#Jealous!Henry | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

madelynraemunson · 5 months

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CALL ME WHAT YOU WANT 𓆩♡𓆪

(Book #1 of the Hellfire Gentlemen's Club series)

𝐌𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐍 𝐀𝐔 18+ plz

strip club owner!eddie x fem!exotic dancer! main character

Chapter 012: Vecna’s Curse

Eddie is scared to commit to you? That’s fine. You have a lap dance to treat Henry to anyway — in the infamous red set that EDDIE bought for you.

↳ chapters: 001, 002*, 003** , 004**, 005 , 006 , 007* , 008**, 009, 010, 011, 012* , 013** , 014**, 015, 016**, 017, 018, 019, 020*

somewhat smutty = * , smutty = **

word count: 4k words

NSFW — blindfold kink (*cough* henry), lap dance, grinding, moaning, henry is the whimpering type, shy girl using henry to get off, eddie’s RAGING jealousy

TAKE IT AWAY, JAMIE 🥁🙌🏼

I Put A Spell on You (Jamie’s Version)

“The hooded cultists chant…” Eddie narrates. “Hail Lord Vecna. Hail Lord Vecna. They turn to you, remove their hoods… you recognize most of them from Makbar. But there is one you do not recognize…”

— excerpt from Stranger Things 4: Chapter One: The Hellfire Club.

♡

Eddie is too busy playing D&D with the boys to have any idea what you're up to. It’s just what you wanted, though. Means everything is going according to plan.

“I put a spell on you, because you’re mine.”

Excitement brews within you as you slip on the red DEVIL WOMAN set from Nocturna. When you're done, Max helps to straighten your hair, maintaining it with a generous amount of hairspray, while Chrissy helps you set the final touches of your makeup into place.

"What's up with the blindfold?" Max inquires, nodding towards the piece of cloth tied around your wrist.

"Part of my act," you explain ominously. "I plan on using it on Henry for the first part of my set. He's a...sensitive guy, to say the least."

"You are way too good at this," your sister shakes her head in disbelief, brushing through your hair one last time.

"Intense emotions spark creativity," you shrug, admiring the vixen that is you in the vanity. "No man is leaving unscathed tonight."

It all rings true. Tonight, you have the power. And all of Hellfire is going to know it.

"Well you look absolutely soul-snatching," Chrissy hoots as she takes a good look at you. “You’re gonna have him on his knees.”

You bite your lip in anticipation. " Who? Eddie or Henry?"

"Both," she shrugs. "But since we're on that topic, I just know Eddie is going to come crawling back."

The three of you share a malicious giggle with one another, thinking about all the ways Eddie is going to crumble, seeing another man enjoy you in the set that he bought. He had his chance to commit to you, but now he has to face the consequences of what happens when he doesn't man up on time.

The dressing room door opens. By instinct, you turn to see who it is. In struts Nina, counting the dollar bills in her hands as she just emerged from doing her set at the tip rail.

"Oooh look at you go!" you whistle. "They're loving you out there, mama."

"I'm literally so shook," Nina raves, tucking her bills away into her bag. "This is my best night thus far."

When she's all squared away, Nina makes her way over to you and envelopes you in a warm hug. "You look so fucking sexy! Go kill it out there, girl."

You smile at the compliment, heart fluttering in a room full of girls' girls.

"Thank you, sweetheart," you respond to her, rubbing her back with the utmost adoration. "You too."

Chrissy helps you don your cloak, shielding you from giving away the trick you have up your sleeve. After one final check in the mirror, you're ready to put on a show.

"Ready," you announce with a mischievous grin.

“Go get him, tiger,” Chrissy pats your back.

“You better stop the things you do, I ain’t lyin’. No, I ain’t lyin’”

Your heels click with intention across the cool floor of the club as you strut towards your victim. He's smiling and laughing with all his friends, unsuspecting of the stake you're about to, figuratively, drive through his heart.

"Good game, gentlemen," Eddie concludes as he and the boys wrap up their campaign. "I’ll see you all next week for Rise of Kas. Try not to die in that one, yeah?"

You watch as the younger guys scatter to prep for the rush. Steve and Eddie stay behind to clean up the area. When Steve sees you, he offers you a tender side hug before issuing a kiss hello to your forehead.

"Hey you," Steve smiles.

"Hey," your eyes gleam up at him. "Didn't know you play D&D."

Eddie's eyes travel up to you the moment he hears your voice. He freezes in place the moment you meet his gaze. If he reacted this way to just you with your cloak on — exalting and apologetic — you can't even begin to imagine the look on his face when he sees what you have under it.

But until time brings you to that point, you settle for feigning dissastisfaction while he attempts to strike up a casual conversation.

"He doesn’t, I was just showing him the ropes,” Eddie chuckles, nervously resting his hands at his sides. “He’s doing great though.”

You nod absentmindedly, diverting your attention to Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington instead.

"You look beautiful, Hargrove," your boss attempts. "More than usual, I mean. Absolutely stunning.”

You can tell he’s already regretful about how he worded things a couple nights ago. The guilt on his face is like no other. But with the guilt comes those eyes. Those charming eyes that will get you to fold every time. Tonight is the exception.

"Thanks," you utter emptily to him.

