#sherlock holmes x poc!reader
Text
Wails of Wedded Bliss
Chapter 6 || Masterlist || Chapter 8
Chapter Summary: Upon meeting the Baroness you are enamoured by her devotion.
Pairing: Sherlock Homes x wife!reader
Chapter Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, (No Smut), typical historical misogyny and sexism, mentions and discussion on miscarriages. Implied domestic abuse and infidelity.
Word Count: 9k
Author Notes: This is an important but rather sad chapter. I beseech you all to read the warnings. The details of this chapter are important to the plot of the missing Baron Thaddeus Pennicott.
Inspiring Song: "Flightless Bird American Mouth" by Vitamin String Quartet
8:30am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England.
Sherlock tucked your arm into his side as you three entered the Groveland house foyer. The floor was made of fine marble tile and with ever step a light echo raced down the halls.
The inspector called upon a nearby dusting maid to fetch the head of the house. Who returned was a thin and tall man in a butler’s uniform with a sliver pocket watch hanging from his chest. His hair was the colour of autumn leaves and his face littered in freckles.
He bowed, “I am mister Edward Redmayne, head butler of the Groveland estate, how may I assist you?”
The inspector shook his hand and stated quickly, “We spoke on the telephone yesterday? A telegraph was sent.”
The butler smiled with a relieving gasp, “Detective Holmes?”
Lestrade sheepishly looked over his shoulder to you and your husband. He nodded. His expression wore a emotion of embarrassment mixed with annoyance. Perhaps he was jealous of your husband’s successful published case stories. You wished you could have told the constable not to fret as Sherlock was nothing short of a arrogant mule...yet again- the mark on his face...he probably already knew that.
8:42am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England.
Upon meeting the lady of the house, you stood frigid by your husband. You felt somewhat self conscious by her grey eyes that lingered over your dress. Perhaps you should’ve worn your Sunday best before meeting a woman of such a high status.
The baroness was unmistakably pregnant. Her belly was bold and rounded beneath her maternity gown. She had been sitting calmly on a resting chaise, knitting a small bonnet for her future child. Her hands were covered in fine burgundy velvet gloves to match her modest dress.
Her face was framed by a light brown curls, that appeared almost white in some places, twisted into a bum at the base of her neck. Her pale face was blotchy with pink flecks and slight acne.
“Lady Pennicott, I am Inspector Braydon Lestrade of Scotland Yard,” the British officer proclaimed as he bowed dramatically forward. You withheld a girlish giggle by how low the man had bent his head and presented himself foolishly, and from the corner of your eye you manage to catch the whisp of Sherlock’s smirk.
The inspector waved his arm behind him and moved aside, “-and with me is Detective Sherlock Holmes and his wife, Mrs Holmes.”
You produced the baroness a respectable curtsy, your eyes glued down to the beautifully patterned carpet. You wondered how the servants could keep it so clean and freshly unstained by dirty guests.
It must have been new.
The baroness shuffled her knitting needles and ball of woollen yarn into a Whicker basket and disposed of it beside her.
A slow stretching smile graced her thin lips as she spoke to you, “Oh, are you the little dear who solved that factory match girl incident?”
You weren’t sure how to answer her question. You weren’t entirely sure what the baroness was referencing until Sherlock stepped closer with your arm still cradled in his.
“No dear Baroness,” Sherlock pat your hand gently, “That would have been my sister Enola Holmes, she has her own detective office at present moment. My wife is here on my invitation. I wished to gift her a sight of the grand park and estate while I was here upon duty.”
The Baroness cocked her head, from her ears hung pearls that swung and hung like rain drops.
“Come forth dear,” she lifted her hand and beckoned you, “I would like to have better view of you.”
You wondered if she could smell the sweat beginning to drop down the back of your neck. You bit your tongue and tried to refrain from trembling. You were nervous. Her eyes were cold but her smile warm, two conflating details that you couldn’t understand. The last thing you needed now on top of a terrible start to your marriage was to be scrutinized by a haughty pregnant baroness.
She flickered your fingers for you to bend down to her. As you leant down, you swore you could smell copper, a metalic scent. A vein on your scalp pulsed. She scanned your face of its details. You dared to wonder what she was searching for. And then it clicked...the smell...
‘Dear god, you prayed, please don’t let her smell my blood, please let this not be my blood...’
You should have sprits on some perfume before leaving baker street.
She glanced behind you and questioned angelically, “How does it feel having such a clever husband?”
Your lips opened and closed. You resembled a fish. You were stumped to answer quickly.
‘Miserable, infuriating, torturous, pleasurable mixed with a cup of agony...’
She lifted her brows until you hurriedly blurted, “He is...formidable and righteous...” you stood up tall and took a step back, adding with a monetarism of truth, “I am very lucky to have become his bride.”
‘Lucky, while incredibly resentful.’
You reached back, Sherlock adopted your arm back into his hold once more.
Lady Pennicott rubbed her belly, her eyes started to twinkle, “And soon you will have a plethora of children that will look like him I gather.”
Your eyes fluttered. Sherlock’s hand tightened around your glove and his throat bobbed. You felt hot in the face.
Yes that’s right, that’s what normal husband and wife did isn’t it? They have children. That was your role, to be the mother of Sherlock’s offspring...
You couldn’t answer.
And there. That dear girl is when you questioned for the first time. ‘Is this what I want?’ and ‘Do I want Sherlock’s children.’ Because having a knowing of his barbarism conflated a fear in your belly...would Sherlock hurt his own children if he could easily hurt you, his wife?
When you hesitated for too long to answer her again, Sherlock said with a strained tone that was masked in a hopeful joy, “One may only hope, Baroness.”
“Lady Pennicott,” Graydon interrupted, “We have come to ask you on the whereabouts of Lord Pennicott and the evening he was last sighted.”
Her eyes narrowed at the inspector and with an annoyed twinge she muttered and wiped her hands on a nearby blanket, “I already informed the police of what I was informed of by our butler Edward.”
She glanced up next her right. Mister Redmayne observed her, looking down. The pair smiled to each other. She reached out to him. She grabbed his hand and they squeezed.
The inspector laughed nervously, “Indeed but Detective Sherlock Holmes was not presently involved in the case until yesterday.”
Her eyes flickered quickly to your husband and her face flared with confusion quickly to be matched with a impressed smile, “Of course, please sit all of you as I am near a indisposition with my child,” she gestured to the mirroring chaise and a chair beside the fireplace, “Edward, please tell Martha to bring tea and biscuits for our kind service men and Mrs Holmes.”
The butler bowed to you all and left the sitting room.
Lestrade took his place on the lone chair while Sherlock sat you beside him on the chaise. You took your time to lower yourself. Sitting on your bruises was uncomfortable while another cramp hit you. Your fingers dug into his palm.
From Lestrades breast pocket he pulled out a notebook and small pencil.
“Lady Pennicott,” Sherlock softly hummed, “Please, could you tell me what your husband is like as a person?”
The woman who you believed was in her late thirties smiled and stated softly, “My Thaddeus is a noble man, good taste in wine and very devoted to his work. He likes to go hunting and we share a passion for gardening,” she glanced up at the ceiling and paused, “He prefers to plant vegetables to donate to the church and orphans, whereas I have always loved to grow my flowers.”
The way she described him, her devotion was deep and honourable. She touched her round belly.
Sherlock looked over to the fire place behind the baroness. On the mantle was a magnificent portrait twice your height, painted on the canvas was who you recognised as Lord and Lady Pennicott. He was sitting up straight on a fine red cushioned chair with his dirty blonde hair and softened mutton chops while she stood at his right and her ringed hand on his shoulder. The similarities were there but Lady Pennicotts hair had lightened in reality perhaps from all the years that separated her likeness and her reality.
“I was informed Lord Pennicott is a father of five?” Sherlock asked.
The Baroness smiled proudly and pat her tummy softly, “Six soon.”
You couldn’t help notice something was missing from the painting, Sherlock also had a similar thought.
Where were the children in the portrait? Where was a family portrait in the house?
“Forgive me,” a breath of air escaped from him, “are the children away at school?”
“Oh,” her uncanny smile remained while her brows angled down, her throat tightened as she spoke, “I fear they are in the loving embrace of angels now. All of them were taken from us by God,” her eyes glanced to you, “They came out sleeping.”
Your heart sunk to the pit of your belly with sorrow and pity.
Five babies lost, five babies gone…five pregnancies… four and a half years of pregnancy and for what? Five angels.
A woman had one holy role in life, to bare her husband children, and when a woman was defective or produced a sickly child, it was a symbol of failure in society. But you never saw it that way...you imagined it must’ve been agony to lose so many babies. One or two was a common occurrence but five? Five was a curse to experience and relive over and over.
“Well,” you interrupted Sherlock rudely, cutting him off from his next abrasive question by squeezing his hand a little too hard.
You could see the mourning in the baroness’ face. You saw the classic look of all women made uncomfortable by something a man has said. What the hell would the detective know about a woman’s emotions after how coldly he has treated all women and yourself.
You shuffled on the opposite chaise and smile softly, “I will pray this one will come swiftly and feel the warmth of their mother.”
The baroness’ face lifted and warmed. She smiled happily and nodded, “Thankyou, oh I’m just so excited! This one really is a big one, I can feel it. I hope it’s a boy.”
Sherlock was staring at you intensely as the maid Martha finally delivered a pot of tea and poured the steaming liquid. His brows were knitted and his eyes held suspicion as he kept you in his sight. You politely nodded your head once at him before reaching for a hot cup and lifting it to your lips.
Sherlock sighed and turned back to his questioning, “You would say you liked your marriage?”
The baroness appeared offended by your husband as her face wrinkled and a sneer spread her thin lips, “Of course, any woman who doesn’t like her marriage should not be married in the first place. She is a burden to her husband if she cannot perform her duties as a wife.”
Lady Pennicott leant forward and collected her own cup of tea, she delicately pinched a biscuit and dunked it into the contents.
…you felt Sherlock drag his thumb across your fingers. You felt chilly, could he read your thoughts? Did he know truly how much you already hated him and his ideas of intimacy in your marriage? He clear his throat when both your glancing eyes caught each other.
“Can you tell me what happened,” Sherlock pressed, “The night of your husbands disappearance?”
“Well...after dinner,” the baroness sighed in thought and nibbled on her moist biscuit, “Thaddeus wanted to speak with me in his office about a spending I had made a week ago. You see, I had bought a cradle for the nursery. The one we had originally was broken and beyond repair, we disposed of it a month prior. Thaddeus was not pleased with the price and claimed it was an unnecessary purchase,” she paused and set her cup aside before she touched her belly again; rubbing in soft slow circles, she began to blushed, “He was sorely hurt by my choice. He then became very cross with me and left his office in a huff.”
She looked to the yarn, to the tea pot and then finally to the painting on the mantle, “I deemed that he would find forgiveness in his heart by the morning and brush it off. I returned back to the nursery to tidy up before I went to my rooms and went to bed to sleep in my quarters of the east wing. Thaddeus keeps himself to the west wing most nights.”
The detective nodded, “What time do you believe it was when you went to your bed, Baroness?”
She hummed softly while pursuing her lips, “A quarter to nine in the evening.”
“And how did you realise your husband was missing?” Sherlock stole a scone off the tea tray and lifted it to his lips. He paused amidst chewing it slowly.
The noble woman sighed and recollected, pragmatically, “In the morning Mr Redmayne informed me on how Thaddeus took off into the night astride Arion, our prize stallion Clydesdale. Thaddeus had not returned by the next morning and that is when concern drew near. I sent members of my staff to the factories to investigate his whereabouts and none had come upon him. I knew something had to be wrong so I alerted the authorities by the second morning.”
Your husband took a deep breath and discarded the half bitten scone, he wiped his hand unceremoniously on his jacket and throatily asked, “Do you recall if Lord Pennicott has any potential persons he might be deemed as an enemy towards?”
“Only his company competitors, Detective,” She said saccharinely with her smile, “He was a very loveable man.”
“Do you have a list of the names of staff who were working that evening here in Groveland House?”
The butler stepped forward and cleared his throat, “That would be in Lord Pennicotts office,” he pulled out a pair of keys, “I can you show you gentlemen in and where he keeps his accounts and other paraphernalia to his business if you’d like?”
Both Sherlock and Lestrade smiled and stood up.
“Baroness,” Sherlock gently requested, “Would it be overly bothersome if my beloved wife remained and kept you company while the inspector and I look in your husband’s office.”
Your heart jumped to your throat. What was Sherlock doing leaving you behind with the Baroness by yourself!?....what if you spoke out of turn or said something too presumptuous for your status!?...
“Most certainly not,” she beamed “I will gladly accept such delightful company,” She held out a hand, palm down to her right. The butler speedily stepped to her side and leant her his hand. She winced as she scooted forward on the cushioned lounge before struggling to rise to her feet.
Sherlock leant down and kissed the back of your wrist again, so scantily in front of the baroness. You tried tor refrain from loudly gasped and bringing anymore dangerous attention to yourself. Your husband left your side and followed the butler with Lestrade out of the sitting room.
So the party turned to two married women. The baroness was pleased.
She stepped closer to you and reached for your arm. You were surprised by her familiarity but you would not deny the assistance of a woman so desperately swollen and ready to birth any day.
“My dear, would you care to have a stroll with me in my garden?” She smirked and jerked her chin, “Knowing how dear Thaddie kept his space organised I suspect the gentlemen might be a while.”
You nodded and quickly made the warning assurance, “Are you in a condition to move great feets Lady Pennicott?”
“Fret not,” She giggled girlishly and waved her hand casually, “The physician told me fresh air is delightful for the health of the babe,” she tapped the top of her belly, “I have a month or so before they come.”
Your eyes widened, she looked huge enough to give birth now, surely she wasn’t a month away!! Maybe she was going to be blessed with a pair of twins. You had such a limited knowledge of pregnancy in women. Your grandmother hadn’t given birthed a child in the last forty years before your birth!!!
She pointed the way out of the main mansion to enter the garden paths. The sun was perfect today amongst the clouds. It was neither cold nor hot nor humid and dank...it was pleasant and you could smell the fresh nature of bushels and flowers.
“How long have you been known as, The Mrs Holmes?” She inquired cheerfully with her shining silver eyes.
“...Not very long,” you replied warmly before risking a white lie, “We recently finished our honeymoon.”
She grinned and waddled passed a wooden bench, she took a quick stop to rest and pat the seat for you to join her instead of standing dumbly.
“Shall I share some words of advise?,” She hummed, “From a woman that has been married for twelve years?”
“I would be ever so grateful,” you said rushed and desperate. You wouldve listened to anything she had to say. A woman of her standing must’ve held adequate wisdom.
She warmly cupped both your hands and squeezed them. And yet there was an ice creepy into her gaze. She appeared to dissociate, her voice losing its youthful lilt. Her lip wobbled slightly.
“Men are visual creatures. While you are so young and beautiful, you must become pregnant as soon as possible,” Lady Pennicott ran her palm across your waist, her eyes like razors cut across the yard to a bush of red rose buds, “It is inevitable that our husbands will stray their gazes to other women, it is in their nature,” those grey stones in her face rolled back and weighed you down, “as I said- visual creatures. The sooner you make a babe, the easier his devotion comes,” A joyous grin returned to her thin lips, she playfully tapped the tip of your nose and stated, “Trust me upon this.”
You clenched your hand behind you and strained a smile, “I thankyou for such wise words Baroness. I will endeavour to do what I must to conceive.”
At this moment in time Sherlock had proved himself a monstrous villain. Would it be possible for you to fall pregnant?
You looked out at the divine lush greenery and exhaled softly.
“Do you garden Mrs Holmes?” the baroness queried.
You chuckled softly and removed your gloves, you flashed her a sight of your palm, “I am afraid my hands have never been introduced. My grandmother preferred I focus on mastering piano and embroidery.”
The grey orbs fluttered back at you with a surprised him, “Embroidery is a lovely skill,” she pat your hand and pointed across the field, “Please help me up Mrs Holmes, let us take a look at my lilacs.”
You stood straight up and leant out your arm, she was surprisingly light for a woman her size. She leant against you and took small timid steps to her flower patches.
She stood and admired the flower patches, pointing to different types and explaining the breeds of flowers she hoped to grow in the future.
You finally bent over enough and cupped the petals of purple to hold up to your nose and took in a wiff “They smell lovely,” from the corner of your eye was a line of crimson, “I see your roses will soon be in bloom.”
She pinched a bud that was peaking to bloom soon.
“Oh yes, the soil is rich and healthy,” she giggled, “I can’t wait for Thaddeus to return, he liked the roses. He would stand here for a while and think. I know he will love the red colour. It is his favourite shade you see...” She sighed dreamily with her eyes scanning the bushes of scarlet rose buds, “I miss him terribly. I hope he’s alright. I want him to come home soon before the baby arrives.”
A fly smacked into your eye and you sputtered, battering it away. When you gracelessly composed yourself, you stood back up to your feet beside the Lady of Groveland.
You could see how her eyes puddles with droplets of mournful tears. You felt bad for any woman that did not know where her husband was. Especially if there was a rumour about him fleeing the marriage and abandoning her in her serious pregnant condition.
Taking the chance, you boldly took both your hands into yours and now squeezed them. Another buzzing from a fly sat on your shoulder.
The day was growing warmer and a bead of sweat rolled down your neck. The fly tickled your neck and suckled along your salted skin.
You tried your best to ignore the annoying creature.
“I am sure he will Lady Pennicott,” you soothed with a soft welcoming grin, “And he will be most happy when he returns.”
She sighed solemnly and glanced back at the rose bushes. You felt obligated for her happiness in that moment. Glancing back to the house you felt a opportunity come to you.
“May I visit your nursery Lady Pennicott, so I may have references for my own in the future?”
Her eyes flickered up, her face shine bright and her hand tightened over your wrists excitedly as though she was still as youthful as a school girl.
“Why of course Mrs Holmes,” she spun on her heel and wobbled a slight, she lifted her hand and called to the maid Martha still packing the china set inside, “Please inform the detective that I am taking his wife up to the nursery.”
“Yes Baroness,” she said with a humble curtsey and scurried off while Lady Pennicott took you totally inside the house and up a grand stair case from the foyer.
9:03am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England.
Up, up, up you both climbed the stairs. You noticed how the stairs didn’t bother her ladyship once, she was fit and stridden widely whereas you were breathing a little hard by the top step.
She pulled you down a hallway to a white painted door.
She excitedly opened the door wide and practically skipped inside to show you around her future child’s room.
The walls were covered in light blue and yellow paint. There were small peonies covering the trim of the room. There was no carpet but who needed one when you had a newborn.
“Welcome to the resting nest of my baby,” Lady Pennicott proudly exclaimed, spreading her arms out at the room around you.
There was a tall shelf filled with stuffed animals and teddy bears. There was a rocking horse, a doll house, spinning tops, tin cars and rubber balls all waiting, collecting dust, awaiting the arrival of a playmate. There was a permabulator by the window sill. There was a rocking chair in one corner and against the wall closest to the door- you smiled and swaggered over curiously, “Is this the cradle you bought?”
It was made of fine cream painted wood. You chewed your bottom lip in the thought. It was a lovely crib, why was Lord Pennicott so upset by such a delightful purchase? He didn’t have money issues. You put it down as that you didn’t understand the way men thought and men will never know what women think.
“Yes,” Lady Pennicott chirped, “it is from William Whitely department store in Baywater next to the Howard & Co dress department.”
The Baroness sat down into her rocking chair and slowly moved it back and forth, watching you admire the nursery she spent hours and years consistently curating.
You clenched the edge and looked over the railing down at the empty bedding. There was a teddy lamb in the corner, you pinched it’s fluffy white tail and sighed. For a brief moment you let your eyes close and your imagination wander far.
One day you’d have this...with Sherlock. An empty cradle to be filled. You caught the vision of a tiny hand squeeze around your finger and the sound of soft gurgles with the warm pressure of a hand on your waist...was that Sherlock’s hand? Was that your child?
One day you’d have a baby to care for, to provide these things that meant love...yet, was any child of Sherlock’s capable of love? He certainly wasn’t as far as you were concerned.
You bit down a shudder and opened your eyes, feeling hot tears glide down a cheek. You pushed back and sighed, “I am most confident on one thing Lady Pennicott.”
“And what is that Mrs Holmes?” she said softly, she could see the unspoken pain in your face. You swallowed hard and your face fell into a smile, you flashed her a wink.
You laughed softly, “Your child will be spoilt rotten by the love you give.”
She chuckled with you and nodded.
“Have you thought of a name?” you inquired, waltzing over to the chested drawers of baby knick knacks on display.
“Thaddeus Colin if it’s a boy,” she hummed, “or Theresa Grace if it is a girl.”
“Theresa?”
She giggled gently, “That is my name dear.”
Mrs Theresa Pennicott. It suited her. Her old soul eyes reflected her devout name.
A shine of glass pierced a ray of sun into your eyes, you pinched the glass object carefully. You touched a long black tube pulling out of it. You couldnt understand it’s purpose, your eyes narrowed at the rubber end that was shaped like a thumb or a cows udder. There was a second tube attached to the first with a rubber squeeze ball at the end.
“What is this?” you humoured.
“Oh that? It’s a fantastic invention,” The baroness said, “It’s a pump for breast milk with a tube that syphons the milk into this baby feeding bottle. When babies start to teeth they can scar your breasts. This is an effective and modern method I look forward to trying.”
Your eyes widened, scarring!? Babies teeth could scar a breast!?
You placed the bottle bump back and helped Lady Pennicott when she beckoned to stand back up from the rocking chair.
“Have you ever felt the sensations?” She suddenly, “In which they kick within?”
Your face must’ve looked idiotic as you asked plainly, “Kick?”
She giggled and nodded, “Give me your hand, perhaps you may feel them moving.”
She plucked your palm and pulled your glove off your fingers. She pressed your entire hand intimately to her belly. You felt a sense of taboo shame, she was making you touch such a beloved spot.
“Do you feel it?” she then asked.
Felt what? Confusion flooded your mind. Your hand moved around her belly slowly.
“I am afraid I don’t know what I’m meant to be feeling?”
She moved your hand and again you felt absolutely nothing.
“They are very brutal on my body,” Lady Pennicott sarcastically assured, “trust me there is a kick.”
She made a point to push your hand harder, but all you felt was the hard material of her corsetry beneath her main dressing materials.
“Baby’s kick you inside?” you marvelled with stunned horror. This was the first time you’d ever heard of such a notion of a baby beating it’s mother inside.
“Not out of malicious intent Mrs Holmes,” she reassured, “mostly it is the baby using its limbs to move their cramped bodies inside or excitement at the sound of voices, I truly believe they can hear us while still inside. Fear not, to you it will feel like a faint touch like this-”
Lady Pennicott softly tapped your wrist, “Like that.”
And there again was new knowledge you heard from a woman on matters of pregnancy. You moved your fingers around, seeking the supposed feeling of a kick...
Still nothing. You frowned, was there something wrong with you that the baby was choosing not to reveal itself.
“How interesting...”
A soft knock on wood alerted you both to glance at the door.
“Mrs Holmes,” the butler from earlier politely spoke, “the detective is requesting your return, I believe he intends to depart.”
Your face fell. You couldn’t believe it but you’d found this experience immensely enjoyable. You had surprisingly made a friend of the Baroness.
The fair lady hugged your side and sweetly exhaled, “Then I shall escort you back to your husband, Eddie fetch me my cheque book.”
He nodded and walked ahead of you both. You solemnly shut the nursery door, trying to remember every precious detail as possible. It was a innocent place to escape from the crude world.
You returned to the bottom of the foyer and smiled at your husband that stood by Lestrade at the front doors.
By the bottom step you faced the noble woman and curtsied.
“Thankyou Lady Pennicott for your kind hospitality and agreeable cooperation to the case,” you heard Sherlock’s voice float over your shoulder.
“Of course detective, please,” the Butler returned with her cheque book, “find my beloved Thaddeus.”
She scribbled speedily with a modernised ink pen, a sharp tear of paper flashed to his direction, “Here. Thirty pounds. I am sure you are busy with other clients considering your reputation, but I beseech you to seek out my husband quickly.”
Sherlock bowed his head as he deposited the cheque into his pocket, “We shall try our hardest. Good afternoon Lady Pennicott.”
Your mouth might’ve collected flies. Thirty pounds. THIRTY pounds. That was a hefty wage for a year to many men.
Sherlock was granted his coat and walking cane along with Lestrade.
He opened the front door and left slowly, glancing over your shoulder back at the heavily pregnant Baroness.
9:21am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England.
Sherlock and you walked up the gravel path in silence for sometime. You weren’t in much of a mood to speak to him despite well knowing conversation would need to spark eventually.
The three of you slowed down beside the inspectors horse cart.
Thankfully it was Sherlock who destroyed the silence with a stretched sigh. Lestrade grimly smiled at that sigh and rocked on his heels.
“Lestrade, show a useful skill,” Sherlock slapped a coin purse into his chest, “Find my wife and I a decent ride homeward. You still need to return back to the office and finish writing those reports on the Spring heeled Jack sightings....��� he snickered.
The mutton chop male grumbled and left you pair alone to walk down the path into the main parklands to hail a cabriolet or another hackney carriage.
Sherlock pulled out his pipe and lit it quickly, he inhaled fast and asked curiously, “Did you learn anything else from our suspect?”
You squinted and felt a gasp pop from your lips, your hand snapped out and dug your nails into his arm with a scolding hiss, “Suspect? Look at the state she is in Sherlock. She clearly loves her husband. How could such a indisposed woman do anything to her husband?”
He smirked, “Perhaps a jealous one?”
Your brows pulled together. Jealousy wasn’t something you would’ve describe Lady Pennicott as especially with such a privileged life. Such an emotion wouldve been beneath her...but.. ‘It is inevitable that our husbands will stray their gazes to other women, it is in their nature.’
Sherlock pinched out a piece of card from his pocket, a business calling card, he flashed it through his fingers and let you carefully pluck it from his hand.
“it is no wonder Thaddeus Pennicotts name was so familiar,” Sherlocks huffed a puff of air, “He visits a like minded establishment.”
On the front of the card was a single image, a dove holding a olive leaf, and when you turned the card around there was a woman modelled in immodest clothing with text and an address in perfect hand writing.
“The Mayfair Row Dove club.”
You almost dropped the card in the mud at your feet.
He tucked the card back into his breast pocket and hooked his arm around yours, walking you closer to Lestrade waving his hands back at you both.
“I’m curious who his go to bird is there,” He chuckled.
You shook your head and scoffed in disbelief, “but she’s pregnant.”
“Men have needs,” Sherlock sighed, “I thought you’d have learnt that from last evening?”
Your nails dug harder into his arm and grit your teeth. Not everyone was as depraved as Sherlock, surely not. You couldn’t imagine Mycroft or your grandfather practicing such atrocities on women, especially women that weren’t their wives.
You noted snootily, “She said her husband liked to stand out by the roses to think. Perhaps he regretted his choice.”
Sherlock laughed cruelly and hard enough to almost drop his pipe from his lips. He plucked it out of his mouth and kissed you hard and squarely in front of Lestrade and any passing people that shook their heads in disgust at such public affection.
The taste of his tobacco filled your cheeks and floated down your throat into your chest. You could feel how his breath became your breath. Your head grew dizzy from it. His release left you trembling and collapsing against him briefly. His arm grabbed around your waist and held you totally against his chest.
“You see too much good in the worst people,” he whispered wetly into your ear.
“Not true,” you panted, you blinked your eyes hard and tried speaking again. You weakly pushed away from him back onto your own two feet. From the corner of your eyes you could see the inspector standing beside another hackney carriage.
“Not true,” you repeated and swallowed hard, “...I don’t see any good in you Sherlock.”
He grinned devilishly and walked you both to the carriage, He ignored Lestrade entirely except for retrieving his own purse.
“None at all?” Sherlock asked as he helped you step up inside of the carriage. It jostled as he plotted himself next to you instead of opposite.
You thought hard on his question for a time. You shouldn’t have ever been as petty as him. So you kept your silence before you could decide on a eloquent response. You did try to find the good in him. The trouble was you barely knew Sherlock and the side that you’d encounter was nothing short of a blagged, insufferable man that happened to be very experienced in the arts of the bedroom. So you tried to think about qualities you hadn’t seen in him but had at least heard of him.
“You help solve cases and even sometimes restitution, these deeds could be counted as decent and beneficial...perhaps good...”
He smirked until you finished hastily, “However your mistreatment and lustful addiction is nothing short of that than a person that suffers in his sin.”
A long annoyed sigh drew from his lips, however the corners jerked up.
He tug out his pipe and tapped it’s contents out the moving window, “Might I ask Mrs Holmes...” he inquired as he tucked in his pipe, and wiped his lips thoughtfully, “Do you think yourself better than me?”
The silence shared between the horses trotting along the cobblestones allowed you a chance to glare long and hard at Sherlock.
It was a jab, a jibe, a joke, a trick, a trap...
He wanted you to say yes... You could see it in his eyes the way they flicked to your lips and almost drooled with anticipation. He wanted to start a fight.
You didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking at you, you turned your head away and scoffed, “You may have quick wit and a expansive knowledge Sherlock, but I at least carry myself with the fairest morals.”
And that? The reply was granted a omen of Sherlock’s sickly chuckles and his heavy warm hand to sit over your thigh, running his them over the fabric of your skirts.
“We will see how fair a baker street whore morals really are when we arrive home then shall we?”
You leant against the wall of the carriage and chose to ignore him. You closed your eyes and held Sherlock’s hand to prevent it wandering anywhere else. His thumb rubbed along the back of your gloves hands.
You couldn’t understand Sherlock. And feared you never would.
HELPLINES:
If you are a victim of sexual abuse, assault or domestic violence or know someone who is please reach out to these links that share helpline services, phone numbers or emails. Consent and respect is important in every relationship whether between friends, family or even strangers.
Australian Helpline Services
UK Helpline Services
American Helpline Services
India Helpline Services.
#dead dove do not eat#dead dove fic#henry cavill x female reader#henry cavill x reader#henry cavill x y/n#henry cavill x you#henry cavill x ofc#sherlock holmes x female reader#sherlock holmes x poc!reader#sherlock holmes x y/n#sherlock holmes x you#sherlock holmes x ofc#sherlock holmes x reader#dark!sherlock holmes#dark!henry cavill
216 notes
·
View notes
Text
Enigma
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x poc reader
Summary: When Sherlock comes at your door seeking help, you two realize you can't deny the pull you have on each other
Warning: mentions of character death, poison consumption
Sherlock Holmes had always been an enigma to you, with his sharp mind and keen sense of observation. You were fascinated by him, drawn to him like a moth to a flame. And yet, you'd never expected to fall in love with him.
It all started when you were called to assist with a case that Sherlock was working on. There was a string of strange deaths occurring in London, and Sherlock had been hired to investigate. Enola told her brother that he should hire you. You were a skilled herbalist, and your knowledge of plants and poisons proved invaluable in helping Sherlock solve the case.
As you worked together, you saw a different side of Sherlock. You knew he had a distaste for you. You often corrected him when he tried to deduct what traces of plants were left in the crime scene.
But then, you saw his vulnerability, his fear for his sister Enola. It was clear that Sherlock cared deeply for his younger sister, and the thought of losing her had him on edge.
That lead you to the very night when you heard aggressive knocking on your door. You woke abruptly, and you ran carefully to your door, opening it to see Sherlock in tears as he held an unconscious Enola who looked pale.
"I had nowhere else to go..." Sherlock said with a slight waver in his voice.
You wasted no time as you let Sherlock in as he placed Enola down on your bed. You lit a couple of candles and grabbed a box of herbals, hurriedly getting out a couple of vials.
"What did she consume?" You ask out loud.
Sherlock couldn't muster a sentence as all he could see was his sister who was unresponsive. You go up to him, grabbing the sides of his arms.
"Sherlock, I can't help her unless I know what she took!" You raised your voice.
Sherlock broke out of his trance and looked at you.
"We were at dinner. She took a drink that was meant for me." He said, grabbing a teacup in his pocket and giving it to you. You looked at the bottom of the cup, observing the tiny petals that were left. But what scared you most was how pigmented it looked, leaving a shade of purple.
"Wolfsbane..." You muttered, before throwing yourself in your box.
"There's no cure for it." Sherlock says almost hauntingly.
"Yet." You remarked, mixing a bunch of leaves together and poured a few liquids. You turn to him, holding the bowl.
"I need you to hold her up." He rushed towards his sister and held her up. You parted her shut lips as you poured down the mixture.
You silently prayed, hoping that there be a sign that it worked. Finally, she began to stir and slightly coughed.
She fluttered her eyes as she looked up to you two towering over her.
"Took me to almost die to have you two stop fighting."
You two couldn't help but chuckle.
"Apparently, we couldn't get rid of your sense of humor." Sherlock replied.
He was visibly relieved, and you saw a side of him that you had never seen before. He was vulnerable, emotional, and realized that he was just as human as anyone else.
As Enola recovered, you spent more and more time with Sherlock. You had work on this case together, discussing theories and brainstorming ideas. And yet, there was always an unspoken tension between them.
Finally, you and Sherlock were sitting in silence by the fire as Enola slept in your bed.
"I don't share gratitude often, but thank you... for saving my sister."
"Of course... I know it took a lot out of you to admit it. I can just see it in your eyes."
Sherlock knits his eyebrows.
"Oh?" He asks. Never has his emotions become transparent.
"Have you not heard the expression 'The eyes are the windows to the soul'?" You question, getting up from your seat.
"What do you see in my eyes?" He asks, trying to mock you.
You turn your head, looking at him sharply. You know he can plow his top like a kettle, but you wanted to see how he'd react.
"Loneliness."
Sherlock is a bit taken back from your words.
"Your deduction is quite wrong," He says, his voice bitter.
"I beg to differ. Your eyes don't shine bright. A pity since they're very pleasing to get lost into."
Sherlock scoffs as he got up too.
"I don't need companionship to get along with life, nor your sarcasm." He replied.
"Fine. Do you have anyone in your life? A wife or a child to come home to?"
"I don't need that, it's a distraction."
"Since when does love become a distraction?"
"Because I loved the wrong person and paid the price!" he spat.
You paused as he sat down.
"You knew Wolfsbane had no cure." You said. Sherlock averted his eyes to the fire, remembering.
"There was a woman who was spying on me. She challenged me in ways others cannot. When I finally caught her, she had this... hold on me. It was like I was stuck in her spell. Then when we got too close... she died in my arms."
"What was her name?"
"Irene."
"It's a fine name." You said, sitting next to him.
"A name I still wish to forget." He says.
You hold on to his hand as you two made eye contact with each other.
"You need to allow yourself to love again. I know it's as ridiculous as it sounds, but it's true. You are deserving of it, Sherlock."
A beat skips and Sherlock leans and kisses you.
