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hey-its-roseaurum · 24 days

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Guilty until Proven Innocent-Part I

A/N: Hey everyone. Thank you for taking the time to look at this story. This is for a collaboration with @lainiespicewrites. She is an excellent writer and I figured it was my turn to stretch my writing muscles and put something out into the world. This is my first Henry Cavill fic, so please don't be too harsh. Anyways, enjoy!

Synopsis: After recent murders in town, You (Olivia) decide to train with Edith in the art of self-defense. In the middle of training, you got a mysterious knock on the door. Sherlock walks in, looking for assistance with his latest case. He offers you to partake in a partnership to help him in his latest case? Do you take it?

Warnings: mentions of death

“You’re progressing nicely Olivia.” Edith smiled from above me, her elbow pinning me to the floor mat. There wasn’t a hint of sweat along her forehead. She had taken me down in less than a minute. The worst part was I thought I was going to land a hit on her this time.

”I’m beginning to think that you’re just saying that to soothe my pride”. I rasped out. She had eased her hold on me and stood up, extending a hand.

”Nonsense. Look how far you’ve come since you first stepped in these doors. Pretty soon you’ll be able to hold your ground with me.” She exclaimed as I grabbed her hand and hoisted myself up. My back had long since started throbbing.

For the past few weeks, I have been meeting Edith at her office to train and learn self-defense. Ever since the first girl went missing and was later found dead in the street I hadn’t been able to sleep soundly. There were constant, nagging thoughts that made me question if I was going to be the next victim. It had only gotten worse when they found the next girl a week later in the middle of an alleyway that I frequently visited. Her throat had been cut.

In London, it was ill-advised for a woman, especially of noble birth, to consider something as trivial as self-defense. Women are supposed to be soft, elegant, and passive. All of the trouble and responsibility in making decisions was for the men.

Being passive and soft didn’t save those girls from their cruel end.

And I wasn’t going to let myself become like them. I refuse to be the next girl that falls victim to this. So I went to my dear friend Enola at her detective agency and inquired about a solution to my predicament. She sent me over to Edith and had me start training the next day. I’ve been training every day since then.

I’m still not really good at it.

”Did you say the same thing when you were teaching Enola?” I inquired as I dusted myself off. Edith only shook her head.

”Not exactly. Her response was more witty, thanks to her mother.” Eudoria Holmes, the mother, the fire starter as people liked to call her. I’ve seen her wanted poster splayed all across London. But I didn’t see her as a criminal. I saw her as the woman who saved my life six months ago.

That morning had been cold and bitter. I remember feeling my fingers grow numb while I huddled against a mailbox. Its red paint had chipped away at its base, leaving rust behind.

Which was ironic and poetic now that I think back on it. And let me explain why.

It all started when my father had recently passed from a sickness that left my mother and me penniless. With no man in the house and no money to our name, we were cast out of society. My mother and I were thrown out and the estate that I called my home. It was sold to another noble family in the south.

We lived off the street after that. My mother, using what knowledge she had of needlework, had acquired a job as an assisted seamstress. I was left to salvage whatever pity people gave me and half-rotten food from dumpsters.

Eventually, we were able to afford a small cottage on the outskirts of town. It was small, run-down, and often had a damp smell to it. Mother didn’t like to be there for a long period. She claimed it was because she was so busy with her duties to the seamstress that she didn’t have time to spend there. I think it was because she missed her life at the estate and living in this small broken cottage was too much for her to bear.

That morning six months ago I decided to go into town to fill my water bucket and get bread before it got too crowded. When I got there, I sat down by the mailbox to wait for the bakery to open. I was particularly annoyed when I saw a lot of people around this early in the morning.

I was watching a man get onto a carriage when something shifted from the corner of my eye. It had been a man, or what I thought was a man walking towards me with a package in their hand. When we made eye contact I didn’t think anything of it. I just watched them and noted how stiff they walked. They placed the package in the slot of the mailbox. Before I knew it, I was grabbed by the elbow, hoisted upright, and pulled away from the mailbox.

That mailbox exploded, releasing a whirlwind of fliers into the air.

The two of us had run from the police. I was forced to since they refused to let go of my hand. We ran until this stranger knew that they weren't being followed.

When things settled down, the man revealed that they were a woman in disguise. She introduced herself as Eudoria Holmes and then proceeded to lecture me about being near explosives as if she were my own mother. All I had wanted to do was bite back, to lecture her on how she shouldn’t be putting explosives where there were people.

Instead, I broke down, not from her lecturing but because of something I couldn’t quite place. All I knew was that I was waiting for a soggy piece of bread and nearly got blown up.

In the end, I told her everything. I told her my past, my current situation, and why I was even in town in the first place. One thing kind of led to another. The next thing I knew I was sitting in Eudoria’s house with a cup of tea in my hand.

I stayed in that damp cottage less and less as time passed and more at Eudoria’s warm, often chaotic home. That’s where I became friends with Enola, had briefly met her two brothers Sherlock and Mycroft, and felt somewhat happy.

I don’t know why she pulled me away from that mailbox. The one time I asked her she said she saw something in me, some sort of fire in my eye. She didn’t want it to go out along with the mailbox.

