#grace lestrade

[doriana-gray-games]

Hey, I have a small question that I felt would be better asked on tumblr than on the Discord. If at some point Sherlock ends up realizing Lestrade's gentle gestures like with bringing food for them and such, and brings food for THEM instead as a thanks on the next case... How would Lestrade react to that?

Ohh, that's like Lestrade's love language! <3

It would make them speechless and so happy, but also a bit shy and might say they can't accept it once or twice first. ALSO lol, they would bring the fanciest handmade sandwich to you next time you have a case together.

To summarise, their feelings are always very complex/mixed

Super happy, all warm inside, smiling without meaning to.

Now feel indebted, a bit awk, and worried they made you feel you had to do this

I SO BADLY WANNA ADD A SCENE LIKE THIS LATER ON IN THE GAME!!! <3 XD

#detective lestrade #grace lestrade #gregory lestrade

[totallynots8tan]

He’s just a funky little white boy

#my friend actually said this #percy jackson #wylan van eck #nico di angelo #kaz brekker #matthias helvar #white boy #pjo #six of crows #will solace #travis stoll #connor stoll #stoll brothers #nikolai lantsov #incorrect quotes #jason grace #john watson #dr watson #sherlock holmes #greg lestrade #lucifer morningstar #benvolio montague #miguel and tulio #memes #bad jokes #jokes #funny #phineas and ferb #bucky barnes #tony stark

[milknhonies]

Wails of Wedded Bliss

Chapter 6 || Masterlist || Chapter 8

Chapter Summary: Upon meeting the Baroness you are enamoured by her devotion.

Pairing: Sherlock Homes x wife!reader

Chapter Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, (No Smut), typical historical misogyny and sexism, mentions and discussion on miscarriages. Implied domestic abuse and infidelity.

Word Count: 9k

Author Notes: This is an important but rather sad chapter. I beseech you all to read the warnings. The details of this chapter are important to the plot of the missing Baron Thaddeus Pennicott.

Inspiring Song: "Flightless Bird American Mouth" by Vitamin String Quartet

8:30am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England. 

Sherlock tucked your arm into his side as you three entered the Groveland house foyer. The floor was made of fine marble tile and with ever step a light echo raced down the halls.

The inspector called upon a nearby dusting maid to fetch the head of the house. Who returned was a thin and tall man in a butler’s uniform with a sliver pocket watch hanging from his chest. His hair was the colour of autumn leaves and his face littered in freckles.

He bowed, “I am mister Edward Redmayne, head butler of the Groveland estate, how may I assist you?”

The inspector shook his hand and stated quickly, “We spoke on the telephone yesterday? A telegraph was sent.”

The butler smiled with a relieving gasp, “Detective Holmes?”

Lestrade sheepishly looked over his shoulder to you and your husband. He nodded. His expression wore a emotion of embarrassment mixed with annoyance. Perhaps he was jealous of your husband’s successful published case stories. You wished you could have told the constable not to fret as Sherlock was nothing short of a arrogant mule...yet again- the mark on his face...he probably already knew that.

8:42am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England. 

Upon meeting the lady of the house, you stood frigid by your husband. You felt somewhat self conscious by her grey eyes that lingered over your dress. Perhaps you should’ve worn your Sunday best before meeting a woman of such a high status.

The baroness was unmistakably pregnant. Her belly was bold and rounded beneath her maternity gown. She had been sitting calmly on a resting chaise, knitting a small bonnet for her future child. Her hands were covered in fine burgundy velvet gloves to match her modest dress.

Her face was framed by a light brown curls, that appeared almost white in some places, twisted into a bum at the base of her neck. Her pale face was blotchy with pink flecks and slight acne.

“Lady Pennicott, I am Inspector Braydon Lestrade of Scotland Yard,” the British officer proclaimed as he bowed dramatically forward. You withheld a girlish giggle by how low the man had bent his head and presented himself foolishly, and from the corner of your eye you manage to catch the whisp of Sherlock’s smirk.

The inspector waved his arm behind him and moved aside, “-and with me is Detective Sherlock Holmes and his wife, Mrs Holmes.”

You produced the baroness a respectable curtsy, your eyes glued down to the beautifully patterned carpet. You wondered how the servants could keep it so clean and freshly unstained by dirty guests. It must have been new.

The baroness shuffled her knitting needles and ball of woollen yarn into a Whicker basket and disposed of it beside her.

A slow stretching smile graced her thin lips as she spoke to you, “Oh, are you the little dear who solved that factory match girl incident?”

You weren’t sure how to answer her question. You weren’t entirely sure what the baroness was referencing until Sherlock stepped closer with your arm still cradled in his.

“No dear Baroness,” Sherlock pat your hand gently, “That would have been my sister Enola Holmes, she has her own detective office at present moment. My wife is here on my invitation. I wished to gift her a sight of the grand park and estate while I was here upon duty.”

The Baroness cocked her head, from her ears hung pearls that swung and hung like rain drops.

“Come forth dear,” she lifted her hand and beckoned you, “I would like to have better view of you.”

You wondered if she could smell the sweat beginning to drop down the back of your neck. You bit your tongue and tried to refrain from trembling. You were nervous. Her eyes were cold but her smile warm, two conflating details that you couldn’t understand. The last thing you needed now on top of a terrible start to your marriage was to be scrutinized by a haughty pregnant baroness.

She flickered your fingers for you to bend down to her. As you leant down, you swore you could smell copper, a metalic scent. A vein on your scalp pulsed. She scanned your face of its details. You dared to wonder what she was searching for. And then it clicked...the smell...

‘Dear god, you prayed, please don’t let her smell my blood, please let this not be my blood...’

You should have sprits on some perfume before leaving baker street.

She glanced behind you and questioned angelically, “How does it feel having such a clever husband?”

Your lips opened and closed. You resembled a fish. You were stumped to answer quickly.

‘Miserable, infuriating, torturous, pleasurable mixed with a cup of agony...’

She lifted her brows until you hurriedly blurted, “He is...formidable and righteous...” you stood up tall and took a step back, adding with a monetarism of truth, “I am very lucky to have become his bride.”

‘Lucky, while incredibly resentful.’

You reached back, Sherlock adopted your arm back into his hold once more.

Lady Pennicott rubbed her belly, her eyes started to twinkle, “And soon you will have a plethora of children that will look like him I gather.”

Your eyes fluttered. Sherlock’s hand tightened around your glove and his throat bobbed. You felt hot in the face.

Yes that’s right, that’s what normal husband and wife did isn’t it? They have children. That was your role, to be the mother of Sherlock’s offspring...

You couldn’t answer.

And there. That dear girl is when you questioned for the first time. ‘Is this what I want?’ and ‘Do I want Sherlock’s children.’ Because having a knowing of his barbarism conflated a fear in your belly...would Sherlock hurt his own children if he could easily hurt you, his wife?

When you hesitated for too long to answer her again, Sherlock said with a strained tone that was masked in a hopeful joy, “One may only hope, Baroness.”

“Lady Pennicott,” Graydon interrupted, “We have come to ask you on the whereabouts of Lord Pennicott and the evening he was last sighted.”

Her eyes narrowed at the inspector and with an annoyed twinge she muttered and wiped her hands on a nearby blanket, “I already informed the police of what I was informed of by our butler Edward.”

She glanced up next her right. Mister Redmayne observed her, looking down. The pair smiled to each other. She reached out to him. She grabbed his hand and they squeezed.

The inspector laughed nervously, “Indeed but Detective Sherlock Holmes was not presently involved in the case until yesterday.”

Her eyes flickered quickly to your husband and her face flared with confusion quickly to be matched with a impressed smile, “Of course, please sit all of you as I am near a indisposition with my child,” she gestured to the mirroring chaise and a chair beside the fireplace, “Edward, please tell Martha to bring tea and biscuits for our kind service men and Mrs Holmes.”

The butler bowed to you all and left the sitting room.

Lestrade took his place on the lone chair while Sherlock sat you beside him on the chaise. You took your time to lower yourself. Sitting on your bruises was uncomfortable while another cramp hit you. Your fingers dug into his palm.

From Lestrades breast pocket he pulled out a notebook and small pencil.

“Lady Pennicott,” Sherlock softly hummed, “Please, could you tell me what your husband is like as a person?”

The woman who you believed was in her late thirties smiled and stated softly, “My Thaddeus is a noble man, good taste in wine and very devoted to his work. He likes to go hunting and we share a passion for gardening,” she glanced up at the ceiling and paused, “He prefers to plant vegetables to donate to the church and orphans, whereas I have always loved to grow my flowers.”

The way she described him, her devotion was deep and honourable. She touched her round belly.

Sherlock looked over to the fire place behind the baroness. On the mantle was a magnificent portrait twice your height, painted on the canvas was who you recognised as Lord and Lady Pennicott. He was sitting up straight on a fine red cushioned chair with his dirty blonde hair and softened mutton chops while she stood at his right and her ringed hand on his shoulder. The similarities were there but Lady Pennicotts hair had lightened in reality perhaps from all the years that separated her likeness and her reality.

“I was informed Lord Pennicott is a father of five?” Sherlock asked.

The Baroness smiled proudly and pat her tummy softly, “Six soon.”

You couldn’t help notice something was missing from the painting, Sherlock also had a similar thought.

Where were the children in the portrait? Where was a family portrait in the house?

“Forgive me,” a breath of air escaped from him, “are the children away at school?”

“Oh,” her uncanny smile remained while her brows angled down, her throat tightened as she spoke, “I fear they are in the loving embrace of angels now. All of them were taken from us by God,” her eyes glanced to you, “They came out sleeping.”

Your heart sunk to the pit of your belly with sorrow and pity.

Five babies lost, five babies gone…five pregnancies… four and a half years of pregnancy and for what? Five angels.

A woman had one holy role in life, to bare her husband children, and when a woman was defective or produced a sickly child, it was a symbol of failure in society. But you never saw it that way...you imagined it must’ve been agony to lose so many babies. One or two was a common occurrence but five? Five was a curse to experience and relive over and over.

“Well,” you interrupted Sherlock rudely, cutting him off from his next abrasive question by squeezing his hand a little too hard.

You could see the mourning in the baroness’ face. You saw the classic look of all women made uncomfortable by something a man has said. What the hell would the detective know about a woman’s emotions after how coldly he has treated all women and yourself.

You shuffled on the opposite chaise and smile softly, “I will pray this one will come swiftly and feel the warmth of their mother.”

The baroness’ face lifted and warmed. She smiled happily and nodded, “Thankyou, oh I’m just so excited! This one really is a big one, I can feel it. I hope it’s a boy.”

Sherlock was staring at you intensely as the maid Martha finally delivered a pot of tea and poured the steaming liquid. His brows were knitted and his eyes held suspicion as he kept you in his sight. You politely nodded your head once at him before reaching for a hot cup and lifting it to your lips.

Sherlock sighed and turned back to his questioning, “You would say you liked your marriage?”

The baroness appeared offended by your husband as her face wrinkled and a sneer spread her thin lips, “Of course, any woman who doesn’t like her marriage should not be married in the first place. She is a burden to her husband if she cannot perform her duties as a wife.”

Lady Pennicott leant forward and collected her own cup of tea, she delicately pinched a biscuit and dunked it into the contents.

…you felt Sherlock drag his thumb across your fingers. You felt chilly, could he read your thoughts? Did he know truly how much you already hated him and his ideas of intimacy in your marriage? He clear his throat when both your glancing eyes caught each other.

“Can you tell me what happened,” Sherlock pressed, “The night of your husbands disappearance?”

“Well...after dinner,” the baroness sighed in thought and nibbled on her moist biscuit, “Thaddeus wanted to speak with me in his office about a spending I had made a week ago. You see, I had bought a cradle for the nursery. The one we had originally was broken and beyond repair, we disposed of it a month prior. Thaddeus was not pleased with the price and claimed it was an unnecessary purchase,” she paused and set her cup aside before she touched her belly again; rubbing in soft slow circles, she began to blushed, “He was sorely hurt by my choice. He then became very cross with me and left his office in a huff.”