Your eyes widen at the moment, but you sink into his kiss as you hold onto his face.
Soon, Sherlock realized what he was doing and pulled away. He looked, scared, almost like he was staring at a ghost.
"I'm- I'm sorry. I didn't mean to..." he tried finishing his sentence, but was still overwhelmed.
"No, no, no. Don't be. I'll just- watch over Enola." You stammered as you went upstairs to check on her. Out of eyesight, you lean on the wall as you felt a tear roll down your cheek.
'He can't love you...' your conscience said in your head. You took a deep breath and moved on, knowing that the Holmes boy is still in pain and is not ready to make any type of commitment.
Sherlock held a carriage bright in the day as you helped Enola down the stairs.
"Promise me you'll take things one day at a time? I hate for you to return with worse symptoms."
Enola smiles as she hugs you.
"I will, thank you so much." she says.
You arrived outside as Sherlock helped her settle in her seat and he looks back at you.
"About last night, I apologize for my behavior." He said softly.
"Don't be, it was an innocent spur of the moment." You replied, trying to settle his worries.
"We'll make our way, I'll make sure to send a letter of her improvement." He said, taking out his hand.
You give him a small smile and you shaked his hand.
"I hope to see you again, Mr. Holmes." You said.
He gives you a courteous nod and turns around, afraid a second longer he'd succumb in your touch. He flexes the hand which shook yours, as his blood was rushing in his veins. He sat in the carriage and alerted the rider to begin their journey.
He looks out in the distance, seeing the buildings and the busy people pass by.
Enola looks at her older brother, squinting her eyes as she studied him like an artist studied a still butterfly.
"Oh my goodness, you kissed her!" She yelled out.
Sherlock turned his head abruptly to Enola, almost getting whiplash.
"That is absurd!" He acclaimed.
"It's obvious! Your eyes say it all. Not to mention the clenched jaw and how you're still flexing the hand that held hers."
He tried to deny the facts, but he knew he couldn't hide it any longer.
"It was just a kiss, it didn't matter." He says, sitting more in his seat that was now consuming him.
"It did to you, and maybe even to her."
Sherlock turns away as he perched his elbow on the window.
"Enola, we both know that I'm not capable to love someone."
"But don't you think that she could be the one?"
"And what makes you say that?" He asks.
"Because she's running towards the carriage." She said.
Sherlock was confused until he turned towards the back and sees you running in the middle of the street.
"Sherlock!" You screamed out loud.
Sherlock turns back and uses his cane, knocking to the roof.
"Stop the carriage!" He yells out.
The rider stops and Sherlock jumps out of the carriage, racing towards you.
Shortly, you two stop in the middle of the road as you catch your breath. Sherlock stood there, looking tall and stoic.
"I don't know why I'm here. I just- I just knew that if I didn't see you again that I wouldn't have seen you at all. I should have thought it out, it was a bit hard to run in these shoes and my corset-"
"Let me kiss you." Sherlock said.
"Pardon?" She asks.
"I said," He took a step closer so no space was in between you.
"Let me kiss you."
You were taken aback. You had never expected Sherlock to be so open with his emotions. And yet, you knew that you loved him too.
You two kissed in the middle of the road.
Enola was happy for her brother as she looked back at the scene.
"Miss, shall we wait for Mr. Holmes?" the rider asks.
"No, he'd be able to find his way home." She said as she closed the door.
As you parted away, Sherlock looks down at you.
"Thank you, for showing me that I can love again."
You smiled as you two connected your foreheads together as you feel his racing heart.
"It was always in you, Sherlock."
You then took his hand as you two made your way to your apartment holding onto Sherlock.
Sherlock, indeed, found his way home.
#sherlock holmes#sherlock holmes enola holmes#sherlock holmes henry cavill#sherlock holmes fic#sherlock x reader#sherlock holmes x reader#henry cavill x reader#henry cavill fanfic#henry cavill
244 notes
·
View notes
Text
Rules, fandoms I write for and who (Please check rules)
Please send in requests (Especially yandere).
Sherlock bbc;
Sherlock Holmes
James Moriarty
Mycroft Holmes
Gotham tv series:
Jerome Valeska
Jerimiah Valeska
Fish Mooney
Jonathan Crane
Oswald Cobblepot
Edward Nygma
Bruce Wayne
Interview With The Vampire 1994:
Lestat De Lioncourt
Scream 1996:
Billy Loomis
-Stu macher
(I write poly Billy and Stu and them separately)
-Sydney Prescott
Halloween 1978
Michael Myres
Labyrinth
Jareth The Goblin King
-Spiderman
Tom holland Spiderman/Peter Parker
Andrew Garfield Spiderman/Peter Parker
Andrew Garfield Gwen
(I write Peter and Gwen poly or separately)
The Green Goblin
Star Wars
Padme Amidala
Anakin Skywalker
(I write poly Padme and Anakin and I write them separate)
Luke Skywalker
Chucky
Tiffany Valentine
Chucky/Charles Lee Ray
(I can write them poly and separately)
-Carrie 1976
Carrie
Rules and stuff:
I can write yandere and the character just how they are, though I prefer yandere. (Do not get offended if a yandere fic of mine is particularly dark. That is how I view the character as a yandere)
I write smut.
I write female reader and gender neutral reader. (I will try my best with a gn reader and I apologize if I make a mistake when writing a gn reader)
I only write x reader. Do not request an oc or a ship. (Though my fanfics are written with a poc reader in mind, and I may take a poc reader request since we don't get a lot of rep)
I don't write yandere slashers beside Carrie and Billy and Stu
I only write head canons (but feel free to request full fanfics (I will write them if I find them interesting)).
As of now I don't write platonic fanfics, but I might in the future so feel free to ask.
Write as many requests as you want, but I am not obligated to write/respond to your request
#Sherlock Holmes#Gotham#Dc#Star Wars#Spiderman#jareth the goblin king#the labyrinth#Slashers#fanfiction#x reader#yandere
29 notes
·
View notes
Photo
“You know, she doesn’t love you. She’s incapable of loving anyone, let alone you,” the man told you pointedly. “It’s not real.”
For a moment you let your smile fall and your eyes widen to broadcast misery across your features, just to give him the satisfaction, but you couldn’t keep it together for long. Just as the smugness spread from his eyes to his smile, you couldn’t stop yourself from collapsing into a fit of giggles. You laughed until you couldn’t breathe.
You composed yourself quickly enough, sitting down to enjoy how his smugness had vanished.
“I know she can’t love me, my dear, dear Mycroft, she practically reeks of psychosis and antisocial personality disorder,” you tell him, on the brink of laughing again, “but it doesn’t matter to me.” He frowned as you spoke and his confusion made it all the better. You shrug as you relax, leaning back.
“Her hands are soft and when she’s with me my stomach feels all fuzzy. I like her and she makes me feel nice, so who gives a damn whether it’s real or not? Certainly not me,” you explain, and the British Government doesn’t say another word as he leaves you to yourself in your cell.
#sherlock imagine#eurus imagine#eurus holmes imagine#eurus x reader#eurus holmes x reader#eurus holmes#mycroft holmes#sherlock#villain imagine#poc imagine#woc imagine#berrak tüzünataç#sian brooke#IsoldeTristan Imagine™️
109 notes
·
View notes
Text
REQUEST GUIDELINES/FANDOM LIST:
last update: 03.01.2022 2nd August, 2022 14th November, 2022 1st April, 2024
If you want to request something pls give me some more or less specific ideas or a few prompts (link for prompt list).
I'll automatically do platonic relationship and they/them pronouns if it's not specified.
Also, english isn't my first language you've been warned.
What I don't take requests for:
Stuff i might write if im in the mood but probably won't ( There are always going on be warnings ofc)
smut
suggestive stuff
toxic relationships (might appear in a criminal minds fic or something like that, never romantizised)
darkfics
arguments
enemies to lovers
What I don't write in general:
romantizised toxic relationships
rape, incest, pedophilia, age gap (teacher/student as well) etc.
romance for characters under 14 y/o
male reader x lesbian character or female reader x gay character
about poc/trans/mlm struggles - they are obviously very very real but i am white and sapphic (not saying i won't write about characters that are any of these things, i'll do my best to make the reader gender, race, body size etc inclusive.)
What I write:
Character(s) x reader
Gender Neutral/Non-binary!, Female!, Male!reader. Obv gender ≠ pronouns but it's th
Mixed pronouns (ex. they/she), THEORETICALLY neo pronouns?
Background ships
AUs (SOULMATES!!!)
Crossovers (read fandom list)
Platonic, romantic, unspecified or familial relationship
Fandoms/characters:
Star Wars:
Romantic: Anakin Skywalker, Padmé Amidala, young!Obi-wan,
Ahsoka Tano, Asajj Ventress, Bariss Offi, Rex, Echo, Fives,
Cal Kestis,
Kanan Jarrus, Hera Syndylla, Sabine Wren,
Jyn Erso, Cassian Andor,
Din Djarin, Fenec Shnad,
Rey Skywalker, Finn
+more
Platonic: Everyone above, Obi-wan Kenobi, The Bad Batch, The ghost crew, Grogu,
Won't write: Ben Solo/Kylo Ren, Hux
Ships: Anidala, Barrisoka, Kanera, Finnpoe
Knowledge: All movies, almost all shows/cartoons (except Resistance), books - Master and apprentice, games - started JFO and (barley) SWTOR
Marvel:
Romantic: Miles Morales, Gwen Stacy, Hobie Brown, Peter Parker, Natasha Romanov, Wanda Maximoff, Kate Bishop
Platonic: Everyone above, Peter B Parker, Yelena Belova,
Stranger things:
Romantic: Robin Buckley, Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson, Nancy Wheeler, Max Mayfield (s4!), Lucas Sinclair (s4!), Chrissy Cunningham, Barbara Holland rip, Jonathan Byers, Eddie Munson + more
Platonic: Everyone above, Max (all seasons), Lucas (all seasons), Will Byers, Dustin Henderson, El Hopper, Erica Sinclair, Joyce Byers, Jim Hopper, Murray Bauman, Alexei Smirnoff, Dmitri 'Enzo' Antonov, Yuri Ismailov,
Won't write: Billy
Ships: Jopper, Lumax, Elmax, Ronance, Robin/Vickie, Steddie
Knowledge: up to season 4, none books
Arcane:
Romantic: Vi, Jinx, Ekko,
Platonic: Everyone above, almost everyone else
Ships: CaitVi
Knowledge: season 1
Avatar: the last air bender
Please include if you want the reader to be a bender (and what kind) or not
R: Zuko, Suki, Sokka, +more
P: Everyone above, the gaang, Iroh,
Ships: Suki/Sokka, Zukka,
Knowledge: All seasons, almost all comics, live action
The legend of Korra:
R/P: Most characters
Won't write: Kuvira
Ships: Korrasami,
Knowledge: All seasons, all comics
The Dragon Prince:
R: Claudia, Rayla, Soren, Corvus
P: Everyone above, Ezran, Callum, Amaya, Harrow, Gren,
Ships: All canon ships, Sorvus
Knowledge: up to season 4
Sherlock Holmes:
BBC:
R/P: Most characters
Ships: Johnlock, Mystrade,
Enola Holmes:
R/P: Enola,
Criminal minds:
R/P: Elle Greenway, Derek Morgan, Emily Prentiss
Knowledge: Watching season 6
Heartstopper:
R/P: Most characters, comic or show.
Won't write: Harry and Ben.
Ships: All canon ships; Imogen x me😍 /hj
Knowledge: Comic: 7-13; show: season 1
The Blacklist:
R: Elizabeth Keen, Donald Ressler, Aram Mojtabai, Alina Park,
P: Everyone above, Harold Cooper, Tom Keen, Raymond Redington, Dembe Zuma, Kate Kaplan, Agnes Keen
Knowledge: Season 9
#star wars x reader#star wars imagine#stranger things x reader#stranger things imagine#arcane x reader#heartstopper imagine#heartstopper x reader#robin buckley x reader#steve harrington x reader#eddie munson x reader#nancy wheeler x reader#joyce byers x reader#elle greenaway x reader
70 notes
·
View notes
Photo
As part of the AO3 Ship Stats project, this list shows the 100 most-posted pairing tags on Archive Of Our Own in the period 24 July 2019 - 2 August 2020. This list was created by comparing the current number of fics with data gathered for the 2019 AO3 Ship Stats.
There are 71 M/M pairings on the list, 15 F/M, 3 F/F, 8 Gen and 3 Other. (Please note that on AO3, ‘Name & Name’ indicates platonic or familial ‘Gen’ relationships, while ‘Name/Name’ is used for romantic and sexual pairings.)
Of the 200 names on the list, 23 are women and 3 are characters of ambiguous gender, down from 28 and 3 in the 2019 list. 92 are POC, and 7 are racially ambiguous, compared with 64 and 11 two years ago.
For more information about the AO3 Ship Stats project, please check out the accompanying FAQs. You might also be interested in the All-Time Top 100 Pairings and the Femslash Top 100 list. These stats are also available on AO3.
ETA: Fixed the Change value for Merlin/Arthur Pendragon.
ETA 2: Fixed Race categorisation for Michael Guerin/Alex Manes.
A text-only version of this data is given below the cut.
Rank Change Pairing Fandom New Works Total Type Race
1 15 Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens) Good Omens (TV) 20298 28726 M/M White
2 72 Lán Zhàn | Lán Wàngjī/Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn 魔道祖师 - 墨香铜臭 | Módào Zǔshī - Mòxiāng Tóngxiù 10671 13130 M/M POC
3 8 Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren Star Wars Sequel Trilogy 9076 21306 F/M White
4 28 Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier IT (Movies – Muschietti) 8441 12227 M/M White
5 N Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion The Witcher (TV) 7573 7573 M/M White
6 1 Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling 7239 40312 M/M White
7 5 Bakugou Katsuki/Midoriya Izuku Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia 7070 16824 M/M POC
8 0 Peter Parker & Tony Stark Marvel Cinematic Universe 6807 17366 Gen White
9 -7 James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers Captain America (Movies) 6262 49659 M/M White
10 4 Bakugou Katsuki/Kirishima Eijirou Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia 6141 15375 M/M POC
11 -5 Steve Rogers/Tony Stark The Avengers (Marvel Movies) 5613 36264 M/M White
12 68 Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens) Good Omens (TV) 5503 7928 Gen White
13 -8 Jeon Jungkook/Kim Taehyung | V Bangtan Boys | BTS 5254 23339 M/M POC
14 5 Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug Miraculous Ladybug 5183 19631 F/M Whi/POC
15 5 Midoriya Izuku/Todoroki Shouto Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia 5001 14073 M/M POC
16 -13 Castiel/Dean Winchester Supernatural 4927 84563 M/M White
17 1 Jeon Jungkook/Park Jimin Bangtan Boys | BTS 4596 17867 M/M POC
18 N Evan "Buck" Buckley/Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV) 9-1-1 (TV) 3716 3716 M/M Whi/POC
19 5 Kara Danvers/Lena Luthor Supergirl (TV 2015) 3614 13048 F/F White
20 -16 Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood Shadowhunters (TV) 3599 24787 M/M Whi/POC
21 2 Pepper Potts/Tony Stark Marvel Cinematic Universe 3569 17384 F/M White
22 14 Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead/Yamada Hizashi | Present Mic Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia 3565 7325 M/M POC
23 N Adora/Catra (She-Ra) She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018) 3538 4919 F/F Whi/POC
24 15 Dazai Osamu/Nakahara Chuuya (Bungou Stray Dogs) 文豪ストレイドッグス | Bungou Stray Dogs 3512 8768 M/M POC
25 N Wang Yi Bo/Xiao Zhan 陈情令 | The Untamed (TV) RPF 3446 3446 M/M POC
26 -12 Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski Teen Wolf (TV) 3249 59286 M/M White
27 10 Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin) Merlin (TV) 3157 18688 M/M White
28 -11 Kim Namjoon | RM/Kim Seokjin | Jin Bangtan Boys | BTS 3155 16682 M/M POC
29 66 Ayanga/Zhèng Yúnlóng 声入人心 | Super-Vocal (TV) 3111 5285 M/M POC
30 -21 Min Yoongi | Suga/Park Jimin Bangtan Boys | BTS 3026 19851 M/M POC
31 -3 Sirius Black/Remus Lupin Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling 2958 17686 M/M White
32 N Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist The Magnus Archives (Podcast) 2917 3367 M/M Ambig
33 60 Bakugou Katsuki & Midoriya Izuku Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia 2672 5023 Gen POC
34 12 Peter Parker/Tony Stark Marvel Cinematic Universe 2623 6160 M/M White
35 N Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio Haikyuu!! 2601 10485 M/M POC
36 22 Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling 2583 10171 F/M Whi/Amb
37 -8 Kim Taehyung | V/Park Jimin Bangtan Boys | BTS 2507 9891 M/M POC
38 -37 Keith/Lance (Voltron) Voltron: Legendary Defender 2480 30317 M/M Amb/POC
39 20 Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington Stranger Things (TV 2016) 2438 5338 M/M White
40 N Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou Haikyuu!! 2387 7629 M/M POC
41 N Patrick Brewer/David Rose Schitt's Creek 2363 3150 M/M White
42 5 Lee Donghyuck | Haechan/Mark Lee NCT (Band) 2331 5854 M/M POC
43 8 Rey & Ben Solo | Kylo Ren Star Wars Sequel Trilogy 2304 6506 Gen White
44 N Dabi/Takami Keigo | Hawks Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia 2294 2930 M/M POC
45 N Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru Haikyuu!! 2272 11155 M/M POC
46 -24 Jung Hoseok | J-Hope/Min Yoongi | Suga Bangtan Boys | BTS 2259 12668 M/M POC
47 N Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier Fire Emblem: Three Houses 2218 2218 M/M White
48 28 Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth Game of Thrones (TV) 2186 7063 F/M White
49 19 Bakugou Katsuki/Todoroki Shouto Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia 2169 4991 M/M POC
50 N Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh IT (Movies – Muschietti) 2163 3116 F/M White
51 3 Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling 2128 11699 F/M Whi/Amb
52 -31 Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Sherlock (TV) 2121 61544 M/M White
53 -5 James Potter/Lily Evans Potter Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling 2110 10125 F/M White
54 -28 Jeon Jungkook/Min Yoongi | Suga Bangtan Boys | BTS 2074 9498 M/M POC
55 N Jiāng Chéng | Jiāng Wǎnyín/Lán Huàn | Lán Xīchén 魔道祖师 - 墨香铜臭 | Módào Zǔshī - Mòxiāng Tóngxiù 2073 2494 M/M POC
56 -25 Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter Hannibal (TV) 2064 17257 M/M White
57 N Kakyoin Noriaki/Kujo Jotaro JoJo no Kimyou na Bouken | JoJo's Bizarre Adventure 1964 3580 M/M POC
58 N Midoriya Izuku/Uraraka Ochako Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia 1896 3983 F/M POC
59 -46 Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime) 1843 24332 M/M Whi/POC
60 15 Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling 1838 9269 F/M White
61 N Poe Dameron/Finn Star Wars Sequel Trilogy 1806 7238 M/M POC
62 N Kaminari Denki/Shinsou Hitoshi Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia 1791 2732 M/M POC
63 -38 Dan Howell/Phil Lester Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF) 1782 17316 M/M White
64 -54 Keith/Shiro (Voltron) Voltron: Legendary Defender 1764 13925 M/M Amb/POC
65 31 Anxiety | Virgil Sanders/Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders Sanders Sides (Web Series) 1720 3917 M/M White
66 N Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell 1707 4803 M/M Whi/POC
67= -33 Kim Taehyung | V/Min Yoongi | Suga Bangtan Boys | BTS 1651 7176 M/M POC
67= N Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth Fire Emblem: Three Houses 1651 1651 Other White
69 N Michelle Jones/Peter Parker Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies) 1639 3692 F/M Whi/POC
70 N Michael Guerin/Alex Manes Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019) 1635 2746 M/M Whi/POC
71 28 Uchiha Sasuke/Uzumaki Naruto Naruto 1625 7705 M/M POC
72 N Bakugou Katsuki/Uraraka Ochako Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia 1617 3776 F/M POC
73 -30 James "Bucky" Barnes/Tony Stark Marvel Cinematic Universe 1559 7456 M/M White
74 -39 James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader Marvel Cinematic Universe 1544 7724 Other Whi/Amb
75 9 Upgraded Connor | RK900/Gavin Reed Detroit: Become Human (Video Game) 1534 3921 M/M White
76 N Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling 1511 6308 M/M White
77 N Jeon Jungkook/Kim Namjoon | RM Bangtan Boys | BTS 1505 3911 M/M POC
78 N Annabeth Chase/Percy Jackson Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan 1501 6017 F/M White
79 N Edelgard von Hresvelg/My Unit | Byleth Fire Emblem: Three Houses 1495 1495 Other White
80 N Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester Supernatural 1493 8791 Gen White
81 N Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead & Midoriya Izuku Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia 1487 2200 Gen POC
82 -37 Tony Stark/Stephen Strange Marvel Cinematic Universe 1460 4912 M/M White
83 N Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist Persona 5 1447 3285 M/M POC
84 N Kozume Kenma/Kuroo Tetsurou Haikyuu!! 1444 4932 M/M POC
85 N Han Jisung | Han/Lee Minho | Lee Know Stray Kids (Band) 1440 3091 M/M POC
86 -33 Byun Baekhyun/Park Chanyeol EXO (Band) 1431 6629 M/M POC
87 -45 Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester Supernatural 1416 27696 M/M White
88 N Leone Abbacchio/Bruno Buccellati JoJo no Kimyou na Bouken | JoJo's Bizarre Adventure 1415 2237 M/M White
89 N Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar Lucifer (TV) 1413 4165 F/M White
90 N Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier IT - Stephen King 1396 2268 Gen White
91 N Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard All For The Game - Nora Sakavic 1392 4681 M/M White
92 N Blake Belladonna/Yang Xiao Long RWBY 1390 4358 F/F POC
93 N Midoriya Izuku & Todoroki Shouto Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia 1378 2887 Gen POC
94 N Padmé Amidala/Anakin Skywalker | Darth Vader Star Wars - All Media Types 1369 4112 F/M White
95= -8 Kim Namjoon | RM/Park Jimin Bangtan Boys | BTS 1365 4728 M/M POC
95= N Sokka/Zuko (Avatar) Avatar: The Last Airbender 1365 1828 M/M POC
97 N Lee Jeno/Na Jaemin NCT (Band) 1360 3266 M/M POC
98 N Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies) 1333 14736 M/M White
99 -72 Loki/Thor (Marvel) Thor (Movies) 1330 12863 M/M White
100 N Logic | Logan Sanders/Morality | Patton Sanders Sanders Sides (Web Series) 1327 3132 M/M White
#archive of our own#ao3#fandom statistics#fandom research#racism in fandom#sexism in fandom#slash fandom#femslash fandom#fandom studies#ao3 ship stats#things i made
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
The Alienist. By Caleb Carr. New York: Random House, 1994.
Rating: 4/5 stars
Genre: historical fiction, mystery, suspense
Part of a Series? Yes, The Kreizler Series #1
Summary: The year is 1896. The city is New York. Newspaper reporter John Schuyler Moore is summoned by his friend Dr. Laszlo Kreizler—a psychologist, or “alienist”—to view the horribly mutilated body of an adolescent boy abandoned on the unfinished Williamsburg Bridge. From there the two embark on a revolutionary effort in criminology: creating a psychological profile of the perpetrator based on the details of his crimes. Their dangerous quest takes them into the tortured past and twisted mind of a murderer who will kill again before their hunt is over.
***Full review under the cut.***
Content Warnings: ableism, homophobia/transphobia, racism (including slurs), sexism, rape, abuse, child abuse and sexual assault, child prostitution, animal cruelty, blood, gore, violence
Overview: This book has been on my TBR list for a while, so I figured I’d finally get around to reading it. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, but I was actually surprised by how much I enjoyed the reading experience. Carr writes in a way that pretty closely imitates 19th century detective fiction, and while such a style might not be for everyone, I thought it went a long way in creating atmosphere. My criticisms have mostly to do with pace and the creative decisions that probably didn’t have to be made (such as depictions of child sexual assault, use of slurs, etc), but even with those faults, I have to give Carr’s craft and research a lot of credit, so this book gets 4 stars from me.
Writing: As I mentioned above, this book mimics detective fiction of the 19th century. If you’ve read any of Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes stories, you might get the idea: first person, characters displaying almost whimsical behavior, stuffed with contextual details that may or may not be relevant. At first, I thought the reading experience was going to be a slog, but once I realized what Carr was trying to do, I readjusted my expectations and found the prose to be quite engaging. If you like 19th century literature, you might appreciate what Carr does, but if you find older lit to be a challenge, this book might not be the thriller you’re hoping for.
That being said, I do think there were some areas where Carr could have picked up the pace or even cut some of the contextual details. It’s obvious that Carr did a lot of research before writing this book, and it’s understandable that he would want to show off some of that research, but there were times where I felt like it was a little much.
I also think there are a lot of things in this book that will offend modern sensibilities. I recall at least one use of the N-word (which is spoken by a racist minor character) as well as remarks that make it clear that characters think same-sex intimacy is “deviant” or abhorrent. I can understand why Carr put them in his book; if we’re trying to evoke an atmosphere and make the story feel like it’s set in the 19th century, it’s not realistic to expect everyone to be accepting of gay sex or treat POC with respect. But also, I think it’s on Carr to bear the responsibility of creating plot points and characters that have those attitudes in the first place. The character who uses the N-word could have easily not done so, and characters could have been more clear that their revulsion was at child prostitution rather than same-sex relationships.
Still, I was able to follow the plot with no problem and the sentences flowed in a way that made the reading experience feel quick (no 10-line sentences, thank god). So while there may be some things I would have liked to see adjusted to fit my own tastes, I think Carr did a wonderful job of making me feel like I was reading an older work.
Plot: The plot of this book follows a group of investigators as they try to use psychology to catch a serial killer. As far as being an “original” or unique thriller, this book doesn’t necessarily deliver a plot we haven’t seen before; but what made it so interesting (at least to me) was that it was less interested in the thrill of catching the killer and more interested in thinking through the “whys.” Why did the killer do X? Why did he do Y and Z when he could have done A or B? In this sense, the suspense doesn’t come from the action or the “chase,” but from the building of ideas and a foggy picture becoming more and more clear.
If I can fault Carr for anything, it’s that I think he crafted his mystery around some subjects that are... touchy (for lack of a better word). Most of the murder victims are children - specifically child prostitutes - and a lot of the killer’s motivations are rooted in some combination of racism and exposure to abuse. If you’re looking for a book which handles these issues with sensitivity, I think you’ll be disappointed. But I have to give Carr some credit for not overly sensationalizing these things; for example, while he did include characters who were racist towards Native Americans, he also included characters who were sympathetic and who insisted on not judging tribes for their defensive violence. Not everything is perfect, and there were some moments that made me uncomfortable, but I felt like Carr painted a complex picture of 19th century America, so I was able to keep going.
Characters: The plot of this book is told from the perspective of John Schuyler Moore - a newspaper reporter who teams up with his friend, eminent psychologist Dr. Laszlo Kreizler, to catch a serial killer. As a protagonist, Moore isn’t overly compelling - he’s more like a neutral, blank slate that the reader can project themselves onto. He serves much of the same function as Watson in the Sherlock Holmes stories: to be a witness to other characters’ brilliance while occasionally making some helpful insights. Still, I didn’t outright hate Moore - he was kind and loyal, and I admired how he went out of his way to try to help people.
Kreizler, the psychologist (or “alienist” as they were called in those days), is somewhat of a Sherlockian character in that he’s eccentric, confident, and had abilities that stun the people around him. For the most part, Kreizler was fun to follow. I think the only times I got truly frustrated with him were when he would allude to some knowledge and then leave Moore in the dark - like “aha! This thing is obvious!” “What thing?” “No time to explain! I’ll tell you at dinner!” Those moments were a little irritating.
Sarah, the most prominent female character, was more complex than I expected her to be. She has clear career aspirations and doesn’t let anyone hold her back, and I liked that she was presented as this kick-ass woman who still felt human. She struggles when faced with the horrors of the murder, but she doesn’t let the horror put her off of her task. She’s confident and never seems to have a moment of self-doubt (which is refreshing). She notices interpersonal things without being boxed in as “the woman who notices emotions.” Granted, Sarah does serve some token function - she’s brought on in order to provide a “female perspective,” which was a little frustrating, but she held her own so well that my annoyance melted away.
Marcus and Lucius, the two brothers who work for the police department, are also quite charming characters. I loved how they brought technical expertise to the group by being knowledgeable about anatomy, fingerprints, photography, and the like, and I especially enjoyed the way they bickered with one another. Their presence immediately made scenes feel lighter, and they brought something of a family aspect to the whole band.
Supporting characters were well-crafted in that no two felt quite the same. Teddy Roosevelt (yes, that one) was cheerful and warm while still demanding absolute cooperation and loyalty from his men. Cyrus and Stevie - two of Kreizler’s employees - were charming, though I wish Cyrus had gotten to do more than just kind of silently stand by awaiting orders. Mary - Kreizler’s maid - was a lovely character, and I appreciated the positive disability representation we got with her, though I do not like how her character arc ended and how it related to the main plot. The crime bosses were intimidating without feeling too much like stock characters, the thugs did their job. I don’t think there was a character that was poorly written, just characters who served purposes that may or may not have been needed.
As for the murderer... we don’t get to see him very much, but I felt like I got to know him because so much of the book was focused on mapping out his life and psychology. It worked much better than books where the antagonist is looming off to the side, acting as a vaguely threatening force but not really a character, and one that doesn’t even show up until the last quarter of the book. When the killer finally does appear on page, I felt like he had been involved in the story, even without being physically present, so I was able to accept him as an active force on the narrative, not just a surprise twist at the end.
TL;DR: The Alienist is a well-crafted mystery that uses atmosphere and psychology to create an engaging mystery. While some readers may struggle with the period-like prose or the more disturbing aspects of the story, Carr creates a compelling narrative by focusing on understanding and knowledge over spectacle and action, and by using well-developed characters.
8 notes
·
View notes
Text
I feel like Satan for having to ask this question, as it is not the responsibility of the POC/Asian community to educate me especially on these questions. As a uneducated but wishing to learn white girl:
Where does everyone fit in the description of Asian (example: Japan, China and korea are known as Eastern Asia)
The way the map is formatted, does that mean Japan, China and Korea are actually northern Eastern Asia?
Does this mean the Middle East is actually Asian? But western Asian?
Are Polynesian islands considered Asia and Polynesian people consideration Asian and not just Polynesian?
I’m really embarrassed I’m asking these questions. I feel incompetent and I struggle to trust people on Reddit and yahoo. I came here because I think I could find POC/Asian people who can help.
I want my tags to be inclusive but current I’ve just been writing things like “Sherlock Holmes x Asian reader” and then using gifs of only pale Korean and Japanese women 🥺 and considering I made a friend the other week who is Indian, I think that is so unfair of me- but then I thought “what about other places too!?” And never realised how massive Asia actually is compared to everyone. I DIDNT KNOW THE MIDDLE EAST WAS PART IF ASIA 🤷♀️ see how helpless and stupid I feel???
#HELP ME PLS#Asian community#Asian community please help#I want to hear straight from your lips the answers#I want to learn and be inclusive#reader tags
0 notes
Text
Wails of Wedded Bliss
Chapter 3 || Masterlist || Chapter 5
Chapter Summary: Sherlock fulfils his husbandry duty and desires to play some more with your weak resolve.
Pairing: Sherlock Homes x wife!reader
Chapter Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Period Sex, Blowjob, Bondage, Pet Names, Fingering, Forced Orgasm, Forced Pubic shave, Humiliation.
Word Count: 9k
Author Notes: This chapter involves description of period blood and sex, please be warned!!
Inspiring Song: "Copy Cat." Billie Eillish classic cover
•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•
6:39pm Tuesday 6th May 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.
You had no choice. Not really...he was your husband and you were his wife. His threat of infidelity brought a great fear to your mental strength than your threat to murder him without a solid plan.
Oh how you hated him for this. You despised him with every sense. You weren’t sure how you’d be able to forgive him.
You knew he wasn’t a good or kind or even gentle husband, but a husband is meant to be faithful. And if humiliating yourself to pleasuring him with your mouth kept him straying in sin; by god you would obey.
You crept closer to him and slowly lowered yourself on one knee, then the next. Your eyes could not leave his face. A sick and twisted smile spread over his rosy cheeks.
In his palm was his half hard cock. His large hand made it appear smaller. The memory of its violent entrance had not been forgotten however.
It stared you back in the face. The pink head peaked up and out of his pale skin. His thumb rubbed over the pink head.
You felt cold and strange in comparison to your usual jitters. You fluttered your eyes closed. Your hands sat in your lap on your thighs.
‘He just wanted a kiss. I can kiss it...’
You leant forward and puckered your lips. His skin was feverishly warm. You pulled back fast and blinked up at him with wet eyes.
He chuckled meanly and touched your damp cheek in his other hand before moving his fingers under your jaw and guiding you closer to his cock.
“Lick the top with the tip of your tongue.”
Your lips trembled nervously. You weren’t sure if this was worth it. The thudding of your chest made you forget what he had asked.
Visions of the lewd novel in his chest flashed in your mind.
“P-pardon?”
His thumb pressed against your mouth, forcing its way past your lips and teeth. You knew better than to bite him. You weren’t an animal...you didn’t want a repeat of the night before where you had bitten his tongue.
“Stick out,” he pulled your tongue out with his thumb, “this little tongue.”
He pulled you closer by the chin and held his cock upwards.
“Lick.”
You whined softly and batted your eyes. Did you have the guts to do this? To truly perform fellatio? You didn’t really have the choice. You had to do this.
He let you go and waited patiently. He undid his cuffs and rolled the shirt off his shoulders.
“Are you so dim witted?” he gruffly asked, his fingers grabbed at your jaw after you took too long,
“Need I repeat myself once more?”
You shuddered and shook your head side to side. It was just so scary. Why did you have to have such a cruel husband!?
“No,” you licked your chapped lips, “I am sorry Mr Holmes.”
His eyes widened, his face softened but his lips smirked, “So polite, little lamb...”
Your lower half tingles with delight at the warmth of his sudden praise...
‘Little lamb, how do I despise it...yet feel warmth within?’
You pushed your face closer. You stuck out your tongue again and this time, glided it over his hot red tip. The gleam of your saliva and his desire shone in the soft candle light of a kerosene lamp on his bedside table.
You tucked your nose quickly back to your chest. You flushed.
Fluttering his eyes, Sherlock clenched the covers. His gasp on his breath was a sound of pain you originally believed.
“Again,” he said clearing his throat, “Come now, I grow tiresome to your reluctance.”
You wanted to spit at him. He knew you didn’t want to do this and yet still made you do it. You licked him again. His hand clapped on the back of your neck, forcing you closer and blocking you from pulling away.