I didn’t believe her, but I couldn’t tell that to her.

“So what you’re trying to say is that I still have a long way to go,” I asked as my brain jumped back to the present. I stepped away from the mat and made my way into her office.

”What I’m saying is you’re doing better than you think you are. You just began learning. Give yourself a little credit.” Following me, she made her way to the table by the window. A stack of teacups were messily stacked up to one side. She grabbed two, placed them on saucers, and poured liquid into both.

“I know. I’m just…worried. It’s been a week since the last victim was found and the police still haven’t found the suspect.” I let out a sigh and sipped some of my tea. I needed a moment to choose my words carefully. “I just want to be…prepared.”

A heavy pause filled the air before either of us spoke.

”Olivia…there’s more to that, isn’t there?” Edith’s words were soft and gentle.

“I mean I-“. My response was sharply cut short.

A knock pulled our attention away from our conversation and to the door. A tall man entered from the training room and to Edith’s office. I couldn’t place if he looked tall because of his size, or because of the giant top hat sitting snugly on top of his head. Dark wavy strands of hair peaked through from under his hat.

”Have you any sense what time it is?” Edith interrogated, crossing her arms. The man took off his hat, revealing thick brown locks. His sculpted jawline and nose complimented the hair. Blue, mesmerizing eyes glanced around, investigating.

But the feature that I recognized right away from him was his shoulders. I knew those shoulders.

”Hello, Edith” His attention briefly shot to me “Olivia” I curtly nodded, averting my eyes.

”Good evening Mr. Holmes.” I responded softly. “With what do we owe the pleasure of your company?” Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. One of Enola’s older brothers. One of the greatest detectives I’ve ever seen.

”There’s no need for formalities Olivia.” I felt something warm begin to grow on my cheeks at his response. He’s only being polite Olivia. We are only acquaintances because of Enola and Eudoria. He doesn’t like you like that.

Or does he?

I’m not sure.

Sherlock Holmes is a difficult man to understand.

“What are you here for Sherlock?” Edith asked again, harsher this time. Her tone quickly pulled me back to the present and away from my thoughts.

Sherlock cleared his throat, his blue eyes revealing some sort of inner turmoil within himself. It was an unusual amount of emotion that I was not used to seeing. I expected it with Mycroft, he practically wore his emotions on his face at all times. Sherlock never did. He’s always been composed, and proper. Before me now he still was, but a layer of some sort had been chipped away.

”I….need your help.” He struggled to say the words like it was almost painful to him. A moment of silence clung in the air.

”Is it about Enola? Did she get herself into trouble?” There was a hint of concern in Edith’s voice when she begged the questions. The only response he gave was a small shake of his head. I watched as realization flashed on her face.

”There’s something about this case-“.

”That deduction cannot solve?” Edith finished his thought. He slightly nodded, setting his hat down on her desk. That was my cue. I softly placed my teacup down and made my way to the table by the window. I began making some tea for Sherlock while listening to the conversation.

”I may need your…skills to get information from a place I cannot enter.”

“What kind of place?” He listed off a name that I didn’t recognize. Edith’s face slightly reddened.

”A showgirl theatre?! You cannot ask me such a thing Sherlock, no matter how close we are.” My eyebrows raised as I grabbed a cup and saucer and poured some tea into the cup.

“I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t have another option. A woman’s life is at stake.” His tone was calm, but there was something else there.

”But going into this with the possibility of getting murdered is not something I’m comfortable with. Woman’s freedom and rights is one thing, going after a serial killer is a whole other matter entirely”

”Edith, I-“. I cut them off.

”I’ll do it. I’ll go instead of you.” In their arguing, I had made my way back to the two of them, Sherlock's tea in hand. I had left mine behind.

”Olivia, do you know what kind of place that is, what situations you can get into. You’re nowhere near ready to hold your ground”. What she said was like a punch to the gut.

I knew I wasn’t ready, we had that same conversation not thirty minutes ago. But I knew that if Edith went and something bad had happened to her Enola and Eudoria would be devastated. I was different. If I went and something happened to me, Edith would still be here training more girls like me.

”Who else is going to do it? Enola? She’s not expendable. I am. And Edith, what about the other girls you train?” I took a breath, the stubbornness in me growing. “Besides, I know these streets better than anyone. I’ve lived in them. I know where to go in case I’m being followed. And because of the way I look,”. I paused briefly looking down at myself, at my curvy, plump figure. “No one would suspect me. They would just see me as a showgirl trying to make ends meet. I can blend in, go undercover, and get the information that he needs in order to catch this murderer.”

A heavy pause hung between the three of us.

I let what I said sink into the two of them. I know that Edith is fighting with herself on whether she can let me go. She believes that I am her responsibility, and I kind of was while Eudoria was undercover. But since starting to learn to defend myself I told myself that I couldn’t sit and wait. Sitting and worrying about who the next victim is going to drive me crazy. If I can help and make a difference, then maybe the suspect will be caught before there’s more tragedy.

”I promise I won’t let anything bad happen to her.” Sherlock’s voice broke the silence and my inner thoughts. “You have my word.” His eyes met mine at his. I felt something else there besides the promise. Edith sighed, rubbing her temples with both her index fingers.

