I just wanted to say I really loved ur newest fic with platonic Ryland grace. I’m so interested to see what happened to Y/n before the mission. I feel like they possibly got in a car accident which ended up killing the man in the front seat. Or maybe the man was Grace? Anyway sorry for the ramble just wanted to say I love your writing
No please, continue the rambling I love it.
I obviously can’t say for sure who the man in the front seat is or what happened to him just yet for spoiler purposes but I love your ideas. Im also glad it got your attention because it will come up again later.
Thank you so much for the love it brings me a lot of joy (And the motivation to write)!
Summary: Two months ago you woke up on Mary, now you’re faced with an alien probe and a middle school science teacher.
Warnings: PLATONIC RELATIONSHIP, no use of y/n, cursing, crying, angst, mentions of death. (Let me know if I missed any!)
Word Count: 7k
a/n: (at the end)
(Series Masterlist)
You woke up to the sound of a heavy bass. Buzzing through the ground and shooting up into your ears. It rattled your body and seemed to drag it out of whatever comatose state you were in. Now, of course, you know it was a coma, but then all you knew was that you recognized the song. Hello, by Martin Solveig & Dragonette, a cruel introduction for the very rude awakening that was coming your way.
The next thing you recall from that day, or perhaps night—the logistics surrounding your wake-up are unclear—was choking. Something is lodged deep in your esophagus and testing the limits of your gag reflex. Your vision was blurry, but you did see the si-if-looking robot arms reaching down toward you. That sent you into an even bigger panic.
By the time the bridge picked up, you were tugging at cords and tubes while simultaneously trying to push the robot arms away. You must have been seriously out of it because all of a sudden you were pushing against fleshy arms. Someone was over you, trying to push you back down. You didn't understand why he was holding you down until he helped one of your shoulders and yanked the tubes out of your throat.
Your memories of the rest of it are hazy, but the next time you woke up, it was without tubes and cords stealing your breath. Instead, you woke to a snoring man beside you. It should have freaked you out, but it was a better wake-up call than robot arms. Of course, what the man had to say after he realized you were awake freaked you out more than any robot arms ever could.
It's been weeks since then, but some nights before you drift off to sleep, you play it back in your head and imagine what would happen if you had woken up in a hospital bed. Because then you would not have to be here, trying to figure out how to open some sort of alien communication sent over from a massive alien ship not a couple of hundred feet away, with a middle school science teacher.
"It says it's xenon." You say, as you point the element detector at the dirt colored cylinder looking object. Its scientific name, the mobile optical emission spectrometer, is something you are not comfortable with not knowing how you know, so the element detector it is. The object is not quite a cylinder because the sides aren't round, so actually it's more like an irregular prism. Except that the sides don’t follow the same shape.
Dr Grace pushes off the far wall to get to where you are. He's already shaking his head as he lands next to you, reaching out to grab the lab table next to you to keep from drifting. You let go of the prism, and it floats in the space in front of you. Fighting the simmering irritation, you angle the element detector so he can see the black text that says Xe.
"Xenon is a gas." Grace blurts out, creases running deep across his face. He is still in part of his EVA suit. Or at least the undergarments that keep him cool while he is in his EVA suit, and he looks incredibly stupid, you can't take him seriously. Especially now with his lab goggles on. Somehow, even with the strap that wraps all the way around his head, they are still sitting askew on his face.
"Well, yes, I know that, but that doesn't change that it's xenon and a solid." You huff, moving to now lift your own goggles to sit on top of your head. "Now what?"
"We open it." Grace reaches out for the prism. First, he shakes it, but no sound is made. He then begins to examine the xenon’s surface, looking for any buttons or notches that could be the key to opening it. He presses down on every part of it, but he's met with silence and stillness.
"God, let me try," You sigh, shaking your head in exasperation. Grace lets it go, and you take it from him. You twist the top of the prism, but nothing happens. After a grunt of annoyance, you try again, this time with more force. Still nothing.
"I have an idea," Grace says, gently taking it from your gloved hands. He tilts his head as he grabs hold of the top of the prism just as you did. But this time he twists to the left, not the right, and with little to no force, the seal breaks. Grace smirks at the prism like he just beat the hardest level robot in an online chess game. He then, without pulling the top off of the xenon case, looks up at you.