You fell into him slightly, forced to need to grab his pant covered knee and thigh. Your fingers squeezed his trousers to stabilise your balance on your knees.
You looked back up into his eyes. Perhaps it was easier to look him in the eye instead of looking at the brutal beast between his thighs.
You opened your mouth and licked his cock little by little...his thumb pushed up your nose, opening your mouth wider. He pushed his cock into your mouth. His eyes were glued on you. He appeared relaxed.
His skin lacked any flavour. It was like licking your palm...but after a while there was a hint of salt in the taste buds.
You kept your mouth open, you kept your tongue out as he moved his hips in and out. His hand pushed you down and pinched you back up.
Your eyes remained only on him. He was grunting and sighing. A twinge of triumph tickled your heart. You were pleasing him! He would not want to seek out the unsavoury company of whores or any other woman overall.
He paused and leant down. He grabbed at your wrist and picked up his hand and rested your fingers around his length of his cock.
Your blinked and stared at the placement.
“Squeeze, and rub me up to the tip, down to the sack.” You nodded, his cock still rested on your tongue.
He chuckled and rested back on his hands. He waited for you to take over.
This was it. This is what would bring him pleasure. You cupped his shaft and moved the way you were instructed. You did it at a pace where he appear to struggle how to breathe. His words were nothingness under his breath.
He looked to the ceiling and moaned.
The skin was hot and twitched under your finger tips.
He let out a choking groan. The back of your mouth felt that harsh slapping squirt of his release.
You pulled back in horror. Your bottom slid across the rug. You weren’t sure what it was really. In fact you feared he had the audacity to piss in your mouth. You spat on the floor and coughed.
“Ugh!”
He cackled at the mortified look you had written over your sweet face.
He sighed and chewed his bottom lip. He slowly clapped his hands.
“Well done... Forgive me, I had intended to finish myself over your sweet breasts, little lamb.”
He cocked his head to the side and hummed, “Take off my shoes.” He lifted his foot to your direction.
You thought he was entirely despicable! You wiped your mouth with a growing glare. It didn’t go unnoticed by him, in fact, he took glee in your narrowing look..
“You wish to be a wife? Act as a wife. You want my loyalty? Well, you must be my whore...and whores suckle their johns cream with pretty smiles on their painted faces. Wives help their husbands undress from long days of work.”
You felt...weak and disgusting. You felt like an idiot. In your grumpy defeat you crawled back to him and began to unlace his shoes. In the corner of your eye you saw his hand reach back to his front and touch his thick meat. The looser the laces, you lifted your hands and rocked his heel out of his shoe.
Demurely you sat both his shoes aside. His socks smelt of his sweat and the filth of London street ways. You gagged and pinched the wool socks away from his calves and flung them from his toes.
A cramp waved through you and forced a grimacing groan out of your quiet misery.
Sherlock stopped laughing, his smugness dissipated. His face fell. He tucked his cock away with an annoyed sigh.
His hands unexpectedly tucked beneath your armpits and lifted you off the floor. He pushed you lightly onto his mattress onto your front. You felt your breath hitching, worrying what he would do to you. It wouldn’t be right for him to have sex with you during your menses.
He palmed his giant hand over your bottom. Hoisting your night dress up your thighs and over your back. He slapped one cheek lightly and chuckled at your cry and hiss. He grabbed your shoulder and held you down slightly. Your fingers gripped the covers of his top blanket. You had washed and changed this set. They smelt of a sweet lemon citrus.
His lips touched your bare shoulders. His hot breath tingled in your ear.
You flushed and squeezed your eyes shut. God it felt strange and ticklish.
“Look at this perfect little arse,” he admired, groping at the flesh, “Plump and ripe for a needed disciplining. Your grandparents let you get away with far too much.”
He slapped you harder. A scream bellied from you. Your spine curled up and you desperately reached back to scratch his bare arms.
“Stop it! Or I will bite you again!” you shouted.
The detective smacked his lip and hummed, “Ah that reminds me, thankyou little lamb.”
In two fingers he held in front of your eyes his cravat. He stuffed the material deep into your mouth and slapped you swiftly when you tried nipping his hand. Tears poured like boiling water.
He tied the rest of the fabric tightly behind your head. You violently shook your head and fought against him, you tried pushing away only to be shoved down by his strong hands.
He rolled you into your back and used your nightgown to tie your wrists together, over your hands. Your claws were contained from clawing his eyeballs out.
The bonds were pushed above your head. He attached a loose part of the arm of your clothes to the headpost.
He smacked your thighs apart hard. You shrieked behind the gag.
He tore the sanitary apron away and tossed it across the room. You turn your nose into your arm, too embarrassed to look at your husband who played with your body.
You twitched and tried to kick at Sherlock as his hand tickled down your side and between your thighs. The wicked man smirked as he watched your pleading eyes water. He pushed two fingers inside your red hot messed cavern. You felt ill. This was an abomination! He fingered you and held your upper body down, watching you like a hawk as you struggled.
His digits within you flexed and curled. You felt them touch along the top of your walls while his thumb rubbed down into your forbidden button. You whined and shook your head. He removed his hand all together. You clenched your legs back together.
“Oh my, Mrs Holmes,” he purred, glancing down, “You secret slut...this isn’t blood,” he held his fingers up to the light, “Why...this is arousal...”
His lips curled, flashing those pearly white gnashers.
Your eyes widened with horror. You were humiliated. Surely it wasn’t possible that you could be enjoying this? Why did he have to be so handsome. Why did your fear mix in with attraction so easily.
With the clear gleaming on his hand, with little pink streaks, he kissed your cheek and pinched
your nipples.
You shook your head and whimpered. Your legs were buzzing at the pain inflicted increased a desperate certain warmth within you.
“My was that a moan? Interesting,” he whispered cheekily.
“and if I...do this...” he asked as he shoved his hand back onto your snatch, rubbing in fine circles ontop of your clit. Your hips lifted and your thighs trembled. Your toes curled hard and your head rolled back. God it felt delicious and evil.
Amongst your lustful whines, Sherlock chortled happily, “How perfect you might be dear wife...I had no little hope for this morning, but now,” his nose shoved into your ear, “...oh you’ve just gone and damned yourself for good.”
He tugged at your pubic mane lightly, it didn’t matter, it made you squeal and howl in pain.
Your husband sat up and left the bed. Your arms were still bound above your head. You lifted your knees protectively to your chest.
“All this hair...” He tutted, “it shall not do.”
You heard him wonder across his bedroom. Out of his personal drawers he found a straight razor. He also brought forth the basin of water he had near the door way. With a cloth napkin and tiny sliver of soap, he returned and forced your legs down on to the bed. He knelt on your spread ankles and lathered your nether curls.
It was when the soap started to foam that you realised what he was intending to do. It was impossible to word the begging but he knew...you knew he knew what you were pleading out.
You knew how sharp a razor could be. What if he mutilated you!?
He glided the cold metal over your wet sensitive skin.
He licked his bottom lip as he scrapped away your mass of pubic hair.
“Hold still wife or I will cut you,” he scolded sarcastically as he went through the white bubbles.
Cleaning the razor in the water before returning it back between your thighs he hummed, “I am displeased you didn’t confer with me about the states of my accounts before deciding to pay them all off yourself. That dowry was meant for dresses, and necessary accessories such as calling cards...” he tapped the razor on the basin bowl, “now we must both rely on Mycroft and my cases for wages...stupid girl.”
The way he stared into your eyes as he held the blade up to the light...was he threatening you...was this...a warning.
You squeezed your eyes shut and took a deep shuddering breath. Tied to his bed and at his whim you were significantly helpless.
His hands took the towel and wiped your cunt clean of the hairs and soap still left behind. He whistled dramatically and smirked.
“My, my, what a pretty pussy you have.” He mused as he tossed the razor into the basin and moved the water bowl under the bed, out of the way.
His middle finger pushed inside. You gasped. The stretching intrusion took you off your guard.
“So tight still. I might need to train you to take me.”
He tore it back out and touched your naked clit lightly.
You gasped and choked behind the cravat. With deep moans, you wept pathetically.
“Oh look at that reaction,” he cooed condescendingly, he caressed the skin with his knuckle, “and all I’m doing is touching your clit. So sensitive.”
He licked his bottom lip and smirked, he pulled his hand back and slapped his palm across your labia. You squeal as the hot fiery pain rose up under your skin and spread out a dark shade with the rushing of your blood.
“Splendid responses to the nerves,” Sherlock noted before running the stinging flesh, you whined and turned your face into your arm.
“Bit sore I gather?” The man mocked, “Poor Lamb. All mine and bloody for sacrifice.”
A horrid in taking sound came from him. He spat on his fingers and pushed the wetted digits against your labia, dragging them down before sliding in home.
“There we are, squeezing so tightly around my finger, feels filling?”
He paused and listened to your heavy breathing behind the man made gag he had over your mouth. Listening to your ragged gasps and wheezes made his cock stir. You were so innocent and confused, he could see through your prudish and proper demeanour so easily. He fingered you until you were on the brink of insanity. Your eyes were becoming hazy, strained and almost crossed.
He thought it incredible...a true virgin. Not some pretender whore that his friend Miss Adler supplied. You were the authentic innocent.
“Now that you are properly tied up and without risk to harm me,” he whispered wetly, “-And decently groomed... I will complete our union.” He removed his fingers slowly out of you.
You closed your eyes and took a deep breath. You needed to compose yourself. You wanted to pretend you were back home with your grandparents. You imagined yourself in the gardens with your cousins playing balls. Oh back then life was a struggle but comparing to this...it was truly childsplay.
You yearned for your girlhood once more before you felt him move off the bed a moment only to shove your thighs wider apart and sit the head of his cock on top of your naked hairless lips.
Here the devil had come to steal all girlhood for good and inflict the agonising curse of
womanhood.
He entered slowly. Clearly he had learnt from yesterday that this task would only be accomplished with patience.
Indeed yesterday would’ve been considered a consummated marriage...so why he cared so much to refer to this as a completion of union alluded you.
You whimpered softly and peaked through your wet lashes to see his invasive entrance breaking into you.
To say you were full was placing it lightly. This man stole all possible space inside. He left no pocket of air as he pushed along and settled within.
His hands were tightly holding each ankle apart.
You now understood why he touched you with his hands before...your slickness welcomed and slid him deeper into you.
“Oh, my poor little lamb, taking in her masters thick cock so bravely,” he praised and then laughed as you struggled against your own nightgown binded to the headboard, “unable to nip or kick back at him.”
You grew silent in defeat. You submitted to the chance of zero hopelessness. Your legs fell limply.
He released your ankles.
You were plagued in your own paralysis.
You felt like he was pausing before pushing more inside. He was huge. There’s not many you could compare it too as a recently deflowered woman but you were confident his size must’ve been abnormal. Even he winced every so often at the tight squeeze.
When his pelvic bone pressed against your cunt, he sighed, “There...truly man and wife...at last...” A small scoff was heard.
You said something behind the gag that caught his ear. It was too muffled.
He pulled the gag harshly down your chin.
“What was that?”
You narrowed your eyes at him and huffed stubbornly, “Hu-husband and wife. Not man and wife.”
You wanted to remind him exactly who he was doing this to and why he could do it...because you allowed it.
“Correct you are, my darling,” he let a laugh escape him before he moved back, “Now if I just pull and twist my hips like this.”
He re-entered and this time he put his thumb on your clit as he went inside. Your eyes blew wide and you began to babble.
“Oh oh oh! Wh-what wait, please!” You started to moan and whine.
Your husband cackled proudly, “It feels good doesn’t it?”
You foolishly nodded in truth. Something sparked a flame that flooded your insides.
He did it again and again. He repeated and rubbed down into you. The filling of his member rubbing against all parts of your inner skin made you clench and groan.
You felt increasingly needful to collect the same high feeling he had delivered on you before. You were climbing an imaginary hill. The urge to release your bladder made your eyes widen.
Desperation took you into the most needful begging, “N-no! I need to use a bedpan please
Sherlock, please, I am going to make a mess! Stop! I’ll do anything.”
Your little gasps and desperate moans spurred your husband on.
His hips were making a fast speeding pace that made you dig your knees into his sides.
You wanted him to stop. You were scared of pissing over him, especially in his bed.
“I want you to let go,” he moaned and shoved his nose against yours. His breath entered your mouth as he raggedy groaned, “Release, trust me...it will feel good.”
You didn’t trust him. You didn’t know what he meant. How could this behaviour be acceptable.
“No, no, no, no, ugh, ugh, stah-, Sher-, ugh, pl-please!”
He slammed himself harder and licked at your chest, “Such a pretty beggar, dear lord, I predicted you to be a homely creature, I have been proven wrong. In this light, you are rare gem of the seas of Venus. Oh sweet lamb, give me your release.”
You couldn’t hold yourself in containment any longer. You let your lower half go. You clenched hard down onto him.
You found your spine curl and your mouth wordlessly wailing.
“Breathe dead, breathe,” you heard Sherlock call above your silent choking before unleashing a brutalising scream. It was like taking your first breath, being reborn.
When the air released, your chest burned. You gasped and cried out as some mighty string was torn within and drowned you in a flooding dam of pleasure.
Sherlock followed your desirable agony and let his mind go. His grunting was feral and full of need.
Your muscles released and you cried with the feeling of warm melted gold ran through you.
You weakly called out, “Sherlock...”
His hot lips kissed against your sweaty skin. He kissed your neck up to your chin and cheek and engulfed your own mouth in a sloppy sensation of saliva and soft lips.
When your eyes focused and found a semblance of sane sight, you beheld a pleased man. You felt his fingers touching along your arms and wrists.
“I am going to untie you, hush you are safe...”
You shut your eyes. The last tears to come derived from pleasure and a overwhelming sense of joy that was foreign to you. You trembled, still drinking in the vibrations of your body.
You were stuck in a blanket of bodily pleasure. You had never been so relaxed and warm in your entire life.
You enjoyed what he had done and you didn’t know why especially since you heavily disliked your own husband.
Was this what Mrs Hudson referred to? Screaming followed by smiles?
‘Oh’, you thought, ‘never again will a woman have what I just claimed. This is mine and always shall be.’
“I...need...um...I...words...I...you’ve...I can’t think...I am spent,” you mumbled dumbly.
A part of you wanted to thank him and have him leave you alone to wallow in sleep. Another wanted him to do it all again.
“Pretty Lamb,” he cooed in your ear as your hands limply fell to the mattress, “I am going to carry you now.”
He had tucked himself away and scooped his hands under your legs. He moved your arms around his shoulders and pushed you to sit up before clamping his arm beneath your back. His nose tucked into your neck where he left another kiss.
Carefully he lifted you off his bed and stepped out into the dining parlour where he turned and took you to your room beside his.
He pulled the blankets and sheets away before sliding you down beneath them.
He pulled the cover up to your chin and you whimpered, “I...am sore.”
His hard face softened, he pressed his lips to your cheek and asked, “You are?”
You nodded your head, “I...feel...light...tired.”
He left your side to shut your door. The light disappeared completely. Only the moon that casted light over his face helped you see as he faced you again. He wondered over and invaded your bed space.
He climbed in along side you. The wood creaked with his added weight. You were slightly alarmed he was coming into your bed and not returning back to his room.
You were drowsy and moaned.
“Sleep, in my arms,” He said as you weakly tried rolling away.
You turned back and stared at the shadows of his face. His eyes were black with only small specks of the light reflecting.
His skin was sticky and hot... But tonight it was cold and windy...you needed him...he wanted you...you succeeded.
In the darkness, you decided to reclaim some small pride...you pushed your face up and kissed his lip. Breathing him in you could finally smell him and taste him. Chalk, blood, and tobacco.
You shut your eyes and imagined the joy of your grandmother if you could tell her how you finally became the wife of Sherlock Holmes before the rites of Godly flesh.
He was silent and still. He said nothing. Did nothing.
When you pulled back from the kids he rested his head softly back on the pillows with a light hum. His fingers tickled up your naked back, holding you close. You rubbed your cheek into his bicep and listened to his heart beat and breathing until you passed into the dreamlands of sleep.
•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•
6:04am Wednesday 7th May 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.
You dreamt of your father and mother. Two people who never married, but at some point were in love. You never had the chance to see them together in happiness.
They were well dressed and strolling in the park pushing a perambulator. And as you followed them it had not struck you that this was a dream. Inside the baby carriage was nothing at all...it was odd.
Yet your parents smiled and both leant in to kiss each other....their hands both held wedding bands.
If you had never been born, you suddenly thought, would they have been able to marry and be happy?
Your mother as she loved upon your father shoved the perambulator away. It rolled fast down the path and you followed it for a moment before hearing a terrible wail of a baby inside. A baby that wasn’t in the carriage before suddenly appeared, pulling back a blanket that covered it.
You chased after the carriage as it sped up and went down a hill. Your heart ached with terror. You struggled to keep up and reached out your hand to the handle bar. It was rolling just out of your reach!
You sobbed as the carriage crashed into Tree and fell to its side. Out rolled...a bleating lamb...the creature rose up on its four wiggly legs and bleated again. It’s long wagging tail flickered around anxiously.
You landed on your knees before the lamb and kept crying. Not even you knew the reason for your tears. You held the small animal to your torso, checking it over for any broken limbs. The baby sheep was fine.
A tap on your head made you look up and standing above you was a dark faceless shadow of a man. The shadow sucked you in and you screamed at the darkness before waking up.
Above you was a face you did know...your husband’s. His eyes danced around your features. His lips curled into a smirk, “Good morning Mrs Holmes, how did you sleep?��
You blinked and peered up at him warily before slowly you sat up and away from him. His hand touched your shoulder, your hand grabbed his wrist.
What was he doing in your bed? Why were you nude!? Ah the revaluations if the previous evening re-established back into your memory. He had fully fucked you. He had claimed you...and in your drunken sleepy state, you kissed him. You flushed.
“I slept fine...” you lied, “Please let me up,” you glanced between him, the door of the bedroom and your wardrobe, “I need to start my day.”
You swallowed hard as you looked over his broad chest.
“Nonsense,” Sherlock stated before dragging you closer to him by your waist, his hands were huge and warm, it would be too much to say even comforting.
“We have plenty of time before Mrs Hudson climbs up the stairs.” His lips touched your jaw and peppered down your neck..
“Mr Holmes...please,” you cleared your throat as your hand pushed his chest to force a pause. You flushed with embarrassment. He noticed very quickly at your strained tone.
“Oh...I see...you recall the events of last night...your self deduction?”
His hands under the blanket slid downward to your thighs. He touched the soft shaved skin of your pubis. You felt twice as sensitive...
“H-humiliated, st-stupid and angry,” you shuddered.
You had let him hurt you again...and yet this time it came to a pleasant conclusion. You were disgusted in yourself for obeying him so quickly, so willingly I’m regards to giving him fellatio.
His fingers pressed your clit and he smiled at your gasp.
“And now?”
You gulped and turned your face into the pillows away from his eyes.
It was hard to deny how much you enjoyed the jumping buzz in your lower belly.
His laugh was crude to your ears, “See how easy it is to feel that sweet entrapment?” He rubbed his hand between your legs and marvelled at your heightened reaction, “My goodness look at you, your cunt is pulsing against me, hot and hard in my palm.”
Your breath hitched and your hips accidentally rolled into his touch. Your body craved the addictive buzz. Your thighs parted for him...he accepted the invitation and moved a finger inside while he ground his palm against your bundle of nerves.
“Oh, are you going to release again?” he whispered proudly.
He chuckled at your shaking head. Your pathetic attempts to mentally deny it. You were close by how tightly you fluttered around just his lone finger. Your knees shook and clamped together. His finger continued jerking in and out.
“Oh ride the sweet death, come to be me, come, come, come to me little lamb.”
His mouth ducked down to your nude chest. He licked across your nipples and suckled them into his cheeks loudly.
Your hand grabbed the blankets and his wrist. You rolled your head back and sighed as whatever that spell was took over you.
“Did you know,” he smacked his lips across your breasts, before tonguing a single nipple, “you’ve the most delicious teats?”
You groaned and blushed. You were trying to catch your own breath.
He pressed his cock against your leg before taking your hand and forcing you to hold him.
“Touch me, hold it and slide your hand up and down like a silk pole.”
You did as he asked while he kissed your mouth openly. Your eyes fluttered shut and jerked him off until you felt a wetness glide down your hands, he moaned.
This is the kindest he has ever been to you presently.
You pulled your hand away and up to the light of the morning. Your eyes widened at the white goop stuck on your fingers and back of your hand.
“Wha-what is this?”
He chuckled and kissed your cheek proclaiming, “My seed.” Seed...to make children...but it was so...
“Its...liquid,” you disagreed, “and wet and sticky...it’s like mucus.”
He raced his fingers along your hip and patiently explained, “When drained inside of you,” his hand touched your lower belly, “it goes up and impregnates. But you are still bleeding so it washes out and won’t catch in your womb.”
You blinked and let your dirty hand fall back on the top of the covers.
“Oh...”
You felt him sit up and you mirrored him. You slid out of the bed as his warmth left you. Watching him pull his trousers properly back up over his hips and waist made you fluster from the sight of his bare arse.
It was such a plump bottom.
He pulled away your blanket, unveiling your nude self to the cold morning.
He turned around and brought back your water basin and a cloth. He soaked the material in and pressed the wet cloth to your thighs.
“Stay still,” he said softly, “I’m just washing you.”
You paused before you spread your legs for him and awkwardly nodded, “Thankyou...husband.”
Surely you could’ve cleaned yourself. You hissed as he scrubbed the dry blood and release from you thighs. The cold water on your hot dirty skin was soothing.
You stood out of your bed finally and hurried to your dresser to find either some padding tubes or a sanitary apron.
Your rolled the bandage up quickly and turned away from Sherlock as you inserted the material.
You felt...strange doing this in front of him. A part of him you were sure might be repulsed at the sight.
Except he had his back turned to you, he was washing himself in the basin while he asked, “How did you find the carnal pleasure?”
You froze and felt your mouth dry up. Had he forgotten that he had tied you up?!
It was hard to meet his eyes. You wrapped your arms around yourself. Your husband turned to you.
You felt the need to cover your privates with your hands.
“Strange, it...felt correct...but...wrong...” you cleared your throat, “forbidden, despite our vows.”
He smiled and nodded to the bed while he passed you to your wardrobe and investigated the contents, “Many young ladies new to it have expressed the same condolences...that is sex. That is coitus. That is what husband and wife do. To make babies, and to feel pleasure.”
Your nose wrinkled. Sherlock was significantly older than you. You trusted this wisdom. He was clearly an experienced man from the prices spent at Mayfair.
“Why did it hurt so much the first time?” you asked.
No one had prepared or explained why having sex with your husband would hurt. He was so brutal the first day. And last night it hurt but not as much...
He sighed and pulled out dark navy blouse and a skirt to match. You felt the urge to correct his choice as he held them up. It was an outfit for outside outings. You weren’t meant to leave the home during this delicate time.
He asked over his shoulder, “Have you ever ridden horses?”
“I have,” you answered honestly.
“Side saddle?” His left brow raised.
“Sometimes,” you pursed your lips and watched him lay out your clothes on your bed, “It was easier for balance when riding as men do.”
He nodded and went to collect a pair of your boots, “And that hurt your thighs the first time?”
“First few ride like that yes,” you agreed, huffing impatiently, “Where is this conversation leading?”
He pulled you closer by pinching your hip. He pushed a chemise over your head. Your eyes widened, this wasn’t his role...to help you dress. It was your responsibility and Mrs Hudson if you were inclined to ask for her assistance.
“How did the pain go away?” he asked.
You rolled your eyes and answered the obvious explanation, “Because my body accommodated and my muscles for the riding evolved to accept the saddled position.”
He passed you a pair of open crotch bloomers. You pulled the material over your legs and tied the strings to your waist over the corset.
He smiled and pinched your chin, “The same is said for sex. The more you practice, the better it will be for you and...your health.”
You flushed and turned your face away from him...you felt foolish with the way his eyes ran over your bare body. He turned you around and helped pull a corset over your head and began fighting the strings in the back.
“I...it hurt and felt good...I felt...suffocated...I thought I saw a bright light,” you grunted as he tugged.
Your husband shut his eyes and with a smile he hummed pleasingly, “La petite mort.” “The Little death?” You gasped.
He flicked his eyes open. He sounded amused, “ah you know French little lamb?”
“of course I do,” you scoffed lightly, “any self respectable lady must learn French.”
Not his sister, “I suppose so.”
He pulled more of the ties closer. The corset grew taunt and supportive of your chest. His fingers tugged down further.
“Why did you go to Scotland yard yesterday?” You asked him as he finished tying the laces together.
“And who did you have a fight with?”
You tapped your face with a soft finger. He passed you a hose suspender belt. You clipped the hooks behind your back while the belt sat on your waist.
“There’s now a bruise under your chin that I most certainly did not cause Mr Holmes...” A part of you wished you had. He would’ve deserved it from you. He rubbed the dark spot and smirked.
Your husband sat on your bed and plucked your stockings. He pat his thigh and opened the stockings up. You lifted your leg and rested it on his thigh. You clenched the wooden canopy pole to steady your balance.
You were embarrassed. At this angle he would be able to see your cunt stuffed with the white fluff soaking up your menstruation.
He showed no care or disgust. He slid the soft cotton up your leg and kissed your knee cheekily.
He clipped your stocking to the suspension strings.
“I inquired upon the Pennicott case,” he claimed,” his thumb rubbed dangerously over your thigh...
God, you felt a spark at the touch.
“I thought you said it was obvious,” you stuttered, “He ran out from his wife.”
“I did, and...I rethought it,” he admitted, he slid the other stocking up your other leg, “Pennicott is a Baron and a owner of many warehouse factories. His wife comes from a well off family too and she is pregnant last heard, baby number six now. Why would he disappear off the face of the earth?...”
He stood up straight and forced your arms above your head before he slid a petticoat across your waist.
“A lover?”
He smiled as he tied the strings at your waist and shook his head, “No, men like Pennicott would just keep their arm candy and refer to them as a niece of a distant cousin. And if he was attached so lovingly, he would just move to another country but to completely eradicate and leave all his finances? To leave his wife in her state? It makes not much sense. He was making a fine quarter profit! So why is he missing?”
He passed you the blouse and skirt.
“Well,” You pulled the skirt over your arms and buttoned the buttons up to our neck “Perhaps he’s been kidnapped, for ransom?”
Sherlock hummed, “Maybe Watson, but I do wonder still.” You blinked...
“Pardon?” you gawked.
He raised his brows to your exclamation.
“You called me Watson.”
“Oh dear god,” he chuckled and passed you your skirt, “it’s already happening.”
You slid on the final layer and wrinkled your nose at him, “What is happening?” Sherlock stood up from the bed and clapped his hands.
“Come with me,” he softly begged, “Today I will be visiting his wife. The Baroness. I am investigating the case.”
Your eyes fluttered. Your thoughts couldn’t keep up. You sputtered as you tried to find sensibility. “Sherlock, it is our honeymoon and I am bleeding,” you whispered, “It is improper. I need to conduct laundry. Both our bedding must be soaked in...” you cleared your throat, “the blood.” He winked at you and pulled you close to his nude chest by your covered waist.
“Isn’t it marvelous that we have a housekeeper for such things?”
You narrowed your eyes... “A housekeeper is not a maid and I would not subject Mrs Hudson to cleaning that. She has told me herself that linens is not of her department.”
The tall man bent down and offered, “Mrs Hudson will clean the laundry, trust me..”
Despite his assurance, It wasn’t right for you to be out and about in public like this.
“And what would I be doing,” you tested, “Running after you as you speak to the Baroness?”
“Sitting pretty,” Sherlock stated, “And looking for clues.”
Your eyes sharpened, “Clues?”
Your husband tapped your nose, “Yes, you seem to have a hint of talent in that department. You just don’t know where to deduce the end results for the clues.” You blinked....
With a soft mutter you stated, “I suppose it would allow me more insight to your profession and a chance to bond and learn about each other...”
Before you could continue anymore questions you heard a soft knock on your bedroom door.
“Mrs Hudson,” you both whispered, glancing to one another.
Helplines:
If you are a victim of sexual abuse, assault or domestic violence or know someone who is please reach out to these links that share helpline services, phone numbers or emails. Consent and respect is important in every relationship whether between friends, family or even strangers.
Australian Helpline Services
UK Helpline Services
American Helpline Services
India Helpline Services.
#dead dove fic#dead dove do not eat#sherlock holmes x y/n#sherlock holmes x female reader#sherlock holmes x poc!reader#sherlock holmes x you#sherlock holmes x ofc#sherlock holmes x reader#sherlock holmes#enola sherlock#henry sherlock#henry cavill x female reader#henry cavill x y/n#henry cavill x ofc#henry cavill x you#henry cavill x reader#wowb
330 notes
·
View notes
Text
Wails of Wedded Bliss
Chapter 1 || Masterlist || Chapter 3
Chapter Summary: After your wedding night, you find Sherlock to be most unusual and confronting in nature.
Pairing: Sherlock Homes x wife!reader
Chapter Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Insults, Rough sex gone too far, internal bleeding, Menstration/Period, Arguing, Typical Victorian Era Sexism,
Word Count: 9k
Author Notes: Hi all!! Here's the next chapter, sorry no smut but lots of tension. Love you all and appreciate those most that have been showing their support through comments or Reblogs or both ★
Inspiring Song: "Caprice N° 24" by Paganini
•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•
12:49pm Monday 5th May 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.
Sherlock, as he paced his own bedroom was frustrated...and furious to say the least...he touched the cut on his bottom lip and hissed.
He was not equipped for this arrangement. He was unprepared for the handling of a wife. He was not aware he would be so much for his new bride to take...no whore in Mayfair Row demonstrated such complaints...however he reminded himself they were experienced women...you were a new lamb.
He hit the side of his bed, hearing your crying through the walls. Guilt became his executioner.
You were so frigid, he just didn’t expect you to struggle so viciously. You were unexpectedly a savage bitch!
He decided to take a deep breath. The deed was done.
He palmed his soft red cock and wrinkles his nose at the blood. There was so much...his throat clenched, mayhaps he was too rough...normally blood excited him...normally tears and sobbing made his member thick and hard...
He eyed the trunk chest at the foot of his bed...you could not survive his flavours. There was no possibility...He was a wicked handler and he knew you couldn’t ever meet that side of him...
•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•
12:55pm Monday 5th May 1890, 221A Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.
The Housekeeper slapped her novel shut. She heard the many thumps and shouts, and now she could hear the horrid sobbing coming up from the floor above...your bedroom.
She sighed...it wasn’t the first time she had heard such things from the apartment 221B. There was single difference...you were his wife...not some perfumed pretender with a pimp expecting a percentage of commission.
Mrs Hudson felt for you. She didn’t leave her apartment until she heard the stomping of Sherlock’s heavy feet going down the stairs.
Her eyes widened, surely he wouldn’t leave you when you were in such a state?
Mrs Hudson was an old woman, she knew it was expected she would ignore it and carry on with her daily activities, Mrs Hudson though knew many married women who had died from that lack of acknowledgement in a violent husband.
She stuck her head out her door and saw him making his way to the front door of the building.
“What have you done?” she scolded him as his hand clenched hard on the door handle.
His face was red. The elder gasped at the line of red rolling down his chin from a cut on his lip...His teeth were pink and set in a vile snarl.
“Nothing that concerns you Mrs Hudson, return back into your hole!” he hissed back as he left with another door slam.
Mrs Hudson tutted greatly and ignored his words all together.
She gathered her skirts and climbed the stairs to Apartment B. She slid the key into the hole and entered the premises speedily.
She heard your weeping in your room and followed to the closed bedroom door.
She wrapped her knuckle on the wood three times, “My dear,” she called, “It’s Mrs Hudson, may I enter?”
When you sobbed harder incoherently, she took it as a sign she should enter. In truth you didn’t know or have enough time to process what she had asked.
The elderly woman pushed the wood open and gasped in horror at what she saw...a naked girl...your bottom half and blankets drenched in crimson red. Your skin was covered in the stench of sweat.
She covered her mouth and tutted, “oh you poor, poor deary.”
You sobbed harder at feeling her cold hands touch your hot shoulder.
•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•
2:12pm Monday 5th May 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.
You hissed and sulked softly as your body sunk deeper in the warm bath water.
Your housekeeper had so kindly spent an hour filling the tub up with hot steamy water. During that time you cried and faded into light sleep before coming back to life with the painful memory of what your holy beloved had done to you
The elderly woman would come back every so often to check the packing of linen rags between your legs. For a honest moment she was afraid you might die. She called for the doctor...one she could trust...Doctor John Watson.
After the bleeding had lessened, she encouraged you to drink a cup of water and come out for the room to enjoy the afternoon bathwater...
You hadn’t said a word to Mrs Hudson this entire time. Too ashamed and shocked to form a word.
You couldn’t even form a ‘Thankyou Mrs Hudson.’ Only quiet tears would melt down your cheek.
The hot waves helped your muscles relax and sooth the anxiety under your skin.
Your head flopped on the lip of the bathtub.
With fluttering eyes... exhaustion took over and you fell asleep in the bath tub listening to the crackling of the wood and flames of the fireplace.
•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•
6:30pm Monday 5th May 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.
A hot hand touched your face and you gasped at the dramatic change in temperature. You were sitting in a freeze tub of water....it had gone cold hours ago...
Your eyes opened and focused on the deep smooth voice of a man. Not just any man however.
“Mrs Holmes...” he purred softly, “The bath is cold, it would be in best interest if you redress.”
Your body was incredibly weak and chilly while also impossibly hot. You were a slight dizzy and confused. Your lips parted and closed again repeatedly like a fish.
When his face met his voice and his nose and eyes came into true focus, you shivered and leant back and flinched away from his touch.
Your husband released a lengthy sigh and rolled his eyes, “Very well,” he murmured before forcing both his arms into the icy bath water and hooked them beneath your back and legs.
As he lifted you out, your stomach dropped and you squeaked, feeling that gravitational pull to which you might fall. Instinctively your arms wrapped around his neck and shoulders. You clung to him savagely digging your nails into his coat.
You felt him walk, your wet body trailing and dripping all over the carpet.
He journeyed back to your bedroom.
As the cold air hit your skin you started to tremble and felt him lay you down on your mattress.
Your mind was a mess.
Another person was in the room you noticed in the corner of your eye. You cowered in your nude state and whimpered. You felt delirious and confused.
You blinked up at the other stranger. Another man.
You didn’t know if he was real at first until his burning hands pulled from his black gloves and gently touched your knees.
“Sherlock, she’s sick.”
“Yes, how eloquently obvious Watson, check her,” you heard your husband hiss.
You tried to move away, roll and crawl but you were flipped once more onto your back, your legs weakly spread.
You groaned and your eyes fluttered. You needed to vomit.
