he rolls the cuff to show your initials sewn within.

“Sir,” you say precariously, “is there some issue with it? Is it your wife’s dress?”

“Wife? No, no,” he dismisses, feeling the fabric between his fingers, “rather I am in search of the dress’s owner. The initial must belong to them, yes? So you would have a name for the buyer.”

“Mm, no, those are mine,” you point at the letters, “as it is my handiwork.”

“That makes sense,” he frowns in disappointment. “So you wouldn’t know who would wear it?”

You rub your chapped lips together. You find your tongue sliding over them often when you work, turning them raw with the habit. The man’s lips are rosy and smooth, as well-kempt as the rest of him. He is no factory worker’s husband.

“I might… would you take it out?” You ask.

He obliges as you pluck up the metal cylinder from your desk and unfurl the tape measure from within. He shakes out the dress, holding it by the shoulders to reveal salt stains along the skirts and unleashing a dingy smell in the shop. You wiggle your nose at the stench but worse roils in from the butcher’s on hot days.

You take the measure of the sleeves and the waist, then to the hem. You scribble the numbers on a scrap and take that to compare with your ledger. The measurements are in now way defining but might narrow it down. He keeps the dress aloft and you return to him to check the thread along the seams. A few months ago, you changed the thickness as the factory workers complained of splits under the arms.

“Hm, it is a recent purchase,” you assure him and return to the ledge.

He lowers the dress and approaches. You snap the book closed and turn your face up to consider him once more, “why do you need to know, if it is not your wife?”

“You are very discerning,” he remarks as he folds the dress and drapes it over his bag, “I’m certain then you can surmise the woman who wore this dress did not meet a kind fate.” He tugs up the hem and shows a tear trimmed in scarlet, the colour not obvious from a distance. “Holmes, Sherlock Holmes. I’m a detective and I’m trying to identify a poor woman found not far from here. I believe it is in your own interest that I discover her assailant.”

“I cannot say for certain which she is,” you turn over the scrap and re-open the ledger. You write down three names which match the measurements and hold the paper out to him. He takes it, his thick fingertips brushing yours. “Those are the ones which align with the dress.”

“Mm,” he hums as he tucks the paper into his chest pocket, “and your name? I couldn’t make it out on the sign.”

You recite your name flatly, “it isn’t on the sign.”

“It requires new paint,” he admonishes, “I could hardly find you.”

“I am aware,” you reply. “Thank you for noting.”

He’s quiet, “being a detective, however, I did indeed put together the clues.”

Is he making a joke? You cannot tell. He folds up the dress completely and puts it back in the leather bag. The smell persists.

“What are you prices?” He asks abruptly.

“Sir, I sew dresses for factory women, sometimes a few communion pieces, but I’m afraid I don’t do much suit work.”

“My sister requires a dress,” he sniffs, “as simple as it is, I can see your work is fine.”

“I have only wools and cottons,” you counter.

“Do you always turn away business?” He challenges.

“I wasn’t, sir, I’m only clarifying what I currently do. My prices are set for those fabrics,” you explain.

“I will pay for the muslin and velvet,” he waves his hand staunchly, “you will be paid for your labour. Can you sew with more than wool and cotton?”

“I can, sir, but you could find a ready-made dress in a market boutique if the dress is required promptly.”

“I can afford the time and coin,” he insists. “You are not a talented advertiser, are you?”

You’re taken aback by his bluntness. Often, his ilk have that demeanour. It’s why you’d rather the factory workers and the fish sellers’ wives.

“I suppose not,” you agree, “I would need measurements before I begin. You may send the numbers along with the fabric, then. And I would require a style. Perhaps your sister is a purveyor of fashion magazines?”

“I will send a messenger,” he shrugs. “Thank you for your time. I shan't get in your way any longer.”

“Good day, sir.”

“Good day to you,” he takes the bag from your desk and the shears fall to the floor with a clatter.

You skirt around to grab them as he bends and swipes them up first. You recoil as he closes the blades with a snap. He examines them before placing them back on the desk.

“Apologies,” he says, “and miss,” he looks at you, “take to heart what I’ve told you today. Keep away from the allies and perhaps you may consider locking your door.”

“Thank you, sir, your concern is appreciated.”

“Rather you might just keep those close, eh,” he points to the shears and his cheek dimples.

Again, you can’t be certain of his humour. You keep a placid expression, neither smiling nor scowling. He clears his throat and runs his hand down his jacket, gripping the lapel.

“Very well then, I’ll be off.”

He turns on his heel and marches to the door. You stay by the desk as the bell rings with his departure. Once the door closes, you cross the shop. You turn the lock into place, his foreboding lingering with the stale scent of dirty water.