She looked to the yarn, to the tea pot and then finally to the painting on the mantle, “I deemed that he would find forgiveness in his heart by the morning and brush it off. I returned back to the nursery to tidy up before I went to my rooms and went to bed to sleep in my quarters of the east wing. Thaddeus keeps himself to the west wing most nights.”

The detective nodded, “What time do you believe it was when you went to your bed, Baroness?”

She hummed softly while pursuing her lips, “A quarter to nine in the evening.”

“And how did you realise your husband was missing?” Sherlock stole a scone off the tea tray and lifted it to his lips. He paused amidst chewing it slowly.

The noble woman sighed and recollected, pragmatically, “In the morning Mr Redmayne informed me on how Thaddeus took off into the night astride Arion, our prize stallion Clydesdale. Thaddeus had not returned by the next morning and that is when concern drew near. I sent members of my staff to the factories to investigate his whereabouts and none had come upon him. I knew something had to be wrong so I alerted the authorities by the second morning.”

Your husband took a deep breath and discarded the half bitten scone, he wiped his hand unceremoniously on his jacket and throatily asked, “Do you recall if Lord Pennicott has any potential persons he might be deemed as an enemy towards?”

“Only his company competitors, Detective,” She said saccharinely with her smile, “He was a very loveable man.”

“Do you have a list of the names of staff who were working that evening here in Groveland House?”

The butler stepped forward and cleared his throat, “That would be in Lord Pennicotts office,” he pulled out a pair of keys, “I can you show you gentlemen in and where he keeps his accounts and other paraphernalia to his business if you’d like?”

Both Sherlock and Lestrade smiled and stood up.

“Baroness,” Sherlock gently requested, “Would it be overly bothersome if my beloved wife remained and kept you company while the inspector and I look in your husband’s office.”

Your heart jumped to your throat. What was Sherlock doing leaving you behind with the Baroness by yourself!?....what if you spoke out of turn or said something too presumptuous for your status!?...

“Most certainly not,” she beamed “I will gladly accept such delightful company,” She held out a hand, palm down to her right. The butler speedily stepped to her side and leant her his hand. She winced as she scooted forward on the cushioned lounge before struggling to rise to her feet.

Sherlock leant down and kissed the back of your wrist again, so scantily in front of the baroness. You tried tor refrain from loudly gasped and bringing anymore dangerous attention to yourself. Your husband left your side and followed the butler with Lestrade out of the sitting room.

So the party turned to two married women. The baroness was pleased.

She stepped closer to you and reached for your arm. You were surprised by her familiarity but you would not deny the assistance of a woman so desperately swollen and ready to birth any day.

“My dear, would you care to have a stroll with me in my garden?” She smirked and jerked her chin, “Knowing how dear Thaddie kept his space organised I suspect the gentlemen might be a while.”

You nodded and quickly made the warning assurance, “Are you in a condition to move great feets Lady Pennicott?”

“Fret not,” She giggled girlishly and waved her hand casually, “The physician told me fresh air is delightful for the health of the babe,” she tapped the top of her belly, “I have a month or so before they come.”

Your eyes widened, she looked huge enough to give birth now, surely she wasn’t a month away!! Maybe she was going to be blessed with a pair of twins. You had such a limited knowledge of pregnancy in women. Your grandmother hadn’t given birthed a child in the last forty years before your birth!!!

She pointed the way out of the main mansion to enter the garden paths. The sun was perfect today amongst the clouds. It was neither cold nor hot nor humid and dank...it was pleasant and you could smell the fresh nature of bushels and flowers.

“How long have you been known as, The Mrs Holmes?” She inquired cheerfully with her shining silver eyes.

“...Not very long,” you replied warmly before risking a white lie, “We recently finished our honeymoon.”

She grinned and waddled passed a wooden bench, she took a quick stop to rest and pat the seat for you to join her instead of standing dumbly.

“Shall I share some words of advise?,” She hummed, “From a woman that has been married for twelve years?”

“I would be ever so grateful,” you said rushed and desperate. You wouldve listened to anything she had to say. A woman of her standing must’ve held adequate wisdom.

She warmly cupped both your hands and squeezed them. And yet there was an ice creepy into her gaze. She appeared to dissociate, her voice losing its youthful lilt. Her lip wobbled slightly.

“Men are visual creatures. While you are so young and beautiful, you must become pregnant as soon as possible,” Lady Pennicott ran her palm across your waist, her eyes like razors cut across the yard to a bush of red rose buds, “It is inevitable that our husbands will stray their gazes to other women, it is in their nature,” those grey stones in her face rolled back and weighed you down, “as I said- visual creatures. The sooner you make a babe, the easier his devotion comes,” A joyous grin returned to her thin lips, she playfully tapped the tip of your nose and stated, “Trust me upon this.”

You clenched your hand behind you and strained a smile, “I thankyou for such wise words Baroness. I will endeavour to do what I must to conceive.”

At this moment in time Sherlock had proved himself a monstrous villain. Would it be possible for you to fall pregnant?

You looked out at the divine lush greenery and exhaled softly.

“Do you garden Mrs Holmes?” the baroness queried.

You chuckled softly and removed your gloves, you flashed her a sight of your palm, “I am afraid my hands have never been introduced. My grandmother preferred I focus on mastering piano and embroidery.”

The grey orbs fluttered back at you with a surprised him, “Embroidery is a lovely skill,” she pat your hand and pointed across the field, “Please help me up Mrs Holmes, let us take a look at my lilacs.”

You stood straight up and leant out your arm, she was surprisingly light for a woman her size. She leant against you and took small timid steps to her flower patches.

She stood and admired the flower patches, pointing to different types and explaining the breeds of flowers she hoped to grow in the future.

You finally bent over enough and cupped the petals of purple to hold up to your nose and took in a wiff “They smell lovely,” from the corner of your eye was a line of crimson, “I see your roses will soon be in bloom.”

She pinched a bud that was peaking to bloom soon.

“Oh yes, the soil is rich and healthy,” she giggled, “I can’t wait for Thaddeus to return, he liked the roses. He would stand here for a while and think. I know he will love the red colour. It is his favourite shade you see...” She sighed dreamily with her eyes scanning the bushes of scarlet rose buds, “I miss him terribly. I hope he’s alright. I want him to come home soon before the baby arrives.”

A fly smacked into your eye and you sputtered, battering it away. When you gracelessly composed yourself, you stood back up to your feet beside the Lady of Groveland.

You could see how her eyes puddles with droplets of mournful tears. You felt bad for any woman that did not know where her husband was. Especially if there was a rumour about him fleeing the marriage and abandoning her in her serious pregnant condition.

Taking the chance, you boldly took both your hands into yours and now squeezed them. Another buzzing from a fly sat on your shoulder.

The day was growing warmer and a bead of sweat rolled down your neck. The fly tickled your neck and suckled along your salted skin.

You tried your best to ignore the annoying creature.

“I am sure he will Lady Pennicott,” you soothed with a soft welcoming grin, “And he will be most happy when he returns.”

She sighed solemnly and glanced back at the rose bushes. You felt obligated for her happiness in that moment. Glancing back to the house you felt a opportunity come to you.

“May I visit your nursery Lady Pennicott, so I may have references for my own in the future?”

Her eyes flickered up, her face shine bright and her hand tightened over your wrists excitedly as though she was still as youthful as a school girl.

“Why of course Mrs Holmes,” she spun on her heel and wobbled a slight, she lifted her hand and called to the maid Martha still packing the china set inside, “Please inform the detective that I am taking his wife up to the nursery.”

“Yes Baroness,” she said with a humble curtsey and scurried off while Lady Pennicott took you totally inside the house and up a grand stair case from the foyer.

9:03am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England. 

Up, up, up you both climbed the stairs. You noticed how the stairs didn’t bother her ladyship once, she was fit and stridden widely whereas you were breathing a little hard by the top step.

She pulled you down a hallway to a white painted door.

She excitedly opened the door wide and practically skipped inside to show you around her future child’s room.

The walls were covered in light blue and yellow paint. There were small peonies covering the trim of the room. There was no carpet but who needed one when you had a newborn.

“Welcome to the resting nest of my baby,” Lady Pennicott proudly exclaimed, spreading her arms out at the room around you.

There was a tall shelf filled with stuffed animals and teddy bears. There was a rocking horse, a doll house, spinning tops, tin cars and rubber balls all waiting, collecting dust, awaiting the arrival of a playmate. There was a permabulator by the window sill. There was a rocking chair in one corner and against the wall closest to the door- you smiled and swaggered over curiously, “Is this the cradle you bought?”

It was made of fine cream painted wood. You chewed your bottom lip in the thought. It was a lovely crib, why was Lord Pennicott so upset by such a delightful purchase? He didn’t have money issues. You put it down as that you didn’t understand the way men thought and men will never know what women think.

“Yes,” Lady Pennicott chirped, “it is from William Whitely department store in Baywater next to the Howard & Co dress department.”

The Baroness sat down into her rocking chair and slowly moved it back and forth, watching you admire the nursery she spent hours and years consistently curating.

You clenched the edge and looked over the railing down at the empty bedding. There was a teddy lamb in the corner, you pinched it’s fluffy white tail and sighed. For a brief moment you let your eyes close and your imagination wander far.

One day you’d have this...with Sherlock. An empty cradle to be filled. You caught the vision of a tiny hand squeeze around your finger and the sound of soft gurgles with the warm pressure of a hand on your waist...was that Sherlock’s hand? Was that your child?

One day you’d have a baby to care for, to provide these things that meant love...yet, was any child of Sherlock’s capable of love? He certainly wasn’t as far as you were concerned.

You bit down a shudder and opened your eyes, feeling hot tears glide down a cheek. You pushed back and sighed, “I am most confident on one thing Lady Pennicott.”

“And what is that Mrs Holmes?” she said softly, she could see the unspoken pain in your face. You swallowed hard and your face fell into a smile, you flashed her a wink.

You laughed softly, “Your child will be spoilt rotten by the love you give.”

She chuckled with you and nodded.

“Have you thought of a name?” you inquired, waltzing over to the chested drawers of baby knick knacks on display.

“Thaddeus Colin if it’s a boy,” she hummed, “or Theresa Grace if it is a girl.”

“Theresa?”

She giggled gently, “That is my name dear.”

Mrs Theresa Pennicott. It suited her. Her old soul eyes reflected her devout name.

A shine of glass pierced a ray of sun into your eyes, you pinched the glass object carefully. You touched a long black tube pulling out of it. You couldnt understand it’s purpose, your eyes narrowed at the rubber end that was shaped like a thumb or a cows udder. There was a second tube attached to the first with a rubber squeeze ball at the end.

“What is this?” you humoured.

“Oh that? It’s a fantastic invention,” The baroness said, “It’s a pump for breast milk with a tube that syphons the milk into this baby feeding bottle. When babies start to teeth they can scar your breasts. This is an effective and modern method I look forward to trying.”

Your eyes widened, scarring!? Babies teeth could scar a breast!?

You placed the bottle bump back and helped Lady Pennicott when she beckoned to stand back up from the rocking chair.

“Have you ever felt the sensations?” She suddenly, “In which they kick within?”

Your face must’ve looked idiotic as you asked plainly, “Kick?”

She giggled and nodded, “Give me your hand, perhaps you may feel them moving.”

She plucked your palm and pulled your glove off your fingers. She pressed your entire hand intimately to her belly. You felt a sense of taboo shame, she was making you touch such a beloved spot.

“Do you feel it?” she then asked.

Felt what? Confusion flooded your mind. Your hand moved around her belly slowly.

“I am afraid I don’t know what I’m meant to be feeling?”

She moved your hand and again you felt absolutely nothing.

“They are very brutal on my body,” Lady Pennicott sarcastically assured, “trust me there is a kick.”

She made a point to push your hand harder, but all you felt was the hard material of her corsetry beneath her main dressing materials.