“Okay, Sherlock. Just…make sure she comes back in one piece.” Edith finally concurred. “You’re going to have to speak to your mother if you don’t.”

A smile tugged at my lips at the agreement. I finally raised the cup of tea, offering it to him.

”When do we start?”

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A/N: Thank you so much for reading. If you want to read @lainiespicewrites story about Paul Atreides from the Dune Sage, here is her link: https://www.tumblr.com/lainiespicewrites/747032352877903872/the-atreides-era?source=share

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spencerrxids · 1 year

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labyrinth

pairing : sherlock holmes x fem!oc

summary :

ANNALIÉSE MOORE was young when she first met SHERLOCK HOLMES, accidentally stumbled onto him when she was running away from the small commotion she had caused which ended with him helping her out of it. He was early in his career but already making a name for himself. Being not much more than two years older than her, they’ve become close, perhaps closer than both had ever thought they would be. The young woman has seen more sides of the renowned genius detective than the one he always ought to put in front of the public's eyes. Although in recent years, they’ve found some distance between themselves, primarily because of the number of cases, Sherlock had drowned him in. And she tried, for the longest time, she tried to understand him until one day, it all stopped.

ANNALIÉSE MOORE had only been in London for a month-long after she returned from France when she heard the news of the missing EUDORIA HOLMES which then followed by the missing of ENOLA HOLMES. So it wasn't really surprising when her old friend had finally decided to acknowledge her existence again, seeking out her help. And boy was it such a privilege to have SHERLOCK HOLMES looking rather helpless on her doorstep.

tags : friends to lovers, slowburn, 1880s slowburn(?), sherlock being painfully oblivious, fluff but also angst

masterlist

chapter 01 : begin with a dance

chapter 02 : patterned days

chapter 03 : tbd

more chapter to be added

taglist! (CLOSED)

#sherlock holmes x oc #sherlock x oc #sherlock holmes x reader #sherlock holmes #enola holmes #sherlock fandom #sherlock x reader #sherlock reader insert #sherlock x you #enola 2 #fluff #sherlock holmes angst #fanfiction #sherlock holmes fanfiction

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stedefxckingbonnet · 6 months

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—MASTERLIST

Congratulations, dear traveler, you've made it!

You've found my list of all of my writing thus far! You can come back to this at anytime, and I will update it frequently as I continue to write. Requests are currently OPEN! Wide open ♡

Our Flag Means Death

Izzy Hands

Past Lives

Eternity

Eternity part 2

Moonlight Meetings

My Favorite

Star-Crossed

My Gem

What I See

The Holdovers

Angus Tully (coming soon!)

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mizaryroku · 5 months

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Uname has his wardrobe!!! Oh my gaaaaad ! Yeah yeah I know some fans of him are going to be happy... *Look at you all*

Ahum! The list of names for all outfits:

•Casual

•Incognito

•Mercenary

•Winter

•Ceremony

•Egas master

•Old design

•In training (season 4?)

Hope you liked it!

(I forget in the second outfit to band a hand, you're not supposed to see his skin here ^^")

#eliotrope #character design #drawing #original art #my art #oc #original character #doodle #wakfu #fanart #dofus #art #Illustration #wakfuoc #wardrobe #Wakfu Wardrobe #digital drawing #Uname Enola

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milknhonies · 2 months

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𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐞

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enolasketches · 24 days

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Comms / Patreon / Socials

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prpfs · 4 months

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🎀 Hii! 21F looking for a fandom roleplay!! (18+)

—> a bit about me! i have a preference for very detailed and lengthy replies, 3-4 paragraphs, as i myself, am a very literate roleplayer.

—> looking for a OC x CC roleplay, i am willing to double up and play anyone for your oc, if you would like to make an oc love interest for your oc instead of a cc, that’s fine too!

—> smut is welcomed and preferred, as well as dark and sensitive topics!

—> as for fandoms, i’ll just put a little list lol !

*highlighted are the fandom’s i have the most motivation for*

> sweet home

> the hunger games (tbosas included)

> the idol

> maximum ride

> any mike flanagan series

> enola holmes

> yellowjackets

> euphoria

> gotham

> miss peregrines home for peculiar children

> american horror story

> many more ! *suggest a fandom if its not listed or ask me for more fandoms!*

if your interested in this, send me a friend request on discord! ( huntersteaparty ) & we can start plotting! 🎀

give a like and anon will get back to you

#sweet home rp #the hunger games rp #the idol rp #maximum ride rp #enola homles rp #yellowjackets rp #euphoria rp #gotham rp #miss peregrines home for peculiar children rp #american horror story rp #fandom rp #fandom roleplay #oc roleplay #oc rp

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ela-draws · 7 months

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I'll call this my little gouachetober 💙 Here's a lady from 1880

(yes this is again an excuse to draw an OC)

#oc #original character #art #traditional art #gouache #gouachetober #inktober #sherlock holmes #acd holmes #enola holmes

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inklores · 1 year

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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐀𝐆𝐍𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐌𝐒.

pairing: henry!sherlock holmes x fem!oc

summary: sherlock holmes needs to find his intrepid little sister. clara bedi wants to keep his sharp nose off her trail. (word count: 3.1k)

content contains: fluff, sherlock being bad with women, slight strangers to lovers but they're both smart idiots

author's note: made originally for a class assignment but i'm too proud of it to keep it hidden away in my google docs!! enjoy

FUMES OF SMOKE lifting from the corners of his lips, he thumbed the lapis silk tie the pamphlet was bound by. The rhythmic movement was a rehearsed habit of his, charting keen thoughts that were falling into place.