You felt a body climb onto the bed with you. Sherlock. His thumb dabbed and rubbed across your wrinkled forehead, he hushed you softly like you were some weeping babe or startled horse.
You felt the doctors hand touch your intimates and you panicked, your breath hitched and you moaned a soft, “N-no.” You tried pulling your thighs together but Sherlock reached down and spread your knees forcefully.
You didn’t understand what he was doing and the worst thoughts washed over you, was Sherlock sharing you with another man like a sick villain?
You wept tiredly.
A cold hard contraption pierced the hole of your body. A shudder ripped out of you as you felt your vaginal walls expand.
“Minor tearing...what caused the amount of blood is your wife starting her menses.”
Sherlock sighed, “Thank god, I thought I almost killed her.” The metal object pulled out from between your thighs.
The room was lit by candles and kerosene lamps. And so in the low light, Sherlock’s face was softened. The shadows kissed his cheeks and lips.
“Bed rest and warm towels, give her a few days to rest, heal. Usually women finish their blood within a week.”
The doctor pulled away and you heard the snapping of a bag lock. You managed to catch a medical case in his hands in your blurry line of sight.
The doctor fled to your door, before he left, his hand clenched the handle and he turned lightly. He hissed at the detective.
“Be gentle next time you participate in these activities Sherlock,” John snapped, “She is your bloody wife, not your whore.”
Your husband, ever so gently pressed his hot lips to your forehead. You had not predicted such soft kindness after his mistreatment earlier today. He hummed. He held and pissed your back up, he forced you to bend you knees and slipped your naked body beneath the coverings. Your wet body soaked the sheets, your cheek dug into the soft pillows.
“My dear Watson,” you heard him snicker, “I am nothing more than a mere gentleman.” You heard the doctor scoff and shut the door behind him.
Warm hands squeezed your shoulders and rubbed your jawline.
Peaking up at Sherlock, he wore an unreadable expression...he did not appear happy nor angry, rather he appeared tired. Bags beneath his eyes could tell you that much. His bottom lip was slightly swollen, a little red line cut through it, you softly huffed, it was where you’d bitten him hours ago to get him off you.
You couldn’t believe you were back in the same bed he had hurt you in. It made you feel cold and a desire to be distant again...but the warmth of his hand and the blankets had a power over you.
Your chest was sore and a light cough climbed out of your throat.
He did not speak and for that you were grateful. It would’ve been a near impossibility to continue a conversation with him with the state of your being.
The nauseas sickness sweeping of your belly subsided. All you wanted to feel was the warm covers, the goose feather pillows and his warm hand, softly patting your head...it took you back to a happier time...a time where your father and you shared a bed and he held you until you fell asleep...some days it felt like a dream...
You didn’t want to admit it but you dearly missed those times. Sherlock smoked the same tobacco, the scent soaked in his vest. It brought you the tiniest comfort...
You yawned and lazily blinked up at him.
“Try and get some rest wife...should you need anything, knock on my door.”
And with that he climbed off the mattress. Your body flipping lightly as it sprung up. Your nose sniffled softly.
Your heart deflated, ah there it was again. The coldness, the disdain, the reminder...he didn’t want to marry you.
After his foul entrance earlier, you wondered if such a feeling was unanimous at this point.
You shut your eyes and moaned. You tried to roll onto your side...you hissed lightly at the sore stabbing of your pelvis and the stinging stretch inside of you.
As sleep carried you out of reality, Sherlock made his slow departure, quietly sliding his way to your bedroom door.
He looked over the room and shook his head slowly...this once was his friends chambers, and before that a space where he kept his fun tools and artefacts.
Now he had a sick woman in the bed, his wife whom he hadn’t meant to brutalise earlier.
You were finally snoring when he managed to find the courage to leave the room, put out the living room fireplace and finally return to his bed.
As he removed his own clothing, he stared at the wall that separated your rooms. He wondered how badly your sickness might continue and if it was permitted to leave you alone while you bleed so profusely.
He thought about how these few weeks were in fact meant to be a honeymoon, how he had most furiously refused the ship tickets to France where his brother Mycroft insisted you both go for your romance to blossom.
Sherlock had very little intention to be a romantic for a woman he didn’t desire.
He tore off his shirt and rolled his eyes at the memories that transpired over the last two weeks.
You were nothing but a baby carriage to Mycroft, the future mother to the future Holmes son. So of course Sherlock could not understand his brothers incessant pandering to be a match maker of lovers.
The detective was no small minded idiot either...he knew plenty about you just from today...he knew about you before meeting you... He knew exactly why this marriage occurred on your end.
A bastard daughter of sir Y/L/N, son of the Lord and Lady Y/L/N. This was merely a way to keep your social hierarchy to a suitable and respectable level.
He had heard and read the scandalous rumours.
You were half the soft rose and half a weed in regards to your breeding...which meant you were a weed in the end, an illegitimate, unrecognised bastard.
He sat on his bed and untied his shoes.
Sherlock was not one to participate and discriminate the classes. Many a time it was speculated by John that Sherlock might’ve been a socialist.
The detective might’ve not cared for your breeding, but he didn’t appreciate being used as a climbing ladder of society which he didn’t receive well either way.
He was using you so that Mycroft didn’t cut him off financially, you were using Sherlock so that the people of culture no longer shunned and ignored your existence.
Mycroft was a down right fool if he believed such a union could ever bring together a matrimony of love. So Sherlock accepted it quickly...this would be what it was...a contract...you now needed to complete you aide of the bargain.
You needed to let Sherlock impregnate you...
With your stunt in rebellious adversity, you acknowledged his size and struggled to accommodate him, ergo your fear, pain and bite.
Sherlock huffed, he would need to wait another seven days before he could perform his husbandry duties upon you and press his seed within.
He laid back into his covers still staring at the wall...
He bit his lip. Oh if only he could punish you for such misdirected behaviours...he wondered how willing you really were and what lengths you were prepared to take to remain his Mrs Holmes so that the meek people of the middle and upper class might continue their false smiles your way.
A wicked smirk spread along his lips...
Perhaps a innocent bride was a perfect ingredient for his most filthy pleasurable plans...
Mycroft never stated how quickly it was expected of you to conceive and carry...he just said
“Soon.” And “Before he met the grave.”
He rolled onto his side and imagined you there with him in his bed. He imagined how your body curled up into such a small figure.
He envisioned the likeness of your tear stained face and an exhausted smile...
For now he would let you rest.
•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•
7:00am Tuesday 6th May 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.
The sound of a loud violin cord strong woke you up from your hours of needed sleep. You groaned as your head began to ache....
You drowsily tossed your head to the direction of your door way...your eyes narrowed. Someone was playing a violin very loudly just outside your bedroom.
You sniffled unladylike as your runny nose clogged your breath. You lifted your hands to cover your ears. Onto shaking legs you pulled out of your bed and used the canopy wood to steady yourself. You walked slowly to the wardrobe and plucked out a nightgown.
You hobbled to your bedroom door and as you opened the wooden barrier, the buzz of Paganini hit your ears. You wrinkled your nose as you watched your husband play the instrument, leaning over a table covered in papers, maps, receipts and a plate of toast.
As he saw you, his eyes widened slightly...you were not dressed appropriately for the hour of the morning. At any moment he might’ve had a client come inside if it were not for his honeymoon.
“Good morning, Mrs Holmes,” said Sherlock as he placed his instrument down on the table.
You sternly eyed him. Your hands trembled lightly. His face. His handsome evil features upset you. He offered a soft smile and kind eyes. You didn’t dare fall for his trickery. From the moment you had met him he had provided a twisted exchange of false care that twisted quickly to brutal cruelty.
You decided, you did not like your husband and it was not something you would hide from him.
“My grandmother insists that is the devil’s music,” You proclaimed, “It is most wretched to hear of a morning.”
He sucked in a deep breath of air and grounded, “I do not entertain superstitious conversation,
Paganini was gifted and because of this, other composers jealously invented rumours of a pact with Satan to dissuade the public from ever enjoying the expanses of musical differences.”
You glared at him. Of course he would say something so infuriating and liberal in the works. His tone tilted on belittlement and you felt there was absolutely no standing that could allow him to talk to you like this especially after yesterday’s events.
You lightly snorted, “As it may be so, I still urge the request you refrain from playing it so early and while in my presence. It woke me up most fiercely.”
In truth it isn’t what woke you up…You could still feel him there. The memory of his violent embrace haunted the muscles of your lower half. He was like a ghost remaining between your thighs. It made you feel ill to think about.
He looked down. A deep frown on his face. He wouldn’t meet your eyes. He pushed the plate with toast closer to you, “Mrs Hudson bid you a fair morning wife, you should be up earlier from now on to receive her.”
You looked to the softly ticking clock on the fireplace mantel and blinked, “Indeed, I shall need to apologise to her,” demurely you conceded, “I usually rise by six in the morning.”
“You are ill,” Sherlock said now holding the plate out to you for your weak hands to take, “I insist you sit and eat and return back to bed for further rest.”
You wanted to raise your voice at him. You wanted to scream and yell that you were not I’ll but rather hurt and in suffering after his careless mistreatment.
You couldn’t figure out if his gentleness last night was really a delusional dream. This world around you felt like some vicious game.
You chewed the inside of your cheek. You wanted to be a spitfire and tell him he needed to apologise for hurting you yesterday before you take anything from him...yet as your insides tightened at the smell of the warm butter soaking the hot cooked bread, you obeyed his demand.
You glided over to him and lightly pushed some of the papers on the table around. Sitting at the end, Sherlock mirrored your seating and went about picking up a newspaper.
On the front was a illustration of Lord Thaddeus Pennicott, a baron who from the title of the paper had gone missing.
You looked back to your breakfast and pondered on your husband’s work. How the articles written by John Watson had designed Sherlock to be a saviour to the public with a intelligence that might put most scholars to shame. The Sherlock you had come to meet was nothing like the gazette’s description, rather he was rude, ill tempered and coarse in handling any woman.
You chewed the soft delicious toast and swallowed gradually.
It was difficult to accept but not hard to see, you had married a brute.
You glanced at Sherlock again. His face was hidden behind the paper, his thick long fingers cradled and framed the edges of the news securely as he flicked through the gossips.
You nervously fidgeted in your seat as you ate breakfast. You did not see any tea and assumed you slept through any Mrs Hudson might’ve deliver.
It was so unusual waking up in a foreign home, having to accept this would be your place of residence for as long as your husband desired to live here.
You noted the oddities of your surroundings...objects you didn’t much think of as you moved in yesterday. There was a underwater helmet, a skeleton of some type of odd mammal, and even a telescope sitting on top of a piano.
You read over some of the framed newspaper headlines which were the retellings of your husband’s crime and mystery stories.
The will to speak to him again with level head and calm tones was as hard as walking through mud up to your ankles. You squeezed your eyes shut. You couldn’t ignore him nor refuse to speak to him for your entire marriage.
You licked your bottom lip and coughed into a napkin. Looking back to Sherlock’s newspaper you nodded and called across the table, “Are you helping with the Pennicott case, Mr Holmes?”
He flattened the paper on the table and stared at you as if you’d said something obvious.
“Of course not. Clearly he’s a man who ran out from his wife. It happens more often than you think,” he cleared his throat and picked up his cup to his lips, speaking into the cup “Perhaps you should sit pretty rather than voice your false interests in my work which you have no business in.”
You didn’t like the tone he used on you. Condescending. Icy. You wouldn’t allow it to continue. You remembered your grandfather telling you to put your foot down as a new wife or else you would be unattended to. It’s not that you desired the attending after yesterday, but you wouldn’t accept rudeness.
“Sherlock,” you hummed and crossed your arms over your lap as you tongued the inside of your cheek trying to not scream at him, “I am your wife,” you said it sternly, “Not a child, when I inquire on the better part of your interest, do not speak down to me like a dog.”
You jerked your chin dignified, holding your ground despite almost dropping the last crust of your breakfast.
He pursed his lips with narrowed eyes and thought before spoke. It was a chilling moment before announced, “You are my wife, that is true...and so I shall speak to you however you tempt me to, and this very morning you’ve put me in a disagreeable mood.”
Disagreeable mood?! You refrained from rolling your eyes at him.
You sat back and sighed, abandoning the last and tiny piece of bread. He was so foul to think of himself so justified. You expressed a disinterest to his music tastes and that indicated his deflating concern for you.
Not once had he asked in your wellbeing. Perhaps he was clouded with shame? ‘he should be shameful, he hurt an innocent woman.’
“Perhaps, you should practice on controlling and restraining your moods then Sherlock,” you griped, “I do not much care for your habitable outbursts.”
For the first time you caught his face expressing a new design...shock, flabbergasted. His face grew a small hue of pink.
You smirked a little at the small victory.
His chewed his bottom lip, “My habitable outbursts?” he pried, offence costing his words.
You swallowed and nodded curtly you leant back in your chair, “Now here at breakfast, the church flee yesterday, and the marriage bed rage also yesterday.”
An indignant chuckled crawled from his throat.
“You bit me like a wild cat,” he voiced rightfully, pointing hard at the small wound still in his mouth. The redden skin was a symbol of your defiance and escape. Instead of being embarrassed, you surged with pride that you punished him in such a manner.
You quipped back quickly, “and you stabbed me like an merciless villain.”
“A villain, you say?” his brows now raised and his eyes widened.
“Quite,” You glanced down at the plate and muttered, There’s no other term for what you did to me.”
Rape was not in the current vocab for this situation you believed. You were married and he was taking what was rightfully his as husband, he could have been gentler however. Your grandmother never shared that it could be so agonising, surely your grandfather had never inflicted such abuse into her?
Your husband slowly rose from the table and leant across it. You flinched and squeezed your eyes as you feared his sharp hand. Sherlock Holmes had every strength to hurt his weak wife, so why did you feel so mouthy in the sense of easily provoking him to rage or even potential violence?
The handsome detective with hot pale hands ran his knuckle down your cold cheek...it was wet. A tear had escaped. Dear god...you were trembling and clenching your skirts beneath the table.
“I can think of a plethora of words for what I did to you,” Sherlock muttered, he pulled his hand away and scoffed, “I did not think Mycroft to saddle me with such a stupid bride.”
A fresh flow of hot tears flooded your eyes.
A growl of outrage accidentally climbed from your chest, it came out like a needy whine, “I beg your pardon?”
“Granted my dear Mrs Holmes,” he smirked and clapped his hands gesturing to the room you left, “Now off to bed with you, I see your withering state worsen by the moment. Doctor Watson informed me you needed rest during your delicate...situation. Perhaps it has brought you to these hysterical theatrics.”
A light gasp of horror and a written expression of disgust painted your face, “I shall not, nay! I shall sit an disembowel your words,” you sniffled and tried not to fall into a pathetic sob, “D-did you just call me stupid?!”
As his smile widened and you angrily threw the last piece of bread at him, hitting his chest.
“You sir,” your bottom lip wobbled “Are out of place and feverishly I have discovered your lack of empathy most stunning, that or rather the amount of your selfish conceived motion that I am a docile woman who will put up with your conceited arrogance!!”
How dare he hurt you as terribly as he did in humiliation and physical behind that he should also find it acceptable to brandish you with further insults of your intelligence.
Before he could sit back down, you slapped your hands on the table, the china tinkled as you pushed yourself up to your feet. You hissed at him as you wobbled around the wooden furniture, “You may be London’s finest Detective, but I am your wife.”
You mapped your finger harshly into his chest and snarled with great venom dripping from your tongue, “By the lord of heaven, if I had only known the telling’s of our futures, I would announce full heartedly that you Sherlock Holmes would be the very last man I would prevail to marry.”
The room fell silent. His cold eyes burned I to your gullet. He licked his teeth, left slightly speechless and unsure if he should entertain the argument any longer than necessary.
Your belly felt tight. The toast was not sitting well. You were anxiously awaiting his roar, his bite or his strike. Your chest rose and fell with every desperate breath you took as to not fall into a heap of wailing. Breathe through the pain and the fear.
He stared at your lips and fluttered his eyes, shaking his head at you.
“...Good morning Mrs Holmes,” he bid gruffly and bowed his head before leaving the table to head over to the coat rack.
“And where is it you run off to this time?” You raised your voice shakily and waved your hands as if to conjure the words of his locations destination, “The same place you fled to yesterday and yesterday evening? To hide in a bottle?”
Mr Holmes snapped his head back at you, his eyes scowered your poorly glad form beneath the dressing gown. It took everything in him not to fuck your miserable mouth off.
“No...” he swallowed harshly, “I seek the companionship of bearable company.”
Your chest tightened and the whimper left, that could’ve been anyone or no one with how mysterious your husband had proven to be.
You rubbed your hot forehead and grunted softly to remind him, “It is our honeymoon.”
During the week of a honeymoon it was deemed improper to seek or receive guests and the company of any other than your married partner.
Sherlock leant forward, right down to your cheek, his lips scarcely touching the skin of your love and jaw as he whispered hauntingly, “And your honey is blood. I shall not interrupt your peaceful rest....” he kissed your face gently, and said at a room tempt tone, “Good morning Mrs Holmes.”
Argument over it would seem.
He picked up a walking cane and a hat, leaving the flat to yourself.
You sighed frustratedly and stomped a foot like a feral child. You wouldn’t put up with this, for this is not what was promised by the outline of marriage by every book, paper and word of mouth. You crossed your arms and sniffled. You wiped your eyes again.
Sherlock made you feel more like a child than a wife with how he used his words and the looks he threw at you. It was unfair and cruel.
You were a very smart young lady and practiced the skills of refine ladyship over the years of your teenage hood. You were a paragon of brilliance and etiquette...only for some lout you called a husband to drive you to irritation so unbearable that you felt it necessary to toss your breakfast scraps at him.
You ground your teeth and returned to your rooms to pick out a modest covering wrap over the dressing gown you already wore. It would be most annoying to have to strip your body everytime you vomited or perhaps didn’t reach the bed pan in time.
You shuddered and went about washing your face and fiddling with your hair...
As you stared at your washed out features, you heard your landlady arrive...
You thought about your wifely duties beyond the bedroom. With Sherlock going off to god knows where, you were totally left to your own devices and for the very first time in years, you had freedom to decide your days habits.
You thought half heartedly about calling upon Sherlock’s brother or the Doctor Watson to grant a visit and answer some questions beginning to form in your head.
‘Why is Sherlock so different in person compared to the papers?’
‘What displeases Sherlock into his outbursts and what pleases him to calm those said outbursts to dust?’
You tried to wonder on your marriage contract. You were not entirely privy to it even though you felt you had every right. It was a deal conspired by Mycroft and your grandfather after all. You wondered if Sherlock even caught a glimpse of it.
Why did Sherlock even agree to marry you if it was only to lead to his foul manners and hands to you?
Tapped your lips and shook your head.
What does every contracted marriage consist of? Land? Babes? Livestock? Wealth? Status?
You looked around your room and out the open door to the sitting room.
Sherlock did not strike you as someone in need of money...and yet...many of these items, surely were not affordable on a wavering wage as his alone? His family wealth most likely was directed towards Mycroft as the eldest.
And then you recalled your darling sister in law, her shrieking at the wedding, the words echoed back like a tunnel, ‘I can help pay off your debts when I marry’ she had said.
So it was money...debts...and enough to cause strains that would force him to accept your hand in marriage. You tried not dwelling on being reminded how undesirable you were as a bastard woman. This newly accepted information could be used to your advantage.
A fabulous idea occurred to you. An idea that would prove to Sherlock that you were in fact not a stupid imbecile.
Helplines:
If you are a victim of sexual abuse, assault or domestic violence or know someone who is please reach out to these links that share helpline services, phone numbers or emails. Consent and respect is important in every relationship whether between friends, family or even strangers.
Australian Helpline Services
UK Helpline Services
American Helpline Services
India Helpline Services.
#sherlock holmes x poc!reader#sherlock holmes x you#sherlock holmes x ofc#sherlock holmes x reader#Sherlock Holmes x y/n#Sherlock Holmes#sherlock holmes enola holmes#enola holmes sherlock holmes#enola sherlock#henry sherlock#henry cavill fic#henry cavill fanfic#henry cavill x reader#henry cavill#henry cavill x black reader#henry cavill x y/n#henry cavill x ofc#henry cavill x you#henry cavill x female reader#Sherlock Holmes x female reader#Sherlock Holmes x f!reader#dead dove fic#dead dove do not eat#wowb#chapter 2#milky fics
222 notes
·
View notes
Text
Wails of Wedded Bliss
Chapter 2 || Masterlist || Chapter 4
Chapter Summary: After finding his debts you decide to take matters into your own hands...what a terrible decision...
Pairing: Sherlock Homes x wife!reader
Chapter Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Historical Typical Sexism, Debts, Domestic Abuse, Sexual Abuse, Blackmail.
Word Count: 9k
Author Notes:
★For those of you possibly turning around and saying “£290 is nothing for all of what Sherlock has bought”
...I’ll remind you this is set in 1890 and so since then inflation has risen greatly...
★So for the modern reader I must insist to explain that £290 in England is now worth £30,671...
★And for my American readers that would be $38,948
★And for my Australian readers that would be $58,490
★Basically...Sherlock Holmes is a material gorl 💅
Inspiring Song: "Ghiribizzi" by Paganini
•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•
7:35am Tuesday 6th May 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.
You wobbled onto your feet as Mrs Hudson entered the apartment with a scowl... probably because of something Sherlock said to her in passing the stairs.
The old crow’s frown spirited away when she noticed you were awake and outside of your bedroom.
She smiled warmly in fact and bid you a good morning. You returned the expression as she came and collected the breakfast plates.
Your fingers trailed over the countless of papers on the table and the sleek wood of his violin.
Shuffling through each parchment and a sigh drawled from your lips.
“Mrs Hudson,” you hummed as she passed you, “I request you show me the expenses of the household purse.”
It was a common duty of a wife nowadays to keep track of all home expenses.
She paused and her eyes widened, her mouth flapped open and closed quickly again. Her teeth grimaced and her bony finger wagged, “I am afraid my dear, they are in Mr Holmes bedroom, and as I said yesterday, he can be an incredibly private person.”
His bedroom? Oh yes...he kept it locked. But by god you needed to get to the bottom of this theory you were building in your mind. You were married and a married couple shouldn’t withhold secrets.
“I am his wife, I am the second close thing to the holy trinity in his life now,” you snorted softly as you collected all the papers on the table and made a neat single pile, “I will see the documents and understand his predicament.”
“And which predicament may that be?” the housekeeper inquired as she laid down a fresh virgin cup to pour scolding tea from the hot teapot.
“Enola mentioned something about debts,” You clutched the front of your dressing gown to contain some decorum while you sat back down and gestured to the chair beside you for her to sit in as well, “his foul dismissal of my presence suggests not only disdain of our union but in addition a set of a secrecy and disfavour I will not permit in my marriage.”
You needed to know exactly how much debt he was in. You were willing to part some of your dowry to pay for it if you could. His aggression was surely caused by the stress of these debt...if you could lift them off his shoulders, mayhaps he would be kinder, gentle and respectful.
She passed you the cup and saucer while she took to pouring herself a cup. The elder woman smiled giddily.
You were pleased that there was no judgement of your modesty before her. It was a fine change compared to your strictly grandmother who would berate you if you dared leave your bedroom under dressed.
The elder cradled her cup and lowered it carefully, clearing her throat, “Mrs Holmes...”
You blinked...you believed you had asked her to not call you by your new name, out of friendliness.
“Mrs Hudson?” you queerly answered.
“Before your marriage,” her lip curled inward and her fingers lightly tapped her cup, she looked to the tea and quickly glanced up at you, “The detective entertained himself in some...appalling activities. I think it best not to open those locked pasts for your own sake.”
Appalling activities...in a world of proprietary that could mean anything...you did have your thoughts...you were only surprised that the notorious detective would risk tainting his reputation with some illicit practice.
You swallowed dryly before sipping lightly at the tea. You licked your lips and sighed shaking your head, “Speak plainly Mrs Hudson.”
“Oh please,” She prayed mortifyingly, “I daren’t repeat it.”
It wasn’t difficult to see the pink rising in the pale wrinkled face of Mrs Hudson.
You leant over the table and used small tongs to pick up a sugar cube and clenched your jaw. You wouldn’t play in another game of riddles, especially not with a elder woman with a privacy for embarrassing details. The sugar fell into the cup with a soft plop in the awkward silence, a ticking of the clock caught in your ear.
“Tell me or leave Mrs Hudson,” you pinched the papers on the desk , “I have documents to find and unless your words hold any meaning, do not bore me with unheard gossip.”
Her beady blue eyes under her spectacles fluttered, her lips parted at your stern tone. She inhaled deeply and looked around the room before leaning in closer to you.
She said in a hushed whisper, “My dear girl, your husband is a whore mongering, drug addicted gambler.”
Now that was a surprise to hear fall from her wrinkled lips. You pinched your forehead and rubbed thoughtfully. How would you handle this type of man?
You glanced at her with a small grin.
“Was- Mrs Hudson,” You corrected, tapping the table with your knuckle, “I will not allow such boyish whims into my marriage,” you wagged your finger at her and flashed her a devious smile, “He shall need to divorce me if he wishes to continue such behaviours, it might be harder for me to remarry but I trust not a single woman would last longer than me as his wife.”
A small laugh came out of the woman who gave you a dramatic military salute, she grinned and chortled, “Well, I admire your determination, but however will you enter his chambers? He has the only key.”
Your chest deflated, she was right. How would you? You chewed the inside of your cheek and looked over your shoulder to look at the closed bedroom door on the far side of the wall beside your own.
You slowly pushed up to your feet again and trapesed back to your bedroom, “Mrs Hudson, wherever did you put my hat box?”
The elderly woman put down her cup and swayed inside to follow you, she pointed to above the wardrobe. Standing on your toes you palmed the box down and laid it on your unmade bed.
Mrs Hudson was opening up your wardrobe and peeling through your hanging hooks of dresses and coats.
“My dear, surely you’re not intending to go outside in your frail condition?” she muttered as she trailed a fresh chemise over her arm.
Shaking your head you jerked you chin, “No Mrs Hudson, indoors I will remain.” Your hand clenched your lower belly with a hiss as a nasty cramp prevailed, “I don’t recall entirely but I believe a doctor was here last night, said I have begun my menses for this month.”
“I can see dearest,” Mrs Hudson hummed, pinching at your dressing gown...you had bled through it. A wet crimson patch stained the white cotton. You balked and flushed.
“Best get it off now,” Mrs Hudson winked, pulling it back and off your naked shoulders, “I’ll make you some packing.”
You shuddered and gasped at how forward your housekeeper was presenting. Respectfully speaking, you wondered if Mrs Hudson had been a ladies maid in her earlier years before her own marriage.
You tiptoed to the water basin on the vanity and squeezed the clean cloth inside of it. You cleaned the red and burgundy chunks and stream between your thighs. Your washed your hands back in the water and faced Mrs Hudson sheepishly. She smiled and pulled the chemise over your head.
“Let me roll some packing,” she said, pulling a bandage from the top drawer of the vanity and folded it into a flat palm of thickened fabric.
You shoved it up against your intimate flesh and squeezed your thighs together tightly.
Mrs Hudson then found a sanitary apron in the same drawer and helped tie it behind your back.
“Mrs Hudson you are a fine woman of elegance and saintly kindness,” you exhaled, “Thank you.”
“I remember when I was a freshly married girl,” She clucked happily, “My dear friend was a constant visitor and helped me with these things. Mr Hudson grew very jealous of our time together,” she sighed, “Now, do you require a corset my dear?”
You shook your head and plucked your fingers, “I shan’t accept any visitors, and in my sickly state it would be kinder to leave it be if I should make a mess of my inconvenience.”
If your stomach threw up from the stress of your internal curse, you didn’t want to wash through the delicate fabrics of your whale bone undergarments.
You found a loose blouse and black skirt to pull and button onto your body. You pulled up a pair of stockings.
You sat on the bed as Mrs Hudson buttoned your shoes up with a hook. As the kind older woman did this gradually with her small fingers and greying eyes, you pulled the lid of your hat box away.
You pulled out a long metal stick...
A sharp hat pin.
“There we are, all done and ready for the day!” the housekeeper announced, rising to her feet.
You rose up with her and smiled, “Please Mrs Hudson, might I burden you with making another pot of tea?”
She beamed and nodded.
•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•
08:45am Tuesday 6th May 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.
You were grunting on your knees before Sherlock’s locked door. Your hat pin jammed into the key hole. The tip of your tongue stuck out the corner of your lips as you shuffled the metal and tried to carefully listen to the locking of the inner gears.
Little did anyone know...this little talent you learnt on your own... Breaking into your grandfathers wine cellar was not a overexerting task when you were fifteen. It wasn’t a desire to rebel, rather a desire to educate yourself...you wanted to be seen as intelligent and knew your wines.
It wasn’t too long before you came to hate the bitter taste...and then found your grandfather’s rum drum.
When he found you, he didn’t not strike you and decided the headache you received in the morning was punishment enough for your sinful deed. And for a whole week he made you drink a cup of the stuff every night, to teach you why alcoholism was not befitting for a lady...
You smirked at the memory. Perhaps it was unorthodox. But it was kinder than a lashing or earful from your grandmother.
It was just one of many secrets between the both of you.
The loud click and sliding of the last inner lock made your eyes sparkle. As you twisted the handle the door peeled open with a awful squeak.
“My lord, what a mess!” you gasped.
The room was in a disarray. A smell of mould and death hit your nose. You gagged and felt your belly churn.
There was cigar burns in the rug, papers, news papers and books thrown about. There were plates that were piled up in the corner on a desk and there was a dirt dried mud trails...
The curtains were stained and the dust was unbelievable. When your finger ran along a small stand beside the door your finger came back looking pitch black with the soot.
You sat back and stood up. Piece by piece you picked up all the papers and went to his filing cabinet drawer, it was empty! Of course it was empty, all the contents had been tossed about, decorating the room messily.
You fingered the massive haul of papers and sighed, you would need to organise them all...
Taking them back out to the dining table you started to arrange piles of parchment stacks. Receipts, paid and unpaid, by date and purchases. Your eyes catered to the numbers, you fetched a notebook to tally the expenses and sighed, cupping your mouth every so often at his choices of spending.
You were so caught up in your own thoughts and game of pounds, shillings and pence, you hadn’t heard the return of Mrs Hudson with a fresh pot and tea set.
“Dear me,” she said clicking her tongue and shaking her head, “It looks like you’ve got your work cut out! Now what’s all this?” She asked picking up a receipt off a pile.
Rolling your shoulders back she smiled proudly at the organisation of affairs. You gestured to the individual sheet stacks.
“Ah sings Den, Cocaine Tooth Drops, Black Shag Tobacco, gambling...prostitutes,” you chewed your lip worriedly as you glance back at the small note book you write on with a blunt pencil, “He has wracked up a wicked sum...”
The housekeeper put the receipt back and sat beside you after pouring you another warm tea, this time she added the sugar cube for you and stirred.
“How much?” She whispered looking over the thick almost book like mountains of papers.
Since the new year began...Sherlock had designed quite the irresponsible money expenses and debts...
£5.65 for the Opium Den experience.
£3.25 for the Cocaine drops
£10.41 for the tobacco.
£120.78 for the overall gambling.
£150.33 for his Mayfair Row whores to Madam Adler.
Total: £290.42....
You felt your lips tighten, your belly squeezed. You paled and frailly held the cup to your lips, softly blowing and softly stating, “Perhaps that number I will keep to myself Mrs Hudson,” you pushed a pile close to her and tapped at the top, “Be not alarmed however, he seems to dedicate his rent responsibly to you.”
She chortled and shook her head, “Oh I don’t mind that, I trust him to,” her eyes narrowed at the
Mayfair receipts, “I just never liked the company he brought home.”
Your eyes widened and it was like air had been stolen and kicked from your lungs, “He brought...” you choked, shutting your eyes, “Those...those women back here?”
She grit her teeth and finished her tea, “Yes, they leave like newborn foals with wobbly legs.”
When Mrs Hudson caught your worrisome eyes she gasped and tapped your hand softly, “Forgive me, I needn’t provide details.”
You pursed your lips disapprovingly before conceiting, “As much as it is wounding to hear, it is unavoidable,” you sighed and poured yourself another tea, “As his wife it is best I know everything about my husband and if he is to keep secrets from me,” you shrugged, “However shall I be a decent partner?”
Mrs Hudson put her cup aside demurely and leant closer to you. Still in her hushed tones, ashamed of the secrets she was sharing...but her eyes were full of excitement, perhaps this gossip was something she needed off her conscious.
“I would hear them in the night, screaming...I thought he was killing them,” more colour was flushing back into her face. A rosy hue dusted her nose and cheeks, “I am thankful every time when I would see them leave with smiles on their faces.”
You sat back in your chair abruptly and looked at her curiously, “Screaming and smiles?” You whispered under your breath, “How peculiar.”
It wasn’t possible. Did he hurt those prostitutes like how he had done to you? How did they walk away with smiles? Was it because he paid them? Not even you could think how to muster a smile after experiencing such awful tortures.
“I thought perhaps, he did what he had done onto you my dear...but when I saw the blood and your lack of pleasantry, well, I can confidently say-”
You slapped your cup on the saucers hard enough for a loud clatter, you said tightly, “Mrs Hudson I’d very much prefer to forget yesterdays events, if you don’t mind...please do not refer back to them.”
The mention caused a spike of pain inside you, reminding you where he stuck his hot selfish poker.
The elder woman grew quiet for a moment. She looked off at the window in the distance and then down at her cup.
She nodded and tried to share a soft smile, “Apologies for any offence.”
A stab of guilt panged in your chest, you hadn’t mean to be so rude to her. Your nerves were in a terrible mood. In a moment you would be happy and then the next you would feel worrisome and hungry. Perhaps you might’ve grown to be afflicted by the disease of Hysteria?
Oh Hysteria, what a terrible condition...you dreaded the thought of need to go for a medical massage. One of your female cousins had been to one and her description made it sound both enlightening and frightful. In fact she said it felt like she had died and gone to heaven and returned.
All of which made you scared beyond belief.
“None received,” you pat her hand and brought her palm to your lips, “You are a kind Christian and for that I say god bless you Mrs Hudson.”
She smiled warmly and stole a soft kiss to your cheek, all was forgiven between your temper.
“Oh my dear, I must additionally confess,” she stunningly proclaimed, “Sherlock doesn’t attend church.”
Your brows rose, “What?” You snorted through a laugh, unable to comprehend her truth, “Don’t be ridiculous, what upstanding gentleman doesn’t attend church?”
You giggled and cheerfully wiped a tear away, your sanity returned when her face had remained stone solid. She did not find it funny and you realised finally it was because in fact not a joke...
You glanced over the papers...back to the number on your notebook...ah of course...no god fearing man could sin so easily...waste away fortune so carelessly and spend it on unnecessary frivolous activities.