"You got main stage tonight?"

"No, I've got a semi-private dance," you respond as-a-matter-of-factly.

"Semi-priv..." Eddie tries to figure it out. "What do you mean by that?"

"Hello, hello," a familiar voice greets you guys.

Right on schedule.

Henry makes his way over to you all with the biggest grin on his face. It's weird seeing him in outside clothes. He's dressed in a white t-shirt and black leather jacket, tight black jeans, and black combat boots. The blonde deity flashes you a seductive look.

"Days bleeding into one another again, Creel?" Eddie questions. "You're not on today, remember?"

"Oh yeah, I know," Henry shrugs. "I have a dance today with one of our special friends."

"Oh shit!" Eddie exclaims, going over to give him a celebratory fist bump. "Chrissy agreed to give you one?"

"No, not Chrissy," you chime in. "Me!"

Eddie's eyes widen. Steve's eyes widen.

"Holy shit!" Steve says. "Creel is actually getting a lap dance! That's so out of his comfort zone."

Steve's arms wrap around your waist as he pulls you in front of him. You feel his hardened cock sneak up against your ass.

"And from Shy Girl too?" Steve's voice deepens, rasp factor at an all time high. "You're in for a treat."

"Wouldn't expect any less," Henry blushes.

Henry’s voice is soft, but there’s a hunger in his gaze. Eddie tries to conceal how bothered he is. You see him frantically scanning the club for a sort of scapegoat, a way in delaying the nightmare that is about to ensue.

“Actually…” Eddie clears his throat. “Now that I think about it, we might get busy within the hour. You mind clocking in for a bit to help Jim out front?”

Henry cocks a puzzled brow. “Jim was playing Candy Crush when I dapped him up at the door. Mans is fine.”

“Yeah, the man is fine, Eddie,” you jeer. “And Henry’s been working sooo hard, it’s the least I can do for him.”

Your boss’s jaw clenches when he realizes his plan has fallen through. He’s got no scapegoat, you're dressed like revenge overdue, and his friends are insistent on watching this dance…

He’s screwed.

"If you insist," Eddie mutters sharply. “Tip her well, Creel.”

“Of course, man.”

Eddie excuses himself but remains in the area like a fly on the wall. He scrambles around, greeting regulars with a handshake and dusting off tables, anything to look busy and unbothered by the idea that his presence doesn't affect you the slightest.

But he is seething. Troubled. He can’t read you or your next move and it’s driving him mad.

While you coordinate your routine with the DJ, Argyle escapes from the kitchen. You hear him eagerly yelp when he discovers that Henry is getting a dance, followed by a determined, "I've gotta watch this".

And now that everything is going to plan, you take a moment to gather yourself backstage.

Before you head out, Nancy meets you by the curtains with extra bobby pins that you requested. You assume Chrissy spilled all the beans, judging by the words Nancy whispers in your ears before you head out,

“Give that man hell.”

(he sounds so much like jamie)

HELLFIRE: hell·fire

/ˈhelˌfī(ə)r/(noun): The torment and punishment of hell, envisaged as eternal fire.

"Alright, Shy Girl!" you hear Argyle shout from the pit of VECNA'S LAIR. "Henry is ready when you are."

You give the DJ a nod to start the song. Let the show begin.

“YOU put a spell on ME, I’m losing my mind”

You start your set at the pole, walking a slow circle around it before beginning your dance. Though a dance for Henry only, a crowd outside your immediate circle starts to gather around. Henry is sitting on Vecna's throne, watching inquisitively while you do your introduction. And Eddie follows suit, floating around like a lost puppy.

“You better stop these things. It’s a matter of TIME🕰️”

*DING* a grandfather clock chimes, a sound mixed in by the DJ as he makes the set his own.

The crowd cheers as you strut your sexy self down the stage, smirking to yourself as Henry timidly grips the armrests of Vecna's throne.

Your gaze pans to Eddie. You watch as guests attempt to have a conversation with him in the lair, but he is just not tuned into what they're saying.

Eddie is hypnotized by you, spellbound by a curse that he got himself tangled up in. Oh, how pitiful. To dig his own grave...

“Before I hunt you down..."

Poor Eddie. He has already lost.

"...grab your chin...and kiss your lips…”

You stroke Henry's face as you walk past him, stopping behind him close enough to see the goosebumps and baby hairs rising at the nape of his neck.

You tug on the corner of the blindfold and the knot undoes itself. Henry beams up at you with his eager ocean eyes as you hold the blindfold in your hands. You bend down behind him, exploring his chest with your delicate hands, before tying the blindfold snugly around his eyes.

You check in with your friend. “Are you doing okay?”

“I’m doing just fine,” Henry answers. “Thank you, Shy Girl.”

“Of course.”

“And you bring me back, I lay you down and grab your hips”

Eddie’s claimed a seat now, somewhere towards the back. Though it's harder to see him now, you just know he’s eyeing your technique intently, watching as you slither back to the front of Henry, stroking the bouncer’s face before lowering yourself onto his lap.

Henry’s breath trembles upon realization. He leans back and spreads himself across the chair so you can take up all the space that you needed to make him feel good.

He sucks in a breath.