Tea in the Parlor

Magazine of Modern Womanhood

25 April 1884

“A Problem With No Name. I’ve first heard that uttered so solemnly beneath the breath of a mother amid other mothers over the scent of teacakes and the English brew that her hands had surely processed the week before. Another cried. As your humble magazine writer, there have been women beyond our teatime who had answers to my questions. Those who sort matchsticks in factories, who raise children, who nurse other children. Those who live in the fine estates of Westminster, lodging houses along Greater London, and flats bordering Whitechapel, all have the same problem. The groping truths to their lamentations, brought into light when the children were away and their husbands attended to important business over a glass of sherry at their gentleman’s clubs,—”

Something more than a scoff and less than a laugh escaped Holmes.

“—were provoking. Just what was this nameless problem? A whisper that refuses to be said. The bond of pain, of womanhood, of the searing feeling that something great shall arrive to our fair England.”

— C.E. Babbington.

“Mr. Holmes, I hope you’re not mistaking me as someone with whom you are at odds with.”

Clara wore burgundy today.

Or indigo to a sharp eye, moreso if she sat in the dusky shade rather than by the window where sunlight was allowed to stream through the frosted glass tiles. The heat of the afternoon, Clara could tolerate. The brisk cold, the musk of tobacco, pomade, and fine English leather that filled her office—all mingling together to create one scent that floated around the man who stood in front of her— she virtually could not.

Well, “office” may have been a playful nudge to her ego. It was more of a closet with a pen, a hook to hang her coat when there was a chill, a canister of her favorite tea matched with her precious teapot, and a small sideboard that she used to stash her extra paper. Clara had spent enough time in that little closet to learn its quirks and commodities. The shutters would not close in blustery weather unless they were bound by a scarf. The gentleman who would take his Saturday morning coffee and eggs always found something to guffaw about in the newspaper. Clara knew because she could hear the fervor of his chortles from one story up. The fifth floorboard from the door creaked with the slightest movement and she had garnered the will to purchase a rug that softened footsteps over the parquet.

Now if only she could purchase a rug to wrap around the man filling her tiny corner with the fumes of… man.

A tall man. Haughty by the way he stood. He looked strong and sturdy, weaned on the finest food money could buy. Clara wondered if he teethed on crumpets and caviar as a baby. His clothing may have been picked to feign oneness with the people of England, but she noticed a grain on his breasted black coat. His crisp white shirt boasted no wrinkle, cinched around his neck by a silk ascot the color of charcoal. Chestnut curls spilled across his head—sharing no unified form—and fighting to be free of the pomade that gleamed in the dimness of the lamplight. She imagined an artless tumble of locks when he was nose-deep in a case. An errant strand fell over his brow, softening his countenance where his tone failed to.

“Have you anticipated me, Miss Bedi?”

It was Clara’s mistake for stopping short of her movements. Her fingers froze on the handle of her teapot and it was then she realized the incriminating ink stains that blotched her bronzed fingers.

She did not. He knew that. He likely knew what she had for breakfast as well. Hence the cloying pride that laced his query.

A tickle caught in her throat and she swallowed tightly to preserve her pride as she arched a dark brow. “No, I have not, but I applaud your effort. Nobody contemplates and makes a theater out of their face quite like you.”

Looking up from the tea she was pouring, Clara barely caught the indignant twitch in his face, even as his mountainous posture was unrelenting. For a man who was presumed to be discreet, he was quite eye-catching.

He dropped his gaze down to the lonely armchair and side table Clara would enjoy her tea in. It was the one perpetually surrounded by her basket of stained pen tips and folded newspapers— Clara had the habit of saving old prints—bits of thread, scraps of silk in cooler hues, linen from occasional embroiders, and stacks of books from Edith that never make it back to the shelf, being moved around constantly on the empty promise of being read to completion.

It was a detective’s heaven.

“The name ‘Holmes’ is beginning to mean quite a deal in this country,” her eyebrows slanted, copper eyes filled with constellations, “and do you think I would be in my position if I did not know?”

“Precisely why you flinched when I used your name and not your pen name.” His voice was rich as a fine velvet she let her hands graze over at a textile stand, but detached. “Deceit. To hide the plain truth, just as frills and elegant coifs do. Yes, it may dress you like a powder puff—” she parted her lips in protest but his eyes glimmered like opals, he was clearly not done—“but the man holding the pen is entirely different. In that…”

Her grip on her teacup could not get any tighter, for one tremor to rattle the porcelain would have him arriving quicker to the deduction he savored for last.

“He is not a man at all, is he?”

She watched in bated, almost nonexistent, breath—wondering how quickly she could get her hands on the cake spade lying unfashionably by the crumbs of a Dundee cake she had scarfed down the night before—as he fished a blue silk tie that bookmarked the yellowed book she just realized he held.