"That was what I was going to try next." You dismiss his eyes, clearly seeking some sort of praise as you fold your arms over your chess and turn away.
"Obviously." Grace laughs softly. It makes you angrier. You know he's just trying to lighten you up, but it only serves to irritate you more. You don't like feeling stupid. Especially with people you don't know well.
Sure, you and Dr Grace have been on the ship together now for close to two months, but not much conversation has happened. You didn't know him on a personal level, and he didn't really know you on a surface level. Every day, it seemed like you were someone new. It was as if you woke up from the coma with a crumbled wall around you, broken shards and rubble littering your mind and heart. But just as fast as Grace had noticed them in the first few days awake, noticed the quiet pauses that seemed to bring you to dark places, the flinching from him just speaking, you had hidden them again. You took the piece of the crumbled wall and built as fast as you could. You built so fast that Ryland has to question why. He figured that shutting down was the only way you knew how to protect yourself.
Grace has been awake for nearly five months now. When he first found out that he wasn’t the only living organism on the ship, Grace cried. When you eventually woke up three months later, and Grace saw how old you were, he was glad you had missed the first couple of months. You didn’t have to help carry Ilyukhina and Commander Yáo or have to see every breakdown Ryland had. Instead, you woke up to a steadier Grace, one who, when he saw you were just a kid, took it upon himself to be a steady foundation for you. He saw his kids in you, someone who needs help, guidance, and support. Grace decided that when he saw you choking on tubes with nothing but terror in your eyes, he would be the support for you that he had needed when he woke up alone floating in space.
Grace now pulls the top of the prism off. He peers into the new opening before leaning in to take a whiff. His body goes rigid as his eyebrows shoot up. He moves quickly, pushing his way towards the far wall.
"Oh no!" He exclaims in a deep, almost comical voice, well, it would be if it weren't for the fact that he looks just slightly terrified. He uses all sorts of things to pull himself over to the glove box currently located near the ceiling. You follow after him just as fast, concern driving your every move.
Grace knocks over a container of test tubes, and they go flying in all sorts of directions. When he reaches for the glove box, he somehow he trips mid air and misses the handle and stumbles away from it. After an embarrassingly and horrifyingly long time, Grace gets the xenon prism in the box.
He shuts it with a loud thud and springs back like it's already killed him. You jump too, and once the chaos settles into the quiet hum of Mary, your temper grows.
"Grace! You fucking scared me!" You shriek out as Grace runs a hand over his face. You can see the tension in his jaw, pulled tight.
"Can we stop it with the cursing?" Grace calls over to you, halfheartedly.
"Alright. Sorry." You mutter out, now feeling a little guilty at the stressed look on his face, but still annoyed at him. "And can we please get gravity in here? If you had floated over here any slower, we could both be dead. Admittedly, we should have started with it in there, but still. I'd really prefer it if I didn't die two months after waking up." You shake your head and rub the bridge of your nose with your index finger and thumb.
"Also, aren't you a science teacher? Isn't it the first thing you teach students during labs? To never directly sniff anything? Waft not sniff?" You continue your irritated ramblings, and Grace swears this is the most he's heard you talk consecutively in a row; it somehow eases the tension in his jaw.
Grace had figured out he was a teacher before you woke up, but when he actually got to interact with you, even if you were closed off, the belief had solidified. The way you asked questions or proposed ideas was astounding because you were so young yet incredibly bright, and it had ignited this spark in him that he had seemed to forget about. Like now, he almost forgot how powerful passion is, especially in kids. You recovered memories he never thought he’d get back. Memories of his students, of a field trip his class had gone on to a science museum, and even some memories of the lesson plans of activities he never got to do with his students. But right now your fire brings him back to heated discussions in his classroom on weather of not aliens existed. Now he wishes he could tell all his students he had the answer literally sitting in front of him. He wished you could have been one of his students in those types of discussions. You would have been a hassle, but the best kind.
"I'm pretty sure toddlers know to waft and not sniff. It's like—like look, don't touch! It's essentially the first lesson every kid learns. But for some reason, you broke the simplest rule in the book!" You finish exasperated before folding your arms over your chest. The force of the movement, mixed with the zero gravity of the ship, pushed your body to spin slightly. You quickly reach out for the wall to stop it when you see Grace's hint of a smile.