“Breathe out, Henry…” you encourage him. “Steady breaths… there you go. Relax those shoulders now.”

Henry exhales, sinking his shoulders into flaccidity as he allows you to navigate his lap.

Eddie’s tapping his feet profusely, likely as an attempt to self-regulate. His folded palms rest below his chin as he studies you, attempting to construe whether or not this is something you are genuinely enjoying.

“And we lose all control. And before you know…”

And Eddie should know, that indeed, you are enjoying yourself… and Henry very much.

Henry's hands explore your ass now, and you use this position as leverage to grind yourself against him, your hips rotating to the shape of your stage name spelled out in cursive.

Shy Girl

A soft whimper escapes Henry’s lips as you grind, your ego inflating as he tosses his head back in pleasure.

“What’s the matter, baby boy?” you ask him. “Too much for you already?”

“No,” Henry smiles, seemingly up for a challenge. “I just wanna see your pretty face so bad.”

“Do you now?” you quip.

“Yes I do,” he nods. “Pretty please.”

“Well since you’re being so polite…”

“I put a spell on you, now you’re mine. I’ve got a hold on you, at least for the night.”

Your fingers return to the back of Henry’s neck to rid him of the blindfold you menacingly decided to tease him with. When it collapses, you meet Henry’s starstruck eyes, making sure they process you grinding your hips, exploring his chest, his shoulders, the sensitive parts of his earlobes.

“Fuuuck,” Henry whines. “How are you so good at this?”

“How are you such a good client?” you counter. “So well-behaved for me, Henry.”

Steve and Argyle make their way to either sides of him, showering you with dollar bills because Henry’s hands were occupied. They were exploring your thighs, hovering over your ass, rubbing your back while his mouth praises your every action, your every attribute, your everything.

“Goddd DAMN!” Argyle roars, incentivizing you further.

“What’d I tell you, Creel?” Steve smirks. “Ain’t she something?”

“Fuck yeah, she is,” Henry’s voice is but a barely audible gasp now. “And to think we’ve just scratched the surface.”

He tugs at your cloak pleadingly. You giggle at him, admiring his pretty puppy dog eyes that he’s put on for you.

“You know I can’t help myself when you ask tenderly if I’d dim the lights as your hand brushes me.”

Eddie glares sharply as he watches Henry continue to tug at the strings of your cloak, practically begging you to start stripping for him.

His misery is waiting behind that very garment.

“Wanna show me what’s underneath?” Henry incites.

The lights of VECNA’S LAIR begin to flicker and the classic yellow spotlight quickly changes to red. That’s your cue.

“Thought you’d never ask,” you giggle.

“And the floor swallows your clothes”

You undo the knot of your cloak that tied everything together. Slowly, to the beat of the song, the cloak slips off of you, revealing the beautiful red set.

“Oooh”s, “ahhh”s, and “wooo”s fill the air as the cloak sinks to the floor.

“And your silhouette puts on a show”

From the corner of your eye, you notice Eddie sit right up.

You try to figure out if he recognizes your set or not. But judging by his flustered face, and envious gaze, he sure does. There’s a pain in his eyes as his brows form a sullen arch. You watch as Eddie’s nostrils flare as he jams his fingers into his thighs, digging the balls of his feet into the floor in rout. He can hardly keep himself contained, he’s so angry.

And like a bull at a rodeo, Eddie sees red.

Meanwhile, Henry falls deeper into his state of arousal.

“Wow…” your patron beams. “That’s such a beautiful set, Shy Girl.”

You blush. “You think so?”

“I know so,” Henry insists. “It fits you perfectly. You did a good job.”

“Yeah,” you chime. Then your gaze travels to Eddie who is trying his hardest to conceal his jealousy. “I did do great, didn’t I?”

You allow Henry’s hands to explore all the set’s finest little details, from the little gems to the intricate seams. Henry traces your figure by following the pattern of the set, humming in pleasure to himself at the sight of you.

"That set is gorgeous, baby," Steve coos as he admires you from head to toe. "Did you pick that out yourself?"

“I can’t remember,” you turn to Steve as he rubs your shoulders. “It’s been collecting dust in my closet for a while so I figured I’d wear it today.”

“That was a good choice,” Steve’s voice deepens. “This is my favorite set on you so far.”

"Mm!" an unexpected moan escapes your mouth.

A crinkle in Henry’s pants from his thigh region rides up a nerve ending along your clit. Your mind short circuits from the sheer pleasure of it all.

Soon you forget about the lap dance and start subtly immersing yourself with friction, rubbing harder and harder against Henry’s tense quads as he lets you.

Aside from you, only Henry seems to know what’s going on.

He smirks, the most sinister grin you’ve never seen come from him before. “Find what you’re looking for?”

You nod rapidly, encouraging him to stay in place while you continue to pleasure yourself. He laughs to himself, watching you chase your high on top of him, knowing he's the one who has the reigns now.

“That’s right,” he fawns. “Take what you need from me, baby.”

"Yes Master," you say to him, knowing it's a kink of his. You feel him harden underneath you when he hears those words come out of your mouth.

Curious on whether or not he's still watching, you can’t help but get a glimpse of Eddie. And past the layers of all the strobe lights of VECNA’S LAIR, you meet his eyes.