🪡

Despite the unusual visit, your days roll on like a hand on a clock. The thought of the woman’s tragic fate looms like a shadow but fades. You have too much stitching to do to fret over that man and his ominous words. You assume his interest in your work thereafter was wholly feigned as he does not return.

That day, you pass off six parcels to Eustace, the driver who takes them down to the stacks to hand off to the floor bosses who will parse them out to the women they’ve been cut for. You pay him his toll before he climbs back into the seat of his cart, his horse kicking impatiently.

“Excuse me, sir,” another driver clops up along the other side of the street, a narrow squeeze between the slanting buildings. “I’m in search of a dressmaker. I believe the store is tucked behind the butcher’s and…” the man’s voice drifts off as his eyes flit to the meat sellers marquee.

“Right here, good sir,” Eustace responds, “wouldn’t ya know, she’s right here.”

You lift your chin to see past the cart and spy the driver. He removes his cap as his gaze meets yours. Eustache dips his chin as he adjusts his own hat and snaps his old mare into a canter. As you're left alone with the carriage driver, a vehicle rather lofty for a block like this, you fold your hands behind you.

“Sir, you hardly look in need of a work woman’s dress,” you say.

“Miss,” he ties the reins off and jumps down from his seat, “I am sent for you, not a dress.”

“For me?” You echo.

“Mr. Holmes has sent,” he crosses the muck and nearly slips. “He said he made an appointment for a seamstress.”

“An appointment? I wasn’t informed of the time,” you rebuff. “I’ve a shop to run, orders paid for. I can’t simply leave.”

“Ah, yes, Mr. Holmes made mention of a fee,” the man feels around his striped coat, “he said a deposit would be needed.”

He takes out a brown envelope and hands it over. You take it, a small weight within. You look at the driver before you pull back the flap and peek inside. A large gold sovereign sits in the corner of the paper; a whole pound. That’s at least three days work.

You hold your breath, trying to maintain some composure. If that’s the deposit, what is he offering for the rest? You slip out the folded paper within, a page torn from a fashion journal. The dress is elegant if not extravagant. You don’t often do off-the-shoulder or ruffles like that but it isn’t beyond your skill.

You fold the flap closed again and lift your chin to face the driver, “I must lock up, you see?”

“Take your time, miss,” he says kindly. “Mr. Holmes isn’t expecting you to hurry.”

“Thank you, sir,” you bow your head and turn away.

You measure your steps along the facade of the butcher’s shop and curl around to the alleyway. You let yourself into your shop and tuck the envelope into your apron pocket. You take your sewing bag from under the desk and shake off the dust. You don’t often have reason to use it.

You open it up and pack away your shears, a measuring tape, pins with a cushion, your notebook, and a few other bits and bobs. Just in case. You grab a role of linen from against the wall. It’s heavy but you can manage.

You take the key from your desk drawer and switch off the overhead light. You lock the door and continue back out to the street. The driver puffs smoke from a pipe as he waits.

“Miss, allow me,” he snuffs out the pipe and puts it in his pocket. He nears and reaches for the roll of linen.

“It’s quite alright, sir,” you say.

“I insist, miss, can’t have a lady doing all that,” he takes it, not forcefully, and you let him.

As he goes to the carriage and opens the door, you give pause. You don’t know if you should be so easily swayed on a gold coin. Mr. Holmes hadn’t been entirely pleasant and you do prefer your simple work. Still, you can hardly turn your nose up at a pound. Not with the summer fizzling to a finale.

You lift your skirts and cross the street to the open carriage, “sir, might I have a name?”

“Gavin,” he answers, “and I have yours. Mr. Holmes made sure of it.”

“Yes, very good,” you say as you approach, another sliver of doubt trickling through. Mr. Holmes claimed to be a detective but is that really the reason he was strolling around with a dead woman’s dress? You gulp and look at Gavin then the carriage, “might I keep the window open?”

“Surely you can,” he agrees amiably. “Mr. Holmes lives quite a ways, shouldn’t mind the air. I’ll be certain to stay away from the stacks.”

“Thank you, sir,” you accept his proffered hand and he helps you up into the carriage.

You settle on the bench as the door shuts and you open the window from within. You lean back, your hand grasping the top of your bag. You unclasp it as you feel Gavin climb up on the driver’s seat. You dip your hand inside and clutch your long shears.

You don’t forget all of what Mr. Holmes said.

#sherlock holmes #enola holmes #dark sherlock holmes #dark!sherlock holmes #sherlock holmes x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #unraveled

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