“Baby’s kick you inside?” you marvelled with stunned horror. This was the first time you’d ever heard of such a notion of a baby beating it’s mother inside.

“Not out of malicious intent Mrs Holmes,” she reassured, “mostly it is the baby using its limbs to move their cramped bodies inside or excitement at the sound of voices, I truly believe they can hear us while still inside. Fear not, to you it will feel like a faint touch like this-”

Lady Pennicott softly tapped your wrist, “Like that.”

And there again was new knowledge you heard from a woman on matters of pregnancy. You moved your fingers around, seeking the supposed feeling of a kick...

Still nothing. You frowned, was there something wrong with you that the baby was choosing not to reveal itself.

“How interesting...”

A soft knock on wood alerted you both to glance at the door.

“Mrs Holmes,” the butler from earlier politely spoke, “the detective is requesting your return, I believe he intends to depart.”

Your face fell. You couldn’t believe it but you’d found this experience immensely enjoyable. You had surprisingly made a friend of the Baroness.

The fair lady hugged your side and sweetly exhaled, “Then I shall escort you back to your husband, Eddie fetch me my cheque book.”

He nodded and walked ahead of you both. You solemnly shut the nursery door, trying to remember every precious detail as possible. It was a innocent place to escape from the crude world.

You returned to the bottom of the foyer and smiled at your husband that stood by Lestrade at the front doors.

By the bottom step you faced the noble woman and curtsied.

“Thankyou Lady Pennicott for your kind hospitality and agreeable cooperation to the case,” you heard Sherlock’s voice float over your shoulder.

“Of course detective, please,” the Butler returned with her cheque book, “find my beloved Thaddeus.”

She scribbled speedily with a modernised ink pen, a sharp tear of paper flashed to his direction, “Here. Thirty pounds. I am sure you are busy with other clients considering your reputation, but I beseech you to seek out my husband quickly.”

Sherlock bowed his head as he deposited the cheque into his pocket, “We shall try our hardest. Good afternoon Lady Pennicott.”

Your mouth might’ve collected flies. Thirty pounds. THIRTY pounds. That was a hefty wage for a year to many men.

Sherlock was granted his coat and walking cane along with Lestrade.

He opened the front door and left slowly, glancing over your shoulder back at the heavily pregnant Baroness.

9:21am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England. 

Sherlock and you walked up the gravel path in silence for sometime. You weren’t in much of a mood to speak to him despite well knowing conversation would need to spark eventually.

The three of you slowed down beside the inspectors horse cart.

Thankfully it was Sherlock who destroyed the silence with a stretched sigh. Lestrade grimly smiled at that sigh and rocked on his heels.

“Lestrade, show a useful skill,” Sherlock slapped a coin purse into his chest, “Find my wife and I a decent ride homeward. You still need to return back to the office and finish writing those reports on the Spring heeled Jack sightings....” he snickered.

The mutton chop male grumbled and left you pair alone to walk down the path into the main parklands to hail a cabriolet or another hackney carriage.

Sherlock pulled out his pipe and lit it quickly, he inhaled fast and asked curiously, “Did you learn anything else from our suspect?”

You squinted and felt a gasp pop from your lips, your hand snapped out and dug your nails into his arm with a scolding hiss, “Suspect? Look at the state she is in Sherlock. She clearly loves her husband. How could such a indisposed woman do anything to her husband?”

He smirked, “Perhaps a jealous one?”

Your brows pulled together. Jealousy wasn’t something you would’ve describe Lady Pennicott as especially with such a privileged life. Such an emotion wouldve been beneath her...but.. ‘It is inevitable that our husbands will stray their gazes to other women, it is in their nature.’

Sherlock pinched out a piece of card from his pocket, a business calling card, he flashed it through his fingers and let you carefully pluck it from his hand.

“it is no wonder Thaddeus Pennicotts name was so familiar,” Sherlocks huffed a puff of air, “He visits a like minded establishment.”

On the front of the card was a single image, a dove holding a olive leaf, and when you turned the card around there was a woman modelled in immodest clothing with text and an address in perfect hand writing.

“The Mayfair Row Dove club.”

You almost dropped the card in the mud at your feet.

He tucked the card back into his breast pocket and hooked his arm around yours, walking you closer to Lestrade waving his hands back at you both.

“I’m curious who his go to bird is there,” He chuckled.

You shook your head and scoffed in disbelief, “but she’s pregnant.”

“Men have needs,” Sherlock sighed, “I thought you’d have learnt that from last evening?”

Your nails dug harder into his arm and grit your teeth. Not everyone was as depraved as Sherlock, surely not. You couldn’t imagine Mycroft or your grandfather practicing such atrocities on women, especially women that weren’t their wives.

You noted snootily, “She said her husband liked to stand out by the roses to think. Perhaps he regretted his choice.”

Sherlock laughed cruelly and hard enough to almost drop his pipe from his lips. He plucked it out of his mouth and kissed you hard and squarely in front of Lestrade and any passing people that shook their heads in disgust at such public affection.

The taste of his tobacco filled your cheeks and floated down your throat into your chest. You could feel how his breath became your breath. Your head grew dizzy from it. His release left you trembling and collapsing against him briefly. His arm grabbed around your waist and held you totally against his chest.

“You see too much good in the worst people,” he whispered wetly into your ear.

“Not true,” you panted, you blinked your eyes hard and tried speaking again. You weakly pushed away from him back onto your own two feet. From the corner of your eyes you could see the inspector standing beside another hackney carriage.

“Not true,” you repeated and swallowed hard, “...I don’t see any good in you Sherlock.”

He grinned devilishly and walked you both to the carriage, He ignored Lestrade entirely except for retrieving his own purse.

“None at all?” Sherlock asked as he helped you step up inside of the carriage. It jostled as he plotted himself next to you instead of opposite.

You thought hard on his question for a time. You shouldn’t have ever been as petty as him. So you kept your silence before you could decide on a eloquent response. You did try to find the good in him. The trouble was you barely knew Sherlock and the side that you’d encounter was nothing short of a blagged, insufferable man that happened to be very experienced in the arts of the bedroom. So you tried to think about qualities you hadn’t seen in him but had at least heard of him.

“You help solve cases and even sometimes restitution, these deeds could be counted as decent and beneficial...perhaps good...”

He smirked until you finished hastily, “However your mistreatment and lustful addiction is nothing short of that than a person that suffers in his sin.”

A long annoyed sigh drew from his lips, however the corners jerked up.

He tug out his pipe and tapped it’s contents out the moving window, “Might I ask Mrs Holmes...” he inquired as he tucked in his pipe, and wiped his lips thoughtfully, “Do you think yourself better than me?”

The silence shared between the horses trotting along the cobblestones allowed you a chance to glare long and hard at Sherlock.

It was a jab, a jibe, a joke, a trick, a trap...

He wanted you to say yes... You could see it in his eyes the way they flicked to your lips and almost drooled with anticipation. He wanted to start a fight.

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking at you, you turned your head away and scoffed, “You may have quick wit and a expansive knowledge Sherlock, but I at least carry myself with the fairest morals.”

And that? The reply was granted a omen of Sherlock’s sickly chuckles and his heavy warm hand to sit over your thigh, running his them over the fabric of your skirts.

“We will see how fair a baker street whore morals really are when we arrive home then shall we?”

You leant against the wall of the carriage and chose to ignore him. You closed your eyes and held Sherlock’s hand to prevent it wandering anywhere else. His thumb rubbed along the back of your gloves hands.

You couldn’t understand Sherlock. And feared you never would.

HELPLINES:

If you are a victim of sexual abuse, assault or domestic violence or know someone who is please reach out to these links that share helpline services, phone numbers or emails. Consent and respect is important in every relationship whether between friends, family or even strangers.

Australian Helpline Services

UK Helpline Services

American Helpline Services

India Helpline Services.

#dead dove do not eat #dead dove fic #henry cavill x female reader #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill x y/n #henry cavill x you #henry cavill x ofc #sherlock holmes x female reader #sherlock holmes x poc!reader #sherlock holmes x y/n #sherlock holmes x you #sherlock holmes x ofc #sherlock holmes x reader #dark!sherlock holmes #dark!henry cavill

[dathen]

Okay actual Blorbo Wrapped for 2023 (in attempted chronological order) (focusing on new/particularly more intense than usual blorbos for brevity’s sake)

Professor Aronnax, Conseil, Ned Land, Captain Nemo (20k Leagues under the Sea) (yes I need to name every single one)

Sherlock Holmes

Cassandra Sithe (my TTRPG character)

Victor Frankenstein

Xenk (DnD movie)

Mina Harker

Maruki (Persona 5 Royal)

The Spot (Across the Spiderverse)

Major Hob, Chirp Featherfowl (ACOFAF)

Cui Buqu, Pei Jingzhe (Peerless)

Ballister Boldheart (Nimona movie)

Sissel, Yomiel (Ghost Trick)

Arlo Black, Howard Margrove (Candela Obscura)

Nona, Camilla (The Locked Tomb)

Walter Hartright (The Woman in White)

The Fix, Imelda Pulse (Mentopolis)

Laudna, Fearne, Imogen (Critical Role)

Zulf (Bastion)

Resh’an (Sea of Stars)

Arthur Holmwood

Inspector Lestrade (Granada Holmes)

Rocky, Ryland Grace (Project Hail Mary)

Otto von Chriek (The Truth)

Oscar (Malevolent)

Blorbo-in-laws include Asterion (BG3), Basil Hallward (Dorian Gray), all of Helen’s danmei faves, and Varney the Vampire.

Jesper and Inej from Six of Crows are blorbos-in-process.

#this took way too long for a sillypost #but had me trailing back over reblog sprees and rambling messages to friends #and then i got all caught up in putting them in order #all but the last few are from august or before good lord

[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom. Victorian johnlock.

Concealed hearts

I was taken by surprise when I walked home from my practise to Baker Street. The ambush was well coordinated, and the cloth dipped in ether efficiently stopped me from crying out and fight back. 

Sharing quarters with Sherlock Holmes, and accompanying him on criminal cases, are not without danger. There are many villains out there holding a grudge against my friend, but this is the first time I’ve been abducted. 

My head throbs and aches when I wake, and I find myself handcuffed to a chair in a library. I blink to get my eyes to focus properly and look around the room. It’s spacious with a fireplace, comfortable chairs, a sofa, a coffee table, a desk and bookshelves from floor to ceiling. There’s a large window behind me and a locked door in front of me. 

I’m alone, and I feel the absence of my dear friend in every part of my body. The odds of him finding me here, wherever here is, are not in my favour. Unless they’ve taken me to blackmail Holmes and have sent him a ransom demand. If that is the case, I might have a chance of survival. 

The door opens and an impeccably dressed man enters the library. He’s about my height, but slim. His hair is black, just like his eyes, and the look in them is both gleeful and dangerous. A man Holmes would call a weasel. 

“So, this is Sherlock Holmes’ pet,” the man sneers in an Irish accent. 

I don’t answer and refuse to give him the satisfaction of me contradicting him with fervour as he most likely predicts I will. His eyes narrow when he gets no response. 

“He will come for you. Soon. But he doesn’t know who he’s up against. When the knowledge dawns on him, it’ll be too late. I’ve finally found his weak spot; you, Doctor Watson! I told him once before that I’ll burn the heart out of him. Do you know what he answered, Doctor?” 

I just stare blankly at the man, who’s started to pace frantically in front of me. At the moment, I’m less Doctor and more Captain John Hamish Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. I school my face into a stony mask, which, for some reason, irks the man immensely. 

“I’ll tell you, then. He said that it was well-known that he didn’t possess a heart. But he does, doesn’t he, Doctor? Or should I rephrase myself. You have his heart, don’t you?”

The man stares me down, and I must use all my willpower to not give myself away. I honestly don’t know what he means by any of this. Holmes has never given me any sign that I’m the holder of his heart. That he’s the holder of mine, is something I’ve only lingered on in my private room. 