“How does a C.E. Babbington become… the elusive Clara Eashwar Bedi?”

A wave of cold took her from head to toe. If Clara wasn’t gripping the edge of her desk, knuckles quickly whitening, she was sure her knees would’ve given out. She stared down at the pretty silk tie, and then at the folded pamphlet he slid over the varnished surface, the black ink script almost snickering at her in mockery.

His words came as fluidly as water, uttered with a stone-cold expression she figured was his mask for his famous deductions.

“Four separate purchases of pens and paper from three different vendors.”

Spreading her tracks. No writer who desired anonymity would so foolishly expose herself by making a reputation with one seller.

He was studying her closet-office now. A satin kerchief protected his hand as he chose a stained pen to scrutinize. “Bills from Whitechapel. Cheaper ink—a shadowy writer such as yourself would not earn her dues to spend carelessly on finer supplies than supper for the night. Or silk ties to make her mark. To create a name.”

Cheaper ink bleeds easier. Her fingers, a blatant victim.

“Bedi.” He tasted her last name on his tongue for a moment, eyebrows pinched as if he was trying to paint a map in his acute mind. “When did your father leave India?”

Her throat was dry but she swallowed down her apprehension and managed out, “Fifteen years ago.”

“Does he work on the docks?”

“Worked.”

A flash of humanity lightened his eyes and the man of a chilly, pragmatic acumen faltered. “Apologies.”

The sound that tumbled from Clara’s lips could only be described as something between a shaking sigh and an aggravated grumble. “What is it you want, Mr. Holmes?”

“You write for the Magazine of Modern Womanhood,” he continued, making Clara bite back an exhausted groan. “Yet you affect a pseudonym. Why?”

“I don’t write for the magazine, I write alongside it,” Clara mumbled. Why was she entertaining him? “I don’t have the means to print my pieces independently— as you so cleverly deduced by my purchases of ink.”

“Your pieces… and other submissions, I’d bet.”

“Are you a betting man?” She lifted a brow curiously, daring him to stop this frivolous quadrille of tongues and get to the point.

“A cipher with the fingerprints of my sister was published in the personal advertisements column of your magazine, The Pall Mall Gazette, and The Journal of Dress Reform. It’s our mother’s interest she hopes to attract and with the choice of your publication, she has a good start.”

“God, there’s more of you?” she asked, feigning horror. “Is the world ready for that?”

(But where the name Mycroft Holmes was etched in cold stone and proud, old money, she had the sense the name Sherlock meant something else. Something whisper quiet like a dusty novel on crumpled velvet. Elegant with solitude.)

Sherlock took a step forward, his fingers still thumbing the fraying corner of the book. “Have you any idea where she might be?” He tilted his head. “I’m afraid our mutual acquaintance Edith had more to say of my “ostrich-like” nature than my sister.”

Clara couldn’t help the kick in her voice as she responded, “Appropriate.”

He smiled at her, a Private Investigator brand of Smile that Clara knew well enough from the numerous times a constable had approached the magazine for its inflammatory words, and which only deserved a Young Journalist Smile.

But what he said snagged her attention as well as a good story. Eudoria’s daughter. Little Enola.

Edith had mentioned her once or twice. Clara might have seen a glimpse of a little brown-headed girl with quick feet, dashing about Ferndell Hall when ladies of a particular ilk huddled around a table, bearing swords on their tongues and determination in their hearts. Clara typically stood behind her bolder friend, Edith, clutching a pen that barely made a scratch against her worn pocketbook. She knew little for the illustrious Sherlock Holmes to knock on her door… but little was more than enough to be cunningly dissected and deduced by him.

“Enola’s missing?” she asked slowly, hoping to stall but Sherlock Holmes was not a man for idle chatter. Her head shook in a disappointing, deceiving refusal. “I’m sorry, but I have the faintest idea as to where she’s gone and why.”

“I find that highly improbable,” said Holmes in a tone that suggested he too was done with this waltz. “You’re protective of your name, or, names —”

“And what will you do if I use your name, Mr. Holmes?” Clara countered rigidly, her heart leaping into her throat. “Loudly? With proper dictation? Letting everyone know your business more than you’d like?”

“Then you’d also find yourself and Edith in a very difficult position, one that I’ve made clear to her and will to you if I must,” Sherlock warned, dropping his voice to a decibel that made a chill rattle her spine. A hint of vague frustration was tangled within his dull humor.

Clara stilled, watching as he turned over the book and leafed through toward the back cover. Stuffed in the spine was a folded napkin and he paired it with the newspaper clipping for her viewing displeasure. Wrinkled and white and stamped with the crumbs of a pastry, her eyes were naturally drawn to the hasty scrawl in ink:

“C.E.B.

Matter of Bill —

Tea Rooms”

The same dismayed expression from when he dissected her alter ego took ahold of her face once more, even if she tried to disguise it by a clench of her jaw.