"Okay, so in hindsight I shouldn't have done that, yes." Grace starts, and slight amusement begins to bubble under his defensive stance. "But look, we're both alive. And just because I implement rules doesn't mean I always follow them."
"What, so you're a hypocrite?" You bluntly question, a brow lifting quizzically.
"I meant as a teacher. As a teacher, I don't follow all the rules I implement." Grace clarifies, pushing one of the still-moving test tubes away from his face as it floats towards him.
"That's worse, you're a hypocrite to impressionable children. A hypocritical teacher." You shake your head in mock disappointment.
"Most people would just call us teachers." He attempts with a glint of amusement in his eye. A smile begins to break onto your lips, but you quickly close your eyes to compose yourself. You let out a scoff to cover your chuckle, trying to seem unaffected.
It is moments when he sees you happy that keep Grace fighting. If he could see you smile at least once a day, it would be enough to get him to the next. Even with your anger, even with your unwillingness to let him in, Ryland tries his best to give you grace. If he were in your position, stuck in space light-years away from Earth with a strange man, cursed to die before you could legally drink, and with no recollection of how you got here, he would be pretty irritable too. Even having had the chance he did to live a good portion of his life on Earth, he was still devastated at the realization that the last thing he would live to see would be one of the many white walls of this ship.
The gravity is a welcome change. During your journey here, Mary had assumed the essence of gravity because of the force of the forward motion of the ship. But ever since you stopped moving, the gravity has also stopped. But now that you actually have both your feet on the ground, you feel somewhat calmer.
You walk back into the lab from the cockpit, Grace following after you to the glove box. You look through the glass and down at the prism that is now sitting on the floor of the box. The top has fallen to the side while the prism itself lies on its side.
"Now, let's take a peek at what’s inside you," Grace says, speaking to the inanimate object. You give him a look that he ignores.
"Be careful this time. No sniffing without thinking, take precaution."
"Wouldn't do that to you again, promise," Grace says as he puts his hands in the gloves. Now, as his quiet concentration fills the room, you see it for the first time. The slight tremor in his hand. The twitch of his eye as he carefully begins to pull something out of the xenon casing. You want to ask him whats wrong, but you know the answer. He is scared, and he has been scared for a long time. But whenever you're around, he doesn't let himself show it. If he could,
He would stop shaking, but there are some things out of his control.
Unsure what to do or say, you simply step closer and gaze through the glass over his shoulder. You don't talk about his unsteady grip on the metal tongs. You just watch as he pulls from the container a hollow sphere with very thin, long, leg-like xenon wires curving down and out of it. Your gaze lingers on the object longer than Grace gives it his attention, because before you can even speak on it, Ryland flips the prism casing around to attempt to open the other side.
"Hey—wait, that kind of looks familiar." You mutter out, eyes fixed on the sphere with the lines. You stare at it for a moment, racking your brain. You know you recognize it, the image seems to be in graves in your head, but the words are lost on you. You tap your finger against your crossed arms as you think. "I swear I—oh!" You call out as your body steps back with excitement. "I remember! It's why we're frickin' here!" You step back, trying to remember the name that goes with the memory. "The Pa—Pat—Par," You keep thinking aloud, but Grace ignores you as he screws the top off the other end of the prism.
"It starts with a 'p,' I know that. It was named after the woman who—oh yes! Petrova! It's the Petrova line!" You call, and that finally gets Grace's attention. "It's a 3d model of the Petrova line." You nod along to yourself, not getting close to the glass of the glove box again to look at it.
Grace now turns his focus back toward the object he had set down. He picks it up with the tongs and holds it closer to the glass. He nods, agreeing with your statement. "Yeah, I think you're right. That must be the star out there. Tau Ceti." You glance toward one of the thick windows of the ship and watch as the star comes into view as the ship orbits itself to keep the gravity.
"Which means that whoever is over in that ship," Grace gestures toward the window as Mary spins, and you can for a moment see the alien ship. "Must be here for the same reasons as us."