There’s a knock on the door, and the black-haired man shouts out “come”, without turning his back to see who enters. I quickly realise that’s a mistake. A tall man hovers in the doorway taking in the tableau. He’s dressed in black, a slim moustache graces his upper lip, the cap on his head is pulled deep down over his forehead to cover his eyes. I, however, get a glimpse of them when he casts me a quick glance. 

My jailor seems none the wiser, clearly thinking the man in question is one of his confederates.

“Do your worst with him, Bates,” the Irish man demands.

“I think not, Jim,” the man with the cap retorts with emphasis.

“Are you disobeying orders, Bates?”

The smaller man turns away from me with a vicious look in his eyes but freezes on the spot when he realises that Bates is Sherlock Holmes. With a swift movement, this Jim retrieves a pistol from his inner jacket pocket, aiming it at Holmes. Carefully I get to my feet, which is quite awkward being cuffed to the underside of the chair, but somehow, I manage and throws myself at Jim’s back with force. He cries out in surprise and anger. He dropped his pistol to catch himself when he fell forwards, and it’s now secure in Gregory Lestrade’s hand, who’s appeared with two bobbies.

“You’re coming with us,” Lestrade says sternly. 

The two bobbies take my previous jailor between them and walks him firmly out of the room. Holmes picks the handcuffs around my wrists with ease and helps me to my feet. He holds my hands carefully and examines my abrasions, stroking his thumbs over the reddened skin.

“Are you alright, my boy,” he murmurs in a strained voice I’ve never heard him use before.

I just nod, unable to speak when a lump in my throat threatens to give my emotions away.

On our way back home, Holmes explains that Mycroft’s underlings had witnessed my abduction, and alerted Holmes, who was able to follow the landau which had taken me to this house.

When we’re back in the sanctuary of our home, I ask Holmes about his previous encounter with this Jim fellow. He blushes furiously when I ask him if it’s true what the Irish man said about Holmes’ heart.

“Yes, John. It’s true,” Holmes murmurs almost inaudibly.

I inhale sharply when I hear him use my Christian name. When I answer him, calling him by his first name, he looks at me with awe. It’s like the veil that has clouded our visions is ripped apart, to show us our true feelings for each other.

As our lips meet, a whimper escapes his throat, and I pull the beloved man closer to comfort and reassure him that my heart will always belong to Sherlock Holmes.

@flashfictionfridayofficial @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @calaisreno @a-victorian-girl @phoenix27884 @safedistancefrombeingsmart @gregorovitchworld @topsyturvy-turtely @peanitbear @helloliriels

#flash fic friday #flashfiction #sherlock fandom #victorian johnlock #sherlock holmes #john watson #jim moriarty

[letters2fiction]

Welcome to Letters2fiction!

The concept here is to send in a question or a letter request, and you’ll get a response from your fictional character of choice, from the list below. Please stick to the list I’ve made, but of course, you can ask if there’s some other characters I write for, I don’t always remember all the shows, movies or books I’ve consumed over the years and I’m sure I’m missing a lot 😅

Status: New Characters added - Thursday March 21st, 2024

TV SERIES

A Discovery of Witches:

Matthew Clairmont

Baldwin Montclair

Gallowglass de Clermont

Marcus Whitmore

Philippe de Clermont

Jack Blackfriars

Sarah Bishop

Emily Mather

Diana Bishop

Ysabeau de Clermont

Miriam Shepard

Phoebe Taylor

Gerbert D’Aurillac

Peter Knox

Father Andrew Hubbard

Benjamin Fuchs

Satu Järvinen

Meridiana

Law and Order:

Rafael Barba

Sonny Carisi

Joe Velasco

Mike Duarte

Terry Bruno

Peter Stone

Hasim Khaldun

Nick Amaro NEW!

Mike Dodds

Grace Muncy

Kat Tamin

Toni Churlish

Amanda Rollins

Olivia Benson

Rita Calhoun

Casey Novak

Melinda Warner

George Huang

Sam Maroun

Nolan Price

Jamie Whelan

Bobby Reyes

Jet Slootmaekers

Ayanna Bell

Jack McCoy

Elliot Stabler

One Chicago:

Jay Halstead (Could also be Will if you want)

Antonio Dawson

Adam Ruzek

Greg "Mouse" Gerwitz

Dante Torres

Vanessa Rojas

Kevin Atwater

Sean Roman

Matt Casey

Kelly Severide

Joe Cruz

Sylvie Brett

Blake Gallo

Christopher Hermann

"Mouch"

Otis

Violet Mikami

Evan Hawkins

Mayans MC:

Angel Reyes

Miguel

Bishop

Coco

Nestor

911 verse:

Athena Grant

Bobby Nash

Henrietta "Hen" Wilson

Evan "Buck" Buckley

Eddie Diaz

Howie "Chimney" Han

Ravi Panikkar

T.K. Strand

Owen Strand

Carlos Reyes

Marjan Marwani

Paul Strickland

Tommy Vega

Judson "Judd" Ryder

Grace Ryder

Nancy Gillian

Mateo Chavez

The Rookie:

Lucy Chen

Tim Bradford

Celina Juarez

Aaron Thorsen

Nyla Harper

Angela Lopez

Wesley Evers

BBC Sherlock:

Greg Lestrade

Mycroft Holmes

Sherlock Holmes

Moriarty

Molly

Bridgerton:

Anthony Bridgerton

Benedict Bridgerton

Simon Basset

Daphne Bridgerton

Eloise Bridgerton

Kate Sharma

Edwina Sharma

Marina Thompson/Crane

Outlander:

Jamie Fraser

Claire Beauchamp Randall Fraser

Frank Randall

Black Jack Randall

Brianna Fraser

Roger MacKenzie

Fergus Fraser

Marsali Fraser

Jenny Fraser Murray

Ian Murray Sr.

Ian Fraser Murray

Murtagh Mackenzie

Call The Midwife:

Shelagh Turner / Sister Bernadette

Dr. Patrick Turner

Nurse Trixie Franklin

Nurse Phyllis Crane

Lucille Anderson

Nurse Barbara Gilbert

Chummy

Sister Hilda

Miss Higgins

PC Peter Noakes

Reverend Tom Hereward NEW!

Narcos:

Horacio Carrillo

Peaky Blinders:

Tommy Shelby

Downton Abbey:

Robert Crawley, Earl of Grantham

Cora Crawley, Countess of Grantham

Lady Mary Crawley

Lady Edith Crawley

Lady Sybil Crawley

Violet Crawley, Dowager Countess of Grantham

Isobel Crawley

Matthew Crawley

Lady Rose MacClare

Lady Rosamund Painswick

Henry Talbot

Tom Branson

Mr. Charles Carson

Mrs. Hughes / Elsie May Carson

John Bates

Anna Bates

Daisy Mason

Thomas Barrow

Joseph Molesley

Land Girl:

Connie Carter

Reverend Henry Jameson (Gwilym Lee's version)

Midsomer Murder:

DCI Tom Barnaby

Joyce Barnaby

Dr. George Bullard

DCI John Barnaby

Sarah Barnaby

DS Ben Jones

DS Jamie Winter

Sgt. Gavin Troy

Fleur Perkins

WPC Gail Stephens

Kate Wilding

DS Charlie Nelson

Sergeant Dan Scott

NEW! Once Upon A Time

Regina / The Evil Queen

Mary Margaret Blanchard / Snow White

David Nolan / Prince Charming

Emma Swan

Killian Jones / Captain Hook

Mr. Gold / Rumplestiltskin

Neal Cassidy / Baelfire

Peter Pan

Sheriff Graham Humbert / The Huntsman

Jefferson / The Mad Hatter

Belle

Robin of Locksley / Robin Hood

Will Scarlet

Zelena / Wicked Witch

Alice (Once in Wonderland)

Cyrus (Once in Wonderland)

Jafar (Once in Wonderland)

Gideon

Tiger Lily

Naveen

Tiana

Granny

Ariel

Prince Eric

Aladdin

Jasmine

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

Hercules

Megara

Tinker Bell

Merida

Red Riding Hood

Mulan

Aurora / Sleeping Beauty

Prince Phillip

Cinderella

Prince Thomas

NEW! The Vampire Diaries / The Originals

Stefan Salvatore

Damon Salvatore

Caroline Forbes

Elena Gilbert

Bonnie Bennett

Enzo St. John

Niklaus Mikaelson

Elijah Mikaelson

Kol Mikaelson

Rebekah Mikaelson

Freya Mikaelson

Finn Mikaelson

Mikael

Esther

Marcel Gerard

Davina Claire

MOVIES

The Pirates of the Caribbean:

Captain Jack Sparrow

Barbossa

Will Turner

Elizabeth Swann

James Norrington

Kingsman:

Merlin

Harry Hart

Eggsy Unwin

James Spencer / Lancelot

Alastair / Percival

Roxy Morton / Lancelot

Maximillian Morton / The Shepherd

Orlando Oxford

Jack Daniels / Whiskey

Gin

BOOKS

Dreamland Billionaire series - Lauren Asher:

Declan

Callahan

Rowan

Iris

Alana

Zahra

Dirty Air series - Lauren Asher:

Noah

Liam

Jax

Santiago

Maya

Sophie

Elena

Chloe

Ladies in Stem - Ali Hazelwood books:

Olive

Adam

Bee

Levi

Elsie

Jack

Mara

Liam

Sadie

Erik

Hannah

Ian

Fourth Wing - Rebecca Yarros:

Xaden Riorson

Dain Aetos

Jack Barlowe

Rhiannan Matthias

Violet Sorrengail

Mira Sorrengail

Lillith Sorrengail

Bodhi Durran

Liam Mairi

#a discovery of witches #law and order svu #law and order #law and order oc #chicago pd #chicago fire #mayans mc #911 abc #911 lone star #the rookie #bbc sherlock #sherlock #bridgerton #outlander #call the midwife #narcos #downton abbey #peaky blinders #land girls #midsomer murders #once upon a time #the vampire diaries #the originals #the pirates of the caribbean #kingsman #dreamland billionaires #dirty air series #love hypothesis #love theoretically #loathe to love you

[ty-bayonet-betteridge]

comfort characters based on whether theyd survive in ultrakills hell

V1 - it stays winning

Frisk - too determined to die

The Knight - in something resembling its element. also this little freak just hates dying. The Knight could have taken down an earthmover i think

Bonesaw/Riley Grace Davis - give her two hours down there and she'll have perfectly adapted to the environment

The Lamb - dies several times but hey reincarnation :) they get used to it eventually and become just as prominent as v1

Taylor Hebert - her cockroach swag will carry her through this i believe in her

Mannequin - does decently well, makes it through several layers before being taken out by a more powerful machine

Madeline - shes probably NOT agile enough to escape unscathed but shed give it a damn good try and probably make it further than most

Amy Dallon - oh girl shes fucked. this is Not the realm for her power. shed maybe make it a couple hours but it would only be so long before something killed her that she wasn't looking out for, especially bc she cant affect herself

Hatchling - they might get lucky but given their recklessness and the loss of certain protections afforded to them in their source material i think they'd get sooooooo murdered

Mike Walters - dead in 0.5 seconds, brought back by one of his friends, never goes back there

Darling - dies in 0.5 seconds by hitting on the first freak of nature he sees

Natsuki, Gina Lestrade - dies and its not very interesting this isnt their genre

[holmesillustrations]

Vote for your favourite, the top 9 will proceed in the bracket. Since theyre all different shapes and sizes, make sure to click into the full views!

Paget Eliminations / Other Artist Eliminations

Full captions and details for each illustration below the cut:

"I was shocked to see he was staring at me with a perfectly blank face." W.H. Hyde, Resident Patient (Harper’s Weekly) Characters: Percy Trevelyan, 'Russian Nobleman'

"It was more than a stain. It was the well-marked print of a thumb." FD Steele, Norwood Builder (Collier’s) Characters: Watson, Lestrade, Holmes

"Miles McLaren." FD Steele, Three Students (Collier’s) Characters: Miles McLaren

"But I have been running around and making inquires before I came to you." Arthur Twidle, Wisteria Lodge (The Strand) Characters: John Scott Eccles, Watson, Holmes

"A reverie" Joseph Simpson, Red Circle (The Strand) Characters: Holmes &c.