“Macaroons could do with some attention but Edith has enough to worry about,” said Holmes. “She’ll notice the missing book from her seditious collection but not the message hidden inside— a message written to Babbington, who I understand is an intrepid young woman, so I’m sure you’re aware of what the proper connections can do for a man.” The distant, icy blue of his eyes warmed. “I asked of your father— a man who likely worked too hard for too little a reward and you, his daughter, silently fighting in favor of a bill that will help the men and women like him.”

“My,” Clara gasped, “Mr. Holmes, I didn’t take you for a man of politics.”

The stray little curl swished across his brow as he shook his head. “Oh, I’m far from it.”

She hummed curiously. “Then, what do you fancy? People? Poetry? Probably not. It’s your cases that keep you warm at night, which is why you hunt your own sister in blind circles like a dog chasing his tail.” She leaned forward, lowering her voice, “If Edith tells you nothing, I will say even less. Trust your sister… and the future. Good day, Mr. Holmes.”

She made to go around him, ignoring the way her stomach fluttered as she did, until a bleak and dare she say, concerned mutter caught her ear.

“She’s a child.”

“By my understanding, you’ve abandoned her once, Mr. Holmes. In the pursuit of where your mind takes you and little of your heart,” Clara said, more sharply than was her wont.

“I beg your pardon.”

The anger in his voice flared like a bleeding heart. A man who was a fire next to gunpowder, ready to speak his mind and snatch the rug beneath a pair of unsuspecting feet. She could loathe him for being so perceptive and intelligent, yet plainly missing the changes of the world. But that tone… He was no longer a brilliant mind or a pleasantly distant man. He was a brother who wanted to know where his sister was.

And if there was ever a case that Sherlock Holmes would encounter, it would leave no secrets he could not crack.

Clara turned around, stained fingers toying with each other, teeth worrying her lower lip to a reddening bruise. Amusement danced in her eyes, quenching the frustration that twisted his sharply cut features.

“You have it,” she admitted after a pause, cheeks growing warm. “Because I’m a woman who believes in second chances… and the calling of her heart rather than her mind. And a desolate, hopeless bachelor tugs at that heart, I’m afraid.”

Sherlock’s face contorted incrementally, the corners of his lips curling up just a tad. It was not a smile. Another part of her would have thought so but not the smart part. Still, it was an odd expression that made Clara think it was gracious.

“I’m not aware of such a reputation.” Fond.

“Figures,” she sighed, eliciting a huff of laughter from him. The sound was enough to make her face crack with a smile. “Enola’s sixteen. And if she’s anything like her mother and brother, she won’t go down with a fight nor will she be drawn away from it. And the real fight is coming. I advise you to start there.”

He squinted at her. Then at the napkin. Then at the clipping signed by C.E. Babbington. The fight.

“A problem with no name,” he murmured.

“It has a name, Mr. Holmes. Whether it will be spoken is decided by men like you and your older brother,” she added, rightly hopeful. “Perhaps that will change.”

Silence settled comfortably between them until the pounding of her heart became too loud for her ears to bear. She cleared her throat and pulled the knob to her door, returning her gaze to Sherlock.

“Until next time, Mr. Holmes.” She smiled. “I hope your game finds its feet. My best to your sister.”

He tilted his chin in an understanding nod, hand pressing against the curly blue tie that still sat next to his evidence, her pamphlet. To her surprise, he waited. One hand disappeared in the flap of his jacket and came out holding a fine black pen shot with gold trimming. To a man like Holmes, it was a pen to write some very useful reckonings of the mind but to Clara, it looked more valuable than what she earned in a week. It clinked as he set it on her desk, accompanied by that slight, mysterious smile.

“Trust a bill won’t be made,” Sherlock assured, amused as he approached her. He extended the blue ribbon to her.

“And a secret will be kept,” she enforced, fixing him with a look as she curled her fingers over the forbidden silk tie, folding it into his palm.

His hand was cold, callused like the reward of cracking cases. Yet it managed to send a surge of heat swirling in her chest, akin to lightning crossing a black sky.

(And did she intend the other thing she did too? The split-second brush of her fingertips over his palm and the way the ball of his throat was disturbed by a tight swallow. Savoring the softness of the lapis silk strand against his pale flesh and her copper skin.)

He lingered by the doorframe for more than a second. Sherlock looked at her— perhaps a more bewitching case with the narrowest twists and the sharpest of turns. A shadow of a smile graced his prim lips and he let out a delectable, ruminative hum. “Is that a promise I would be foolish to break, Miss Babbington?”

“Indeed it is, Mr. Holmes.” She watched him depart, a puzzling black figure who had more to his voice than what he decided to speak.

“Oh, on the subject of hearts…”

Sherlock paused and turned around. He studied the meticulous way she swept her indigo skirt behind her and made him wait until she finally, painstakingly met his gaze. Only then she made him realize how beholden he was to her unfinished prose.

“While surely hopeless for a… perspicacious man with such a baffling pigheadedness,” Clara murmured, smiling lopsidedly, “do keep yours open.”

Before he left with another curt, reserved nod, Sherlock ruminated on her words. Her tone— he barely noticed the way he wondered how all of her other pretty, printed words would sound if they were turned from ink to… to… that voice.

No… she was not a case. She was a quandary. An unsolved riddle that he cracked with the full assumption that the winning hand was in his, only to turn over his cards and see that it was she who had the royal flush.