“You put a spell on me. I’m LOSING my mind”

They’re twinkling. But not in the way you’d want. Soon Eddie's hand aggressively swoops across his eye, as he quickly wipes — what looks like — a teardrop away.

You continue to watch him as he excuses himself from the crowd, pulling his entire weight with him as he drags his feet towards his office.

It's enough to make your cold heart melt. When you see the way his shoulders sulk and how slow he seems to be walking in the busy atmosphere of Hellfire Gentlemen's Club, it dawns on you that you may have taken it too far.

Henry sees your eyes wandering, dwelling on Eddie as they become rather glazed themselves. He directs your focus back to him with his fingers at your chin.

“Why do you cry for him, Shy Girl?” Henry observes. It’s like he can read your mind. “After everything he’s done to you?"

You swallow hard as you struggle to find the words.

"...You give me fever, and drive me insane"

Fuck Eddie. Fuck Eddie. Fuck Eddie.

You've been hurt countless times but you still love with your heart on your sleeve. Why couldn't Eddie do the same?

Sure, his father was abusive and absent. Yours was too. Sure he found his mom dead at the hands of his father and drugs. That was also your childhood experience. Sure he had to grow up rather early just like you did, putting all his needs last while taking care of other family members because no one else would step up. And sure, the only woman he loved enough to marry framed him for a crime he didn't commit, with the idea of inheriting his assets on her mind. You've felt that used before too.

So what if all the people he's ever cared about stabbed him not only in the back, but in the front as well?

...just like you're doing right now.

It really dawns on you this time. You're not any better.

Fuck, you're an asshole. The answer is so clear to you now, you don't understand how you could have been so selfish before. You're both different sides of the same coin, it seems.

"Hm?” Henry tuts when you don't respond. "You think you need Eddie, but you don't. No, no... you don't."

Henry then starts to buck his own hips upwards, grinding along with you.

You feel guilty that Henry feels so good, taunting your clit mercilessly with just the fabric of his dark jeans alone. To distract yourself from all guilt crashing down on you, you start to envision that it's not Henry, but Eddie whose underneath you.

You miss Eddie. You really, really do. You miss his laugh, his random outbursts of energy. You miss how he instantly drew in a crowd no matter where he went. His presence was electricity, sending shockwaves down your body with the slightest skin-to-skin touch. You missed how his fingers felt pulsing in and out of you, curving themselves as he looks you dead in the eye because your pleasure was his utmost concern. You miss his periodic check-ins, how he wouldn't relax until you made it clear that you were okay. You miss how dirty and magical he made you feel, but ultimately how sexy and loved were and felt in his presence, even on the rocky days.

Fuck, Eddie.

"You keep me going in circles with potions and bottles... And I can't escape... I can't escape..."

Fuck, you fantasize. Eddie. Fuck, Eddie.

"I'm lost in your ways... I can't escape, baby."

There's a part in the song that gives you an 'out' from your routine. You wrap up your dance there, completing it with a tender kiss to Henry's cheek as he smiles up at you. The crowd goes wild, and Steve and Argyle continue to spoil you with ones, fives, and tens, enticed by how sultry you made everything look and feel with such little effort.

"Thank you, darling," Henry coos as he rubs your back one final time.

"Any time," you say to him. "I hope I helped alleviate some of your stress."

The boys help you collect your bills while people from all around swarm you with compliments. Eventually, Maxine and Chrissy make their way over to you, ambushing you with hugs and fangirling over your entire performance.

"You did amazing, sis!" Max squeals as she jumps up and down. "You should've seen the look on Eddie's face. Oh you so won!"

"Yeah..." you mumble absentmindedly as you search the club for Eddie. "Yay me..."

--------

It's the last call now before closing and you're helping everyone shut down their stations. You'd typically be back in the dressing room counting your bills by now, but the inner server in you can't help but stay behind.

"Hey!" Argyle speaks up. "Since all of us are off tonight, anyone wanna go barhopping?"

"I'm down!" Steve agrees. "Night's still young and that was the plan last time we were all together, yeah?"

"Shy Girl, you wanna come with?" Jonathan asks.

"Uh, I gotta count my tips and then get to bed," you say, turning the offer down. "I can close the register if you want, Jon so you can catch up with everybody."

"Oh really? Thanks!"

The group invites Max too, promising they would take good care of your little sister. Chrissy offers to be her DD, since she knows that Max drinks. All of you did, when you were her age.

"Please, sis?" Max begs. "All my discussion posts are done and I wanna turn up before midterms."

"Fine," you mutter, rolling your eyes. "But remember, if it smells weird or stinky..."

"Do not drinky..." Max rolls her eyes as she reaches to grab Chrissy by the hand. "Done deal. Thanks again!"

And soon the group vacates the area, leaving only you behind to shut the place down for the night.

When you're done closing out the register, you gather all your things to start packing up. Suddenly, you hear the locks to a distant door jingle and the doorknob turn slightly to doublecheck.

Eddie's still here.

You hear him start to make his way towards POTIONS, his worn out converse making quiet taps against the stone floor.

The natural light from the windows near the ceiling illuminates into the dark space, revealing Eddie's face and the pained expression that still rests upon it. His eyes are puffy, his demeanor hard to read.