"Leaning forward in the cab, Holmes listened intently to McDonald's short sketch of the problem which awaited us in Sussex." Frank Wiles, Valley of Fear (The Strand) Characters: Watson, Holmes, MacDonald

"I've had bad news - Terrible news, Mr. Holmes." Frank Wiles, Valley of Fear (The Strand) Characters: MacDonald, Holmes, Watson

"She poured her whole wild fury out in burning and horrible worlds - I put my hands to my ears and rushed away." Alfred Gilbert, Thor Bridge (The Strand) Characters: Maria Gibson, Grace Dunbar

"Mrs. Ferguson kneeling by the cot gave no answer to her husband's reproaches save to gaze at him with a wild despairing look in her eyes." WT Benda, Sussex Vampire (Hearst’s International) Characters: Baby Ferguson, Mrs Ferguson

"Shall I give this back?" she asked." FD Steele, Three Gables (Liberty) Characters: Isadora Klein, Watson, Holmes

"Holmes' eyelids drooped so lazily that he might almost have been asleep." FD Steele, Retired Colourman (Liberty) Characters: Holmes, Watson

#acd holmes #sherlock holmes #tumblr bracket #sherlock holmes illustrations #elim poll #oa elim

[anonymousewrites]

A Study of the Heart and Brain Christmas Special 2023

Father Figure! Sherlock x Teen! Reader

Mouse Note: Happy Holidays! I hope you guys have a great break and time with family or friends or whoever you care about in your life (pets included)

            “Sherlock, (Y/N), you have to say hi to the guests,” sighed John.

            “It’s just Mycroft and Gary,” said Sherlock. “I don’t see the point.”

            “Mrs. Hudson is here, too,” said John.

            “I saw her this morning and told her Happy Christmas. I did my part,” said (Y/N).

            “Listen, you two, it’s bloody Christmas, so if you don’t come down, I’ll drag you down,” said John.

            “Then it hardly seems relevant whether or not we come ourselves,” said Sherlock.

            John rolled up his sleeves. “You two asked for it,” he said.

            (Y/N) and Sherlock exchanged a look as John walked towards them. Uh-oh.

l

            “Ah, my brother and his child finally grace us with their presence,” said Mycroft condescendingly as Sherlock and (Y/N) walked in (pushed in by John).

            “Hello, Mycroft, not out stealing Christmas, are you? What a pleasant change,” said Sherlock carelessly. (Y/N) fought off a smirk.

            Mycroft tsked. “Always wonderful to be around you for the holidays.”

            “If you were really that fed up, you wouldn’t come to our apartment for a Christmas party,” pointed (Y/N), unwrapping a Candy Cane. Mycroft narrowed his eyes at the observation, and (Y/N) smirked before popping the peppermint into their mouth.

            “Well, I’m glad you two decided to come out of your rooms,” said Lestrade, the best besides John at putting up with (Y/N) and Sherlock. “Happy Christmas.” He raised his glass.

            (Y/N) nodded to him. “Happy Christmas.”

            “Would anyone like some cookies?” said Mrs. Hudson, smiling and appearing in the room.

            “Ah, thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” said Mycroft, taking a treat. He was careful to be quite polite to her since (Y/N), John, and Sherlock were quite protective of her.

            “Happy Christmas, Mrs. Hudson,” said Lestrade, smiling and taking a bite of a cookie.

            “Oh, Sherlock, (Y/N), you’re finally here!” said Mrs. Hudson brightly.

            “They are indeed,” muttered John.

            “Take some sweets,” insisted Mrs. Hudson, pressing cookies into their hands. “On such a day like Christmas, you have to enjoy yourselves!” She smiled. “Oh, and Sherlock, I found the stash of Christmas violin music you tried to hide from last year.”

            “Are you going to play for us?” asked (Y/N).

            “I don’t want to,” said Sherlock.

            “Oh, come now, brother. It’s Christmas, and you’ve brought no gifts.” Mycroft smiled pointedly. “It’s the least you can do.”

            “Go on, Sherlock,” encouraged Lestrade.

��           “I’ve got your violin here,” said John, holding it up.

            Sherlock sighed and took it. (Y/N) looked at him and took their Candy Cane out of their mouth.

            “Happy Christmas,” they said sarcastically.

            “Happy Christmas indeed,” said Sherlock, position the violin and beginning to play.

l

            “Beautiful, Sherlock,” said Lestrade, clapping.

            “I’m glad Mummy and Father got you to follow through on practicing when you were young,” said Mycroft in his (terrible) version of a compliment.

            “Thank you, Sherlock,” said John honestly.

            “I love your music, dearie,” said Mrs. Hudson, smiling. A ding sounded, and she perked up. “Oh, I’ve got more snacks!” She hustled into the kitchen, and John, Mycroft, and Lestrade trailed after her in the hopes of more good food.

            (Y/N) and Sherlock were left alone, and he put down his violin and sat down.

            “It did sound good,” said (Y/N).

            Sherlock smiled. “Thank you.”

            (Y/N) smiled back and then reached under the couch and pulled out a box. “Here. I have this for you. It seems like a good moment.”

            Sherlock raised an eyebrow and opened the box. He smiled slightly. It was a nice new scarf for himself. “Thank you,” he said.

            (Y/N) shrugged. “I saw you needed a new one.”

            Sherlock nodded, rose, and walked to a chest usually filled with books. Now, however, it had a box, and Sherlock picked it up. “Here are you go.”

            (Y/N) opened their present and smiled. “A complete set of Hercule Poirot books. Thanks.”

            “He goes about investigations in very different ways from us, but I know you like the books,” said Sherlock. “I see you look at them every time we pass a bookstore. You ignore everything else.” He had used his deductive abilities to help pick out a gift.

            “You always notice those things,” said (Y/N).

            “You’re my kid. Of course I look after you,” said Sherlock. He wasn’t outright affectionate, but it was an admittance of caring for them.

            (Y/N) smiled. “I’m glad I have you, Dad.” They shifted and looked at their hands. They twiddled their Candy Cane. “I don’t know where I’d be without you.”

            “You’d be doing fine,” said Sherlock. “After all, you’re quite bright.”

            “Yeah, but I’m still, you know, happy I’m with you,” said (Y/N).

            Sherlock reached over and squeezed (Y/N)’s shoulder. “I’m not leaving you. We’ve got each other, alright? So you don’t have to worry about anything else.”

            (Y/N) smiled. “Right.” They gazed at him. “Happy Christmas, Dad.”

            “Happy Christmas, (Y/N).”

Taglist:

@stilesstilinskiforlife-blog

@im-making-an-effort

@ilse235

@schrodingers-intelligence

@awsedrftgyhujikol

@lxserthxngzzz

#a study of the heart and brain #x reader #x gn reader #gn reader #x nb reader #nb reader #x teen reader #x teen!reader #sherlock x teen!reader #sherlock x teen reader #sherlock x reader #bbc sherlock #bbc #sherlock holmes #sherlock holmes x reader #christmas special #christmas #merry xmas #merry christmas #happy holidays #father figure #found family trope #found family

[inevitably-johnlocked]

I have no idea if you're still answering anything despite your hiatus and constant uploads, but could you recommend any fics that include drinking games, or just getting to know each other hang outs with the squad (not just John and Sherlock)? I love the friendships!

Hey Lovely!

Ah, I'm done my 2 week hiatus, and even then I was, as you said, still fairly active LOL. I just needed a break from feeling obligated to get new lists out right away, is all! :)

I do have a few lists you might enjoy:

Games

Games Pt. 2

Drunk and Drinking Johnlock

Drunk and Drinking Johnlock Pt 2

Those are pretty broad lists, so here's the exact fics from them you may prefer. If Anyone has any they want to suggest, as always, please do!

DRINKING GAMES / HANGING OUT

Never Have I Ever by Hannelore-Grace(T, 2,073 w., 1 Ch. || Humour, Friendship, Drinking Games) – In which the Yarders, Sherlock, and John play the time-honored drinking game.

Bored Games by patster223(K+, 2,769 w., 1 Ch. || Cluedo / Board Games, Friendship, Humour) – Sherlock is bored and John decides that they should play Cluedo. In retrospect, it was a truly awful decision.

Paranoia by Ewebie(M, 3,789 w., 1 Ch. || Humour, Drinking Games, Scotland Yard Gang, Jealous / Possessive Sherlock, Inappropriate Questions, Embarrassed John, Matchmakers) – John and Sherlock join the gang of Scotland Yard for a night of drinking, and it gets a bit personal and revealing.

Right Foot Red by Irrevocably_Sherlocked(E, 3,089 w., 1 Ch. || First Kiss/Time, Board Games, Frottage, Masturbation, PWP, Friends to Lovers, Come as Lube, Come Marking) – ...ok, it’s juvenile, but at least it’s a game where touching is allowed. And if something more were to happen, well, John can’t say he’d be too upset about that. “What are the rules of this game?” Sherlock asks, the disdain evident on the word ‘game’. “I spin, you do as I say.” John thinks he sees a slight widening of those pale grey eyes at that, just for a fraction of a second, before it is shut down. Oh, this is interesting, he thinks.

The Hand You're Dealt by MapleleafCameo(M, 9,806 w., 6 Ch. || Humour, Friendship, Card Games, Alternate First Meeting, No Slash / Platonic Relationship) – John wouldn't have minded so much if only Sherlock would stop introducing him as 'John Watson. I won him in a poker game.’

The Hand You're Dealt by MapleleafCameo(M, 10,624 w., 6 Ch. || Humour, Friendship, Card Games, Alternate First Meeting, No Slash / Platonic Relationship) – John wouldn't have minded so much if only Sherlock would stop introducing him as 'John Watson. I won him in a poker game.’

Never Have I Ever by hudders-and-hiddles(E, 10,655 w., 1 Ch. || Pining Sherlock, First Kiss / Time, Drinking Games, Love Confessions, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers) – John and Sherlock tag along for the Met's weekly night out, where the evening's chosen drinking game is Never Have I Ever. Sherlock is reluctant to join in until he realizes he can learn all kinds of new things about John, but he forgets that John might learn a thing or two about him as well.

Out of the Woods by SilentAuror(E, 20,471 w., 1 Ch. || Post S4, Romance, Slow Burn, Flirting, Drunk Sex, Practical Jokes, POV Sherlock, Bottomlock, Possessive John, Pining Sherlock, Frustrated Wanking, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Blow Jobs, First Kiss/Time, Virgin Sherlock, Love Confessions, Soft Sherlock, Dancing, Bum Appreciation, Hanging out with the Yard) – Sherlock is fairly certain that John has taken to flirting with him of late, but can't be entirely certain of it. At least, not until a case takes them into a forest, along with Lestrade's team and something happens that will change everything about their lives...

MARKED FOR LATER

Sherlock Learns How To Play Strip Poker (and loses badly)  by wendymarlowe (E, 5,127 w., 3 Ch. || Strip Games, Strip Poker, Blindfolds, First Time) – Sherlock has deleted the rules to poker, so he demands John teach him. Strip poker, because why not. And blindfolded, because John refuses to play without Sherlock having a handicap to counteract his giant brain. The fact that John can now ogle Sherlock's increasingly-nude body is just a bonus, of course. Part 33 of John and Sherlock's Kinky First Times

In a manner of speaking I'm dead by fellshish (T, 6,372 w., 1 Ch. || Halloween, Mystrade, Angst With Happy Ending, PIning, First Kiss, Drunk Idiots, Drinking Games, Humour) – Sherlock and John accidentally dress in matching outfits for Lestrade's Halloween party. Things only get worse: someone pushes them to play 'Never have I ever'.