“I think that might be the answer to your own question. The Doctor Watson wrote his newspaper articles and depicted him London’s hero. He can be truly a godless man. Frankly I believe he’s a sadist.”
You tilted your head at her and drank some of your tea.
You hummed and held a finger to your lip in thought, “Yet you said those women had smiles on their faces when they left?”
Mrs Hudson shook her head curtly and smirked, “Well I think I’d smile too with the amount he probably pays them.”
Laying your elbow on the table with your chin on your head you looked at the brothel papers, “You are right...they are over priced...Mayfair Row...they’re quality...but nonetheless still he pays them far too much.”
Your husband was an exuberant tipper when it wasn’t his money. Mayfair Row...you hadn’t been inside the Dove club where Sherlock spent most the wealth...but you knew the average price of a whore...it took you back to a time...many, many years ago...back when you believed you had a mother that loved you...back when seeing a naked man behave like an animal writhing on-top of her was your normal life. Where you mimicked the actions with your cloth doll that you carried everywhere. You tried to remember the name of that doll....Susie? Harriet? God only remembers now.
They weren’t pleasant memories...the stench of mud, the screaming of women, the yelling if men, the bite of hunger and the itch of lice in your hair and fleas covering your clothes.
You shuddered. Thank god you still did not live with her anymore. It was the only life you knew in those days but suffering is suffering and you amazed you how long you survived in such conditions.
The elderly woman looked into the pot and sighed at the low level of tea.
“I am surprised you know so much about them,” she casually noted, glancing back at you.
You realised how strange you must’ve sounded...you heart began to race. You grimaced, annoyed at yourself for being so relaxed you lost thought of your own words.
“Call it a terrible interest Mrs Hudson,” you licked your bottom lip and lied, “I was a reader of Josephine Butler’s work on her dismantlement of child sex work.”
She nodded slowly, clearly Mrs Hudson had no idea who Mrs Butler was...you felt a twinge of agitation for the uneducated.
You tapped your fingers nervously on your cup again and off handedly asked “Do you know if there are anymore receipts I might find Mrs Hudson?”
“No idea I’m afraid,” Mrs Hudson said as she noticed your cup was finally empty. She collected the tea set items and placed them on the tray. You turned in your seat and looked back at Sherlocks open door, there was still so much mess. You shook your head.
Before the housekeeper left you touched her arm.
“Please fetch me a broom and cloth and clean water.”
She followed your gaze at his room and warmly cupped your face, “Dear, perhaps you should lay in bed for a while, you shouldn’t be working so perilously in this physical state.”
You smiled and held her hand, rising out of the chair. You walked back to his room and called over your shoulder, “I would rather clean my husband’s hovel. No wonder he’s a beast considering he lives like one.”
You could hear Mrs Hudson cackling behind you as she went back down stairs only to return with your requested items after a while.
A clean room might clear his head, calm his woes.
•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•
12:23pm Tuesday 6th May 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.
After hours of sweeping, dusting, mopping, washing and organising Sherlock’s room you tiredly flopped back on his mattress and yawn.
At this rate you considered a small nap was required. Except you knew yourself, you knew if you stopped your progress you’d be discouraged to finish.
There was one last thing to organise after folding and hanging all his clothes. At the foot of Sherlock’s bed was a large chest. It could be easily mistaken for an ottoman. Maybe they’re would be more debt documents or clothing in there.
You crawled down and climbed off his bed to crouch beside the chest. You clicked the latches open and lifted the lid slowly.
Inside were sinister objects...you gasped...too shocked to even close the chest. Rope, shackles, knives, long thin sticks, a riding crop, a whip, a bridle you knew deep down was too small for a horse and meant for a human...smaller boxes with printed words....rectal dilators and hysterical paroxysm vibrating aid. And the illustrations...
There was a book you were reading...you weren’t really thinking, you were just curious of the horrid that might follow within...
Men and women, all nude, illustrations and photos of them performing elaborate sexual deviancy. Your eyes widened and your breath caught in your throat. Between your legs the buzz of arousal enlightened to your belly.
There was a woman who was tied up in ropes in star like patterns being mounted by a man who held a riding crop in his hand. You paled thinking he was beating this poor woman...and as you read the words, it was discovered she enjoyed this...took pleasure in the agony??
It was very confusing for you to read such hypocrisy.
Who would enjoy being hurt like this?
And as you read more and more, the deeper into this strange arousal you sunk into.
There was a illustration on a woman holding her lover’s intimate member in her mouth. And another where the same lover was licking with a long snake like tongue at her clitoris.
Your thighs squeezed tight and you groaned as a cramp rippled through your body down to your knees.
Hearing your name on your housekeepers lips tore you away from the novel. You threw the book back inside the chest and shut it hard. You felt short of breath and grasped the wood of his canopy to stay stable before leaving his chambers.
You told yourself that it was wrong to be looking at such art and imagery of lust. A part of you however desired to peak back inside...curiosity was your master and chastity your mistress. So who would you listen to first?
Your eyes fluttered shut.
You met the elderly woman out in the sitting room where she was dusting at the unlit fireplace mantle... She was moving little trinkets and photos.
Within the centre of the mantle stand was a frame containing your own portrait. You had the image taken at a tintype shop over a year ago. You stood beside Mrs Hudson as you took in the reflection of yourself. You smiled at how brilliant it captured your likeness. You were still confused how it worked, something about sand and light...your grandfather stood aside that day and said he would be sending the image to his son to remind him of you, his daughter...you were embarrassed to say the least but dared not argue with his wisdom.
Well it seems your father didn’t get the photo...or perhaps he send it back. Now Sherlock had it in his ownership.
She smiled at you and ran a hand softly down your back and said, “I just wanted to ask if you liked mutton dear, I hope to cook some this evening for dinner.”
You smiled with relief, you told her, “I am ever grateful for any food you provide my husband and I, thankyou Mrs Holmes.”
The elderly woman eyes widened with joy. She turned on her heel, taking the bucket and cloth with her.
You looked over at the table covered in receipts she had kindly left untouched.
“Mrs Hudson,” You called after her as you stepped hastily over to a side board bureau and began to write up a cheque, “is there any chance you will be attending the bank today?”
Facing you she pat the door handle and exclaimed, “No, however I can stop by if you need me to, I am officially in need to buy some fresh mutton from the butcher.”
You smiled at her cheery attitude. You filled out the numbers and printed the expenses. You tore it away from the book and held it out to her.
“Fantastic...here. Take this.”
The housekeeper stepped closer and raced her eyes over the cheque. Her eyes blew up wide at the price you had written out.
“I don’t quite understand...” she shakily stated.
You sighed and clapped your hands as you went to finally sit down on the lounging chaise. It wasn’t hard to admit you needed the rest with how your head spun. You were dizzy and it was possibly from all the cleaning you had conducted and dust you had inhaled.
“Sherlock needs to be rid of these debts and I need to rid of his temper...my dowry Mrs Hudson I pray brings me peace.”
Yes, you were sure of it. Your very expensive dowry...you were going to pay the debt off and help your husband become less of an animal. Perhaps you might convince him to attend church.
“Mrs Holmes,” your housekeeper stammered, “I would advise you hold onto this...please...you cannot just-”
You cut her off dignifiedly, “Mrs Hudson, this cheque card will enter the bank whether by your hand or mine. And before you have insisted I rest. So please if you care enough for me, you shall hand it in on my behalf.”
Her face was flushed and her eyes shut tight. She shook her head disapprovingly while muttering
“Very well dear girl, I hope you know what you are doing.”
Out Mrs Hudson went, and down you went. Your face pressed into a cushion. With your eyes fluttering shut, you feel back into the darkness and peacefully slept, listening to the wafting sounds of Baker Street flow from Sherlock’s bedroom window.
•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•
6:00pm Tuesday 6th May 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.
Sherlock still had not returned home from his morning flee. As Mrs Hudson laid out a plate of roast and potatoes with gravy she assured you that Sherlock had a habit of staying out for hours. Whether for a case or his own pleasures and addiction.
On the table in front of you was the paper bank statement, it accounted that the cheque had been entered and applied to the debts.
Now the Sherlock Holmes was a debt free man...
After you finished your dinner, Mrs Hudson kindly helped remove your shoes and change your bedding. You were redressed in a night gown and over your shoulders a warm dressing gown.
You now only wore a sanitary apron to protect yourself from your blood.
All his paid debt receipts were in a folder, you stared at that manilla folder smugly. Your left it on the table as you went to inspect the book shelves on the far wall near the entrance of the home.
You looked at the many novels on the shelves, now some of them being the ones brought over from your grandparents estate. On quick flicking through pages you found most of them being related to science, language and anatomy. Glancing back at Sherlocks open door, you thought about the book in the chest. That was more than just an anatomy book...
You squeezed your side, you were feeling a spike in temperature and a shortness in breath reimagining those images...those words.
It wasn’t the smut novella Fanny Hill, but it stoked fires inside you much like it. You knew it was something you probably shouldn’t have come across, because you shouldn’t have been inside his room, touching his belongings.
You had to. It smelt like something had died.
You prayed this would sort him out. You could only hope that the years ahead would not be so testing.
You had a list of mental rules. You may be his wife and beneath his status, however you would not just stand back and watch him act a fool and fall victim to further ridicule in society. You would not sink in the same boat again. You were excluded from many balls as a teen when some wicked foul mouth girl had revealed the secrecy of your parentage.
Your step mother was only eleven years older than you, so really...there was no possibility of pretending to be her child. Everyone in high society of they knew you, knew what you were. And because they knew you were treated like a unspeakable burden and unwanted pet at parties.
It wasn’t a mystery to you why you started playing the role of a wallflower at only fifteen.
You refused to allow Sherlock to bring you to such shame in society.
The heavy foot steps outside the close door alerted you to an approach made by someone other than Mrs Hudson.
With the loud snap of the handle and click of the lock, in entered a breathless giant. Sherlock.
He tore off his hat and coat and only after hanging the items on the rack by the door did he acknowledge you with a small nod, “Mrs Holmes,” he bid. Under his arm you noticed was a paper wrapped package.
You heard him march through the house towards the middle room and heard him swear under his breath, follows by a repetitive “no no no.”
You heard him frantically skid around the carpets and floor boards of his own room. He was tearing open and slamming drawers and wardrobe doors.
“What the hell have you done! What have you-?”
Storming out of his room, you gasped at how his face reddened and he continued shouting, but thankfully not at you. He raced to the front door and tore it open screaming down the stairwell,
“Where are you woman!? Mrs Hudson! You shrivelled cow!”
You slapped the book in your hands shut, regarding him disdainfully, “Our housekeeper is not to be rewarded by your insults.”
The turn around he made was slow as realisation came to his heated face. The snarl was replaced by a begrudged sneer as he scoffed, pointing his finger sharply back in the direction of the bedrooms, “...You did this destruction?”
“Destruction?” You whispered. What destruction had you done?
As he approached, you unconsciously took a step back and nervously licked your bottom lip. You felt air being pulled from you as he towered above and stabbed you beneath a invasive gaze.
His darkened eyes looked across the light material of your nightwear. His fingers tugged the book out of hands and pushed it back into the shelving where it belonged.
You decided you needed to stand firmer against him, You craned your head back and stared up at him.
“H-hardly...I have organised. Cleaned.” You took another step back and felt the wood of the display cabinet behind you dig into your waist.
“By subject,” you felt his body press up against you, what the hell was he doing? Trying to intimidate you? You were hardly dressed compared to his full clad attire. It scared you. He looked formidable, like he was going to tear you limb from limb, his nostrils flared. Your insides jumped and that buzzing feeling ran through your lower half. God...why did this of all things arouse you?
Your throat felt shaky, “then- then ah numerical dated followed by alphabetically.”
You glance him over and blinked at the red spot on his chest, was it ink? No, ink isn’t so dark....under Sherlock’s jaw was a scratch, a slight discolouration to his skin and under his hair curl on his forehead as another mark.
He leant down and pressed his mouth to your ear, “Do not ever enter my chambers or touch my belongings without my permission again.” It was a mix between a whisper, an disciplining snarl, and a lusty moan.
It left your knees feeling bloodless. Your own eyes shut closed at the hot breath that breathed into your lobe and hair.
As he pulled back, he stood away and for the first few moments you needed to remember how to control your breathing.
He looked over the dining room table and slid the thick folder closer to himself.
“And what is this?” he asked you.
“Your debts,” You swallowed and wiped your palm across your forehead, a trail of sweat drenched your hand, “Paid for.”
He smirked and shook his head, “Mycroft.”
“No,” you bluntly said, smoothing your hands down your dress to rid of the wrinkles that rose up. Seeing how your nipples had hardened beneath your nightgown you pulled the dressing gown tighter around you and crossed your arms protectively over your chest.
You looked at his body hunched over the table and blinked at the white marks over the edges of his dark navy suit jacket. It looked like flour...except flour had a tendency to clump. His nails were also clean of any baking incredibly. But his finger pads on the wooden table left little faint prints...
“You?” he chuckled condescendingly.
You nodded, “Yes.”
His laughter quickly fell away, his head snapped up fully to look at you, his brows knitted together,
“Why?”
His lips settled into a frown.
He put his hands on his hips, a power play...he was trying to show confidence, dominance...perhaps in response to your arms folded over your chest.
It would’ve been good to just tell him the truth, but to explain it to him would be impossible. You chose to simplify the answer...
“Easement on your consciousness?” You offered dryly. It wasn’t a total like, the less stress, the more relaxing and kindness....right?
His mouth twisted into a snarl, “Why you insufferable little-”
“Where did you go today?,” you pondered, cutting him off from finishing his insult, “A school?”
He jerked back slightly, he tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, he took a deep breath and cupped his hands behind his back, “Excuse me?”
Good, he was calmer now.
This time you took to action...you stepped forward and sighed solemnly pinching one of his vest buttons.
“Chalk, on your cuffs. You smell like sweat in a teenage boy rather than a man. You’ve also had a scuffle with someone much shorter than you from the marks on your neck. Your shirt has a speck of what I believe is blood and the button is loosen,” you pinched and ripped it from the shirt and it’s faint loose thread.
“Fret not...” you smirked and pat his chest, “I will mend it should you ask.”
His hands came around and squeezed your forearms, his head moved back a little. He was perplexed...a light upturn in his lips revealed his sudden amusement.
He lifted a hand up and gently touched your face. He was breathing in a controlled state. You felt the intimacy of his closeness without fear of his wrath.
“No...” he drawled, “I was at Scotland yard. A poor deduction...” his thumb ran across your chin, “dear wife.”
You felt your heart pick up as his soft hand touched your face, you tried looking away from his staring eyes. Sherlock’s edged closer to your lips.
“Poor deduction but I am not stupid,” you consoled.
His lips broke into a wider smile revealing his teeth, he chuckled, “...I beg to differ.”
He moved abruptly back and fled to escape to his rooms. You knew his intention perfectly and chased after him, emphasising, “You had almost three hundred pounds in debt Sherlock. I at least know how to wisely spend my money.”
He spun on his heel and snapped at you, pointing harshly at your chest, “oh ho! Playing this game then are we? With your dowry gone, you have nothing left. I’d hardly call paying off my debts which were none of your concern, wise spending.”
You grabbed his finger and announced softer, serious and less aggressive, “Indeed, which is why I implore you to cease all further transactions in regards to your addictions.”
“Do not patronise me wife,” He scoffed and rolled his eyes tried tearing his hand away but your grip on his index finger tightened and the both of your grunted.
You grit your teeth at him, “Do not patronise me husband.”
He sighed and wiggled his finger from out of your hand.
He dusted his hands on his waist coat and huffed. He peered at you with a mischievous gaze.
“My debts...they included my friends...yes? From Mayfair?”
Oh that was cruel indeed. Mentioning those women when you were married to him. You wouldn’t dare let him threaten you over them.
You fought the urge to hit him and stomp your foot. You turned away from him and quickly composed yourself. Hastily you plucked some matches from the small box ontop of the fireplace mantel. You struck a small flame and tossed it into the fire place where you discarded some old newspapers as kindling.
“Yes,” you admitted tightly, “I know about your scandalous behaviours and forbid you from consorting in that demonstration again.”
He pushed passed you and unbuttoned his jacket and vest fully. He draped them over the back of one of the lounges, he pulled up his trousers slightly as he sat down.
He chuckled, “You forbid me?”
You glared at him and shot back up off the floor. You squeezed your eyes tightly as you firmly dictated, “I am the only woman to ever receive you carnally from now on.”
He smirked and spread his legs wide, folding his arms on his chest. He jerked his chin up at you and clicked his tongue, “I don’t believe you know what that means. Believe me little lamb, my fidelity is that last thing you’ll desire...or did you not learn from yesterday?”
You rolled your eyes and shook your head.
“I stand by what I mean Sherlock. You will not commit adultery while married to me,” you snapped. You wanted control, this would not be taken from you if you could help it.
“Or what?” He laughed, he then condescendingly moaned, “You’ll tell my big brother?”
As he went back to his smug chuckling you clenched your fists and stood over him. You weren’t thinking straight. Only a red shade cast in your eyes. You grabbed his collar and tugged him hard, spitting down at him with full anger as you threatened, “...Or I will kill you.”
He stopped laughing but didn’t stop his smug smiling. His hands came up and grabbed yours, prying them from his shirt.
“Barely been forty eight hours of wedded bliss and you desire to murder me. Ha! I now owe John five pounds,” he looked down at your chest which you realised was hanging in a uncompromising position. He could see right down your chest practically to your third rib with your lack of supporting chemise. Sherlock tongued the inside of his cheek and hummed, “My word.”
You gasped with horror and attempted to rip away from his hold, you grunted gruffly, “You are a pig Sherlock Holmes!”
He pulled you forcefully downwards and made your knees buckle. Your chest fell into his and you both hissed at the impact of crushing into each other.
Lewdly his hot wet tongue licked its way from your neck up to your earlobe while his hands pushed your thighs up to straddle over him, his fingers sharply stabbed into your backside under the night gown.
“You have absolutely no clue to what I am little Lamb.”
You tried pushing off him immediately, and felt his arm wrap around your waist and trap you against him.
Your legs so wildly spread and pressed against his trousers made you feel like you were riding on a horse.
Despite the plethora of farm animals you could compare in his and your name, you had both your wrists this caught in his one hand.
“Go on,” he chuckled as you struggled against him, “Tell me how you would do it...,” he taunted,
“How would you kill the great Sherlock Holmes, London’s finest Detective?”
You shrieked as you felt crushed under his baring arm, “I can think of many ways!”
“Well go on,” he smugly waited with raised brows, “Tell me.”
Your eyes rolled and you whined when he dug his nails into your wrists.
“I’ll push you down the stairs!”
He barked with laughter and shook his head, “You cannot be sure the fall would kill me, perhaps I might be paralysed, with many broken bones, but no no, I also don’t think you have the strength to push me around anywhere, look at you right now.”
“Fine!” you yelled, “Ill stab you with a knife!”
“Ah a violent approach, but what of the blood?” He grabbed your hip and moved you to grind your centre down on a lump in his trousers, “Why, even those idiots in Scotland Yard would figure out it was you; blood staining the clothes, carpet and blood beneath your nails, and where would you ever be able to hide the weapon?”
“Sherlock! Let me go or I’ll poison your tea!” you whined terribly.
He bit his lip and shook his head at you, “Oh dear Mrs Holmes, it’s possibly the most common death among an unhappy married couple. Wives are known to favour poison greatly.”
You heaved as you tried to catch your breath. You fell forward a little. Your sweaty forehead touched his.
“Please,” you whined, “let me go. All I want is you to be a civilised man and honour our marriage bed.”
He looked down at your parted lips. He looked back at your chest and shut his eyes.
“You want me to give up my whores Mrs Holmes?”
You gulped and nodded, “Of course.”
When he opened those blue orbs with the brown flecks, he whispered, “I promise to forsake them...if...”
“If?” you stammered and narrowed your eyes.
“Hush!” He reprimanded, “I promise to forsake my whores on Mayfair Row...If I can have my whore of Baker Street.”
Before you and time to reply and question what he even meant, he stood up and tossed you onto the floor. Sherlock crawled over you and pinned your flailing hands above your hand.
“You want to please me, please your husband, Mrs Holmes?” he gasped as his other hand went groping and squeezing around your soft body.
You weakly nodded, your head rested on the floor trying to get back the breath he knocked from you when he pushed you down.
You hissed softly, “Please, you’re hurting me.”
His hands loosened but held you trapped to the floor.
His lips danced over your cheek, “Then you will need to perform like a whore for me.”
A sobbing cry ripped front our chest, unsure of his real intention you quickly jumped to the conclusion of his implications.
You choked and shook your head, “No! I am not going to become a prostitute!”
He cackled at your fearful cry.
“No, this body belongs to me,” he said as he pinched the strings of your night gown and pushed the material away to show off your bare breasts.
His lips wrapped around your right nipples and sucked hard, tickling you with his tongue tip. Tears started to well in your face. You didn’t understand what he was implying to do to you. It tickled and felt so warm.
You were scared. You knew some men of the world were evil. Evil husband’s that pimped out the women they married. You couldn’t imagine being so intimate with another person. You couldn’t imagine succumbing to the agony you received the night before by Sherlock’s hand.
Kicking your feet across the rug and tried pushing your body from under him. He grunted as your nipple left his lips. He pressed the hand hard on your hip and affirmed, “Keep still, little lamb.”
“Sherlock,” you started to beg on a whimper, “Please, stop! You are frightening me, you’re h-hurting me!”
He looked down at you, his hair falling slightly on your head. His smile wavered as he took note of your tears and wobbling lips.
His gaze softened along with his voice, “...be completely honest with me.”
You nodded desperately, “I will, I will!”
“Did you look in the trunk at the foot of my bed?”
The chest full of explicit items and torture devices.
Your eyes squeezed tight and you exhaled, “I did.”
He smirked and let you go completely, standing up and held his hand to assist you too. When you were finally upright, he pinched your exposed nipple. You shrieked.
“I am a man Y/N, I have needs. I expect you to fulfil them earnestly if you desire I abandon my charity to Mayfair.”
You tried pushing his hand back and covering your breasts with the dressing gown. He smirked and shook his head at you, “No, no, let me see them.”
The silence was vile. The crackling of the fire place was the only ambience that showed attendance.
You couldn’t do it. It was wrong to be so exposed beyond the bedroom.
He waited and when you showed no sign of showing him, he sighed and nodded, “Very well, good night Mrs Holmes, I will call upon my friend Irene.”
He walked around you and journeyed to his open bedroom door.
As if all colour drained from your face you feverishly held out a hand and quickly called, “Wait, please! Look!”
You all but chased him into his own bedroom. He snapped his head in your direction. You stood in the centre space between his bed and the door.
He raised a brow and watched almost unimpressed as your trembling fingers shed your dressing gown and pulled the neckline of your night gown open...there he could finally observe your luscious breasts.
“Why Mrs Holmes,” he mused, sitting on his bed and peeling his cravat off his neck, “Your teats are exposed, careful,” he sarcastically warned, “One might mistake you for a slut.” You felt breathless and curled your lips inside.
You couldn’t believe it, you were letting him hurt you in a new way. You were letting him bully you. It wasn’t right and you desperately hated it, but what else was there except to let him defile and destroy your holy vows?
“Is that a sanitary apron on your waist?” he question, pointing at the lump under your gown.
You nodded, “I am still bleeding husband...”
“Do you know what that means?” Sherlock said unbuttoning his shirt.
Your licked your lips, folding your arms behind your back you tried hard to not cover yourself,
“My body is extinguishing my mental illnesses.”
He smirked and rolled his eyes, “Your medical knowledge is dated, but that is not what I implied...I meant that you should come to your knees and perform fellatio.”
Your eyes widened...fellatio was such a naughty word to hear let alone say. It was the type of practise in the book in his chest. Oral sex. Seeing the woman hold her male companions member appeared lewd and distasteful.
You hadn’t thought of ever doing it yourself, it served no purpose in procreation with god.
Flustered and shy, you cupped your hands over your face to think.
Sherlock’s voice was softer this time. He wasn’t mocking you as he explained, “I will not force you to do this Y/N, you do not have to if you do not want to.”
You shook your head and scowled at him from your hands, “But I do! I don’t want you to ever lay with a woman other than me! I am-“ you choked on some on coming tears, “I am your wife Sherlock, please...promise me if I do this you won’t lay with another woman.”
He unbuckled his trousers and sighed, “Then get on your knees,” he pulled out his semi hard rod, “and kiss your husbands cock.”
You looked over your shoulder at his door and then back at him.
Would you do this? Humiliate yourself in promise of keeping his vows loyally to you?
Helplines:
If you are a victim of sexual abuse, assault or domestic violence or know someone who is please reach out to these links that share helpline services, phone numbers or emails. Consent and respect is important in every relationship whether between friends, family or even strangers.
Australian Helpline Services
UK Helpline Services
American Helpline Services
India Helpline Services.
#dead dove fic#dead dove do not eat#sherlock holmes x female reader#sherlock holmes x poc!reader#sherlock holmes x y/n#sherlock holmes x you#sherlock holmes x ofc#sherlock holmes x reader#henry cavill x black reader#henry cavill x y/n#henry cavill x ofc#henry cavill x you#henry cavill x reader#henry cavill x female reader#Henry Cavill x poc!reader#sherlock holmes#sherlock holmes enola holmes#enola sherlock#enola holmes sherlock holmes#chapter 3#milky fics
156 notes
·
View notes
Text
Wails of Wedded Bliss
Chapter 4 || Masterlist || Chapter 6
Chapter Summary: After defending your housekeeper, Sherlock takes a rough hand to your backside....
Pairing: Sherlock Homes x wife!reader
Chapter Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Spanking, Domestic Abuse, rough kissing.
Word Count: 9k
Author Notes: I am sorry this took forever to post but I'm lucky and glad to say I should be moving to a new rental home in a month. Yayyy!!!
Inspiring Song: Partita for violin n°2 by Bach.
•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•
6:30am Wednesday 7th May 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England
With baited breath you hurriedly rushed to push your husband out of the line of the door way. You shoved Sherlock and with some surprise, he moved. He rolled his eyes and pressed his back to the wall beside the door.
You feared an inevitable future. Mrs Hudson would enter your dwellings. And see your husband...how ironic for you to be scared of something meant to be.
Mrs Hudson knocked again and you heard the handle of your door twist.
A strike of horror whipped you into action. You fluttered to the cracking door as the old woman announced in a hushed whisper.
“Y/N dear, are you awake? Your mongrel of a groom is gone if you would like to come out now!”
Your fingers clenched into fists behind you and the offended snicker from Sherlock from next to you beside the opening door didn’t help your embarrassment. He knew you didn’t approve of his past behaviours but to be made apparent how much you deplored him was humiliating.
You forced a tight smile for your landlady as she took a step closer into the doorway. How you wished you could’ve asked her to leave, but how could you, it would seem rude after all her kind hospitality and assistance.
She greeted you with a happy wink while still under the belief her original tenant was no longer in the house. But her eyes did flutter after she glanced you up and down, surprised by your prepared dressed state.
It was a unspoken question, ‘Who helped dress you?’
You gently interpreted aloud, “Oh...he is still here...and...” your lips became dry. Why did Mrs Hudson have to be so invasive as landlady even if under pure intentions?
The old woman grew pale with her wide grey gaze. Her lips smacked open. You looked over your shoulder and gasped with a jump at the ridiculous state of your husband standing directly behind you, with a naked torso.
“Mrs Hudson,” he smirked, “Good Morning,” he said rather proudly with his hands settle on his finely shaped hips. His tongue lazily licked his bottom tongue with his eyebrows raised.
He found the lewdness incredibly hilarious. ‘Great, my husband is not only arrogant, rude and mean- he is also childish one would gather.’
“Quite...” she said as colour grew quick to her face in the shade of a wet red rose. Her wrinkled throat tightened. Her fingers gripped at her apron while her lips pursed disapprovingly.
Your husband briskly moved you aside by holding your hips and directing you out of his path before he strutted out from your door frame entrance.
You and the elder woman did perhaps inspect the curve of his bottom in his trousers for too long as he swaggered back to his bedroom. A plump arse in a husband has never been known as a requirement, but for the advice of a future generation you were sure to note it.
Mrs Hudson somewhat breathless and at a disadvantage twisted her head back and leant to your ear inquisitively, “What happened?” her eyes darted back and forth.
It was then as you saw her forehead shrink, you realised, she was concerned for your safety, for your health and wellbeing.
You could only imagine the distress the dear Mrs Hudson experienced when she found you in a puddle of blood on your bed only two days prior.
Your own lips parted and you raced to find the words. You struggled and stuttered to explain how on earth you came to lay in your bed with your own husband. It felt challenging and at half your conscience considered lying for the sake of modesty and privacy. It shouldn’t have been so difficult to say; you and Sherlock were bloody husband and wife. A small laugh in the back of your head jingled.
“Well...ugh...as husband and wife we...came to an agreement.”
Your fingers came up to touch your lips. A small smile was upon them. How else could you say your husband showed you terror and bliss all in one night. You knew it was not custom for a groom to tie up his bride and ravage her to a mindless state of ecstasy.
It had been so terrifying and exciting. The debate crossed your mind, ‘should I fear him, or submit with praise?’
He had treated you so awfully until this morning. You raced to wonder what had changed his mood so speedily in your favour...’Was it the deal? The debasing?’ In which you relinquished your pride and dignity to him that you already had so little of.
Her eyes narrowed at your wording, “An agreement?”
Those shrivelled pink lips settled in the shape of a pondering ‘o’ for sometime until Sherlock stuck his head back out from his rooms while buttoning a white shirt.
“We fucked Mrs Hudson,” he bluntly muttered startling you both in the midst of shock. It was uncouth to swear as he did, especially as a gentleman, especially in front of women. He was so unlike his high browed brother.
The older woman clicked her heels together and sputtered, “Sherlock!”
“-now if you aren’t too busy gossiping with my wife,” he sneered, cutting Mrs Hudson off, “I would very much like a cup of tea!”
“Well I never-!” the elder woman crossly huffed with her blushed face still blooming.
Your girlish grin disappeared. There he was. The rude and demeaning man.
Your fingers clenched to fists. The disrespect to Mrs Hudson was an insult to you. After all these hours in this new home, this woman sacrificed her time to help you. She did not deserve foul treatment from your husband even if he had always behaved that way to her in the past. You were now living here and wouldn’t stand for it.
You couldn’t allow this treatment to continue, “Sherlock!” both of their heads snapped at your raised tone, “Do not address Mrs Hudson in such a manner again!”
The man deemed London’s greatest detective looked bewildered, as if you slapped the man himself in the face. That masculine confidence fleeted from his face. Your landlady fluttered her eyes at your outburst. Perhaps you appeared aggressive, your knuckle pressed to your lips.
Your chest felt tight. You were panting. Yes, you had yelled so loudly it would be no question if those on the sidewalk below in Baker Street heard your bellowing.
You were angry. Resentful. The spell of his magical touch and charm had worn quickly off. Back you were to being a forthright wife.
His tongue stabbed the inside of his cheek. His eyes narrowed. Whatever was he thinking?
“Very well,” he said and he nodded once, “Mrs Holmes.”
He began fiddling with the buttons of his trousers, tucking his shirt in.
You lowered your hand and placed them on your exaggerated hips.
You gave a little huff to add on, “And say please to Mrs Hudson when asking for tea.”
Mrs Hudson glanced between you both before scurrying back to the dining table where breakfast had been so generously laid out. She clearly was smart enough to know not to intervene in this rising argument.
The smell of cinnamon and porridge filled your nose. Mrs Hudson quietly poured you a cup of tea. From the corner of your eye you watched the steam rise.
“For god sake woman,” Sherlock grumbled with exasperation and waved his hand in front of himself, “She is merely the housekeeper.”
You stood between them and wagged a finger at him, “And landlady.”
He sighed with annoyance and rolled his eyes. His lips pinched. Accepting his defeat in his stubbornness he spun on his heels and re-entered your room. He left his door open.
You took a step forward and remembered yesterday how cross he had been when you entered his space without permission...’permission be damned.’
You swallowed down that cold prickling fear and followed him in and took note on how he sat on the trunk with deviant tools within. He hiked up his trouser legs up. He sighed at your presence- not fully annoyed but not fully relieved either.
You knew where he kept his shoes and what type after your savage pilfering clean the day before. You selected for him a dark navy cravat to match his chosen blazer he pointed out to you. You selected a golden pin and black dress boots for him.
He cleared his throat and muttered a soft “Thankyou,” as you handed him the cravat and pin while you silently knelt to the floor and began slipping on his garters, socks and shoes onto his feet.
He looked like stone. His face unreadable. You could not tell if he was annoyed, amused or just plain bored by his lack of emotion.
Maybe you had shut him up and taken him down a peg. Indeed, perhaps you had really humiliated him in front of Mrs Hudson to the point of expressionless silence.
6:40am Wednesday 7th May 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England
He wasn’t sure how to feel about this. He wasn’t sure if he liked it or if he was to be frightened by it. Your quick submission, your gentleness after such a loud scolding. You had such a voice. You had a fearsome outburst that you used said voice with.
So seeing you play demure wife with the snap of second put him on a strange edge...what game were you playing at?
He sat back on his hands and stared at you struggling to button up his buttons he did the only thing he knew how in regards to people. He analysed you.
Your hands were clammy...sweaty and warm indicating either your heighten blood from your outburst or the after affects of your embarrassment when Mrs Hudson discovered his existence in your bedroom.
Your breath was slightly ragged. You were nervous he decided.
He glanced at how every few moments you wriggled your hips. Very faintly. Disguised as an attempt to readjust your sitting position, whereas in fact...you appeared to make soft rocking motions...
Oh, he smiled internally...you were aroused and embarrassed. You were helpless and desperate. Poor little lamb.
He looked around his room and back to you on the floor. You both were in rather a similar pose last night before he blackmailed you into sucking his cock. He twitched his head to the side and wondered how scandalous and quick he could pull out his cock and shove it past your teeth; all the while Mrs Hudson stood only a few feet away past the door with her back turned to you both.
How naughty...
And your sweet eyes looked up from his shoes...if only you weren’t sitting on your skirts. He mourned for all he waited more than ever was sneak it beneath your shift and between your thighs.
‘How charming,’ he larked in his mind, ‘Polishing my shoe with her pussy.’ Your hairless pussy in fact.
Sherlock didn’t not hate body hair. But rather he liked the satisfaction of making pain in doing something as torturous as ripping hair from a sobbing woman. And the softness was something that never ceased amazement.
He did once mention to John before his comrade met Mary how on occasion, cunnilingus on a hairy woman was comparable to kissing a man on the face. John, he recalled, laughed at Sherlock and announced he had never eaten a cunt, so why bother eating one covered in hair... now it was all the man could ever speak of when it came to his wife that he worshipped.