You clear his throat at him.

"I thought you left."

"Nah," he shakes his head. "I like to stay behind for a bit sometimes. Make sure I got everything I need."

"I see..." is all you say.

"Told you that set would bring in a lot of tips."

"There you go again, being right about things," you say in a forfeiting tone.

"I'm not always right."

You can't look at him right now. Not when you've caused him so much distress and he's still choosing to speak to you. You gather your belongings and hold your head down in shame, excusing yourself from the narrative and Eddie's presence indefinitely.

"Whatever you say, Eds," you try to smile. "Goodnight."

Nervous now, you put your cloak back on and make your way out of the bar. You nod to Eddie goodnight and start towards your dressing room to prepare for your drive home.

However, it stuns you again as Eddie turns his heels and follows suit...trailing ever so closely behind you... to the dressing room as well.

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ten-cent-sleuth · 10 months

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A Galling Yoke, Part 5

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for the Location: Tearoom square on my July Break Bingo card

See this post for main info, including a masterlist and synopsis. See this post for warnings.

Word Count: 3.8k

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x f!Reader

Rating: Teen

Rogers fetched you from the wine cellar just in the middle of your regular review of its stores. Your bellyaching about his deplorable timing was only silenced by his quirked brow and curt “Mr Holmes said it was urgent, ma’am”.

Mr Holmes.

Any irritation washed away. To your inconvenience and your pleasure, you found that whatever trials and triumphs you derived from your staid lifestyle as unattached mistress of your own home were easily displaced by the trials and triumphs derived in Sherlock’s presence. The latter simply tended to be so much deeper, so much weightier than the former.

That did not stop you from shooting Sherlock a dark look as Rogers led you into the front sitting room.

“We agreed to meet after luncheon, sir,” you scolded him.

Furrowing his brow, he clicked open his pocket watch. “It is twenty past noon. I suppose I do eat a little earlier on days I have plans for an investigation, but…”

“We are going to a tearoom,” you said, though amusement was beginning to break through your voice. “I meant hours after luncheon.”

He flushed. “Ah. Yes, of course. Well—”

You waved your hand. “This works fine. It shall still be open for business; we shall simply have to stay there for a while to be around for the rush hour.”

“Hours in your company, my lady? However shall I go on,” he said so dryly that it didn’t even sound like a question.

You snickered, then the possibility struck you that he had come this early precisely for that reason, if only subconsciously. Shaking the notion out of your head, you said, “Allow me to change into a tea gown before we depart.”

He gave you a strange look but nodded. You startled when you found Rogers standing…well, rather like standing guard in the hallway.

“Your ladyship,” he greeted, as though these were normal proceedings in Voss House.

“Er…Rogers,” you returned, not wanting to get into it, not at all.

You hummed to yourself as you headed to your chambers. Clearly, while Sherlock knew what was expected of the upper classes, he still hadn’t wrapped his head around you subscribing to those expectations. He likely had never heard you utter the words “tea gown” before today. At Ferndell, you were free to do anything and be anyone; now, you didn’t think you even knew how to act so freely.

Twenty minutes later, you re-entered the front of the house and stopped short at the sight of Sherlock waiting. His lips barely lifted, but his pleasure was unquestionable as it shone from his eyes. Unlike other gentlemen, he did not compliment your fabric or your figure, as was expected; what did surprise you was that he just as much refrained from making a snide remark about the expenditure or the frivolity.

“My lady,” he said softly, offering you his arm. His right arm.

“Have you forgotten your schoolroom lessons, Mr Holmes?” you teased. “How shall you take your hat off to your acquaintances on the street if I am on your right side?”

He arched a brow in challenge. “I shall not acknowledge any acquaintance at the cost of failing to support the side of yours that needs it.”

You cleared your throat. Another surprise. Then you took his arm.

Once he led you a few paces forward, you noticed Rogers standing by. You raised your eyebrows at him—was he watching Sherlock?—but did not question him.

The London air was thin and fresh with winter, though the sun glowed warmly from its zenith. You managed both the occasional stabs of pain or shakiness in your leg and the curious glances from other pedestrians wondering at your abnormal stance with the steady presence at your side. His muscled arm was a sturdy rock beneath your gloved fingers and his vigilant gaze an unbroken shield around you.

So secure did you feel because of him that you almost did not register that he was speaking to you for the uncertainty in his voice: “Are you sure I shall not be a hindrance to this mission? From what Enola and her, ah, contacts tell me, tearooms are quite the lady’s respite from gentlemen.”

“Quite sure,” you replied. “It is not uncommon for a young lady to bring a male friend or indeed a suitor to visit with her friends in a tearoom, and they need not even be chaperoned for it to be entirely proper. It may be a mite odd that it shall only be the two of us, but my being a widow and your being a known figure in London ought to mitigate that.”

“Am I truly such a known figure?” he questioned. “What if all the wagging tongues you promised me shall hold themselves in recognition of a detective in their midst?”

“I had not thought of that. Hmm. We shall have to hope that my presence frees those very tongues.”

“Your presence?” His attempt to lighten his voice so that he sounded incurious did not quite succeed.