Spin The Bottle by helloliriels (M, 8,120 w., 6 Ch. || Drinking Games, Calls/Phones, Strip Games, Truth or Dare) – Have you ever played this game before, Sherlock?

The Mole by ChrisCalledMeSweetie (T, 18,378 w., 8 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Reality TV AU ||  Mystery, Adventure, Games, First Kiss/Time, Humour, Romance) – Ten strangers — Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Martha Hudson, Molly Hooper, Jim Moriarty, Greg Lestrade, Sally Donovan, Philip Anderson, Mary Morstan, and Irene Adler — must work as a team to win money on a reality TV show hosted by Mycroft Holmes. The twist? One of them is a mole, hired by the producers to sabotage the game.

The Last Drop by Phyona (M, 20,185 w. || Pre-Slash, UST, Drinking & Talking, Drinking Games, Spooning, Witty Banter, Intense Conversations) – Sherlock and John fend off boredom with a night of heavy drinking. Part 1 of the The First and Last Trilogy series

#steph replies #drinking games #game fics #hanging out fics #my fic recs

[ohwhataniight]

The Good that won't Come Out - a trans!Sherlock fic - Part 1

So I started this WIP and have absolutely no patience about sharing it after it is completed. Please forgive my English, it is not my first language. For @gaylilsherlock who suggested the wound dressing trope. To be continued.

___________________________

"Girls, behave. Please."

I didn't think much of the way I'd just referred to a sulking Sherlock and an exasperated Lestrade, both of whom were leaning dangerously over the table in the Scotland Yard office, looking ready to punch each other in the face any minute now. Sherlock was being his usual self, showing off deductions that were only possible for me to follow, given that I live with him and, throughout the past couple of years, have become able to decode his tumultuous trains of thought. I assumed that the patience of my friend and colleague had run out and that he needed some quiet time in order to think this baffling case through, given that he raised the lapels of his coat and announced that he was heading home.

Anyway, I have a date tonight, so I don't really mind letting the case of the poisoned fashion designer go. I am more than fine with the turn of events, actually. I shoot Greg an apologetic look when Sherlock isn't looking and start buttoning my own jacket. I turn to Sherlock. “I won't be back till late. Go home, get some Thai, don't do anything reckless without me.”

He doesn't grace me with an answer to that, of course. “Give Vicky my warmest regards,” he says sarcastically instead, without really meeting my gaze. I decide to ignore his moods – I know better than provoking him when he's way too deep in a case he can't solve yet. I watch him turn around and leave the room with the tail of his impossibly long coat swishing dramatically behind him. I sigh, and follow suit to head to my date, for which I am already late.

*

It would have been fine if it only happened once, but apparently this is how John speaks, and for some reason it took my by surprise. Again. I should have seen this coming - this is how he really sees me, isn’t it? At least subconsciously - even subconsciously is bad enough. Why doesn’t he ever observe? I blame myself for letting my guard down. Of course, Captain John Watson, the epitome of traditional British masculinity and unchecked heterosexism would resort to such terms of endearment. And now here I am, recalling the words of my dearest brother: “You have let yourself be conquered by sentiment once again, Sherlock. You are entrusting a well-intentioned but vastly ignorant man with secrets you have been hiding ever so industriously throughout your life. I am observing you in sheer terror as you succumb to your miscalculations. How are you planning to proceed after John Watson discovers that you have so... diligently concealed the truth from him, after he reacts?”

Concealed. Truth. I snort. John knows the truth. He knows what he needs to know, he knows as much as he can stomach.

“He’ll have to know, at some point, being your doctor and all.”

“Oh shut up,” I hiss at mind palace-Mycroft, brushing away his rigid figure from my head with a wave of my hand. “John cannot know. He will never see me the same way again if he finds out.”

The night is chilly, my breath materializes before me in the form of smoke: dense, and woefully lacking of tar. I walk into the first corner shop and buy a pack, only to notice that my hands are shaking as I try to light the first cigarette, standing on the side of the pavement, shifting my weight from one foot to another. Pathetic. Look at you. Mycroft is right.

No. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep guessing, and hiding, and pretending it’s all fine.

He accepts and admires the man he thinks you are. Just one misstep and you blow up an entire life you’ve built for yourself, a life you’ve fought so hard for. John learns, and everything goes

fucking

boom.

I have been letting someone in so dangerously close to the core of my being, and yet I still have to live life hanging from the threads of how he sees me, how he reads me, like a pitifully open book yet still stumbling between the lines, faltering when I become too visible, immuring me behind performances and words.

John Watson is failing you.

And how could he not?

(freak)

I shake my head, exasperated. I take in a deep drag of smoke and watch it crystallize in slow motion. The lights of the city that normally surround me with clarity now become blurry and melt around me, pool on my feet like fireflies in a swamp. Smoking doesn’t help. Nothing is helping. My ribs are constricting around what feels like a hole in my chest, pulling me down with the familiar weight that used to press around me like Symplegades before.

What if John Watson had met me before? Maybe then he could have returned my feelings. Maybe he could have loved me if I weren’t who I am.

After all, John Watson is not, will never be gay. And I will never be what he likes.

These thoughts make breathing a strenuous activity. I wish I could ever only inhale nicotine. Not oxygen, especially when it becomes so sparse, not his hot, sweet breath that confiscates mine every time he turns his head as he’s leaning over me to stare at the computer screen, not the odd whiff of salty sweat, not his light musk of earth that is damp that is sturdy -

And then, suddenly, bliss: a distraction. A man in a suede jacket who is up to no good, judging from the long fingernail on his left pinky and the obviously borrowed briefcase that contains information of life and death on his ex wife. I don’t need to intervene, I’m not Clark freaking Kent (see, John? I have some mundane references) but I need something to keep my mind and body occupied other than these dreaded musings on truth and identity and John Watson’s scent, ever present in my nostrils. So I follow him. And he notices. And he quickens his step. And I chase him. In an alley. Good, this is good. Keep that adrenaline pumping. He climbs over some railings. I follow suit. My heart is racing with the rapture of something remotely interesting, finally. My physical deftness has never betrayed me before, until it does. I feel the sharp stab of metal on my ribcage as the railing scratches my side, ripping my shirt underneath my coat, and I feel the warmth of blood spiling from a long scratch on my skin that climbs up to my chest like a vine of poison ivy.

(well, this is unfortunate)

#sherlock holmes #john watson #johnlock #bbc sherlock #johnlock fanfiction #fanfiction #johnlock fic #sherlock #sickfic #Sherlock whump #trans Sherlock #translock #trans!sherlock #trans man Sherlock Holmes #coming out fic #queer #trans #tw: misgendering #(sort of)

[doriana-gray-games]

Is too late for Christmas promts? Because I feel like Lestrade + mistletoe will be awkward and frustrating.... but in a cute way

Happy New Years! ✨💖✨

It's technically too late--buut im gonna start this one and see if I can do it quickly! ❤️

------

"Lestrade!" The empty snow-covered road echoes your shout. They don’t stop and you pull at your coat which you had yet to properly wrap around yourself—the freezing wind pricks your skin something fierce. "LESTRADE! WAIT! Darn stubborn fool, I should just—"

They finally turn, now only a short distance from the carriage they were aiming for, and reply in nothing more than a speaking tone despite your distance, "I have a case, Sherlock."

"And I am coming with—"

The next reply, a shout, you hear more clearly, "Like hell, you are!"

You take the moment of their angry grandstanding—which leaves them standing still for once—to catch up to them.

"Lestrade, your long legs will be the death of me—now," you heave a heavy breath, "—why did you storm out of the Christmas dinner?!"

They only scoff and turn towards the open door, now so close—

"Adler didn't mean it," you say, guessing at their anger.

"Oh, no?" they enter the carriage with sarcasm dripping in their tone.

You follow inside, pushing your way, "Besides—it's not true...so I’m coming with!"

"No, you aren’t—" Lestrade holds the door open, signalling for you to instead step out again.

"Yes, I am—and that's final!" You say, slamming the door and shouting for the driver to go.

*Scoff*

*Hmpf*

-------

For a few many moments, you two travel in silence. The darkness and cold constricts and chafes at your comfort.

"You got to be kidding—" Lestrade looks up at the ceiling of the carriage, where a bundle of twigs, green, with white berries, are pressed into the paint of the roof.

"Oh no..." you find yourself saying, taking the moment to move to the seat next to them, instead of across.

"Wha—what are you—"

"I'm superstitious, Lestrade. If I—we—do not follow tradition, then I am doomed to only receive bad cases for the rest of my life... that's how this works... don't doubt it."

They don't protest. They don't act. Their gaze is simply glued to yours, with half terror and enchantment. The little light outside dances in their darkness.

You kiss them once. They melt but do not move.

"Besides,” you say, "I’m freezing, Lestrade."

"We can't have that." They almost smirk, as much as the detective might be able to smirk, and wraps you up in their coat. Your legs intertwine. Your mouths lock and leave only for desperate breaths to keep death away.

“Warmer?”

“Much.”

“Then—“

“Kiss me again you fool!” And they do.

Lestrade always did take orders well.

#it’s kind of a lie because it’s not all kinds of orders… #mistletoe #interactive fiction #sherlock holmes #aaoth #grace lestrade #gregory lestrade #detective lestrade #lestrade

[specialagentlokitty]

Lestrade x reader - What’s yours is mine

- Mycroft x Reader or Lestrade x Reader- stealing each others clothes. - @mxacegrey 💜

You wanted to sleep so badly, but the pounding on your flat door was giving you no help, so you eventually got up, looking around you found a jumper on the floor and tossed it on before walking over and opening it.

“Sherlock, John.”

You let the two in and walked to the kitchen to put the kettle on while they followed you and sat down at the table.

“Put some trousers on.” Sherlock said, looking through your cupboards.

You noticed John had his back to you and you laughed.

“I’m wearing shorts of worry.”

Setting three cups on the table you listened to why they had come to the flat at such an odd hour at night.

“So, you’re angry with Greg so you thought you’d come annoy me?”

“I did try stop him (Y/N) I’m sorry.”

Smiling you shook your head at John and turned to Sherlock who was still looking around.

“You won’t find them Sherlock Holmes. I know how to hide cigarettes, I hide Greg’s every time he tries sneaking a new pack in.”

“I just need one!”

“Nope.”

You watched him huff and jumped on the chair, tapping his fingers on the table trying to find some way to occupy his mind.

“If you want something to do you can do something for me.”

You told Sherlock about your friend who lived just out the city who Kees having break ins but nothing gets taken, and no matter what she did nothing worked.

“Jealous ex.” Sherlock said.

“That’s the clear answer right? But it’s not, she only ever date one guy, married him, and he’s overseas at the minute serving in the military.”

Sherlock began to list other things it could be but you kept disproving him, and finally you had peaked his interest.

“We’ll go in the morning, thanks (Y/N).” John smiled.

You watched as Sherlock wondered your flat.

You had grown to accept the man was like a huge child, and you couldn’t control him half the time so you just let him wonder.

You turned to John and you guys spoke for a little while before Sherlock came back.

“He’s coming back to apologise to you in the morning, and he’s the one that took your favourite hoodie.” Sherlock said.

“Right, okay, thank you? But I wanna sleep now so like, go home you strays.”

Sherlock frowned at you and he marched over.

“Where are the cigarettes?”

He grabbed your arm, feeling your pulse as he spoke to you, you looked to John and he nodded his head.

“Since you played nicely you’re allowed one. It’s in your coat pocket I put one in there when you hung it up.”

Sherlock rushed to his jacket and you saw them out before going to collapse in bed.

You wanted to take the jumper off, but you liked the fact it smelled like your boyfriend, so you decided to keep it on.

Lestrade came to your flat early that morning, he had the day off and he wanted to spend it with you, he didn’t want to keep arguing.

He let himself in and made his way to the bedroom, knowing full well that you wouldn’t be up at this time.

You were still fast asleep and he smiled, taking his shoes off, he changed into some pajama trousers and crawled into the bed with you.