"Take out the rest of it." You encourage, hitting his arm slightly to get him to move. Grace sets down the Petrova line model and turns the xenon prism around. From the second opening, he uses the tongs to pull out another object made of the same material as everything else. This object, like the last, has long thin arm like wires sprouting out of it, but this time the hollow sphere at the bottom is much smaller, and the wires are not curved. Along with the non-curving wires, there are circular tips at the end of each strand of xenon. Just as Grace pulls the entire piece of xenon out, it springs open, making you both jump back.
"Jesus!" You exclaim, holding your chest. "Fuck," you breathe out, turning around to catch your breath. This time Grace doesn't scold your curses.
"Whoa," Grace quickly bounces back from his momentary surprise and presses both hands against the glass as he peers down at it. The object now sits like a sphere of spikes, but the spikes aren't sharp, and they are all different lengths. You look now between it and the Petrova line model.
"It has to be another 3d model." You voice quickly, moving over to the computer and the monitors sitting in the corner of the lab. You take a seat on the swivel chair as you turn on the monitor. "We need to take it out. I have to get a better look at it." You pull up a map of Tau Ceti to see if there are any similarities to the new model and the previous one.
"First, we have to make sure it won't kill us," Grace says.
"Yeah, good plan." You nod, looking over your shoulder at him. "Um, how do we do that?" You ask ask after moment.
"Good question," Grace draws out the good before stepping back from the glove box with his hands on his hips. "Maybe we just—open it a tiny bit and see if anything happens." He purses his lips in thought. "Unless, of course, you had a better idea."
"No, yeah, that—let's just do that." You agree, now swinging around on the chair to face him.
Turns out, the xenon is not toxic. After a very careless inspection, Grace and you come to conclude that the element, which should be a gas but is somehow a solid, is harmless. Even better, you found out that the xenon object was another 3d model.
"That's Tau Ceti," You point to the center of the model where all the wires are sticking out. On the monitor, you have pulled up a map of the star system the Xenon is modeling.
"Which means that this," Grace rolls the table the model is sitting on in front of the monitor and points to the end of one of the legs where a tiny 3d planet sits. But unlike all the other planets, this one has more than just a circle at the end of the wire. "Must be where they are from." He says, referring to the ship as it passes through the line of sight of the window.
"Forty Eridiani," You read aloud from the screen. "It's further from here than Earth," You observe, typing something into the computer to zoom in on where Earth is relative to Tau Ceti.
"You're a long way from home," Grace says softly under his breathe, eyes locked on the tiny planet. For once, his glasses sit straight on his face as he takes a second to grapple with this new information. You can see again now the slight tremble of his hand. He's still scared, still worried.
"We should add Earth onto the model and send it back." Your voice, breaking the quiet. "It seems like we're here for the same reasons, and we're both far from home."
Grace clears his throat as he stands from his crouching position. He shoots you a determined smile, heading for the station in the lab with building equipment. "Let's go make the first human contact with aliens."
The next message you received is housed in the same oddly shaped casing. And this time, instead of Grace having to jump off the side of the ship to get it, it arrives through the door of the airlock. You catch it this time, in your own red EVA suit, and over the coms, triumphantly brag about how easily you caught it. Grace doesn't point out the fact that it was literally shot out directly into your open hands while his wasn't, but you both know he wants to. Rather, he focuses on setting up a rope system to get around more easily in zero gravity as you come back inside.
"So, they want to connect our ships?" You question aloud, quietly watching as Grace flips the new xenon contraption in his hands. After inspection—or flipping it over—you notice the lines of xenon line up to create an image of both EVA ships. But one strip of xenon stands out starker than the rest; the strip connected to both the ships like a bridge.
"I think so," Grace breathes out, his tone dropping its normal cadence of curiosity and playfulness. You can feel the dread radiating from him and crawling up your skin.
There's a brief moment of serious contemplation that passed over you. Sure, this is a massive leap toward progress in your mission. But at the same time, you can't help but worry about what could go wrong. You can't help the endless, consuming fears that this could go deadly wrong.
"Can we stop it?"
Grace slowly halts his fiddling with the xenon. He doesn't want to scare you, but he knows that this is best. He would love not to need to face the unknown to keep you safe, but your situation doesn't allow it. The Earth's future is at stake, and if even one more alien planet is at risk, then that doubles the urgency of action. Grace wants to protect you, and he knows the best and scariest way to do that is to make contact.