“Indeed. As a maiden, I was the daughter of the Earl of Coltidge; as a wife, I was the property of the Earl of Pittford’s youngest son; as a widow, I am recognisable, noticeable, in my own right.”

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully. “Yes…by now, you have been in charge of your finances and movements in London for four times longer than you had been under Mr Sulyard’s thumb. I do not imagine that you had sat idly by in all that time,” he mused. “You must have seized the opportunity to forge your own reputation, carve out your own corner of the ton. The ladies who frequent tearooms—they shall feel comfortable in your presence?”

You tipped your head at him. “Very good.”

He huffed at your jab yet—if you were not imagining it—pulled you closer to his side all the same.

Upon entering the tearoom, Sherlock informed you under his breath of his observations: who took no interest in the newcomers, who was suddenly sneaking glances at Sherlock out of the corner of their eyes and likely planning to hurry away as soon as possible, who snapped their mouth shut at your arrival but was now whispering all the more vigorously. You bit your lip to keep your smile from showing; when you had told him the day before about Edmund’s possible affair, he had been eager to see the theory to its natural conclusion, but when you had pointed out that very little concrete evidence would be left after a dozen years’ erosion, he had dragged his heels to validate the alternative source of gossip. If the gleam in his eye as he analysed the room before him was anything to go by, however, he seemed to have forgotten his objections.

You had selected this establishment out of the many options in London because it was a personal favourite of The Most Honourable Lady Notley, the Marchioness Brindon and the unofficial head purveyor of marital problems among the first circles. If one were to hear any information about a decade-old affair, it would be coming out of her ladyship’s mouth or going into her ladyship’s ears. After you led Sherlock to a strategically located table and explained this to him, he whispered conspiratorially, “Skill is fine, and genius is splendid, but the right contacts are more valuable than either.”

You grinned at him. “I accept your apology.”

The next few hours passed in like fashion. To you, he described noteworthy behaviours—of suspicion, of anxiety, of mischief. To him, you delineated the most effective ways of finding out more about those characters based on their particular habits—at balls, during calling hours, by the servant grapevine. He wrote down these plans to enact at a later date. When you both agreed that it would be possible and efficient to dig deeper about a given person right there and then, you would take turns executing some ruse to wander closer and eavesdrop or prod.

After the third time one of you had gotten up to refill your pot of tea, a waitress had started coming around to do it for you, giving you both stern looks as though your self-service had questioned the employees’ ability to serve you.

“Gracious,” muttered Sherlock as the waitress dashed to your table and away with preternatural speed, “I see now why they are called ‘nippies’.”

Smothering your giggle with a cough, you stood up and smoothed your skirts. “Since we no longer have that excuse, I”—you threw your voice—“shall have to take a turn about the room.”

He smirked, likely enjoying witnessing the ridiculous lengths to which you were willing to go for this investigation. “Enjoy, my dear,” he drawled—for the ploy, of course, you reassured yourself.

You whetted your ears as you approached Mrs Gouldsmith’s table, the matron having glanced at you across the room a dozen times in five minutes according to Sherlock.

“—sshhh! She is right there!”

“Oh, hush, Fanny, she shan’t care a jot what ladies such as we are whispering about.”

“Harriet is right, Fanny. The Vosses think themselves quite superior.”

“Can that be true? Her ladyship has always seemed agreeable and considerate to me…”

“Of course she seems that way, Fanny: she is all things proper. But siblings are never too different from each other, and that Viscount Pashbroke is the worst sort of man.”

“Do you not recall what he did to my poor Emily?”

“Oh, yes. Fanny, you could not have forgotten poor heartbroken Emily?”

“No, no, but—was Emily truly all so heartbroken?”

“What a question! Of a certainty she was! The dear girl has already gone through four Seasons without so much as a second dance from the same gentleman in one night. Then last June, she met Lord Pashbroke!”

“Everyone in Town could see they were forming an attachment!”

“He asked to call on her, Fanny! He visited with us every other day for weeks. Dearest Emily and I were expecting him to pay his addresses anytime soon—I even had Gouldsmith begin drafting the settlement.”

“Oh, Harriet! Calling on a lady does not always lead to an engagement. Even a courtship does not always lead to an engagement.”

“The material point, Fanny, is that the gentleman raised my Emily’s hopes all summer, and then he vanished into the countryside without securing her affections. Only a person who disdained families of our sort—the untitled sort!—could be so thoughtless.”

“There, there, Harriet. It is for the best. Just think, had Emily married him, he would have taken her to the family’s favoured estate up north. Shropshire is quite the distance from Town!”

“But perhaps he would have taken her to the ancestral seat instead… It shall be his inheritance not too long from now, you know. Oh, can you imagine it? Lady Emily Gouldsmith Voss, Countess of Coltidge!”

As the ladies dissolved into raptures over their lost connexion to the earldom, you rolled your eyes and made your way back to Sherlock.

The detective raised an expectant brow.

“Naught of import,” you informed him. You would be having words with your brother about some things very soon, but that had nothing to do with the case.

You had barely resettled into your seat when the door swung open to welcome Lady Brindon and her typical entourage, namely her daughter Lady Rebecca Notley and the girl’s godfather Dr Crawford. You smiled at the marchioness, and though she returned the expression, she immediately bent her head towards her daughter and whispered something to her. Frowning, you turned towards Dr Crawford, but the man avoided your eyes.