When you finished folding his trouser paints so that mud would not soak the hem, he leant forward and place a finger under your chin.
Your pupils flickered. Oh yes. You were definitely aroused, he concluded.
And he felt somewhat generous. He cupped your cheek and lifted you higher to your feet.
“Come here,” he whispered.
He almost burst out laughing watching how your eyes fluttered. His thumb scraped over your lip. He pinched your cheeks and pulled you into his face before he slowly stood off his bed.
He pushed his tongue inside and moaned. With how you tried to return the movement he smirked. You were desperate and he knew you wanted to please him. He flicked around and sucked your bottom lip.
Pulling back you were panting loud and your eyes wide.
He gave you passion, so what were you to do with that?
“Now Mrs Holmes, go sit down for breakfast,” he purred, “I will be out shortly.”
His cock was getting hard and he needed to give himself a moment or else he felt compelled to fuck you right there, Mrs Hudson could rightfully fuck off down stairs if she didn’t want to see the show....
•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•
6:46am Wednesday 7th May 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England
On weak, shaky legs you turned away from him. Your hand stumbled along his door frame. You could feel the hot buzz still on your lips. You felt hot all over. Behind you, he softly shut his door. You needed to sit down and so you reached out to your side of the dining room. You hobbled into your chair and reached for your warm tea.
“Well you must’ve done something right,” the landlady chuckled under her breath, wiping her hands lazily on her apron, “I haven’t seen him so caught off guard since his mother last visited. Put him in his please, she did.”
You nodded slowly. Sherlock Holmes would always be a true enigma. You sipped carefully. He kissed you with great heat, after you had scolded him? It made no sense.
“Is it within the best interest that I remain rather than leave you alone with him?” Mrs Hudson whispered as she saw your gaze staring off at the nothingness of the room.
Your eyes fluttered to focus and you smiled up at the kind woman. You squeezed her hand and shook your head.
“No, I am sure I can manage my husband Mrs Hudson,” you rose and carefully took the tea pot from her hands, “I think I shall pour his tea.”
Your land lady peered at you suspiciously as she relinquished the china. She smiled grimly and nodded before walking off and departing the apartment.
Sherlock wasn’t so scary now that you knew he wasn’t cross. And surely...if anything occurred, Mrs Hudson might intervene? Yes?
So where the hell was she last night? The thought wasn’t really your own, it just came up in the back of your mind watching as she left the apartment.
Your husband didn’t take long to come out, fully dressed. He sat down and searched over the table.
Mrs Hudson had brought up warm croissants, fresh butter and a scrumptious jam to lay on top.
You stood over him and poured tea into his cup. You felt his eyes rolling up and down your body. When you stood away, he poured in his own cream.
You placed the pot down gently and returned to your seat.
In those few seconds there was peace and power, submission and dominance. And you didnt even know it...
You folded the napkin over your lap and spread a fine line of jam over the bread like treat.
Sherlock? He sipped his tea and wouldn’t stop staring, to the point where it made you feel intimidated. What was he looking at? Was there jam on your face?
He clear his throat again and shook his head. He tore a piece of a croissants with his fingers and stuffed it into his mouth. It was something you disapproved of. But you didn’t have the patience to teach a man almost twice your age on the art of table manner etiquette.
And after an eternity of silent air filled with chewing and sipping...
“Finished your breakfast?” Sherlock smiled, rising from his chair, you nodded and patted your lips. You needed to return to your room and find some hair pins along with a hat if he expected you to join him.
“Good...” Sherlock said coming around to your side and helping you out of your chair with a single lending hand...and he led you to the main sitting room.
You tried to turn around go back to your room, maybe he forget the negative propriety of a woman wearing her hair unfixed in public.
He caught your wrist and tugged you to the side of the chaise.
“Bend over,” he purred into your ear. You blinked.
“What ever for?” you audibly pondered before hearing him sigh frustrated.
You looked between him and the lounge.
His voice was coated in a acidic hiss, “Bend over or I’ll make you.”
You didn’t understand. Naively you bent over the arm. Had he lost something between the soft mattressing? Your fingers reached for the small cushion to look under when you felt him start to lift your skirts. Your eyes widened. What the hell was he doing!?
You went to stand up straight before he pushed his hand on your upper back and pushed you down again. You grunted and grizzled.
He tossed your skirts up over your backside to your waist. His hand softly rubbed across your drawers. The weight of his palm made you jump in surprise. His finger traced the splitting fabric. He pushed the pieces aside.
You held your breath. Your fingers clenched the chaise as you tried looking over your shoulder.
He couldn’t have been suggesting that he would mount you like this...here.. out in the open of your home...surely not...
He smirked at the alarm written all over your face. He bent his head down to you...he kissed your cheek and peppered small pecks to your ear.
“I’m going to strike you ten times,” his hot breath came.
Your eyes widened and your nose curdled.
“What ever for!?” you repeated with a sneer while you tried rising up again. This time, he shoved you down harder.
Sherlock smiled mockingly, his voice was sweet and high but beneath it was hate and sadism, “For speaking against my authority in front of Mrs Hudson.”
He cupped your backside and you swallowed hard.
It wasn’t right! He didn’t need to be so rude to the house keeper. You felt the coming punishment to be unwarranted.
“Such a pretty bum...” he sighed pawing at each unmarred cheek, “Such a disobedient wife...” He awed slightly...you were trembling. You shut your eyes and prayed to turn back time.
The first slap took you entirely by surprise, a sob tore itself from your lips instantly as his hand made contact with your backside.
You stomped your foot and tried twisting around to stop him but he flung you back over the chaise. And then the woosh of a flying hand swatted you. The burning crack of his palm left you feeling choked and brought to tears faster than ever before.
You cried immediately. And do you know what your torturous husband did? He let you cry...he let you catch your breath. He waited until you quieted...and then he hit you again. The third time hurt as well yet, felt stronger. It was the force of the hit that was more like a punch then a slap to your rear end bringing you into a shocked gasp.
You stomped your foot and whimpered, “Unhand me! You brute!”
He chuckled and smacked his palm fast against your bottom, the rising flame of nerves made you whine pitifully.
“Stop!” you pleaded, “Sherlock please!”
The soft touch on your abused arse cheek did little to soothe the stinging pain and the third slap made it far worse. Your skin was turning a shade and felt indescribably hot.
“We are almost finished Mrs Holmes, take a deep breath for me,” he asked.
You sniffled terribly trying to clean your sobs. Your eyes were watering while Sherlock’s pale hand rubbed up and down your sensitive thighs. Your belly jumped and butterflies fluttered. You felt tingly and in need of a cold cloth. You attempted to wriggle away once more but that only made Sherlock grasp on you tighter.
By the sixth slap your whimpers evolved into breathy pants. You felt his run his fingers soft and slow on your hot skin. They were cold and like a balm to the suffering he inflicted. You felt the swirls and managed to feel him draw an S and a H.
It became a vile pattern where he allowed you to compose your crying and fall quiet before delivering hell by his palm.
You could only recall the last spanking you received was from a school teacher when you were nine years old because you spilled ink down the dress of a girl bullying you.
The next whip made you gasp and continued to lessen the soreness you tried breathing through your lips shaped in a ‘o’ which made a most heinous noise...a moan.
“You are taking this very well my pretty Baker Street whore.”
You knew it had to be Sherlock’s voice but it felt so far away now. Your lower body felt incredibly warm and light.
“Never again will you humiliate me In the presence of our housekeeper, do I make myself clear?” his voice became a lifeline.
You were trembling beneath him. You felt him step closer and the side of your neck.
You didn’t agree with him, you didn’t humiliate him, he humiliated himself with his lack of manners. You were tired, relaxed, starting to accept the burning heat of his hand. You heard him chuckling in your ear. Your mind was falling to pieces.
“Yes s-sir,” Your voice shook which fell into a voice a new moan as the next strike connected to your bottom.
“Very good little lamb,” he said pleasingly. He slowly released his grip on your back and ran his hand lightly over your displayed flesh.
He rubbed his thumb into your muscle and took glee in your snarling hiss. He tapped your exposed hip softly.
“There,” he said slowly lifting you from the lounge and letting your skirts fall back to your ankles. He wiped away the tears with his thumbs, kissing each cheek as he went.
When reality crashes hard like a stormy wave, you flinched and moved away from him. You cupped your mouth and tried not to cry but the tears fluttered fast.
You felt him stand behind you and you wished you could’ve run away. You felt so embarrassed and ashamed you made such lusty tones. He wrapped his hands around your waist and towered above you.
He asked quietly, “Are you sure you want my fidelity now?”
It felt like a open wound that he was digging inside further. It was cruel, his smugness.
And this was a really trap. You could swear it. He wanted a reason to be allowed to return to Mayfair Row.
He wanted you to waver, to give in, to let him betray the wedding bed. It was like a candle filling the room with light. He didn’t spank you because he was embarrassed that you scolded him in front of the housekeeper, oh no, no, ‘twas a beneath the layers. Sherlock was trying to break you into letting him do as he desired, to continue his habits before your marriage.
You gulped and squeezed his hands; the tools he just beat you with. You felt sick. You felt angry. You felt like you had successfully figured out the solution to an ancient problem...
You could’ve caved in...you could’ve let him ruin the marriage entirely...the shame...you were fragile and almost let him.
You almost, but you didn’t.
You swallowed hard and fluttered your eyes and stated tightly, “It will take more than a whipping by your hands to make me let you go back to whoring, Mr Holmes.”
You turned your neck to glare at him. And instead of a snarl or a frown or disapproving look, he was smirking. His brows were raised in pleasant surprise.
“Marvellous,” he whispered, “an utter spectacle, you are.”
You scoffed and wiped your eyes again of a burning tear and shoved to move past him to go retrieve your hair pins and hat.
He followed on your tail and cackled, “Oh don’t be so prudish...I too heard that little moan.”
Your throat tightened as you tried ignoring his relaying fact.
You came to your room and saw him through your mirror leaning on the door frame, watching you. You perfected your usual modest style while you snapped, “If you honestly believe I under any circumstances enjoyed that, you are truly- terribly mistaken.”
He was chewing his bottom lip and racing his eyes over your entire body. He was comically a wolf starved for his lamb.
You couldn’t even sit down at your vanity with the heat radiating on your backside under all your skirts. You didn’t even want to come out with him today, you almost dared state you would stay home after his assault.
However, lord only knows where Sherlock would really gallivant off to if you didn’t chaperone him today. Any man can break a promise.
He came into your room slowly and went to your hat box. He handed you the straw brim and cleared his throat, “Get your gloves, we must make haste.”
You rolled your eyes at him and snatched your hat from his hands, “If we were in such a hurry it might’ve deterred you from your unnecessary beating.”
He was fast as lightning and holding your jaw tearing out a gasp from you as he huffed, “Indeed, If we weren’t in such a hurry, I would have my cock down your throat for that comment Mrs Holmes.” His eyes turned a shade darker that dragged a bolt of fear back down your spine.
His smile was not as cheery, it had transformed into a sneer in lilt, “Gloves. Now.”
Helplines:
If you are a victim of sexual abuse, assault or domestic violence or know someone who is please reach out to these links that share helpline services, phone numbers or emails. Consent and respect is important in every relationship whether between friends, family or even strangers.
Australian Helpline Services
UK Helpline Services
American Helpline Services
India Helpline Services.
#sherlock holmes x female reader#sherlock holmes x poc!reader#sherlock holmes x y/n#sherlock holmes x you#sherlock holmes x ofc#sherlock holmes x reader#Dead dove do not eat#dead dove fic#dark!sherlock holmes#dark!henry cavill#henry cavill x black reader#henry cavill x y/n#henry cavill x ofc#henry cavill x you#henry cavill x reader#henry cavill x female reader#dead dove do not eat#henry cavill x#henry sherlock#enola sherlock
137 notes
·
View notes
Text
Sir Sherlock Holmes & The Indian Princess
शर्लक बाबू और भारतीय राजकुमारी
Chapter 1 || Masterlist || Chapter 2
Chapter Summary: In England, Sherlock Holmes receives an alarm letter from his dear friend Doctor John Watson. In Delhi, You don't mind being a teacher, but with new building plans, you reflect on your circumstances and opportunities.
Pairing: Sherlock Homes x Desi!reader
Chapter Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Slow burn, generational trauma, colonisation, implied murder, death of a parent, classism & caste.
Word Count: 6k
Author Notes:
★ Everything written in bold is being said in Hindustani
★The Reader character goes by the last name Newalkar and is the daughter of Damodar Rao Newalkar → the adopted son of Rani Laxmibai. I must advise this story is pure fiction but based in the occupation of the British Raj that invaded and Colonised India.
★I am a White European/Australian woman, I apologise for any cultural or historical inaccuracies. I am receiving help from online sources and desi Tumblr mutual @livesinfantasyland and I heavily encourage other Indian/South Asian/Desi readers to share their thoughts, constructive criticism and help as I write this story.
Inspiring Song: "Paint it Black" by Ciara
11:35pm Thursday 26th June 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.
This story begins and ends with the sound of rain.
Tink!
The roof had begun a leak. And when this leak came to play it had a habit of landing directly on the head of a disgruntled and lonely fellow. The greatest detective in London who could not find a friend. Granted I must inform you, Mr Sherlock Holmes did in fact have some friends, but by misfortunes, none were presently in the country.
Tink!
He angrily sighed. Another drop of rain hit his head.
He launched from his arm chair and grumbling moved an empty teapot to sit on the cushion he previously sat. The drops thus made a small tinkling as they landed inside the empty pot.
Plonk!
He rubbed his eyes and checked the time on the mantle piece clock. He had lost weeks of his life. Hours squeezed down to into unknown days or months, he could not tell. It did not help how he consistently drew the curtains closed to design total darkness other than the fireplace and his candles to light up his home.
A light shiver ran up his spine. The weather was dangerously cold today. His fingertips upon inspection grew from pale white to a dark pink.
Plonk!
He wandered if perhaps it was time to have a holiday in sunny Spain.
A knock on his door broke his imagined vacation like a hammer to glass.
His pesky landlady Mrs Hudson intruded on his stuffy dust filled space. She grumbled nonsense about the filth of her apartment she’s rented out to the famous Detective before handing him a thick envelope.
Plonk!
And the moment he could see and recognised the handwriting he snatched the Letter from her wrinkly fingers and banished her with a bellowing shout. The woman fluttered out and muttered her further disgusts of his treatment.
Plonk!
But Sherlock did not care for her opinion or rather anyone’s for that matter, Sherlock only cares about the stamp he tore opened the parchment he eagerly unfolded.
John Watson. Doctor, soldier and dear friend. He was Sherlock’s greatest companion to note. He had never felt such brotherly love until he met the very man seeking a roommate here in baker street.
Doctor and detective used to comb London for clues to solve crimes and very noticeably took an interest at the sports of pleasure. The luxurious brothels of London welcomed him and his friend with open arms and spread legs. Doctor Watson was the easy victim of sex while Sherlock was one to enjoy his opium pipe and watch his friend succumb to the mouths of half-pound harlots.
And among these adventures of interesting women did the doctor find himself in a savage tussle with another jealous male patron...
Sherlock recalled the evening with mirth. His dear friend, brother in arms had been pummelled to a pulp and drunk as a daisy. So when Sherlock escorted him to a hospital, the imbecile had declared that he was doctor of the ward and did not need any stitches. It is a grand thing perhaps Doctor Watson could not fathom the memory of yelling too proudly that his medicine could be only found in the elixir of a woman’s warm cunny.
His nurse, a dirty bird at heart had giggled at this...that nurses name was Mary Mortenson. And she became the very enamoured Mrs Mary Watson.
Sherlock was not fond of his friend becoming so besotted with his bride. He tolerated the woman’s presences at best. Unspokenly, the detective saw competition to gain the doctors attention and it was becoming far too obvious that Mrs Watson would win. Every. Single. Time.
After a month of young love the married pair had decided their honey-moon should be experienced back in John’s birth land...Delhi, a city in India. Mary was to meet the senior Mr and Mrs Watson. Coincidently, the English rose was not averse to the foreign lands…she so happened to have been born in Agra. Happy and married, they boarded and sailed across the sea.
Sherlock had high hopes their ship would run scarce of supplies so they might return quickly. He missed his dear friend and even his annoying wife.
The letter in between if thumbs and fingers were the first words from them he had gotten in nearly three months. The letter read as followed...
“Dear Sherlock,
Mary and I have come to my home I grew up in as a boy. I was blessed with my parents merry welcome. However, unfortunate circumstances have designed two coffins. For merely a week into our visit my beloved parents have passed. I have yet to decide whether to bury them in the English tradition or burn them in the Hindi ritual. My predicted return back to Baker Street may appear futile and non-existent. Please. Come visit us as soon as it is convenient.
13, 25, 27, 16, 1, 18, 5, 14, 20, 19, 27, 8, 23, 5, 27, 2, 5, 5, 14, 27, 13, 21, 18, 4, 5, 18, 5, 4.
Your sincere faithful friend, Doctor John H. Watson.”
Plonk!
Sherlock’s eyes raced over the page, and cupped his mouth staring at the plethora of numbers. They were not any numbers. John was a simple man, he wasn’t the smartest being but Sherlock appreciated his humble attitudes, he liked the doctor admitting he wasn’t a world genius, just a man who knew his medicines.
So when an enigmatic set of numbers was written at random Sherlock thought of the most simplistic cypher.
For every number was a letter. 1 being A and 26 being Z, leaving 27 to be a space between a word.
His brows lifted. The message was clear and alarming.
Plonk!
“My Parents Have Been Murdered.”
He determined his dear doctor had written this cryptic message under the desire of secrecy. His eyes lit up. It meant John needed Sherlock’s help. A case. Something was amiss. John did not know the killers name. If he did, he would’ve written it or not bothered to write asking Sherlock to visit at all.
He couldn’t have run faster to his rooms to start backing as soon as possible.
Plonk!
Sherlock Holmes had know idea what he was going to find in a land he had only heard stories from Watson’s childhood. He was eager to see his friend, to help him and to finally have an adventure.
01:35pm Friday 11th July 1890, Anglo Arabic Secondary School, Desh Bandhu Gupta Rd, Ajmeri Gate, Delhi.
You dragged the piece of white chalk across a black board and sketched a simple phrase in the English language. You smiled to the young faces that filled the room, sitting in long benches and desks. Their eyes wide and curious, eager to learn.
You waved your hands, “Now, clean your chalk slates students, you are going to learn how to spell good afternoon in English.”
They wipe them down with their small damp clothes and tucked them away in the groove at the top of their slanted desk. You waited patiently until they all sat with their hands resting flat on the wooden desks, mouths shut, eyes seeking knowledge.
You underlined each letter of the first word, “Gee, ouw, ouw, dee, this spells ‘Good’ and now ‘Afternoon’ is Aya, eff, tee, Ee, Ara, eynnn, ouw, ouw, eynn.”
The young boys sounded it out with you. Their sweet pubescent voices unionised. You smiled. They were so advanced at such a young age, most of the boys had come from average and wealthy families that could afford them to come to such a fine school. Many were Muslim, others Hindu, it was a good sign of peace. The youth coming together despite their differences. And on odd days you would teach the white children, boys and girls of British and French families who wanted their children to learn Hindi, Arabic and Urdu.
You didn’t mind teaching white children, some of the boys could be very disrespectful but you gathered it was behaviour picked up from their arrogant fathers. It wasn’t the young boys who had pillaged these lands, it was their fathers and grandfathers.
“The gee,” you circled the G, “Remember in English is also pronounced like Guh and,” you tapped the double o’s, “Ouw ouw in english together when two is said ‘oooowa’. Followed by dee being said as Dah. So, let’s say it together?”
You dragged a white line under the word and sounded it out with your students.
“Guh-oooow-dah.”
You smiled.
You repeated, “Good.”
“Now let’s look at the word ‘afternoon’,” you announced.
You cleaned the board and looked back at your students. One of the little boys who sat in the front was rubbing his eyes. You smiled softly. He was only six years old. His older brother, a young man now would most likely be the one to collect his brother from school and carry him sleeping back home. You looked at the bell tower just outside the window. It was nearly time for your students to go home and you to return back to your lodgings.
“Aye and eff is said as AAaff, then tee is a quick Tuh! And what is Ee and Arrra sound together children?”
“Errr,” they all purred.
You sounded out half of the word with them, “Aafftuherrr.”
You rubbed your chalk dust covered fingers together and further explained as you pointed to each important letter, “eynnn makes a Na, sound. And we just practiced double ouw, so sound it out.”
Like a symphony of speech, you all said together, “Guh-oooow-dah Aafftuherrr, Na-ooow-na. Good Afternoon.”
The deep bowing clang of the bells outside rang through the yard and open window shutters. The children looked eager to leave. Their hands were readily holding their slates, ready to put them inside the empty wooden box in the corner of the classroom where they kept all their slates and dusters and the bucket for where they kept their chalk.
“Good afternoon students,” You bided.
“Good afternoon Teacher Madam,” They called back.
“You may go back home now. Practise your English alphabet song.”
The boys were fast as rabbits, leaping from their desks and fleeing the classroom out the hall and down the stairs. But some at least saluted you as they left. It was a habit they’d picked up from the white boys who saluted their male teachers. You smiled to yourself as you waved them out. Each left with beaming smiles and playful chatter among themselves.
As you went about sweeping the floor after wiping the chalk from the board, you wondered if you should go to the temple and pray for your students successful education or if you should consider washing your clothing today. It had been very dry today, any moment and you knew the wet season and humid rain would arrive to flood the streets clean of dust and fill the forests with life of green goodness.
As you put away the English education books on the small shelves by the door, a familiar face came rushing in, flushed and excited
If it wasn’t her jingling anklet and bangle that announced her To your classroom, it was her shrill cry of your name that did.
“Y/N! Quick!” Miss Anjuli Paraiyars exclaimed, “You need to come with me.”
Her dark ink hair was peaking out from her sun patterned veil. The wispy curls stuck to her sweaty forehead and framed her dazzling walnut eyes. They were flooded with mischief that matched her biting lip. Her brows wriggled lightly.
Placing the last book onto the shelf you turned to acknowledge your dear friend.
“Anjuli,” you happily sighed, “Whatever is the matter?”
She waved her hands about, hoping to quicken you along and out the door, “It is the Watson son, Doctor Watson, he wants to speak with you with important news.”
Your eyes widened. ‘What on earth does that poor soul wish to say to me? After the death of the good Mr and Mrs Watson, I would assume he was still in mourning, why would he call upon me?’
Following your friend outside into the scorching sun, you lifted your saree over your head. She had her family Ox and cart waiting outside the school gates.
“What important news Anjuli?” You said a little standoffishly.
“He’s offering you a job,” She said giddily. She climbed up into the cart and leant down offering her hand to you. Once in the cart side by side she sighed, “That’s all he would tell me,” She grabbed the reigns and cane and tapped the Ox to start moving out onto the dirt road, “But we all know how very generous he can be like his dear parents.”
Anjuli was right. The late Victoria and Hamish Watson’s were angelic to the local community. Victoria had been the very soul to teach your late mother English and she was the one to encourage you to attain education enough to become one of the very few first female Indian teachers. She was a well known philanthropist, often aiding the sick and homeless and funding the Indian hospitals. Hamish was a local accountant, financial advisor and lawyer. He was known to be good to the children particularly. He would often hand out sweets as he walked down the street with his briefcase bag. He often aided the locals find new homes when the British planned to evict them and replace white families in their place. The English couple had lived in the country for many decades, long before you were even born. They spoke fluently enough and mimicked the culture so well that you could’ve believed they were born here themselves.
You sat back and nodded, “May their souls attain moksha.”
02:45pm Friday 11th July 1890, Willingdon Crescent, Central Ridge Forest, Delhi, India.
The sun baked down on the streets of Dehli. The Ox cart rolled along, it’s tail flicking the flies circling it’s flank every so often.
You pinches your saree scarf and covered your face before a bug could fly into your mouth.
Anjuli had to hold the reigns and cane, she leant closer to you and giggled as she nodded to the khaki covered soldiers. Walking by in many small groups.
Anjuli had a terrible habit, she fell in love too easily. For some ungodly reason Anjuli admired the foreigners that had come so long ago and invaded your beautiful country. Maybe she liked how different they looked. The flaxen hair and ice blue gazes in the faces of pale freaks were so opposite to the raven manes and hairy russet warmth of Indian men. It was erotic for her. You just didn't understand how she could so easily find infatuation with the people you considered an enemy, and so should she.
“Oh look at them,” she giggled girlishly.
You rolled your eyes, “I’m looking.” There was a timid strain in your voice. You had no real interest to entertain Anjuli’s fascination.
When Anjuli noticed how you in fact we’re not looking but rather looking ahead on the road path she playfully smacked your arm.
“Look!” She sucked her teeth and teasingly scolded, “Do you not know delight at the sight of men?” She reached forward and abruptly touched the front of your blouse, squeezing around for the softness of your breasts, “Are you sure you’re a full grown woman?” she smiled wickedly and prodded her finger in between your legs covered by your top petticoat.
You squeaked loudly and batted her hand. She howled with laughter and kept giggling even as you scowled at her beneath your veil.
You turned your head away from her and scoffed, “I am not as easily swayed by British soldiers. They look so sickly as pale as they are,” your nose wrinkled, “How could I righteously take a husband in front of beloved Lakshmi and her Vishnu when they look like they tempt Yama too take them at any moment?”
Your friend rolled her eyes, “Oh nonsense,” she tapped your hand and waved her fingers into a crowd of soldiers, “See there that one, his hair the colour of wheat, he is a handsome man. He would make a fine husband.”
And as the cart rolled passed, you couldn’t help gag at the smell of the same man Anjuli proclaimed would make a fine husband.
‘A fine swine perhaps. Many sow in heat could come trotting to him from miles with such a putrid scent.’
Your head wobbled and your flat palm waved at her, “A husbands good qualities are not to stand on his appearance alone. One day he will grow old, fat, bald and ugly.”
A long dragging sigh came out from the woman beside you. She managed to move both reigns into one hand and playfully tugged your saree away from your face
“You’re no fun, come on,” she jerked her chin out to the same street as the ox was about to pass another group, “Tell me you don’t find any of them a little attractive?”
You stared at the oncoming group and now sucked your teeth. You crudely stated, “They’d be far more attractive if they left. Went back to their lands, leave our villages and the people of Bharat in peace.”
Anjuli stared blankly at you. Before she could pinch and prod you again you relented and noticed one of the men in the crowd so different from the others.
He was tall, his hair a dark chestnut that matched the shade of his suit. His face was bare and clean in comparison to the soldiers who all adorned moustaches and muttonchop beards on their faces. He was carrying a rather large brief case and walking stick.
“Fine...that one,” you nodded, “In the brown English clothes.”
“The one wearing a suit?” Anjuli snickered, “He’s not a soldier though?”
You giggled,“And it is for such a reason I find he is most handsome among them.”
You both gazed at him as the ox fully passed by. Anjuli smiled at you.
“He is rather tall. Strong. What do you think he does?” She asked, “Maybe he is a farmer, or a bricklayer?”
You shook your head. ‘No. He couldn’t be.’
“He dresses too finely. It is not their Christian Sunday Sabbath today. He probably is a rich businessman, with a wife and children.”
You looked back to the path as the dusty road became thicker in trees and travel further away from the street. You thought about that strangers wife, what she might look like, probably some English rose with a house full of servants at her command, surrounded by maids and wet nurses for her children. She would live in a grand house and hold soiree’s, welcoming guests from all around to celebrate life. She would have a massive library and a place of worship. It was the life you should’ve had, the life you were owed and denied merely by the changing events of history and the extinguish of your father’s birthright.
Your soft smile faded; you felt a twinge of repulsion mixed with a hint of anger. You’d think after all these years you would’ve chosen to forget this, ignore this, let go and accept your circumstances in this life.... You didn’t live with your father anymore who would remind you practically daily why not to trust the English or any white man, as if you didn’t witness their subjecting abuse and consistent disrespect.
Your eyes fluttered shut, you reached to your side and touched Anjuli’s wrist. She was your truest friend despite her differences and low status. Anjuli came from a Shudra family, and you? You were the daughter, the descendant of Brahims and Kshatriyas...now lowered to the Shudra caste class…You never knew the lavish life of the Jhansi palace, nor tasted the rich foods served on golden plates and surrounded by pretty creatures of the palace menagerie. You would never know the joys of running through the gardens with other children in the royal family.
Everyone was gone, everything was gone. All that was left was your father who scarcely remembered that life but shared all he remembered so his memories would live on through you and bring you hope that one day it would be yours. It was a cruel false hope…
Eighteen years ago, you had been born inside of a nice house in Indore to the daughter of a prestige painter Vasudeoraobhau Bhatavdekar. As far as you knew, your father loved your mother very much for the incredibly brief time that they were married. A rare jewel in beauty is how he described her often. A marriage of love and choice. Your father said she was softly spoken and obedient, but it was her unconditional love for him and his dreams that held his heart in appreciation.
It was by unfortunate command that she would fall ill to childbed fevers after you were born. After you…a girl...not a son. You were nothing in the eyes of the British raj and had no chance of being installed as an heir for any restoration…you were the last hope and failed before your first breath. And that was something you’d never forget.
For a small time, you were raised in that home and then it was decided by your father that you would learn English. His tutors were not available, so he cut your hair short and shipped you off to Delhi with your young uncle Save to the Anglo Arabic Secondary School…It did not take the teachers and headmaster long to discover you were a girl. Before you were to receive the beating of a lifetime it was Mr Hamish Watson who so happened to be accounting the school costs to save you. He took you to his wife who taught you English and then set you to live with his maid servants, Anjuli’s mother.
Your friend spoke after some time of silence, “Oh, I’m meant to tell you- My cousin Vijay sent word this morning, he’s seeking a wife. My mother wants me to ask if you’d like to meet him, a prospective match.”
Your lips curled into a sneer, “Isn’t he the one that use to tie our braids together in a knot during Diwali and chase us around the street making animal noises?”
You recalled a young teenage boy about five years your senior with a tooth gap and ruffled hair. He was so annoying, calling you names and bullying you by calling you fat and ugly. He was spoilt and rude. He mocked you when you told him you were a princess. He said you were a princess of pimple pox and nothing more. Oh how you remembered the way your blood boiled.
“We were children, he was playing, only a boy,” she smiled, “He’s a man now, studying to be a barrister in Bombay but he will be visiting in a few weeks to help us move.”
Ah yes, the dilemma you needed to find a solution too soon. It was a month ago that a letter had been nailed to the house door, it was an eviction commandment made by the British military and government. The Paraiyars family and you had to leave the home in Raisina hill, why? Because the British do what they like…building concrete monstrosities over beautiful land and demolishing the history of your people like it was worthless dust. Rumours spread about a grand governors palace was to be built there, but they couldn’t burn the village to ash with people living inside...well....at least not on their "morally good Christian conscious."
“Vijay I believe owns a cottage near the seaside. You could be his bride and live with him instead of moving back to Indore to your father.”
Moving back was not possible...not after his most recent letter.
“Father has…felt it improper for me to move back to Indore. He believes that my existence would cause me more harm than good under his jailers’ eyes…His pension he shares I give mostly to your mother for board. I have saved my wages, I am considering…moving to a boarding workhouse in Jhansi or Agra, but tell your mother I would like to greet Vijay when he arrives…”
You smirked looking down at your fingernails, “Lakshmi forbid I run out of money and need to resort to the ‘charity’ of Christians or to prostitution.”
Anjuli made a face, shaking her head and brushed her shoulder into yours, “You wrinkle your nose at every man, white, black or bronze,” she smiled cheekily, “I doubt you’d make a good prostitute.”
“Anjuli!” You shrieked.
Both you and her erupted into a large happy shrill of giggles enough to gain head turns from passing public. You and her playfully poked your elbows into each other. Anjuli was right, there was no chance that you could make a suitable prostitute…you hadn’t had sex and didn’t know how to please a man, most men you barely liked. They could be selfish. Anjuli on the other hand, she was a frisky thing. She had kissed a hundred men and given her ‘precious flower’ to a boy back when she was thirteen. She had no shame. Anjuli had shared her sordid tales of lust to you many times. You knew her boyfriends that snuck her out at night and returned her by morning. You promised never to tell her mother or father who surely would’ve disowned her if they knew how promiscuous she was. It was best if they believed she made money with her parents in the markets selling dyed clothes and wooden jewellery boxes.
03:04pm Friday 11th July 1890, 5 Bistdari Road, Central Ridge Forest, Delhi, India.
Arriving to the Watson Bungalow was simple enough, the ox cart rolled and bumped over the rock and sandy grooves of the path. Anjuli pulled the reigns of her beast and helped you both down. She tied her ox to the outside gate posts, the precious creature lowered its head and munched on dry grass that still was hinted in green. The ox would be glad as soon the wet season would hit and all the food delight lush and green would return.
You and Anjuli stepped inside and removed your sandals, Anjuli then led you through the house. It had been some time since you had been here. Anjuli’s mother was dismissed as Mrs Victoria Watson’s maid when the new Watson bride had arrived.
Doctor Watson, their son was a short ferrety man. His face was covered in a long mutton mustache like a snake of hair slithering along his face. He was a grown man from the teenager you had met many years ago. His parents had sent him to Europe to school, as far as you were aware he had join the army and fought in some notorious war battles like The of Battle of Abu Klea.
As you entered the bureau office, you found him hunched over some paperwork, his brows scrunched. His eyes lifted up and brightened his face on seeing you both.
“Oh Miss Paraiyars, Anjuli dear,” he said clapping his hands and opening a drawer in his desk, “Thank you so much dear for bringing darling Miss Newalkar here. Here,” he handed Anjuli a small bag and slipped four rupees into her hand, “and take these sweets back to your Mataji, Mrs Paraiyars.”
Anjuli put her hands together and smiled, wobbling her head before leaving you alone to return outside back to her ox cart.
You had your hands pressed together peacefully while the doctor hobbled over to you from around the desk. He was smiling brightly and nodded his head to you, offering you a chair in front of the desk.
“Y/N thankyou for coming on such short notice. I requested your presence in person to offer you a job position.”
Your smile fell, you sheepishly explained to the man, “I am currently employed at the Anglo school Doctor, Babu.”
The doctor nodded, “Yes…Anjuli tells me you are still teaching the children English and Hindi?”
“Yes Doctor Babu,” you confirmed.
“How much are you paid per month?” he asked quickly, touching his lips lightly in thought.
“Twenty five rupees,” you said softly, you didn’t dare try to sound prideful.
The doctor smiled and pulled out a piece paper contract, he then stated, “I will pay you a hundred per month.”
Your eyes widened, and then narrowed. It was too spectacular to be true, it sounded Impossible. Your fathers pension was only a hundred and fifty rupees a year, for the doctor to give you a hundred per month was unfathomable wealth. What on earth was he wanting from you!?