"I don't think we should," Grace admits, turning slightly to look over his shoulder at you. You take another beat, trying to suppress your own doubts in order to think clearly. You know what's at stake, and you know you need to start acting like it.
"It's—we need to be careful. I mean, what if all those messages were just some scheme to get us close so they can take all our stuff and leave us for dead? I'm not saying that's what's happening, but we should be prepared." You question out, now pacing back and forth behind Grace, who is seated at a lab table near the window, deep in thought. If he wasn't so stressed, Grace might have taken the time to appreciate your unusual amount of speaking today.
"I doubt that's the case. They are here for the same reasons as we are. We need to be able to communicate better. And an hour ago you were all for alien contact, what's with the change?" Grace asks, setting down the xenon and spinning around in his chair to face you.
"I never said I was against it. All I mean is we have to be smart. Let's put aside the fact that they could be tricking us, I guarantee you our climates will be deadly to each other. I mean solid xenon, come on. " You scoff, having stopped your pacing, you lean against the wall opposite him. Grace lets out a soft laugh at your words, his posture easing up a bit.
"Okay, yes, we will be careful." He nods, a hint of a smile threatening to spread across his lips.
"Good." You respond quickly. You tap your fingers against your folded arms for a second before blurting out, "And if they try to eat us, don't expect me to hold back the I told you so."
"I wouldn't dream of taking that away from you." Grace rolls his eyes sarcastically and turns back to the lab table.
It doesn't take long after you slow the spinning ship to a stop for the other ship to start moving. You watch from the lab window, slightly terrified as a wire of xenon stretches from the edge of the larger vessel out to Mary. An elevator-like contraption shoots out from the other ship and across the shaft that the xenon arms created.
As soon as the gravity is shut off again, Grace busies himself elsewhere. He starts preparation for contact by getting his suit ready to go, making sure all of Mary's systems are functioning properly, and once that's all done, he meticulously starts cleaning up around the ship. He steers clear of the central hub where the lab is located to leave you your alone time. Instead, he focuses on the medical bay slash dormitory and the Don't go Crazy room.
While he works, you attempt to lounge about the lab. Grace had settled most of your worries, but there is still a nagging feeling in the back of your mind. You try not to think about the fact that an alien organism is mere minutes away from either befriending you or tearing you and the only other human you know limb from limb. You pull yourself over to the computer using the rope system Ryland set up and click through applications until you land on a large file named 'Music'. Whoever had created the ships database was an angel. Thousands of tracks were attached to the file. Songs as old as the 1920's all the way up until November of 2023.
Ironically, the song you currently have on loop whenever Grace lets you play music is the same song you woke up to all those two months ago. Hello by Martin Solveig & Draggonette is the only thing you know will be able to distract you as the bridge between ships is made. So you open the file eagerly and press play.
The opening drums instantly call to your attention, making you tap your fingers to the beat against your leg. Next comes the guitar, which starts a subtle movement in your upper body that directly follows the movement of your fingers. But the second the piano's electrifying cords cut through the noise, you're a goner.
It takes all but two lyrics for you to be singing along with the recording, clapping, and moving your body in accordance with the music.
Before you know it, you're somewhere else completely. You're in the back of a car, leather seats cool against the bare skin of your calf. Your hair is blowing around you like a halo as the wind whips in from the lowered windows of the car. The vibrations of the drums rattle through your tiny body as you sing along. The lyrics that come out of your mouth sound right but make close to no sense, but your heart is fully in it. You hear a laugh come from the front seat like a ray of light. It's deep and comforting, a voice of someone trustworthy and safe. His voice is one you seem to recognize deep in your bones because when he turns around from the driver's seat, his silhouette blocks the illuminating sun behind him, you feel a laugh bubble up within you, matching his. It feels like the easiest thing ever. He says something to you, but before you can place what it is, the final "Hey" echoes out from the speaker and pulls you back to reality.
Now in the silence of the lab, you float breathlessly. The feelings that wash over you are ones you can't place with any certainty. There are tears in your eyes, but you are not sure if they are of joy or utter despair. Warmth blooms in your chest as a knot forms in your stomach. It was so rapturous and safe, you could have stayed there forever. But a sinking pit is pulling at your heart. It was gone in an instant, before you could relish it, it was taken from you. Worse, you sink further, as you realize that you'll never again be able to drive in a car with the windows rolled down, blasting music you love with someone you love a seat away.