You turned over and put your arm around him, patting his back until you found the hood to the hoodie before pulling it lightly.

“That’s.. mine…” you mumbled.

Lestrade smiled, putting his forehead against yours.

“That my jumper.” Softly replied.

“It smells like you…”

He smiled, resting his chin above your head as he held you softly in his arms.

You shuffled to get a little more comfortable and a small smile graced your face.

“I’m sorry for the other night…”

“Let me sleep…”

He laughed and agreed, tangling his legs with yours as he closed his eyes.

You woke up before him this time, and you slipped out of bed, looking around, you took the jumper off, swapping it for his discarded shirt and changed into some jeans as you started to ready to go to the shop.

“Seriously my shirt? What am I supposed to wear outside?”

“Jumper?”

“With no shirt?”

You rolled your eyes and looked at him still wearing your hoodie.

“You have a hoodie, my hoodie, so I have a shirt, your shirt.”

“(Y/N) its cold, go put a jacket on.”

You waltzed over and pulled the drawstrings of the hoodie, making him yelp as he quickly loosened it again and watched you put his jumper on.

When you walked back over he poked your forehead and you smirked a little, holding your hand out to him.

“I’m not going outside in your hoodie.”

“Okay, well I’m going to the shop, love you!”

“(Y/N)!”

Lestrade jogged after you before you could close the door on him.

He pouted and you laughed at him as you locked your door, and held your hand out to him.

“Does this hurt your pride?” You mocked.

Lestrade laced his fingers with yours and you guys started to walk.

“No, it’s just cold.”

“Well maybe if you stopped stealing my hoodie and jackets I wouldn’t steal your stuff Greg.”

“We’ll just stop buying them in my sizes.”

You rested your head on his arm and he smiled down at you.

Truth be told he stole your clothes for the same reason your stole his. They smelled like you, and it was as comforting to be surrounded by your scent when he wasn’t with you.

You were home, and he was your home, so it was a little reminder who the person you loved and wanted to be with.

Plus he stuck by what he said, if you didn’t want him to steal them stop buying them so big because he was going to keep taking them

#bbc sherlock #bbc sherlock imagine #bbc sherlock x reader #bbc sherlock lestrade #bbc sherlock x you #lestrade x you #greg lestrade x reader #greg lestrade #gregory lestrade #lestrade x reader #detective lestrade

[marvelfanfn2187a113]

The Same Page Part 5/?

So, here it is, another part! Still have no clue how long this series will go, this part took forever to write, I kinda just go whenever I have inspiration, so we’ll see.

Synopsis: Greg comes over for a visit and Mycroft notices some changes in you.

Same Page Masterlist:

You were already fast asleep on the couch, your favorite fluffy blanket draped on top of you by the time Sherlock said goodbye to John and made his way inside Mycroft’s house.

Mycroft was on one knee next to the couch, his hand absently brushing your hair away from your sweaty forehead.

“Is she alright?” Sherlock approached his brother quietly, not wanting to disturb the scene in front of him.

Mycroft’s mouth twisted as he stood, removing his hand from your head.

“I think so. She really wore herself out today, I hope she didn’t make herself sick.”

“Has she ever…”

Mycroft shook his head, anticipating his brother’s question.

“She’s never run away from me. She has tried to come after me before when I tried to leave for work a few times, about a year ago. I tried to leave her with several of your…friends. Molly, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, even John. She wouldn’t have it.”

Sherlock frowned, “She’s never been particularly clingy with you before.”

Mycroft gave a slightly sardonic smile, “Yes well, there are a lot of things about her that have changed.” He sighed. “I suppose she thought that if she left me alone, the way-“ if Sherlock didn’t know better, he would’ve thought Mycroft almost chocked on the words before continuing, “the way she left you alone before—well, you know—that I would’ve done exactly what you had done. She thought she’d lose us both, I suppose.”

Sherlock stared down at you. You looked so peaceful, so unlike anything he had seen from you since he’d been back. It cut him deeply to think that you actually felt responsible for your brothers’ safety. That was his and Mycroft’s job, to look after you.

“She didn’t blame herself for-“ Sherlock didn’t even want to finish the sentence.

Mycroft turned to look at him, and Sherlock almost recoiled at the look in Mycroft’s eyes. He looked…heartbroken. Almost…vulnerable. Almost.

“Yes. She did. After she got over the shock, and the denial, that’s all she could think about for months on end. She kept asking me what I thought would’ve happened to you if she-“ Mycroft swallowed, “if she hadn’t left you alone that afternoon. If she’d let John leave and remained nearby to make sure you were alright. If she’d been more attentive to your needs, your feelings. I didn’t know what to say to her. I couldn’t tell her that you weren’t actually depressed…” Mycroft trailed off, breaking eye contact with his little brother.

Sherlock was horrified. He now understood Mycroft’s pain, his hesitance to breech this subject. A small, selfish part of Sherlock was now glad that it had been Mycroft, not himself, that had been here to deal with the tsunami of a wake that his death had left behind.

Neither brother spoke for a while. There was nothing left they wanted to say. Not about this.

A knock on the door cracked the still air, and Mycroft stiffened when you flinched awake.

“Myc…”

Mycroft rested his hand on your shoulder, “shh, it’s nothing, get some rest alright? Sherlock is here with you.”

Mycroft stood to open the door, surprised to see Lestrade standing there.

“Inspector,” he greeted cordially.

“Sherlock…shared his little secret with me earlier,” Greg said awkwardly. “I thought I would come and see how Y/N is now that…”

Mycroft nodded slightly. He didn’t quite understand the relationship you had with all of Sherlock’s friends, but he was glad you had so many people that cared about you.

“I see, unfortunately she’s resting right-“

“Greg?”

Mycroft turned to see you, wrapped up in your blanket, a slight smile gracing your lips.

Lestrade grinned back at you.

“Hey N/N, are you alright?”

Mycroft stepped back while Greg embraced you, glancing sideways when Sherlock stepped up next to him.

“I’m ok,” came your muffled reply.

No one in the room really believed you, but no one was going to speak up about it either.

“What are you doing here?” You asked Greg as he stepped further into the house and shut the door behind him.

“I’m here to see you, of course,” he smiled down at you, and Mycroft was surprised when you smiled back, albeit a bit wearily.

The smile dropped quickly however, and your eyes seemed almost haunted as you choked out your next words.

“Have you known about…”

Greg shook his head quickly, “No, no I haven’t. I found out just after John.”

Your relief made Mycroft feel uncomfortable, and more than a little guilty. He had thought this might happen, that you might form some kind of bond with the ones that had been truly deceived. He had somewhat expected it.

What he hadn’t expected was the twist in his gut that came now. What was it?

It took him a few moments to realize the true meaning of this unfamiliar feeling, and when the realization hit it was like a backhand across the face.

Jealousy. He was jealous.

But why? Why should he care about the bonds you forged with the ‘Baker Street Crowd’, as he thought of them?

The answer was simple, really, but Mycroft didn’t want to believe it.

As hard as the last two years had been, as uncomfortable as he was in his position as caretaker…

He would miss it.

He would truly miss the way you ran to him for every problem, the way that you looked at him like he was Superman, capable of solving every trouble and pain that shook your whole world.

He didn’t want that to go away. He didn’t want you to form a bond with Lestrade, or with John, heck, even with Sherlock, that would rival the one that you had with him.

He hated feeling this way, thinking this way. It was selfish. It was wrong.

But he couldn’t help it.

You had grown up so much closer to Sherlock, and he hadn’t cared for so long.

But now that he knew what it was like, to be so close to you, to be the big brother that you wanted to comfort you…

He didn’t think he could go back to the way things had been like before.

“How long can you stay?”

Your voice snapped Mycroft out of his reverie, and he had to swallow his annoyance at Lestrade’s response.

“Hey, I’m here for as long as you need me,” he turned to look at Mycroft, “as long as it’s ok with your brother.”

No. It wasn’t.

Mycroft bit back this response when he saw the pleading look on your face when you turned to him. He forced a polite,

“Yes, of course.”

Whatever you needed.

…

‘As long as you need me,’ turned out to be the rest of the afternoon, and after mere minutes of watching you and Lestrade catch up, Mycroft disappeared into his office under the excuse of getting some work done. He hated the way you seemed to be getting alone with Lestrade, especially right after you had just run away from him to be with John.

He was noticing a pattern.

You were beginning to gravitate towards the people who had shared in your pain, the people who had also been lied to. The people whose grief had been real. It was probably good for you.

But that also meant that you were gravitating away from him. The liar. The faker.

The betrayer.

Would you ever look at him the same way again? That look of complete and utter trust, the one he had slowly become dependent on over the last two years. He needed you. He needed you to need him.

He hated feeling this way.

He hated himself for it.

…

You finally told Lestrade that you would be fine if he left, once it was close to dinner time. He said his goodbyes, and finally left to join his wife for dinner, with a promise of, “I’ll see you later.”

Something about Lestrade’s visit seemed to have energized you, which made Mycroft nervous, especially after your tiring excursion with John.

So when you asked Mycroft if you could make dinner tonight, something you’d not done in over two years, he was hesitant to say the least.

“Are you sure you’re not tired? You’ve had quite a day.”

You nodded resolutely, “I’m fine. Please Mycroft?”

You were as stubborn as Sherlock when you made your mind up, and Mycroft figured he would win no brownie points with you by arguing. So he relented.

“Would you like any help?”

You shook your head firmly, “I can do it.”

…

Mycroft didn’t stray far from the kitchen, ready at a moment’s notice for you to call out to him for help.

But you didn’t.

In fact, you seemed to be completely capable, even enjoying yourself, alone in the kitchen.

Mycroft hated it.

He wanted you to get better, he really, really did, but he didn’t want that to mean that you completely pulled away from him. And he felt now like that was what was happening.

Not that he’d ever admit how he felt. Not to anyone. Even himself.

After dinner, you insisted on cleaning up, and Mycroft was truly amazed at your new energy level. He supposed that’s what he deserved for underestimating you.

After dinner and cleanup, you headed towards the stairs leading to your room.

Mycroft stepped forwards, “Are you going to bed? Would you like help?” With your lower energy level, due to your usual lack of sleep and irregular eating habits, he was shocked you were still standing, much less ready to walk up stairs.

You didn’t even meet his eye as you shook your head firmly, “I’m fine. Tell Sherlock I said goodnight. Is he going back to Baker Street?”

Mycroft was taken aback, “I—I’m not sure. Do you want him to?”

You shrugged, still not meeting Mycroft’s eye.

“He can do whatever he wants.”

You walked up the stairs without another word.

…

“I’m worried about her.”

Sherlock frowned at his older brother.

“You’re worried because she doesn’t have separation anxiety?”

Mycroft sighed, “I’m worried because of her complete change in personality. It doesn’t make sense, and it isn’t healthy.”

Sherlock shrugged. “And what she was doing before was healthy? Maybe this is a good thing, maybe it means she’s healing.”

Mycroft shook his head, “Or maybe it means she doesn’t trust us enough to tell us how she really feels..”

“That doesn’t make sense. I’ve seen her with you,” Sherlock cleared his throat uncomfortably, “I’ve never seen anyone trust someone as much as she does you.”

Mycroft hung his head, something that shocked Sherlock.

“That was before she knew how much I’ve lied to her.”

…

Sherlock decided to head back to Baker Street that night, despite Mycroft’s protests.

“What if she wakes up again and needs you?”

“She was fine tonight, Mycroft. You need to let her be fine.”

Though Mycroft would never admit it, that comment had stung. Was he really so desperate for his little sister’s company that he refused to let her be alright?

No, no that wasn’t it. He knew his little sister, had spent the past two years getting to know her better than she knew herself.

He wasn’t accepting this new side of you, not because he didn’t want to, but because he knew it couldn’t last. Not yet, anyway.

This kind of improvement would take time, and a lot more work than had been accomplished in the few days that Sherlock had been back.