“What is the position,” you swallowed breathlessly, “Doctor Babu?”
“Housekeeper and…a carer,” he sighed, “I need you to live here, and watch over one of my friends. He is from England and I am afraid he might not understand the customs here.”
He leant against the desk cocking his head and looking down at his feet awkwardly. “Please,” he begged, “he is different to other men. He is particular and perhaps rather spoilt. I need you to make sure he doesn’t get lost, harmed or too upset. It is pressing that I should return to my wife in Agra. I would have hired Mrs Paraiyars, in fact I did offer this role to her, but I have been informed she will be moving and her English is not as it once was…and my English friend is rather…particular and impatient with broken speech...”
He wrote a signature across the bottom of the document and held it out for you to read. It was real…your mouth watered. You could save more than your regular wage and easily move back to Indore without burdening your father or mother’s family.
“If you accept my offer, you may live here as a free lodging, you recall where the servant quarters are I am sure? You will also receive a handsome budget for food. And-” he paused looking up and pocketing the cheque, he gasped, “Sherlock! Dear god man! Did you walk here from the train station?!”
You turned around in the chair and took in the sight of a familiar looking soul.
He was the gentleman from the road. The supposed businessman with his briefcase. He was taller standing here with you then when you sat above in the ox cart. He was standing in the doorway to the office. He stepped inside and lowered his walking stick and briefcase.
“My friend,” the handsome stranger gleefully called, “My dear John Watson, I came the moment I read your message. One of the khaki coated lads pointed me here.”
Up close now you could observe his features on a better judgement. Sherlock Holmes was well known in the British gazette for his distinct physical appearance. With his broad angular frame, sharp hard features, and mighty frame, he exuded a striking and intimidating aura that commanded respect. He reminded you of warriors you imagined before bed in story's of battles your father described at Jhansi Fort.
His face was marked by a strong, sharp pointed nose and intense, deep-set sapphire eyes. His hair was kept combed and short below his ears short and slicked back, revealing his angular eyebrows, and his pink lips that were tightly pursed. He wore a grand brown suit coat with a crisp white shirt, and woolen sweater vest beneath it. And at the base of his throat was a dark burgundy tie. Something about the time reminded you of blood. A cut throat. You felt cold.
His eyes smoothly shifted to you and your presence, his lips parted softly, he glanced back at John, “A patient of yours Doctor?”
The moustached man bristled and shook his head, he stuttered and leant his hand out to you. you carefully chose to take it and rise from the chair as he introduced you.
“Oh- I- Sherlock…um, Sherlock Holmes, I would like you to meet Miss Y/N Newalkar.”
“Miss Newalkar,” the doctor waved his hand over the figure of the giant stock of a man, “This is the very gentleman I was informing you about. This is my friend Detective Sherlock Holmes.”
You pressed your hands together and nodded in greeting. One of Sherlock’s brows raised and his lips hardened in a straight line.
Doctor Watson explained back to the detective, “I was in the middle of discussing whether this dear lady would like to accept a role of housekeeping during your stay here.”
“Whatever for?” Sherlock snickered, “Is your lady wife not up to par with her duties?” he shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked on his leather shoes while his eyes scanned all the way down to your bare feet. It was a crude look of judgement. The westerner seemed to forget not everyone shared the same styles and habits here. You tried not to roll your eyes at him as he scanned your arms and the parts of your belly that the saree did not cover. Those dark blue orbs crawled up and settled over your faux sweetened smiling face.
“Some…plans have come up unexpectedly. Mary is back in Agra, staying safe with her family,” John stated, his fingers rubbed together, “I need to be with her. And the hospitals are in desire of my services as a surgeon. I ask that you will look around, see if you can find anything here…” he leant in closer and whispered to the man, “I will visit every couple of days, to check up on you and see if there is truth to be founded in my suspicions.”
'Suspicions?'
“John…” the detective pat his friends shoulder, “I am happy to see you. I promise I will do my very best.”
“Thankyou,” said the doctor.
Sherlock jerked his chin to your direction, “How much does the dear girl here know?”
“Well, I…not much,” the doctor blushed and looked back to you, “Miss Newalkar, your thoughts on the job position role?”
You swallowed and nodded slowly, “I accept the conditions, thankyou for your most gracious offering, Doctor Babu.”
The doctor smiled and carefully touched your back, leading you to the exist of his office as he happily stated.
“Splendid! Please, this is the contract. Sign it and return with your belongings later on a few hours while I converse with my friend and guest.”
You looked back at the mysterious Sherlock Holmes and back to the contract. You wobbled your head in goodbye and went on your way. The way you could feel his eyes over your body walking away made you shiver. He was a intimidateding looking man. You left the home and slipped your sandals on.
You thought about how you would now be the housekeeper of a prestigious British family in the community. A wave of relief to your stability washed over you. You didn’t need to crawl to your father and your mother’s family. You started smiling ear to ear. All you needed to do was take care of a house and baby-sit an Englishman who was vulnerable to these new lands.
“Did you see him go in?” Anjuli smirked from the ox cart, waving you over, “The British man you fancied?”
You jerked your chin up proudly exclaiming, “I met him.”
Your friend gasped with a wide smile, “What is he like?”
“I don’t really know,” you shrugged before waving the contract in front of your friends face, “but I am going to be his housekeeper, I need to inform the school of my resignation.”
Anjuli looked at the contract, she couldn't read english but made a light sad sound and sucked her teeth before sighing, “Oh, those children will miss you dearly.”
And that you could both agree. You grabbed the ox reigns and tapped its flank with the cane rolling back to the school again quickly to collect your last wage.
Helplines:
If you are a victim of sexual abuse, assault or domestic violence or know someone who is please reach out to these links that share helpline services, phone numbers or emails. Consent and respect is important in every relationship whether between friends, family or even strangers.
Australian Helpline Services
UK Helpline Services
American Helpline Services
India Helpline Services.
#desi!reader#desi reader#henry sherlock holmes#sherlock holmes x poc!reader#sherlock holmes x you#sherlock holmes imagine#sherlock holmes x ofc#sherlock holmes#Sherlock Holmes x desi!reader#henry cavill imagine#henry cavill fic#henry cavill x you#henry cavill x reader#henry cavill x female reader#henry cavill x y/n#henry Cavill x desi! reader#dead dove fic#dead dove do not eat#shtip#milky fics#enola holmes sherlock holmes#sherlock holmes enola holmes
109 notes
·
View notes
Text
Sir Sherlock Holmes & The Indian Princess MasterList
शर्लक बाबू और भारतीय राजकुमारी
Story Summary: It's 1890 in the height of the British Raj occupation of India you are unexpectedly hired as the housekeeping attendant of Detective Sherlock Holmes. The mystery he must solve is the death of his best friend's parents. Cultural differences might bring you closer than ever before.
Pairing: Sherlock Homes x Newalkar!reader
Story Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Dark!Content, Kama Sutra, Religion, Religious Icons, Murder, Poison, Death, implied Genocide, Racial Discrimination, Loss of Virginity, Loss of Innocence, Rough Sex, Humiliation, Kink, Sword fights, Outdoor Sex, Age Gap, Royalty, Generational Trauma, Daddy Issues, Internalised Misogyny, Sexism, Vaginal Sex, Oral Sex, Spanking.
Author Notes:
★The Reader character goes by the last name Newalkar and is the daughter of Damodar Rao Newalkar → the adopted son of Rani Laxmibai. I must advise this story is pure fiction but based in the occupation of the British Raj that invaded and Colonised India.
★This story may contain scenes that provide a "White Saviour" theme. The reader is a strong character but Sherlock does have white privilege.
★I am a White European/Australian woman, I apologise for any cultural or historical inaccuracies. I am receiving help from online sources and desi Tumblr mutual @livesinfantasyland and I heavily encourage other Indian/South Asian/Desi readers to share their thoughts, constructive criticism and help as I write this story.
★I would like to express the knowledge that I do not approve or perform of any of the actions the characters of this fanficition demonstrate.
★This story is not fit for every viewers eyes and it will be glorifying acts of trauma and of characters that shouldn't be in reality.
★If you do not wish to see this content please block #SHTIP (scroll and you'll find it is the first tag.)
★This story might be alarming and severely upsetting for people who have had experiences with racial discrimination, misgonistic sexism, religious trauma and sexual coercion.
★If you'd like to be included in or removed from the Taglist, please comment below
★Chapter List★
Chapter 1 - Word Count: 6k
Chapter 1 - Word Count:
Chapter 1 - Word Count:
Chapter 2 - Word Count:
Chapter 3 - Word Count:
Chapter 4 - Word Count:
Chapter 5 - Word Count:
Chapter 6 - Word Count:
Chapter 7 - Word Count:
Chapter 8 - Word Count:
Chapter 9 - Word Count:
Chapter 10 - Word Count:
★Helplines★:
If you are a victim of sexual abuse, assault or domestic violence or know someone who is please reach out to these links that share helpline services, phone numbers or emails. Consent and respect is important in every relationship whether between friends, family or even strangers.
Australian Helpline Services
UK Helpline Services
American Helpline Services
India Helpline Services.
#shtip#desi!reader#desi reader#sherlock holmes x poc!reader#sherlock holmes x you#sherlock holmes imagine#sherlock holmes x ofc#henry sherlock#henry sherlock holmes#sherlock holmes#sherlock holmes x reader#henry cavill fic#henry cavill imagine#henry cavill x you#henry cavill x reader#henry cavill#henry cavill x female reader#henry cavill x y/n#henry cavill x ofc#Henry Cavill x desi!reader#dead dove do not eat#dead dove fic
87 notes
·
View notes
Text
Wails of Wedded Bliss
Chapter 5 || Masterlist || Chapter 7
Chapter Summary: A carriage ride to Groveland parks leaves you and Sherlock in a snippy mood.
Pairing: Sherlock Homes x wife!reader
Chapter Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, domestic abuse, No sex, (mentions of past events) .
Word Count: 9k
Author Notes: This took a while. I'll be posting chapter 7 very soon.
Inspiring Song: "Achillies" by Gang of Youth
7:01am Wednesday 7th May 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England
Early day on the street of London was a thick blanket of fog and horse cabs awaiting their clients. People in uniforms marched the streets, servants and servicemen that did not have lodgings with their employers.
Sherlock and you avoided the mud and horseshit on the cobblestones, stepping carefully. His hand was strong, cupping yours as you lifted your skirts above the stench. The floor path was filthy and the boy who usually scrapped the dung of the road was not to be seen so early in the day.
You shivered slightly at the cold breeze. Your jacket was not as warm as you had believed. You felt a pity for the sight of maids passing you both without even a shawl to protect them, their faces were flushed and pink, they cupped their bare hands and blew hot breath into them. You were grateful for your gloves.
You wondered if anyone down here in the street could’ve heard your shrieking up in the 221B apartment. You weren’t particularly quiet not holding back your screams. Your warm flesh was a fresh reminder that your detective husband walking so nobly and leading you was in fact a sexual deviant.
Sherlock wrinkled his nose and was careful not to plant his walking cane into any muck.
As you stepped closer to a hansom cabriolet, Sherlock pinched your elbow and walked you both closer to a hackney coach behind the latter.
“Jarv! I dare say! Jarvey!” Sherlock called up to the driver sitting on top. The man fixed his uniform cap and peered down at you both from the height.
“Where are you off to sir?” the driver called down.
Your husband smiled and opened his coat, his fingers slid into his pocket as he stated, “To Groveland Park, Southgate.”
Your eyes widened, from baker street it was a feet of travel one normally wouldn’t take. You were sure your own husband had to have been mistaken.
“Sherlock,” you softly informed while gently touching his arm “that’s over an hour away.”
He ignored you. His thumb skated across your back softly.
“Of course sir,” the driver nodded, “that should cost you one crown and a tanner.”
Your lips tightened, it was such a large expense. Now you really started to regret using your dowry to pay of Sherlock’s selfish debts. Why the hell was he taking you both across country side!?
The detective saw your disapproval and smiled, patting your hand he exclaimed, “Fret not wife, the expense is reimbursed by Scotland Yard.”
He gave the driver half the require costs from his pocketbook before he opened the door of the carriage for you. As you climbed inside, you jumped with a noise feeling his hand squeeze your backside.
You hissed as you sat on the leather seat. You tried to maneuverer your body to sit mostly on your hip. As he climbed in and sat across from you after shutting the carriage door, you pinned him down coldly with your gaze.
He returned an expression beaming in smirtle and tapped the roof with his cane, “Drive on Jarvey!”
You felt the carriage move with a jolt and sighed as the horse carried you through London’s different roads and pathways. You looked out the window and sighed as the carriage circled down the Regent Park and past the Zoo. You had never been to a zoo in your life, your grandmother stated it was too filthy and uncouth to stroll in pens merely to gaze at queer animals from different countries.
You tried not to stick your head out the window as you kept your eyes on the entrance gates you passed. Now that you lived so close and were a married woman with free time...you pondered if Sherlock would permit you a visit.
He was watching you the entire time. A soft smile came to his face. He took a glance out the window with you.
“I presume you’ve never been?”
Your eyes flickered between him at the steel zoo fencing and you timidly nodded, “I have always wondered what a lion looks like to the real gaze, my father promised to take me when I was a girl but-” you drifted off into silence and looked away from the window.
But he abandoned you for a cold woman in a opportunistic marriage...you hadn’t seen him for years.
“My grandparents would never approve,” You stuttered.
He nodded slowly with his silent thoughts and did not question you further.
You sighed, if you had known the journey would be to Groveland Park, you would’ve brought a novel with you to read. You cupped your hands and leant your head back.
As the cobblestones turned to soft mud and dewy grasslands you heard Sherlock finally clear his throat.
“Dear wife,” he said leaning back, racing his eyes all over your body, “What do you actually know of the Pennicott case? What details have come to light for you?” He spoke with balance.
You pursed your lips and blowed slowly. You didn’t want this to be another test of Sherlock in which he might insult you. You pinched your gloved finger and stated factually, “I recall hearing the Baron went missing a week or two ago. He took a ride on a horse in the middle of the night from his home and then sighted on a ship in Limehouse headed supposedly to France. That’s what the papers say. Then the information you shared with me this morning. You said he made a profit in his company?”
Sherlock nodded and shut the carriage windows. The light darkened the pair of you. Now your eyes adjusted to watch his face as he retold in secrecy, “Yesterday, while at the New Scotland Yard office building I decided to investigate his warehouse expenses. He was making a profit, he was destined to achieve a beating record.”
Lord Pennicott owned the largest suppliers of metal works and machinery parts, ranging from trains, to ships to food cans, to weapons.
“He partakes business often with the Vanderbilt family, very new money in the past thirty years, yes?” you noted aloud. American royalty.
There was talk of Vanderbilts heirs coming to marry English society members, Pennicott was a frequent mention in business.
Sherlock nodded and huffed, “His consultants were blithering idiots however who had barely any insight to his personal life. He was quoted being a private man...what they knew of him was that he was about to have his sixth child. I believe it is time his wife to be questioned. She has given a small testimony to the police already, but I have been offered to consult in this case by Scotland yard...and it is you that officially provoked my interest.”
Your eyes narrowed, “Me?” you exclaimed with disbelief.
He had been so hot headed the last time the topic was even mentioned. You hadn’t dared ask about it again.
“Yes,” he rubbed his hands together, “you.”
You looked at him with apparent annoyance, “Shall you elaborate how it is I that provoked you?”
He chuckled sheepishly, “because you made a an inquiry and berated me when I told you to pay attention on other matters...” His eyes glanced to the floor of the carriage before meeting yours, “I may have...reflected...and deemed it the necessary duty to follow up on the imbeciles of England’s detective division. You are perhaps not as dim as I took you for originally...”
You felt a strange buzz at the bottom of your spine with a tiny seed of smugness blooming upward.
A flutter of pride filled you from his praise until he snorted, “You’re still rather stupid, but with a value of insight.”
Your spark of light blew out. You tried to not roll your eyes.
With most of your diverse self, you desired to throttle him and argue. Instead you took your turn at observing what you could in the dim carriage.
Sherlock was not like the average gentleman. In fact, he was very abnormal to what you had gotten to know... He was incredibly unorthodox. He didn’t adhere to social norms and behaved in contradictions. Therefore you took a moment to hear his words and accept them as a hidden message. A riddle.
You smugly smiled.
“Was that an attempt to...apologise, Mr Holmes?” you finally mused.
Sherlock smirked, “That would require me to be have a sense of regret my dear wife, and I do not account such a folly.”
You smirked back and said sassily, “The words you seek, are ‘Sorry’ and ‘please forgive me.’”
Your toe nudged his ankle playfully.
He glared reliving the warm humiliation you inflicted to him this morning over Mrs Hudson. His grim look was contagious.
He shot back, “And pray tell, how does your backside feel Mrs Holmes?” he chewed his bottom lip. His brows lifted, "Mayhaps you've forgotten and in need of a firm reminder?"
When your smile fell and his grew. He had won this small battle of wits. You looked away from him, your face felt incredibly warm like your bottom.
“Come now,” he purred and lean forward to pat your knees, “Don’t be so bashful. Deep down, I know you just want to be run through...” Your eyes narrowed as he continued confidently stating, “You put on this coy little show last night.” Your lips parted, your teeth bared, yet he kept running his mouth further, “I have intuition like no other man my dear and you...you are scared I will find out all those lustful secrets inside your mind-“
You didn’t let him finish his words before you ripped off your glove and delivered a sharp ringing blow to his cheek. It was a foul sting that ricocheted into your own delicate palm. You huffed angrily.
“What I did last night was not a show,” you spat, uncontrollably hot tears touched the back of your eyes, “What you did was wrong and cruel. You threatened our marriage unless I debased myself. I did what I had to,” you jabbed his chest with your finger, “and I will continue to as long as you remain faithful...”
‘or I will kill you Sherlock Holmes.’
Your words echoed both in his and your memory. He didn’t really believe you were capable of murder, and yet he also knew not to press his thumb against the sharpened knife.
His rubbed his hand on the pink print you left on his pale cheek. He plucked his cane leaning on the seat beside him and hooked it into your collar, tugging you unceremoniously forward into his lap. You were forced to sit directly over his right thigh from the awkwardness of the carriage size. He curled his walking stick behind you and trapped you on top of him.
You could feel the heat between his legs. Oh how Sherlock really was just a animal.
“I find you may come to regret those words...” he panted and licked the spot under your ear, “You think me cruel now? Just you bloody wait until you feel the thrash of my cane.”
You fluttered your eyes shut, squeezing the tears away as you regained your breath and whispered icily back into his seeking mouth, “I look forward to it.”
He pulled back to gaze at your entire face. His eyes were full of confusion. He looked like he was lost on a foreign road with know knowledge on where to go. His lips twitched, unsure to smile or frown.
“I see,” he swallowed, “You can play martyr all you want then, my future masochist...and then we will see whether you truly are a slut...or a saint...but I doubt you’ll like either result...”
You would never describe yourself as a masochist. You didn’t particularly like pain...but after a period of time when he struck your bare bottom this morning you felt warm and floating. Your belly buzzed like last night. It was wrong and you knew it was. A spanking was a punishment not a entrance for pleasure.
Sherlock set aside his cane and cupped your waist. His thumbs ran up and down your torso. He pressed his nose to yours.
“Definitely stupid,” he whispered over your lips hotly before he gently pushed you back until you sat on your side of the carriage.
You felt a slight dizziness. You couldn’t understand Sherlock no matter how much you tried. You slumped in your seat and rubbed your forehead. You pulled back the curtains and watched as the many houses turned into more trees.
Sherlock in the meantime pulled out his pipe and began stuffing it with tobacco for his pocket tin.
The bright luminous shine of the match flame filled the dark carriage as he lit his pipe and puffed. He stared you down as his gums sucked and smacked the thin mouthpiece. A swirl of grey and white smoke tails snaked from his lips and nose. His eyes held no colour, only darkness. You wondered what urged him so drastically to hate and disrespect you.
His cheek was a huge darker in this lighting.
You shut your eyes and controlled your breathing. You tried to stare at your glove that you’d dropped on the carriage flooring.
You sat both in silence for the rest of the lengthy roads to your destination. You pinched the curtains and opened them.
8:23am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England.
The forestry and gardens of Groveland Park were magnificent. Giant trees replaced tall buildings. Bird chirp washed out the gossip and clatter of people.
You sighed as you breathed the clear air hunted with the earthy dew scent on the wind.
Your husband finished his pipe and tucked it back into his pocket.
The carriage rocked and creaked to a stop. You felt the driver climb down and opened the door. Sherlock climbed out first, he cleared his throat and hugged his walking stick to his side. He held out his hand for you.
“Come along Mrs Holmes.”
As you reached for him, the both of you matched eyes. Your hand was trembling.
You stepped down to the gravelled path and Sherlock released your hand to pay the remaining wage of the journey to the driver.
You quickly ducked back through its little door to retrieve your lost glove. And when you grasped it you felt a warmth behind you.
Sherlock’s hands with his cane cupped your waist and pulled you back against him slowly. There was something cruel and intimate about it... He stole your glove from your covered hand and slid your naked palm through the material but not before pressing his lips against the inside of your wrist.
Your eyes flickered and your heart thrashed. What the hell was he doing? The driver saw it all and smirked. He climbed back to the top of the carriage and clicked his tongue, fleeing slowly away. Sherlocks eyes were full of obsession.
You crossed your brows and tore yourself from his arms.
“No,” you whispered. You didn’t truly know what you were saying ‘no’ towards. It wasnt right of your husband to play a angered beast to rise fear in you only to transform into an adoring dove.
His false softness reverted back to his smirking wickedness.
His eyes glance back over your shoulder and he chuckled.
“Good morning Inspector Lestrade,” he purred.
You turned around to take in the sight of a short gentleman who was the owner of a thick black friendly mutton chops.
He wore a happy and surprised expression.
He was also carrying on his forearm a walking stick. He nodded his head and tipped his top hat to the both of you. He wore no gloves and to the private eye you could see the darkened yellowing skin of his knuckles and back of his palm.
“Good morning Detective and-“ he paused glancing you up and down.
“Lestrade,” Sherlock cleared his throat, and turned to wave a hand in regards to your presence, “Meet my wife, Y/N.”
The officers whiskers twitched. He bowed his head briefly, acknowledging, “Mrs Holmes.”
You granted a small polite curtsy, repeating back with a soft tone, “Inspector.”
You graced him with a small smile and he flashed you a nervous grin.
He scratched the back of his head and said with a strain in his voice to your husband, “Sir, this is a matter of professional business, your wife present I fear might be deemed....” he grimaced, “irresponsible?” he shook his head at the thoughts, “I must insist she returns to home,” he waved out his arm to direct you to a buggy and horse besides the entrance gates, his vehicle no doubt, he smiled, “Madam.”
Inspector Lestrade was a clear average man with common decency and a good sense of propriety. Sherlock was bring you into his space of work fit for men, you had no place here...nonetheless you willingly came along...he didn’t need to spank that out of you at least.
But before he could take grasp of your delicate hand, Sherlock reached forward and lowered your reaching wrist with an annoyed sigh, “I invited her. She has valued skills I need. It’s the least you can do after yesterday.”
Sherlock lightly tapped to the dark spot growing along his own jawline.
“Mrs Holmes,” The inspector flushed and nervously smiled, “I apologise greatly for the deformation of your husbands face.”
You looked between the two men. From Sherlock’s jaw to the Inspectors knuckles. The dots connected within seconds.. A light noise mixed with amusement, shock and horror slipped out of your tongue as you exclaimed, “You struck my husband?”
“In my defence Mrs Holmes,” Lestrade leaned against his walking stick and glanced to the gravel unable to meet your eyes, “One might argue he deserved it. And he returned a brightful force himself...”
Sherlock deserving a punch? Noooo surely not! After all the pair of you had experienced these two or three days, you understood entirely. For you wished to do nothing more than the same as Inspector Lestrade.
Sherlock snickered, and you released a bubbling giggle, “That does not surprise me. I’m curious what drove you to such lengths as to strike him.”
It wouldn’t take a lot you suspected, Sherlock already proved his habit on making more than one person uncomfortable and offended.
But instead of a confident man of the law, he was still sheepishly pushing the gravel around with his walking cane.
“Oh yes, Lestrade,” Sherlock barked in amusement, “Regale to my wife what I did to provoke your fist...”
Sherlock slapped his cane against Lestrades forcing the inspector to lose his balance and fall on one knee.
“Blast!” the inspector cried as he wobbled to stand back up.
You smacked a hand against Sherlock’s chest and shook your head at him and for that he discreetly tapped your backside with the head of his cane. You bit back the gasp and clenched your fingers on his coat. You didn’t like witnessing your husband behave so openly as a bully. It was very unsightly.
“Your husband, Mrs Holmes,” Lestrade winced and dusted dirt off his knee, “decided to elude to that which I am incompetent in my work therefore in other things.”
You accusingly turned your attention back to Sherlock, “Other things?”
“I think the inspector has trouble,” he smirked, “getting it up.”
‘Getting it up? What up?...oh!’ your eyes flashed wide
“Sherlock you didn’t!”
Your husband cackled meanly and rubbed soft circles into your back with his thumb.
“I’d rather say he started it,” Sherlock claimed fluttering his eyes at you before he snarled in the inspectors direction, “Go on Lestrade...now, you tell her what you said to me before I insulted your virility?”
You turned your attention back to the officer.
The mutton chop cop sputtered embarrassingly. His hands straightened his jacket and lifted his hat to smooth back his hair.
He licked his dry lips and hastily muttered, “I dare not repeat the words I so indecisively chose especially in front of such a fine and polite lady.”
Sherlocks mouth was close to your ear as he whispered, “I think he’s rather scared.”
“Of what?” you snipped back still crossed with Sherlock’s behaviour.
“What you’ll do to him...after what he called you.”
‘After what he called me? What was said? When was it said?...’
You softly hummed, “Did he insult me?”
“Detective Holmes,” the inspectors face turned a darker shade as he tensely pressed, “This really isn’t professional.”
Your husband moved his hand and lightly guided you to stand behind him as if to be a protective wall between you and the inspector. He stood a full foot above the inspector.
He glared down and sneered, “Then why bother saying it yesterday when you can’t even say it today in front of the woman herself?”
You saw how his hand squeezed his cane furiously. It was that action alone that sent an icy stream of fear down your spine. You weren’t sure of it, but you couldn’t put it passed Sherlock to start a brawl, particularly since the two men had clearly tussled fearsomely yesterday.
You sighed obnoxiously loud and very unladylike. You clapped your hands to snap both their attentions your way.
“Listening to a pair of men bicker is tiresome and leaves my learning brain in wanting,” you rolled your eyes and walked ahead of them both, calling over your shoulder, “Let us put aside what frivolous nonsense occurred yesterday and perform our duty instilled by the righteousness of God and the Queen herself, yes?”
You were stepping towards the main large house where you were confident was the Pennicott Estate. The gravel crunched beneath your striding walk.
Sherlock and Lestrade appeared gobsmacked by the sight of your leading March.
“Very well,” the inspector relented and walked ahead.
Sherlock caught up with both of you and squeezed your elbow, he gestured forward with his cane, “Lead the way Lestrade.”
And as the gentleman walked ahead of you, Sherlock sucked his head back to your ear with a smug tone, “Nicely done, dear wife.”
You rolled your eyes and shook him off, as if he wasn’t the reason you performed such a song and dance if tell them to return to their work over his foul demonstrating behaviour.
HELPLINES:
If you are a victim of sexual abuse, assault or domestic violence or know someone who is please reach out to these links that share helpline services, phone numbers or emails. Consent and respect is important in every relationship whether between friends, family or even strangers.
Australian Helpline Services
UK Helpline Services
American Helpline Services
India Helpline Services.
#sherlock holmes x female reader#sherlock holmes x poc!reader#sherlock holmes x y/n#sherlock holmes x you#sherlock holmes x ofc#sherlock holmes x reader#henry cavill x y/n#henry cavill x ofc#dead dove do not eat#dead dove fic#henry cavill x female reader#henry cavill x reader#henry cavill x you#milky fics
106 notes
·
View notes
Text
A Lesson In Service
Masterlist || Chapter 2
Chapter Summary: In 1880 you are hired as the governess of Lord Dalgliesh's children. When you meet your employer after months of already being in his employment you feel a strange change in your position. It's terrible when we discover the people we are expected to trust are as wicked and evil as the devil
Pairing: Lord!Henry Dalgliesh x Governess!reader
Chapter Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Indimidation, Drugging, Implied infidelity, implied sex trafficking/solicitating, Implied sexual abuse, manipulation, blackmail, Victorian era period typical sexism.
Word Count: 8.5k
Author Notes: My dream cast is Henry Cavill as Lord Henry Dalgliesh. Colin Firth as Colin Fowler. Cillian Murphy as Cillian Walsh. Ben Barnes as Benjamin Byrnes. Natalie Viscuso as Natalia Naclerio Tom Hiddleston as Tom Ransome. Smut is next chapter.
Inspiring Song: “How many miles to Babylon.” child's lullaby
London, England 1888, Saturday 14th January. 18:45pm.
A loud crack of thunder rattled the windows to the study where a man sat back cradling a glass of scotch.
Henry Dalgliesh was most incredibly not a kind or purely generous gentleman. Long ago he’d learnt to accept the rude whispers about his behaviour, he believed being bothered by comments made by those lower than he in title was pointless prattle to even hear. Thank God for his large fortune, physical attractiveness and major title that allowed him to spend, whore, drink, gamble, and travel to wherever he dared to venture.
A shine of lightening defined the shadows of his chiselled jaw, his presence was forever intimidating. A wicked smirk laced across his devious face; he raised his scotch and toasted the frozen grin of his past wife’s portrait over the fireplace. Her painted golden locks shining as bright as they did when cascaded over their marriage bed, and her casket.
The late lady Natalia Dalgliesh or rather Naclerio, the unfaithful wench, had often accused him of being a cold and a selfish monster. He chuckled to himself at the memory of her tears along with her cruel tone. She was right. But what of she? At constant, a needy bitch in heat? A nymphomaniac? For her, was he not enough? Henry truly had tried with Natalia, at least for a time he forced himself to be what she had envisioned.
He huffed and set his drink aside on his desk.
Sweet Natalia, goodness was she a darling piece. She obviously used her own innocent beauty to gain the attention of anything that could mount her. Henry did wonder, where did he go wrong? Was his size not to her desire? Was her appetite craving another type of bodily position he did not know? How was he not satisfactory? She should’ve known better than to marry him knowing full well he was not a man of pure affections.
In the end however he would forever remember her vile speech about how she had never loved him not that he cared- and that he was not even the legitimate father of their two darling children. Just like now he experienced a swirl of nausea in the pit of his stomach and a burning headache to his temple.
He lifted the scotch and pelted it at the painting, glass and alcohol splattered across her face down her neck and into her bosom he ever so missed. Her expression mocked him, that smile, the same lips that tricked him into losing fifteen years of valuable time.
He hated her.
Henry bit his lip and snarled, “Good riddance, you selfish cunt...you should count yourself lucky...Lucky it wasn’t my own hand that ended you.” Tears filled his eyes. His bottom lip trembled.
And sometimes, he missed her.
A whole year had went by. The four seasons changing back into the one that began his torment. Little Marianne and Michael, his beloved children had been sorely neglected for so long he knew it was time to return home. After the exposure of their false parentage, he felt an agony in even them knowing that their faces were of no spawn of his, Henry admitted he needed to man up and care for what his stupid wife left behind.
Yes, it was now time for the Earl of Jersey to return home to his estate of Radier Manor.
He buried his face into his hands and sighed, before plucking up the unopened envelope by his desk.
Radier Manor Jersey, England 1888, Monday 9 April. 01:30 pm.
On a canvas was a very artistic image of a charcoal vase of flowers. Leaves and petals shaded in nothing but strategic black strokes. You were delicately scraping the black drawing charcoal across the white papers when the intruding house keeper Mrs Sharpe simmered inside the children’s nursery.
The wrinkled prude sneered distinctively towards the you and you lessons to the two children, sitting on either side of you. Her dark greying hair appeared a little to tightly pinned today. Her thin lips slightly redder than normal...your eyes tried not to strain at the possibility of rogue on her cheeks. You forced a kind grin at her arrival.
“Miss Y/L/N,” Mrs Sharpe scowled, “I’m to inform you that you are required downstairs to the masters’ study immediately. He has just officially arrived and desires the attention of all new staff in his study, now,” her lips tightened whilst looking you up and down, “Oh! And do...I pray- make yourself a little presentable.”
The callously spoken crone tapped her cheek in reference to the black marks covering your face and rolled her eyes in annoyance as she spun sharply around to leave.
Your forced grin fell once the elder woman noisily stalked out of the room with her keys rattling away on the hip of her chain.
Rubbing your hands clean on your art apron you then turned and smiled to the two younglings in your care.
A pair of twins aged eight years old with dark reddish hair and similar features. The boy beheld blue eyes while his sister gained a pair of hazel.
“Well, my little darlings, I suppose our lesson in art must be placed on wait until tomorrow? I shall see you at supper and tomorrow we shall continue our art lesson but with watercolours instead.” You smiled at an excited Michael who unpinned the scribbly mess and Mary, who perched over her own work of rose sketching. Black smudges covered little Mickey’s hand who had given up his attempt of drawing daffodils and went by a creative approach of squiggly lines and stick figures of those in the household.
Nanny Nettle who sat in the corner of the room, polishing the children’s shoes chuckled, “Sharpe doesn’t make no move to hide her ill feelings towards you.”
You sighed, shrugged and looked to the elderly scots woman with a look of despair written across your face, “Mrs Nettle, I don’t understand,” You started to pack up the art equipment into a small supply chest and carried the box of art equipment to the children’s bookshelf, putting them away. Michael folded his picture to his chest while his sister placed her art on her miniature duchess.
While you folded the canvas stands the woman with her twinkling milky eyes observed you with an amused curl in her lip.
“I have been governess here for most of the winter and this spring, but Mrs Sharpe still treats me like a unwanted pest- I have done naught but share my kindness, my patience and my help around the estate: I mean really? What have I done to upset her so?” You approached the nanny and sat at her feet wiping your face with the corner of your apron of any black marks.
The children went and washed their small hands in the basin and hung their aprons on a wall hook.
“What have you done to offend her, lass?” Nanny Nettle grinned and shook her head, pausing her polishing she reassuringly patted the young woman’s cheek.
“I gather it be that she didn’t have a say in your employment to the household dear. That cow likes having everything under her control,” She cackled suddenly, “O’ course, it also don’t help that her nephew Thomas, that footmen who likes to smoke in the barn, can’t seem to keep his eyes off your chest when you waddle pass, acting like a drooling dog he does.”
You gawked and quickly fled to Mary’s side, holding her ears, if you had another hand you would’ve covered Mickey’s too.