“Sherlock,” you murmured, “I believe something is going on over there.”

He tilted his head to show that he accepted your opinion, but the furrow in his brow showed that he didn’t see it for himself.

“Dr Crawford does not look at me.”

“I did not take you for the vain sort, your ladyship.”

You glared at him. “You are most amusing, Mr Holmes. No, he and I are friends, for I…understand him in a way most do not.”

The teasing half smirk on Sherlock’s face plummeted. “And what, pray, is that supposed to mean?”

“He and Lady Brindon have been intimate friends since childhood,” you explained. “Their closeness did not end when she married Lord Brindon, and for that, they endure considerable idle gossip about the innocence of their friendship. I have never suspected aught improper between them—I am sure you see why: I have my own experiences as proof that a man and a woman can be friends all their lives and have naught romantic come of it—so he tends to seek me out for support, at least with his eyes, when they appear in public together.”

Sherlock scowled. “Well, if you are so certain, I shall engage him in conversation. I have met their ladyships and him at one of Mycroft’s events, so I shall have an excuse to speak with them.”

“Sherlock, do you not think that I ought to be the one who—?”

“You did the last one. It is my turn,” he snapped, rising to his feet and stalking towards the Notley party before you could pick your jaw off of the floor. What had soured his mood so?

Taking tiny, nervous bites of your Victoria sponge, you watched Sherlock stiffly bow and greet the trio. Your apprehension eased as his awkwardness did as well, evidently the conversation taking a promising turn as that gleam re-entered the detective’s eyes. But—oh, no, perhaps he had relaxed too much: you recognised the tension building in Dr Crawford’s shoulder blades, too little thus far to be noticed by Sherlock, but already glaring to you, whose acquaintance with the man was largely based on noticing when the people around him were pushing too hard.

Rather unceremoniously, you abandoned your half-eaten cake and hurried to Sherlock’s side.

“Lady Brindon,” you greeted brightly, “Lady Rebecca, Dr Crawford. Mr Holmes.”

After the exchange of curtsies and bows and how-do-you-dos, you forced out a light chuckle. “I hope I am not interrupting. Only, I realised having Dr Crawford and Mr Holmes in a conversation without a chaperone would become quite tedious quite rapidly. Your ladyships, you may be honest with me—have the gentlemen yet spoken of anything besides their work?”

Lady Brindon laughed. “Sirs, her ladyship has you both rather on the mark! They have spoken only of Dr Crawford’s house visit this morning.”

“That would not be quite so tedious if that particular patient had not been his and my mother’s topic of conversation all afternoon as well,” interjected Lady Rebecca, eliciting a sharp look from the marchioness, which went unheeded as the girl smiled rather wolfishly at you. “Indeed, I do not believe you shall be as much the saviour as you wished to be, my lady, for surely you shall wish to discuss her as well. Are you not acquainted with Ms Algar?”

You blinked, scrambling to recall everything you knew about the only Notley daughter. Though not malicious, she hungered for drama—her mother merely relished knowing what others did not want known—and felt enough entitlement to fish for it if necessary. In that case, this Ms Algar was somebody you were not expected to like.

With an angelic smile, you turned to Dr Crawford. “How is Ms Algar?”

His gaze darted between Lady Brindon, Sherlock, and the tearoom door before settling on you. “Quite well. She is quite well,” he answered. “That is, she is quite the same as the last twelve years. I…I have been her physician all this time, and I had not known you had met her, your ladyship. Indeed, I did not even know you were…connected to her, until Lady Brindon, er, informed me this afternoon.”

“Very few people do, I would say,” you hummed, ignoring the crook of Sherlock’s eyebrow.

Dr Crawford’s shoulders slumped. “I hope that means you do not think I was trying to keep this from you, my lady—”

“Nonsense!” you reassured him. “There is a reason Lady Brindon keeps your company and chose you as Lady Rebecca’s godfather, and I am certain that reason is your honesty and artlessness. Is it not so, my lady?”

The marchioness nodded with a serene smile, and even Lady Rebecca’s surly disappointment at your nonchalance lessened in the face of fondness for her godfather.

Reddening, Dr Crawford smiled at you all. “You are kindness itself,” he told you. “It is no wonder that you are friends with Ms Algar despite—” His smile broke. “That is, despite…”

“Despite circumstances,” you suggested, your heart rate spiking at the riskiness of it.

Fortunately, the smile returned. “Yes, indeed. I am sure she is uplifted to know such goodness exists after her attack.”

At that, Sherlock’s attention flew from you, where it had been this entire conversation, to the doctor. “An attack, you say? You mentioned a bump on the back of the head, but you would not tell me more…”

“Mr Holmes! Of course not!” you gasped. No wonder Dr Crawford had been tense! “That is no topic for mixed company. I apologise, your ladyships,” you added to the Notleys with a rueful smile. “It appears my jest about a chaperone had more truth to it than I intended.”

Lady Brindon waved away your concern. “It is of no consequence. Rebecca is always so eager to hear the gory details of everyone’s troubles.”

“Mama!” the young lady hissed.