What fresh hell was this?

#sherlock holmes x oc #sherlock holmes #enola holmes #henry cavill #henry!sherlock #cavill!holmes #one-shots #ao3 #sherlock holmes x fem!oc

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findroleplay · 3 months

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🎀 hai! :3 F21, looking for some roleplays! (18+) *DOUBLES ONLY*

a bit about me ^_^

- I am a very literate roleplayer who writes a lot of detail. i write 3-4 paragraphs in response and i expect you to mirror that as best you can! minimum of 2 paragraphs.

- I am currently looking for some OC x CC / OC x OC double ups!! I am happy to play anyone from any fandom for you if your willing to do the same <3

- Smut is welcomed and preferred, as well as dark and sensitive topics!

- I love to chat ooc, make playlists, moodboards, headcanons, etc! so if your a dry texter or really inactive this ad probably isn’t for you.

- as for fandoms, the main ones i am looking for is call me by your name, the hunger games tbosas, yellowjackets, all souls, enola holmes, miss peregrines home for peculiar children, and saltburn.

if your interested in this please leave a like and i will reach out, or add me on discord! @huntersteaparty . 🎀

#roleplay #rp #oc rp #original rp #fandomless rp #call me by your name rp #the hunger games rp #tbosas rp #yellowjackets rp #all souls rp #enola holmes rp #miss peregrines home for peculiar children rp #saltburn rp

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eliza-fernway-art · 2 years

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Kass?

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hey-its-roseaurum · 28 days

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Literally the only thing that’s been on my mind is this story trade between my best friend and I.

She is writing the story about the beloved Paul Mu’Adib Atreides with the character Ma’tar (drawing above)

And I’m writing a story about Sherlock Holmes ( from Enola Holmes )

I guess you could call it a competition

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spencerrxids · 1 year

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begin with a dance

labyrinth ( chapter 01 )

main masterlist | series masterlist | next

pairing : sherlock holmes x fem!oc

genre : slight angst(?), tension

summary : in which Sherlock Holmes finally met the girl who had been nothing but a fond memory in his head

wordcount : 1.9k

Annaliése Amélie Moore is a dear in the society. At least that's what some people like to call her. Born into the Moore family, she was expected to grow up as a proper lady, whatever proper means in their eyes. And so she did. Or at least she half-ly did, if that's even the right word to describe it. Annaliése Amélie Moore could easily blend into the crowd of a ball. Dancing on her feet, her hand brushed against the gent's shoulders as she twirled onto the other with the grace of a former ballerina. Just like the meaning of her name, Graced with God's Bounty.

You see, Annaliése did grow up as a proper lady but that itself wasn't enough in the public eye. Some would say that to be seen, a woman such as herself would need to find herself a suitor, a husband to provide for her which she found as such a dulling mindset. Is not the idea of having a husband that aggravates her nor was it the idea of loving someone with such honesty and innocent purpose, for Anneliése, was someone who once yearned to love although she seemed to give up on that long ago.

But would she? Would she be seen as an individual if she ever found herself a husband who will provide for her? Would people finally acknowledge her tremendous mind? In the truth of her mind, she didn't think so. Even if she found herself a name, all of those will get credited to her husband because what a man he is for getting himself a woman like her. And of course, it wasn't the man's fault, no it's not. It was the society and the world she grew up in that was at fault.

She changed her whole demeanour as she realised the deep thought she was in had brought a scowl on her face. Putting back a smile, she muttered a small apology to her companion whom she was waltzing with. Although, that didn't last long as her eyes caught a familiar pair of eyes who was also waltzing not even five feet from her.

What is he doing here? She found herself asking the question that she already knew the answer to.

Not even a minute later, she twirled around and landed in the arms of a man that she once had the privilege of being close with. She said nothing and let him lead the dance for the night. And it seems that the same idea appeared inside his head. His arm fits flawlessly around her waist as he dips her before the proximity of their body becomes closer as she faces him again.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence tonight, Mr. Holmes?" She asked, breath fanning the side of his face as she could feel him tense under the sound of her voice which brought a small smirk to her face.

"I was hoping to find you here. I heard you are finally back from France." The lie rolled out of his mouth so naturally, as if he just received the news of her arrival earlier the day when in fact he had known exactly that she first arrived back a month ago.

The orchestra faded as the dance came to an end, the two friends facing one another. The two friends that have a well-known face in the public eye. Her eyes met his once more, daring him to say something more about his unwelcome presence. "It seems that the news has gotten a bit late for you. I've been back for a month, Mr. Holmes. Now if you really don't have anything more to say to me, I will excuse myself and let you get on with whatever case you are on right now." She said, already preparing to take a step away from him when the man himself took a step forward causing her to slap his chest out of instinct.

"Now what are you thinking you're doing?" She asked once more. Sherlock only smiled slightly at the people around them, before grabbing her by the forearm and leading her away from the crowd. "Sherlock!" She yelped, and tried to look over her shoulders, perhaps one of the guests there would notice that a man had taken her away without her will. But then again, everyone recognizes Sherlock Holmes, and who would dare to question his integrity, at least that's not what the general public would do.