You softly hissed with a flushed face, “Please Mrs Nettle, I must request you keep a decorum of respectful language in front of the children. And furthermore,” you flushed, “I don’t appreciate your jesting since I’ve never seen Mr Ransome acting so beastly as that. He is a gentleman.”
The older woman chuckled at your sweet innocent alarm and shrugged, “Alright, I’m merely explain’ why that housekeeper
‘Hoity Toity’ has it out for you, dear.”
You sighed and released the confused Mary who was very curious about why her Nanny compared her father’s footman to a puppy. In the end of her mind boggling, the girl went to sit on her bed and play with her doll she had come to name Antoinette.
The Nanny pointed her wrinkled finger at the door and then jabbed it back at the you, “Best be off downstairs Governess, the master don’t like to be kept waiting. He’s not known for his patience, lord knows I couldn’t teach it to him.”
Breath hitching, you nodded vigorously and hung the apron on the hook before you fled outside the nursery, down the hall to the stair case. You hurriedly descended the stairs while you prayed desperately that the Earl of Jersey did not take the same disliking to you that housekeeper Sharpe had. Fixing your hair into what you deemed suitable, you skated passed the kitchens.
It was honestly a miracle you had this position. You were a newly officialised governess just starting out in your first family, becoming employed on your first letter of recommendation written as a favour by a friend of your late father, Lord Colin Fowler. You desperately vowed to help the children grow fruitfully and improve intelligence majorly. Your wages were above the average at fifty pounds a year, including the free house boarding and food.
You knew there would be a time and day where you would need to ask or at least thank your employer for his generosity. You had worried that when you would meet him, he would see you for what you really were...a country mouse with only the capacity to teach what little you knew in the arts and literature.
Biting your lip, you decided all you wanted in this world was acceptance. And you truly needed the lord of the estate to accept you; Your father’s debt rested heavily on your shoulders at the moment. Your mother died a few days after the birth of your little sister Odette, and your father was a tremendously poor loser in gambling poker. He’d left you and Odette with a cough that killed him along with no money or respectable station in society.
At only a young age of eighteen, you’d been forced to leave the quiet life of the pastures in the south for the employment of the east. Boarding the ship out to this island was the most scary thing you had to partake. And in fact you had casted your bowls over the sides of the rocking boat more than twice.
Your twelve year old sister Odette was thankfully now in the custody of the kind and charitable Lord Fowler who only required a monthly fee to care for her which you were utterly grateful for. It was unfortunate though that even after the auctioning of your family cottage and small farm, plus your exuberant wages was still not enough to entirely pay the debts Mr Y/L/N left. If you were not so frugal with the expenses of books and dresses you owned, you wouldn’t be getting by and that terrified you.
‘Do not fall front you silly girl’, you mentally scolded, ‘if you muck up it’ll be Odette to pay for it.’
Reaching the closed door of the Earl’s study, you stood frozen and hesitated from twisting the door handle. Mentally and physically prepping yourself, you straightened your back and held your head high- but not too high to present too confident in a man’s presence, let alone an Earl.
Quickly you checked your hair again and the hairpins that secured it down in the ‘appropriate style’. Your hands you then noticed trembled, ‘goodness why am I so nervous!?’ your shaky fingers pressed down on your dark navy skirt.
You bit your lip and self-assuredly nodded, finally lifting your hand up to the wood and serving three slight taps. The door opened wide, behind it was Mr Cillian Walsh, the house’s head butler and supposedly personal keeper to the Lord Dalgliesh.
The butler gave you a grand smile, he was one of the most friendliest of the staff here in Radier
Manor. He was the one to first welcome you when you had gotten off the boat many moons ago. And Cillian was extremely helpful and kind, especially when it came to the children. He was the one to inform the little dears of their father’s planned return.
“Miss Y/N, do come in,” he whispered and fondly winked, “His lordship is eager to meet you.”
He stepped aside and bowed his head a little to you. Stepping into the study for the first time, you noticed another young man waiting inside. He clearly was another new employee of the household.
And in front of him was an extremely handsome male.
You had seen his painting in the drawing room but it was nothing compared to his true form. The Earl was sitting behind his large desk and when you walked into the room you witnessed him rise at your entrance. Y/N’s eyes widened. The painting depicted him with an image of late forties but now you gathered his age to be somewhere in his middle thirties or early forties. The painter had drastically aged him. His chiselled jawline and thin lips romanticised his face along with his soft brown curls falling like gentle swirls down his cheek.
What the painting hadn’t entailed too was his height. By god he would have put Goliath to shame giant. You had never met such a broad and tall man in your life. Your eyes widened as he slowly bowed his head to you respectfully.
Snugly fitted to his muscular frame was a black waistcoat that matched his deep blue eyes. It wasn’t hard to say you felt a tickle of attraction to this man. On his left hand a gold band entrapped his finger.
‘That’s right, he was a married man’.
You swallowed quietly and moved to stand beside the younger stranger with a leaner appearance, and dashing mid length Jett black hair.
The Earls gaze was dominating. His aura intensely intimidating. And it was all pinned directly onto you...poor thing. Butterflies fluttered in your stomach as the Earl’s eyes paused in front of you.
You kept your eyes low under his cool regard and fought to stand still and not fidget.
“Good day, it is my desire to formally welcome you both to Radier Manor despite the unfortunate obvious that one of you has been in my care for a few months already,” your employer said glancing your way while he stepped forward from behind his desk, “As I am sure you must already know, I am Henry Dalgliesh, the Earl of Jersey.”
Cillian gestured his white gloves hand to you while clearing his throat, “My lord, this is Miss Y/N
Y/L/N, the new governess.”
You curtsied too low and before it was too late you almost tripped yourself onto his shoes when his heavy hand caught your shoulder. A rush of blood dusted your face from nervous embarrassment. You wobbled back onto your feet and softly apologised for your clumsiness, eyes staring at his shoes.
Unseen by you, Henry smirked. Holding his palm out to you, you gently laid her own clammy own into his hand. He bent his head, his eyes set on your heated face while his oh so very soft lips pressed against the hot skin of your fingers, “Miss Y/L/N, It is a pleasure to make your official acquaintance after all this time.”
His facial expression was unreadable, only that he appeared to be kind and polite…
‘Oh goodness, he smells divine, like baked biscuits!’
The butler cleared his throat again, “and here Sir, is Mr Benjamin Byrnes, the secretary from Wimbledon.”
Cillian continued to inform the master about his benefits for this particular Secretary but you were too distracted by the Earls penetrating eyes that had refused to stop staring you down. Your heart pounded against your chest, you felt like you body was being dragged towards him despite being completely still and unmoving. Your eyes locked for a painfully wonderful eternity.
You exhaled gratefully when the Cillian led you and the secretary out of the study after Henry shook Benjamin’s hand and allowed the you both to remain employment. You felt weak and tired by your first encounter. After all you never expected to experience such an debilitating presence.
Radier Manor Jersey, England 1888, Monday 9 April. 18:30 pm.
That night Lord Henry didn’t make his appearance at supper, he was too busy under some account, which sourly upset the children who missed their father greatly.
And when said that they were upset, they were very, very disappointed. The twins had become woeful and unpleasantly behaved, deciding to ignore their food and gossip about what their father had done while he was away.
Marianne was mature and stated confidently that he was a business man perform business duties, when asked what duties they were she was unable to answer.
Michael on the other hand was a wild imagination. He was certain that his father had been away fighting criminals and bringing justice to the realm. He stabbed his mutton and exclaimed it was how he believed his father ran a sword through wicked men.
As Cillian passed with a tray to take to the masters study he paused and pinched Michaels cheek, before commanding the boy eat his dinner lest it turned totally cold.
After dinner concluded Nanny Nettle took them back to the nursery to ready for bed...
But as you were making your way down to the servant quarters where your room laid, you were nearly knocked over by a hurling body that flung itself back when it collided with your strong body.
You rubbed your belly with a light groan and looked dow at the floor and baring witness to one of your students.
Michael’s shirt front had a large wet spot. His red face was scrunched up, puffy crying eyes spilled tears and down his nose and chin was a trail of snot and drool. His little fists clenched and unclenched while he continued to wipe his face on his soaked sleeves. He was crying loudly.
Shockingly he stood up and collided into you but this time clung to you and held up his hands in silent pleas. Between tears he was clearly crying out sentences that were incoherent. You carefully pieced together what was wrong when you managed to hear, “Papa”.
Sighing you bent onto your knees and cupped under his armpits and lifted him up onto your hip and held him close, rocking him softly. He reminded you in that moment of your sister Odette who cried when your father died. You patted his back, he was a baby missing his parents. You rocked him as he clung to your shoulders.
The little boy sobbed into your neck and held onto you like you were a life anchor.
“O’Mickey dear, hush now, hush,” You gently cooed as you walked him to the nursery which conveniently was just down the hallway.
Your heels clicked to the thudding of the nursemaids’ feet just as she called around the corner “Michael! Where are you, Lad!? There you are!” She puffed, following her was Marianne who also looked to have been crying with the red hue of her eyes.
You turned to Mrs Nettle and smiled sadly, “I think someone won’t be letting go anytime soon,” just as you said this, Michael tightened his grasp on her blouse and shoved his head deeper into your neck, “Shall I put the children to bed?”
The Nanny looked slightly shocked at the offer, her grey brows raised and jaw dropped before sputtering “O’ course lass, I’ll get their nightclothes.”
As she tried to walk pass you into their bedroom, you reached out and touched her hunching shoulder. You knew the children needed a female figure who was frankly a lot younger than Mrs Nettle, sixty five years younger perhaps.
“Please Mrs Nettle, I can manage. Come Marianne, time for bed,” You held out a hand to the girl that tilted her head and bit her lip, reaching out to grab at your hand.
After bidding the Nanny a good night the three of you went inside.
Closing the door behind them, you softly sighed and brushed through Michael’s auburn curls with your fingers trying to sooth him a little more as his crying dialled down to sniffles. Slowly you sat on his bed, Marianne sat on hers across you both.
“Mary darling,” you gentle asked, rubbing her brothers back, “Could you please fetch yours and your brother’s night clothes?”
“Yes Miss Y/L/N,” She sniffled and smiled sweetly before hurrying off to the draws and closet.
Eventually you detached little Michael from your body and laid him down on the mattress. You quickly undressed the boy and soothingly brushed his wet cheeks with your thumbs. When
Marianne came back with the clothes, you made it your sole duty to ready them for bedtime.
The two hadn’t seen their father in over a year is what you had heard through the staff and on the day of lord Henry’ return he is ‘too busy’ for them?
You beckoned Marianne closer, you slipped off Marianne’s skirts and slipped over her head her long white nightgown. Marianne mumbled as she tugged her night dress on, “Pap- I mean Father, he did not want to wish us a good night and,” she choked, her little lips started to wobble, “Mrs
Sharpe smacked Michael across the cheek when he would not obey to leave.”
You gasped and brought her into your arms. While holding her close, you heard her ask on the brink of a sob, “Does he not really love us?”
‘What kind of man would act such a way ��, you grumbled to yourself, ‘and here I thought he was a very good looking man inside as he was outside. He’s unkindly neglectful of the family who missed and love him dearly.’
Then you sighed, ‘maybe he’s an extremely important man concerning business matters. He does after all own land on which now is booming with tourists.’
“I am sure your father loves you dearly Marianne,” you cooed and rubbed her back as she hiccuped.
Buttoning up his night shirt and wiping his wet face with his sleeve cuff, Michael had calmed down completely.
Turning her around to undo her braids, Marianne asked, “Miss Y/L/N? Can you…can you please sing to me and Mickey?”
Your fingers froze in Marianne’s hair. Such a request was endearing to you but was it too intimate? The girl turned around and forced herself into a hug between you . It was Marianne’s teary eyes that forced you to cave in.
“I can Mary,” you assured and pinched her shoulder playfully, “After you’re in bed.”
A bright grin returned to the little girls face. She and Michael eagerly clambered into their beds, diving beneath the covers.
You tucked the blankets of both their beds and made sure their sheets rested up to their chins. Then you laid Antoinette the dolly beside Mary on her pillow and picked up a toy solider off the floor, setting it on the bed side table next to little Michael. The two children gazed up to you awaiting their lullaby from their governess.
Carefully you knelt onto the floor and turned down the kerosene lamp on their shared bedside draw. Humming first and slowly slipping into song, you sang…
“How many miles to Babylon? Three score miles and ten.” They smiled and gasped lightly, happy and content.
“Can I get there by candle-light? Yes and back again.”
The little ones nuzzled into their pillows and smiled at you after sneaking a glance at each other almost as though they were keeping a secret with one another.
“If your heels are nimble and light, three more miles and ten, you may get there by candle-light there and back again.” You kissed each of their foreheads and tapped their noses softly.
“King and Queen of Cantelon, How many miles to Babylon?”
You stood and went to the curtains and drew them open, up in the night sky was a full moon shining down on them.
“Eight and eight, and another eight. Will I get there by candle-light?”
Coming back to the children, kneeling next to them you noticed Michaels mouth open wide and yawn silently. His eyes shut lose and his yawn lift his lips softly parted. Exhaustion took him first.
“If your horse be sprite and good and your spurs be bright.”
You continued to the last line of the diddy as you observed Marianne’s lashes fluttering down.
“How many soldiers there have been? More than yee dare come and see."
You laid your hands over both their belly's and rubbed small circles into them.
"How many miles to Babylon? Three more miles and ten. Can I get there by candle-light? Yes and back again."
Their chests lifted up and down with the steady slumber they fell into.
You whispered the final line, "Yes and back agaaiiinn."
It was such a sweet sight. You knew deep in your heart you loved them, for such little bodies they had such big hearts. From the moment you arrived they had been nothing but joyful creatures and to see them distraught so terribly by their father and housekeeper broke your heart. You smiled and rose from the floor to kiss both of their little foreheads again. Each softly moaned in their sleep and turned their heads into the pillows away from your sweet kisses.
Turning the kerosene down completely, You walked out of the nursery into the door way and carefully closed the door behind you. You prayed it wasn’t too loud to wake them up.
The sound of movement caught your attention away from the nursery, your eyes viewed a slight shadow moving through a door way at the end of the hall. For a moment you clenched the front of your blouse in fear of any ghosts.
‘Must be a servant cleaning one last room.’
You had no fear and no knowledge of any existing dangers. You decided to not worry, after all you were clearly safe and just needed to go to bed. You were tired from a day of work and meeting the formidable master of the manor.
Radier Manor Jersey, England 1888, Monday 9 April. 18:56 pm.
You retreated to the quiet sanctuary of your room. Located on the same floor as the laundry parlour but its door was opposite the wall. You were still grateful for your given room, since it was bigger than your own cottage one on the farm you sold off, not only that but the bed mattress was so comfortable that most morning you’d lay there and pray it was Sunday so you didn’t have to rise up and sleep in until the afternoon church service in town. In fact the only issue with your room was the lack of warmth with no fireplace.
Stripping down to nakedness you ripped over your head your cotton nightgown before unpinning your hair. Placing each pin onto the duchess and scratching your scalp you sighed and preceded to slink into your bed. You shut your eyes preparing for the world of being governess another day. Though after turning and tossing beneath the covers that provided the tiniest of warmth for another hour, you huffed and flung the sheets away. Sleep just wasn’t an option tonight.
It was like an itch as your mind trailed off in recalling all the activities of the day and vaguely came to remember the meeting with his lordship. O’ how he had kissed your hand in his study. The odd sensation of butterflies returned to your belly. Your thumb rubbed over the spot where his lips had touched.
‘Did he kiss every young ladies hand like that? Surely not? I should perhaps be offended by such impropriety...what would his wife have thought? He should still be in mourning, as should I...o’ he is a Earl after all...and he’s paying you plenty good, don’t be ungrateful over a light kiss on your hand.’
It was scandalous if thought long and hard about. But maybe that’s how lord’s greeted women of any standing.
You giggled to yourself as you imagined a scene of that wrinkly dragon Mrs Sharpe getting her paws kissed by the Earl. You imagined he would be very displeased doing so while the old beastly woman would salivate! What a lark!
Radier Manor Jersey, England 1888, Monday 9 April. 22:13 pm.
Knowing you were never going to sleep any time soon, your stomach made a faint murmur.
You believed that Mr Mikkelsen the cook wouldn’t mind if you went into the kitchen and snuck out a warm glass of milk and one of his sweet baked treats, surely that would aid this sleepless night? You rose from the bed with a sigh. Covering yourself with a wrapper that laid on the bar at the foot of the bed.
Making your way out of your room and through the halls that lead to the kitchen, your bare feet padded quietly across the carpet of the sitting room. You graciously were thankful for the moonlight that lit up the home through the unclosed curtains.
Your eyes casted to the wall above the unlit fireplace. His painting hung large and proud. The artwork held no candle to his true masculine beauty but might resemble his figure in another ten years. The moon truly reflected the blue eyes that lay on the canvas; they seemed to watch your every movement and with the stern frown brushed on his lips he didn’t look very pleased with your late awakening.
You tried not to think to hardly on your imagination.
Tiptoeing across the main entrance hall you sighed, finally you’d arrived. The wooden door was inches away from your fingertips, awaiting the moment you’d push it open; but something wasn’t right… Since a prickling sensation that trailed from the top of your skull, down your spine and through your legs suddenly sparked.
“Is it regular that you would wander about your employers home alone in the dark at night? Or is it just mine that’s so much more intriguing?”
Biting back a squeal of fright, you wheeled around to find that behind you was the Earl who had caught you attempting to sneak in the kitchen. His form was relaxed against the stair rail as he glared you down like a naughty child with arms folded across his chest similar to that of a displeased parent. Lord Henry body was basking in nothing but the light of the moon. His coat and cravat were long gone, his dark blue banyan draped over his shoulders and tied around his waist.
His height frightened you and made you feel inexplicitly tiny as a mouse.
This was your second meeting and now you realised how much you possibly looked like a dirty
thief.
You bit your lip and wrapped your arms around yourself nervously. It suddenly was obvious how immodest you appeared in your night garments, wandering about the house. You felt your breath quicken.
‘God, please don’t let him sack me’, you prayed.
You were already beyond humiliated and flustered at the extreme inappropriateness of being alone with the Earl in nothing but both your night wardrobe, you just couldn’t figure out how to politely flee back to your own room without walking around him.
You stammered “M-my Lord, please forgive me I had trouble sleeping an-and thought to get a glass of warm milk.” ‘Honesty is the best policy!’ your face screwed up into an embarrassed contortion, “Please do pardon and excuse my intrusion, I shall make way and return to my room immediately.”
You lifted a hand to your face and shielded your eyes away from Henry. Making movement to step around his tall form, you took your chance to escape, alas it was all in vain as the Earl’s large hand shot out and stole at your wrist. A high gasp drop from your parted lips. His grip not to rough but stern and strong. He was not making any notion to harm you, just to stop you from leaving his presence.
His warm liquid voice dripped out into your ears “Miss Y/L/N, please wait,” He pleaded in voice, his sapphire eyes mourned “I beg you not to leave under my sudden arrival.”
You bit your lip at the sight of his face- the hardness of his features fell away, replaced by a soft graceful smike as he quietly murmured, “It is not the first time one has found themselves awake in the night within search of Chef Mikkelsen’s delicious biscuits. Will you not sit for a moment with me?” he opened the kitchen door and gestured for you to enter.
You felt a gigantic wave of relief. Though the effects of shock were still attached to your body when all you could reply with was a scared hum.
Henry ventured into the pantry. You ventured around the table in the middle of the kitchen and looked around the spices that hung above the windows.
When his lordship came out with a tin box and two tea saucers, he noticed how his governess was standing in the middle of the kitchen looking rather…lost.
Clearing his throat he gathered your attention, “Miss Y/L/N please, do sit,” gesturing towards the chairs at the kitchen table, and graciously you sat in the chair when he dragged one out.
Laying the tin of biscuits down and placing the saucers in front of you, he fled to the cool room and collected a jug of milk. The stove unfortunately had been put out hours ago and the attempt to reheat it would take longer than desired.
He sighed, “I’m afraid only cold milk is available Miss Y/L/N.” He poured the ivory liquid into a rose painted china tea cup.
“Thank you nonetheless sir,” you politely smiled and accepted the cup into your hand. Laying your lips on the cup, you took a slight sip of the milk.
Your eyes widened, ‘this milk is phenomenon!’ Taking another small sip you hummed happily,
“Your milk must be sweeter here one the Island.”
It was lighter than cream but contained a watery consistency. Something edged the final flavour, it was eerily sweet like sugar or honey. The milk might’ve been cold to the lips but it was surprisingly warm in your belly.
Sitting down in front of you the Lord’s eyes were wide, “You haven’t tasted our milk? After all this time?” he jokingly gasped.
You shook your head. The past many weeks was too hectic for you to simply sit down and have a cup of tea or a glass of milk. You were too concerned for Odette’s wellbeing and support along with the Dalgliesh children’s education.
Your afternoons were busied with the planning of the next day. And even for the past three Sundays, you had caught sleep in bed and made sure your room was tidy and that you were ready for Mrs Sharpe intruding as she was known to do so well.
The callous woman carried all the house keys on a large ring, so despite locking your door, your privacy would still be breeched. Henry threw his head back and laughed.
Your glanced between him and the kitchen door. He was so loud! What if someone saw you like this with him ? It would be the island scandal!
It didn’t matter...
For a man possibly ten to twenty years older than you, he was very charming and boyish; his smile made suddenly made you swoon. You grinned stupidly.
Lord Henry finally settled himself and paused, swallowing down a biscuit, and glanced over at you.
“Will you not have some of the biscuits? They’re sublime,” His long fingers hooked around the edge of the tin and held it out to her.
You shook your head again with all your meek sweetness, “Oh no, my lord, you enjoy it.”
You felt you had overstepped your place and should be humble when it came to his offers.
However a little growl from your middle betrayed your motives.
The Earl let loose another hearty laugh and stole a biscuit to give to you. Biscuit in hand reached out towards you.
Still you refused the offer knowing you should’ve removed yourself from that improper and intimate scenery, you whined “No, my lord, please I ca-“
The Earl smirked and shoved the treat into your talking lips, which caused you to stop midsentence and avoid not choking on the sweet biscuit. A light gag escaped you.
The crumbs rubbed rough on your throat and you wanted to be mad at the Lord but knew not to step that boundary, ‘you got yourself into this mess stupid girl.’
“You’ll come to learn soon that I don’t take to hearing the word ‘No’ kindly Miss Y/L/N.” He flashed her a smile filled with bright whites, proud of his actions.
‘He’s rude and childish!’
A great prickling of hairs on the back of your neck rose up, something was telling you to be afraid of Henry. ‘But he only force fed you a biscuit calm down- if anything be grateful.’
“Now drink the rest of your milk, dear,” he said, pushing the cup up to your crumb covered lips.
You instantly sat back and away from his long claw like fingers, you now just wanted to go back to bed. Sculling down the sweet milk and hastily standing, you moved the chair back into place and waddled over to the sink.
You spoke respectfully but a slight tremble ran through your hands, “I should- um, I think it best I bid you a good night, my lord.”
‘Something is definitely not right, I shouldn’t be here…goodness Y/N don’t be such a scaredy cat!’ you chided yourself. Shaking your head slightly you told yourself firmly, ‘everyone knows full well that the gentry are an odd lot from time to time. He is just being friendly.’
Henry stood to attention and caught you again by the wrist before you could even lay the dishes into the sink. He had excellent aim for wrists it would appear. Providing you his uneasy smirk, he dragged you back in front of him. A single digit cupped your chin and wiped up to your parted gasping lips. Moving his finger away, he deliberately showed you the white spill of sweetness he’d caught on the corner of your mouth. His long tongue flicked out and licked up the drip before completely sucking his finger in front of you.
You gasped. ‘Too friendly, for a man of his standing; is he…with me? No, he can’t be flirting. Great scot girl, get a hold of yourself. Act not like the impute girls of your age, be a mature woman! Goodness! Why would he ever think like that? The man just lost his beloved wife a year ago.’
His hand holding your arm released and dug into the pocket of his over-night coat.
He tutted you softly “Come with me, I have an urgency to question and acquaint myself better with you.”
A hand twirled around your back and softly shoved you forward and guided you into the dark cold drawing room.
‘Is he escorting me back to my living space?’
Suddenly, he froze, his palm left your back and gestured to the lounge. You glanced behind back and up to your employer “Sir?”
“Sit,” he sharply directed followed by a lengthy spaced cough, “Please Miss Y/L/N,” he added “I desire to inquire about the children.”
You blinked under his intense stare, slowly you sat down in the lounge. You slowly drawled, “The children, my lord?”
Sitting down across from you, the Earl rubbed his hands, his brows raised followed by a light chuckle, “Yes Miss Y/L/N, the ones I am paying you to educate?” his fingers laced together.
….Marianne and Michael. So now he showed his care and interest of them?
You flushed and uneasily smiled, you felt like an utter fool, “Of course, my lord. They are doing exceptionally well. They have taken a joy to writing their own stories, they’ve demonstrated great imaginations.”
He didn’t seem too interested in what his children enjoyed that was obvious from his bodily reaction lacking any bright eyes or head perks. “I see...” He bit his lip and sighed, his face lifted to the fireplace. He looked at his portrait and snidely snickered to himself.
Scratching his chin he looked back to you, “Tell me, Miss Y/L/N, are you very tired?”
“Actually, my lord, I-“
“Miss Y/L/N. I have a few brief questions regarding the children, if you do not mind.” He asked as he lit some of the candles with a box of matched from the desk draws.
‘The children, not his children? For a lord he should learn how to speak correctly.’
You gripped the top of your wrapper collar with icy hands and uneasily shuffled. You just wanted to go to bed and sleep, but Henry pursued you further more even after you asked if they might continue the conversation at breakfast in the morning.
He release a wicked chuckled that bewildered you. ‘He’s mad!’
The Earl tossed a leg over one of his knees, he sat back and relaxed, “Now, now, I would prefer to keep this frank, quick and confidential between two adults…”
He turned his head away briefly before he leant forward into your face, his hot breath blew down on your cheeks and eyes as he tilted his head.
His dark eyes turned hot and frightening, he purred, “Do you fear me, Miss Y/L/N?”
As expected if not planned, You lurched back and gasped. Your cheeks heated up. The blue light of the moon shown on his profile. He looked like a painting of Lucifer you’d seen in a children’s bible. His mesmerising features were both terrifying and attractive to you.
You shook your head, trying to stand up straight and tall. You felt silly and embarrassed in yourself for being so flushed.
‘Except…Why would he ask me that? Does he want me to know my place, have I overstepped my glass standings too openly?’ you truly hadn’t meant to upset him enough to try and upset you in return.
“I don’t understand, my lord,” you nervously huffed, “I believed we were talking about Miss
Marianne and Mr Michael?”
You turned your head to the side away from his eyes that squinted and lips that frowned. He moved forward, resting his hands either side of your arms on the lounge. His body heat surrounded you, his banyan and your wrapper folded against each other. Silk against cotton brushing softly.
“S-sir, you come too close, please sit back.”
Henry leant into your ear and hissed in a threatening tone, “Perhaps you will learn to tolerate my ways in time, Miss Y/L/N, as my children learn from you.”
Now you were properly scared. Your chest heaved up and down. He might’ve just as well told you that he was going to throw you down the grand stair case. You were petrified and paralysed.
“Indeed but I beg you to remain civil, I am- I am most happy to inform you of their accomplishments.”
Henry smugly smiled and hummed, leaning away from your unprepared body. He clapped his hands lightly and licked his teeth. He was a hungry looking man, a man looking to conquer in war.
“Yes, I suppose you’re correct Governess,” he continued in his cheerier tone, “We must discuss the children, Miss Y/L/N. Please do tell me of their achievements in your lessons? Do they work hard? I want to hear your curriculum and methods of teaching since you seem to have difficulty understanding respect of your superiors.”
‘Difficulty understanding respect of my superiors?!’
You tightly swallowed and faced him. You wanted to bluntly tell him he was a terrible father and a rude man. Instead, you submissively answered every question he asked. Most questions he asked related to their French lessons, dancing, mathematics and literature.
“Où avez-vous appris à parler français?” Where did you learn to speak French? He asked suddenly in French. It caught you off guard his snap in transition to the language.
You curled your lips in and politely replied, “Mon père m’a appris” my father taught me.
He smirked and his brows raised, he slowly nodded, “Par exemple, un enseignant?” was he a teacher?
You smiled and shook your head. A small flush came to your cheeks
“Il devient marchand et propriétaire terrien.” He was a merchant and landowner, you gently explained. Your father was a travelling man and left he farm and cottage to you and your mother while he was away. And when your mother died, you took care of little Odette and father remained to work a little more in England instead of sailing off for months to India and China.
You felt your mouth grow incredibly dry and your lips numb. Your vision became spotty and the room swayed. You tried to stand to your feet and almost fell over onto him again like you had this morning.
“Je m’excuse,” you weakly slurred, “je suis fatiguée.” Excuse me, I am very tired.
You needed to go to bed. It was far too late for this meeting in the night that could wait till the morning.
Just before you could tell him any of this, your eyes rolled to the back of your head. You fell ungracefully to the floor and weakly collapsed.
The earl smiled while whispering ‘timber’ with a tiny whistle and left you to fall hard, but winced at the loud thud. Your wrapper tie became loose and fell away to reveal your scantily clad night gown.
You were still awake. Unable to move unable to understand what was happening. Why your body would not rise and why you were just so incredibly tired. The last thing you saw was the earls looming shadowing silhouette and his deep voice humming a familiar tune.
"How many miles to Babylon..." He smiled and cocked his head to the side as he watched your poor confused gaze flutter shut.
With your eyes closed and your lips parted and your arms perfectly lain above your head, he believe you were a grand depiction of a goddess offering her life to a sacrifice.
He dug into the pocket of his banyan again, while this time he pulled out a tiny vial the size of his thumb. Henry hummed the merry lullaby as he twirled it around his fingers. It was just too easy to slip it into something as milk.
"How many miles to Babylon? Three more miles and ten. Can I get there by candle-light?" He smirked, "No and ne'er again."
He believed it to be remarkable that you would fall unconscious so easily under the influence of his drug induced milk. He worried you would cease sipping after your exclamation on the sweetness.
While poor little you was trusting him to be a gentleman…but it was part of that old scally-wag Colin Fowler’s plan, sending the girl here to be his governess.
London, England 1888, Saturday 14th January. 19:03pm.
Yes, it was now time for the Earl of Jersey to return home to his estate of Radier Manor.
He buried his face into his hands and sighed, before plucking up the unopened envelope by his desk. From the side of his desk Henry ripped open a draw and collected a letter pen. Cutting the mail open, he plucked out the parchment and glued his eyes to the words that lay before him.
My dear friend Henry Dalgliesh,
It has been over a year since your dear Natalia passed and from our last meeting you had asked whether I could provide you one of my girls for your taste in desire. I wonderfully inform you that I have discovered something much more exceedingly pleasurable in the realm of succulent kittens, consider it a gift for the favour I owed you.
I have come across two young ladies from a small farm down south, they’re virgins and as pure as snow they come. Their names are Y/N and Odette Y/L/N from Bristol. Little Odette, I will be keeping under my hand for a few more years as the dear is not ripe yet only eleven or twelve I believe; the cusp of womanhood my friend, but her older sister; a true English rose is perfect for the reaping. After the misfortune of their father’s death whom was a gambling friend of mine, the girls are in a river of debt.
For every month I will expect a “payment” from Y/N to “support her sister” despite us both knowing I don’t really need anything to care for the little dear. I suggest you use the debt against her.
Do teach the girl some manners Henry, she’s polite and innocent but completely lacking in true submission. Make her cry, beg, squeal- break her, bend her, fuck her; whatever you do, don’t kill her. Henry, do not waste my gift, use her as you want and give her back when you’re finished. I have sent her your way as a governess for your children. She should be there in a week. Sincerely,
Lord C.F.
Henry sat back and proceeded to scrunch up the news into a ball of paper, casting it into the fire. He watched the flames engulf and swallow down the evidence of his ever interesting desire. He smirked and looked back up to the painting of Natalia and laughed at her face.
“I look forward to a nice new toy darling, don’t you?” Henry threw his feet up onto his desk and folded his hands behind his head, “I am sure you do, bloody harlot.” His eyes gleamed yellow as hellfire in the reflection of the burning letter.
Yes, it was now time for the Earl of Jersey to return home to his estate of Radier Manor.
Radier Manor Jersey, England 1888, Monday 9Th April. 22:28 pm.
“That worked rather well, bit too quickly for my liking though, however extremely effective,” He muttered to himself as he pocketed it back and bent onto one knee to hover above you.
His eyes travelled your the lines of your form that he was observing from the moment he discovered your shy presence around the estates home.
He slid closer, pressing his nose to your forehead to inhale the sweet scent or your hair and skin. His eyes fluttered as his lips gasped, his cock twitched. He caressed your soft cheek with his knuckled. His eyes scanning down to your entrapped bosom.
‘I wonder if she would taste better than she smells.’
With a solidary eye to the open area down through the drawing room into the dining room, he sighed and drew you closer. If anyone caught him, he would kill them. His hand softly rubbed your forehead, which cause you to react in a subtle moan.
‘Could she be as innocent as she seemed? Is this a mistake? Should I still do this?’ Henry dared ask himself. His eyes narrowed and he consi-
- Wait… Excuse me? Hello, reader, are you holding onto hope he’s gracious and kind? It’s because you think those are Henry’ thoughts don’t you? Well, I’m afraid you’re dearly mistaken. You see, it isn’t one of those stories....romance, no; here we feed on lust, blood and blackmail. Now that’s been cleared up, back to the story, where were we? He scares you, he drugs you, ah yes here we are-
Henry tucked his hands and arms beneath your fragile body and lifted you up onto his hip, his lust pressing harshly into your waist. He blew out the candle and fled. You were his prize being glided to the forbidden room, the room he considered very special indeed.....
Helplines:
If you are a victim of sexual abuse, assault or domestic violence or know someone who is please reach out to these links that share helpline services, phone numbers or emails. Consent and respect is important in every relationship whether between friends, family or even strangers.
Australian Helpline Services
UK Helpline Services
American Helpline Services
India Helpline Services.
#henry cavill x y/n#henry cavill x ofc#henry cavill x you#henry cavill x reader#A Lesson in Service#henry cavill#henry cavill x female reader#sherlock holmes x poc!reader#sherlock holmes x you#enola holmes sherlock holmes#henry sherlock holmes#henry sherlock#dead dove do not eat#dead dove fic#dark!henry cavill#dark!sherlock holmes#ALIS
105 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
chaoticclumsygirl
Some stuff for fellows
bobert90
NikeFreeLicker
mommymarasov
Mara Sov
vidlak-z-vesnice
Váš průměrný milovník cryptidů