“Still,” you said, “as apparent chaperone, I best ensure Mr Holmes gets home without offending any sensibilities now. It has been a pleasure—God bless you all.”

After you and Sherlock had taken leave of the trio, you returned to your table to retrieve your effects and settle your tab. Then, you set back off for Grosvenor Square.

“What were you thinking?” you reproached him, to which he paid no attention as he beamed and exclaimed—

“I do believe we are dealing with a homicide after all!”

You snuck a glance around the street and sighed in relief at its emptiness before pinching the arm he had again offered you.

“Ow! What was—?”

“We are in public, Mr Holmes,” you said, even more reproachfully. “Do lower your voice, or at least temper your enthusiastic tone, about murder?”

He grimaced. “Indeed. I suppose I should be more considerate of the fact that I am discussing your husband, too, should I not?”

“Oh.” You squeezed his arm. “To be frank, that had quite slipped my mind.”

He barked out a laugh. “I take it you are not disturbed that someone murdered your dear Edmund, then?”

“Not particularly. Perhaps the disturbance shall set in later. For now, I am simply curious. What has made you certain?”

“Ms Algar was attacked and struck on the back of the head.”

You waited a beat. “Yes?”

“Twelve years ago!”

You sighed. “I recognise that Mr Sulyard died twelve years ago, but—”

“Died from an attack to the back of the head,” cut in Sherlock, his voice lowering in volume but growing in fervour.

“I was told he died from trying to drive a phaeton while drunk at an ungodly hour.” You recalled serving tea to the messenger before he broke the news, that poor awkward officer whose eyes would not meet yours but whose face you would never forget.

Sherlock’s incredulous cry broke your reverie: “Did you not read the same coroner’s report as I?”

“I know not,” you said with an eye roll, “for you are the one who put it in my hands.”

You smothered a grin at his grumbles about your contemptible sass.

“The coroner noted that Mr Sulyard had only sustained a severe bump to the head and the bruising where he landed,” said Sherlock with a surprising amount of patience. “Normally, in a carriage crash, one receives defensive and reflexive injuries from reacting to the incident before hitting the ground, not merely the injuries of impact. The coroner conjectured that Mr Sulyard was different because he was intoxicated and his reactions would have been impaired.”

Thinking back on the few times you had observed drunken behaviour, you nodded: you had not understood much of the coroner’s report, but Sherlock’s explanation made sense so far.

“And yet,” he whispered, “the actual toxicology report showed that Mr Sulyard had not a drop of alcohol in his body.”

“What? But then…” You shook your head. “How could the coroner have missed such an inconsistency?”

“Warwick is a frumpish fellow simply waiting to be forced into retirement,” mused Sherlock. “He must have written off the toxicology result as the blunder of a nascent science.”

You shook your head again, wrestling with all the puzzle pieces that refused to fit in place. “You must have arrived at that conclusion yesterday, as soon as you read the report,” you said. “Why are you only certain of homicide now?”

“The inconsistency was suspicious, yes, but one must have an alternative explanation before ‘suspicious’ becomes ‘damning’,” he replied. “Ms Algar is that alternative explanation. Or, rather, she is a piece of it… Struck in the head with a blunt object, just as Mr Sulyard was… Her incident, at the same time as his… And of course, their prior connection.”

He glanced at you, and you pursed your lips before exhaling forcibly.

“Worry not, Sherlock. I have already figured out that Ms Algar was my husband’s lover; you shall not have to spell out that to me as well.”

No, Lady Brindon’s whispers and looks, Lady Rebecca’s goading, and Dr Crawford’s discomfort had spelled it out quite effectively already.

Sherlock offered you a tentative smile. “I was not worried about that,” he said. “You handled yourself with complete aplomb there. The way you directed that conversation without anyone—well, anyone other than me, of course—realising that you were directing… I am most impressed by your deductive ability, my lady.”

“Deductive—? Sherlock, that is not deduction,” you scoffed. Identifying Ms Algar as your husband’s mistress, perhaps, but leading a conversation? “It is… It is…”

“You would not call it guesswork, would you?”

“Not at all!”

He hummed. “No, indeed, you do not guess: you calculate the path by which you shall avoid offence and curry favour without compromising your dignity. You balance probabilities and choose the most likely. It is the scientific use of the imagination.”

You rolled your eyes; well, his flair for the dramatic had certainly not flagged in the years gone. “It is social manoeuvring, that is all, Sherlock.”

“You know my method. It is founded upon the observation of trifles. And, my dear lady,” he quipped, “there is nothing more trifling than social manoeuvring.”

Considering how he had so easily gone from being playful with you in the tearoom to snapping at you about talking with Dr Crawford to reassuring you while walking you home, you could not but agree.

Thank you for reading. Please let me know if you would like to be tagged for updates. :) This has probably been my favourite prompt to research for so far; the history of tearooms in Britain is fascinating! I really thought this was gonna be my shortest chapter yet and then it ended up being the longest by a thousand words… Well, feedback is always welcome! A cookie to anyone who can point out all the Arthur Conan Doyle references. ;P

#sherlock holmes x reader #sherlock holmes x you #henry cavill sherlock x reader #jealous sherlock holmes #henry cavill fanfiction #enola holmes #a galling yoke #the dimensions of fandom

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