The man leaned forward to her shoulders. "My mother and sister are missing." He said, finally letting go of her once they are far enough from the others. She turned to look at him, taking in the information. Although she had never met Enola, she did get the privilege to meet the amazing mother of the Holmes family once. Hearing them go missing isn't precisely how she expected herself to meet him again.

Sherlock Holmes is never one to waste time in striking up a conversation. Always getting to the point of it. She might be used to it by now. But she couldn't help but feel that it was a bit much for the man to dump the information on her after not even acknowledging her existence for the last two-three years.

"What happened?" She questioned with concern laced in her words.

Sherlock turned slightly, making sure that no one are listening to their private conversation. It would be such a nuisance if the news had gotten out to the public. Sherlock Holmes's sister and mother were missing. People sure would get the chance to ruin his reputation. Even more, if they had known that at least one of them are running away from her own family.

"If we could go to your place-"

"There's no such thing as you being in my place," She talked back. "What makes you think I'll welcome you, Sherlock Holmes? Was it because of your name? Does being a genius renowned detective give you the privilege of being anywhere anytime you want? You could've at least told me what your intention was before asking such a question."

"Anna, I-" He halted and she raised her eyebrow at the nickname he uttered. He looked away for a bit. She could sense him hesitating to say the words. "I need-I need your help."

And within those four words, she found herself letting him back into her life. That was a decision that might get her hurt but surely not one that she will wish undone.

***

"So you're saying that your mother left home leaving young Enola behind? And Enola ran away the day after meeting her two brothers for so many years?"

She took a seat, finger trailing the rim of her teacup as she stared at the man in front of her. Although Sherlock's eyes seemed to have more interest in looking around her flat. He only nodded slightly in her direction without taking his eyes away. Without even saying anything, Annaliése had already known what was in his mind. There's no point in hiding something from the Sherlock Holmes.

"I mean not to be insensitive, but I would've done the same if I had a misogynist of a person as my brother. Not to mention that Mycroft tried to force her into these lady-ish traits. You do see the problem here, don't you?" She asked him. And this was when Sherlock decided to turn to look at her directly with one of his eyebrows raised in a questioning manner.

"Don't look at me like that. There is a difference in our situation. I was educated that way since I was a kid, it was essentially my sole purpose in life to become a lady or so they said, whereas Enola wasn't. So you could imagine her horror of being forced into something that she isn't used to." She explained.

"You've met her." Those are the first three words he uttered after being quiet for some time.

"What?" She questioned.

"Enola. She had come to you, did she not?" He leaned forward, propping his elbow on the table. She only stared at him as he stared back, both not making a single move. "She's my sister, Annaliése." He said.

She was silently debating on what to and what not to say. Each word she uses would reveal yet another thing about her. She thought about the young woman who had come to her early that day, at first glance she didn't recognize who it was. But by opening her mouth, Enola had revealed her identity without even saying her name. It wasn't very difficult for Annaliése to recognize a Holmes just by the way they were speaking.

There was indeed nothing you could try to hide from Sherlock Holmes. And it's not necessarily hiding something when the man hadn't asked her the question and she answered with the truth of it. Downcasted her gaze, she spoke out. "If you truly cared for her, you would've made her your ward instead of Mycroft's. I know you have problems connecting with other people, but just like you said. She is your sister."

"And Mycroft is my brother." He replied.

Anneliése scoffed at the words that he just uttered. "In that case, I think both of us know that he's not really the best in that category." She stood up and walked over to the other side of the room, putting her cup down on the kitchen table. "You've figured out that Enola had come to me just by stepping into my flat. You sure will be able to figure out that I sincerely don't know about her where being at the moment." She looked over her shoulder at him.

"I met Edith." He said, suddenly.

"Who?"

"My mother's friend. Called me an ostrich for being alone. Enola had come to her too, my mother had led her there. So tell me Annaliése, why mother led Enola to you? Furthermore, why did she send two letters to you?" He stood up from his seat, making his way to get closer to her.

She straightened her back, furrowing her eyebrows in irritation. Anneliése does not like how he worded the sentence against her. "I don't understand. You keep asking questions, you already know the answer to." She stepped forward towards him. With one finger up, she pointed to his chest. "You came to me in the middle of a dance, practically ruined my night. I invited you to my flat because you said you are in need of my help and now you're accusing me." She said.

"Of what?" He asked, leaning down ever so slightly. "What am I accusing you of?"

"I am not hiding anything from you." She stated, not breaking her eyes away from him now that they were practically chest to chest. He did the same, although his eyes seemed to soften, knowing that she is, in fact, telling the truth. However, his mouth seemed to lose its ability to speak under her stern gaze. The topic of the night had spiralled from one to another in a quick ill-mannered way. That was his fault, undoubtedly.

"If you are stressed, I beg you not to let it out on me. Take a walk, Sherlock. Clear your head, you're in need of it." Those are the last words spoken to her that night before she turned her back on him and went out of the room. Leaving the man standing in the middle of it. And Annaliése was already in her room when the sound of the front door being closed was heard.

Sherlock lingered in front of the door for quite a long time, pondering whether he should go back in there or not before he turned around and walked away from the place. This was not how he wanted the reunion to be.

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