You still needed your big brother.

And he was going to be there for you.

…

To Mycroft’s surprise, the night passed without incident, and so did the next morning. You let Mycroft cook you pancakes, but you seemed particularly silent that morning, not even asking him if Sherlock was going to be there that day.

Eventually Mycroft decided to leave you to your own devices, and he went to his office to get some work done.

A few hours went by uninterrupted, until Mycroft realized it was nearing lunchtime. He was desperate to keep you on your eating schedule, especially while this energy of yours lasted and you seemed to have no objections to food, so he shut down his work computer and left his office to find you.

He expected to find you on the couch, watching something or perhaps reading.

What he didn’t expect was to find you sitting on the floor next to the stairs, your back against the wall and your knees pulled up against your chest. He rushed to your side, and your head jerked up when you saw him standing next to you.

“Mycroft…” the croak in your voice, along with the tears sliding down your cheeks, struck Mycroft right in the gut. How long had you been sitting there like this, while he was busy not paying attention to you?

“Sweetheart…” Mycroft kneeled on the floor in front of you, tilting your head up so that you’d look at him, “what happened?”

Despite his efforts, you tilted your eyes down to avoid his gaze.

“I-I was just trying to go up to my room…but I guess my crazy day yesterday finally caught up-caught up to me because I just-just fell down and I couldn’t find-find the strength to get back up.”

Mycroft began looking you over worriedly.

“Are you ok? Are you hurt?”

You put your hand against his chest and pushed him to arms length, “Mycroft, no, it’s ok. I’m fine.”

He sighed, “Why didn’t you call for me?”

You shook your head, still desperately avoiding his searching gaze.

“I’m fine.”

Mycroft sighed again, “You’re sitting on the floor because you can’t stand.” He brushed your hair away from your face, “You know it’s ok to need help, right?”

Your lip started quivering, and you finally lifted your gaze to meet Mycroft’s. He forced himself to keep eye contact, despite nearly flinching from the look in your eyes. It wasn’t that broken-glass look he had seen so often, but you looked so…

Sad. But more than that, you looked alone.

You broke eye contact, casting your eyes towards the floor and leaning against Mycroft’s shoulder.

“I can’t need help all the time.”

Mycroft winced.

“You don’t need it all-“

“Yes I do!” You sat up suddenly, looking up at your brother. “You haven’t gone to work in-in two years, Mycroft! And don’t think I don’t notice how tired you get, I know I’ve-I’ve kept you up with my stupid nightmares.” You were crying now, and yelling, and Mycroft was at a loss for what to do. Every time he thought he had you figured out, every time he was sure you couldn’t surprise him anymore with your emotions, you peeled back another layer and he was lost again. He wished he could understand your feelings, he had tried so many times, but it just wasn’t him.

“Please don’t say that.” Mycroft’s voice was soft and even. “I chose this. I want to be here for you.”

You shook your head, “But it can’t always be like this. Sherlock’s here now, I should-“

“Should what?” Mycroft raised his voice, “should magically get better? That isn’t how it works. We all want things to go back to how they were, but these things take time. You have to be patient.” He sighed, “where did this desperation come from anyway?”

“When Greg and I were catching up…he was talking about some of the cases he’s been on recently. It made me realize…that’s what Sherlock wants to be doing. That’s what you want to be doing. Your work. You shouldn’t have to spend all your time looking after me, you-you guys have lives too. I’ve been selfish.” You looked up. “I’m sorry Mycroft. I’m trying to do better.”

Mycroft felt like he’d just swallowed glass. He tried to swallow, tried to breathe, tried to speak, all of it just left him with a scratchy lump in his throat, and nothing would work properly. You stared up at him, blinking slowly, waiting for his response.

“Don’t…” Mycroft cleared his throat. “Don’t say that. Don’t every say anything like that again, do you understand?”

You were confused, “I only meant-“

“No!” Mycroft regretted his tone when you flinched in his arms, and he softened. “No. This isn’t your fault. I know you’re trying your hardest, but I would stay home with you for the rest of my life if I thought that I could help you in any way. You are more important to me than anything, especially work. And Sherlock feels the same way, I know he does.”

You pondered this for several seconds, before meekly asking, “Are you angry with me for running away?”

Mycroft sighed, “No. I’m not. I was very worried, but I’m not angry. I know why you left.”

You sniffled, “I’m not sure I know why I left. I was angry, but…I don’t ever want to leave you like that again. Even though you-you lied…you’re by brother, and I trust you.” You smiled weakly at him, and he felt his spirits lift. “I really, really trust you. And I’m sorry.”

He shook his head, “You don’t have to apologize. But thank you.”

Mycroft slowly got to his feet, lifting you in his arms. “I think you should get some rest. You look exhausted.”

You leaned against his chest as he carried you upstairs, and when he laid you on your bed you reached out and grabbed his hand.

“Mycroft? Will you stay with me?”

Mycroft smiled down at you.

“Always.”

Taglist: @navs-bhat

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[starkraivennemad]

Wide Awake With The Beginning

It was one in the morning when Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade sent his partner Sargent Sally Donovan home. Unfortunately, he woke up at his desk nearly two hours later.

God, you’re starting to get too old for these late nights, Greg my boy. Starting to? Shaddup!

As always, before he went home for the night, he did his nightly checks.

Sherlock Holmes would be annoyed should he ever find out; Greg did not care.

Watson would semi-jokingly accuse him of spying, but the good doctor had long ago resigned himself to the facts of hidden cameras in his life.

Anthea would say he was being a ridiculous mother hen, but he knew she was the reason he was allowed it.

He needed to know where people were before he could go home and lay his own head down.

He pulled out his tablet, checking both GPS and cameras.

His sisters were in their respective homes with their families, asleep as most people would be that time of morning.

There were no visual cameras at Anthea’s on purpose. Mycroft had informed him of the time he found grounded-up camera pieces silently served with his morning tea. That politely dissuaded him from doing such again, but the thermal imaging was allowed to remain as a compromise. Greg only had access to her phone GPS, thank goodness - because he did not want to imagine what she would feed him in vengeance if he had visuals.

At Baker Street, Watson was also asleep, but Sherlock puttered about the kitchen. Sherlock’s focus was on what seemed to be entrails dangling from tongs. Greg mentally shuddered at whatever insane experiment the genius was about. No surprise that Sherlock was awake. His sleeping habits, though much improved since sharing a flat with Watson, were still deplorable.

Pot-Kettle Greg, leaving work at near three. He chastised himself as he closed that tab and opened the final one. A tab he noticed was added a year ago, and not by him, for someone revered with as much importance as the previous.

Mycroft Holmes.

Uber intelligent. Enigmatic. Posh. Mycroft was a reserved man, many thought of as cold - and he is, especially to those who do not get the honor to know the true him. To the few of the public that see him regularly he is a cold exacting man. One who does occupy a minor office with the British government - he even has an official ID, paperwork, and occasional meetings to prove it. It a far cry from his true occupation as political analyst who wielded immense power in his manicured hands. Power that has caused royalty, dictators, and other high-ranking people in global politics to take heed – or else. Over the years Greg has been blessed to see the dry biting wit. The little quiet ways Mycroft shows his care for his parents and Anthea. The loving exasperation in how he and his little brother, Sherlock, deal with each other when out of the public eye. Greg knew he was one of the very few graced to know the man beyond the public persona and forged a quiet friendship from what was once a very acrimonious association between them.

Greg knew, originally, he had been tracked simply as another way for Mycroft to potentially locate his brother when Sherlock would cut off all other means of tracking when so inclined, which was often. Like John he had become resigned to his life being somewhat under surveillance by the enigmatic man because of his association with Sherlock.

Greg was eventually given access to the cameras for Sherlock and John as a quid pro quo courtesy. A year ago, he had been given access to Anthea’s GPS - only when she was in London of course -  for when Mycroft is incommunicado, but wanted to secretly let Greg know they were in fact in London without calling unless absolutely needed. It was a surprise to discover when the last tab appeared, and Greg had direct access to Mycroft’s GPS. Again, only when in London, but it was better than being reliant solely on Anthea for emergency contact. He completely understood the level of trust being given to have it and he was honored.

Greg does not know when he added Mycroft to his nightly check routine, but there the man was…

Wait… Why is he there so late…? Oh…

The GPS told Greg where the man was: at his office in Diogenes.

The hidden cameras, the only visual cameras for Mycroft he had been allowed access, told him why he was still there: he had fallen asleep at his desk.

Oh, that cannot be good for his back.

Mycroft, always impeccably dressed, had removed his jacket in the privacy of his office. It was the first time Greg has seen him so and Greg almost felt he was spying on something illicit as he watched the gentle rise and fall of the man’s body in slumber.

You work so hard Mycroft, taking care of the world. Who takes care of you?

It was not the first time Greg has had that thought.

Would you let me take care of you?

Nor was it the first time Greg has had that thought. Read rest the on AO3...

Mystrade Monday Prompt #73 For January 22, 2024 - "You know that’s not the case.”

#mystrade monday #mystradedialogueprompt #mystrade #greg lestrade #mycroft holmes

[lisbeth-kk]

#FFF209

Sherlock fandom. Sherlock is back, but how to tell John?

On a bench in Regent’s Park

He’s waited for this day for so long. Yearned to be back home. To be safe again. Having Mrs. Hudson fuzz and bring him her baked goods and tea, urging him to eat something. Getting texts from Lestrade with an odd case, maybe an eight. Ignoring his meddling big brother to his wits end and chuckle at it with…

He almost doesn’t dare think about John’s reaction when he walks into the flat. Will he be angry? Oh, yes, if there’s one thing Sherlock’s certain of it’s John’s anger. Being left out of the loop and Sherlock trusting Molly instead of his best friend to fake his own death. Yes, that would get John’s temper to erupt.  

How can he explain and make John understand why he stood on the edge at the roof of Barts and seconds later jumped off it? The more he’s thought about it, the crueller and more uncalled for it seems. Then again, Moriarty didn’t give him much choice, did he? Either Sherlock jumped or John, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson got killed by snipers. So, no, it had to be done. Sherlock would’ve killed himself for real if the three people dearest to him suffered that fate. John in particular.

Sherlock stalls. He craves the scents and all the bric-a-brac that is the core of 221B, but he’s a coward. Just waiting a little bit longer before finding out how his return will be received. Sherlock finds a secluded bench in Regent’s Park where he can take in the other people strolling around. He deduces some of them, but his thoughts are diverted to a subject more important than this game of deductions. John. How to…

Sherlock’s been deep in thought and hasn’t heard the footsteps approaching the bench. His eyes focuses when he hears a hitched breath. Standing before him is John Watson. His eyes are wide, clenched fists cover his mouth and his body trembles. When his knees buckle, Sherlock catches him, and without thinking, he envelopes John in his arms and murmurs soothing words into his hair.

“I’m so sorry, John. If I could have told you, I would. Please believe that. Moriarty gave me no other choice. It was me or you, and you had to believe it to be real, or you would’ve been killed. I’ve missed you so much, John.”

The more Sherlock speaks, the more John relaxes. He can hear muffled sobs against his chest, but Johns arms are now around Sherlock’s waist, and John holds on for dear life. When Sherlock tries to draw back a little, John won’t let him, and Sherlock finally relaxes too. When John speaks Sherlock realises that John’s been standing on his own edge with an abyss underneath.

“I’ve been so lonely since you left, Sherlock. It’s been like it was before we met. My limp’s come back, I barely sleep, I hate being social, because everyone’s so concerned that I’ve grieved you like…like…”

John trails off and looks up at Sherlock with tears in his eyes.

“Like what, John?” Sherlock asks softly and cradles John’s face.

John doesn’t answer. Not with words, but his eyes give Sherlock the answer he’s hoped for. He bows his head and pecks John’s lips carefully. When he moves back a fraction, John’s eyes are closed, and a small smile graces his lips.

“Do that again,” he murmurs, and Sherlock doesn’t need to be asked twice.

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