You love them. It distracts you from everything else. You loved whoever it was that was sitting in the driver's seat. It was as easy as breathing to deduce. There was no hitch of doubt that passed over you as you thought about it. Odd. So you do have someone you love back on Earth. So you aren't alone in the universe after all. You have someone you love and who loves you back on Earth, blasting music and thinking of you too.
The feeling is overwhelming. Both elating and absolutely devastating. Your heart feels bombarded with so many conflicting emotions that it blurs your vision even further. But before you can even try to begin to decipher any of it sensibly, Grace calls out to you. You quickly blink away the water from your eyes as you hear him getting closer.
Later. Later, you'll have to deal with these newfound memories and all the emotional roller coasters that came with them. For now, you have to make contact with an alien without getting eaten alive.
"Is everything ready?" You ask, using the rope to propel you toward the outside of the airlock, where Grace is holding to the wall in his red EVA suit.
"Yep. Checked all systems twice. Everything is good to go." Grace affirms, brushing his gloved hand over his suit to straighten out a nonexistent bump.
"Okay, well." You swallow the lump in your throat while you watch him smile reassuringly at you. "Guess you should head out."
"Yeah," Grace nods gravely, his voice dying in his throat. His fingers aimlessly fiddle with his EVA helmet resting in one of his hands.
You both float there for a while, with no real intention to move. You stay still as if it may change what needs to be done. The truth is, it won't, but the possibilities of losing someone else are too loud for you to let him go without some hesitance. All protests seem to die in your throat the longer you float there.
Grace is no better. He knows what he has to do, but he's also terrified and grossly under qualified. The thought of trekking out into the unknown keeps his body suspended still in the air. Yet some other part of his conscience is urging him forward. If he doesn't take the leap into the depths of space—well, really it's an enclosed tunnel which is equally as terrifying—no one else will. He has to do it for you and for Earth, so he nods firmly, the tremor now in his leg, and takes hold of the tether rope to keep him connected to Mary and a headlight to attach to his helmet.
He clumsily attaches the rope to his suit and the light to his headpiece, and you watch, twiddling your thumbs anxiously. You have to tell yourself he's only fumbling because he's scared too, not because he has no ability and might die. The images of the car come back to you now suddenly and violently. You can't help but feel a pull to stop Grace as he pulls himself into the airlock. You only have him, and if you lose him, like you lost the man in the driver's seat, you don't think you'll be able to complete the mission Earth sent you here to do if he leaves you.
"Wait—" He halts immediately, concern taking over his features like it was already simmering below the surface. "Do you have to go out there? We can't really know what's out there. Maybe we should rethink this whole thing. I don't think I'm—we're ready yet." Your throat tenses as you speak. "We can still call this off and wait it out." You swallow, trying to push the burning sensation away from your eyes.
"I can't—I don't—What happens if you die?" You can't look at him anymore. All you see are flashes of the driver's silhouette blurring with Grace's. "What—what if you get eaten or something. Then I would really be alone—"
"Hey, hey," He calls your name gently, "listen to me." His voice isn't demanding but assertively tender. There is no doubt in your mind that he used this voice on his student. "I'm just as terrified as you, and I could try to lie to you and say everything will be fine, but I know you know better." His walls seem to break down as he speaks, the previous feign of calm for your sake now crumbled at his feet.
"Grace—"
"I don't know how to do this. I really don't. I'm trying to be a strong grown-up in your life, but it's hard when our lives are the plot out of some sci-fi movie." Grace huffs out, shaking his head, still finding this whole situation hard to believe.
"I'm not asking you to be a 'strong grown up' in my life," You scoff, brows furrowing petulantly.
"Doesn't mean I won't be anyway." He looks at you with something you recognize from somewhere but can't place. It's almost a reverent kind of affection reserved for a select few. "I know our memories are hazy, but I—kid I—I feel like I know you. I feel like you meant something to me," he tries to laugh off the gravity of it, but it doesn't work.
"I'm not a kid." Your voice begins to waver.
"Yeah, you are." Grace smiles sympathetically. "Look at you," He says, and he does look at you, like you saved him, like you hung the moon and start. "You're incredible, and smart and talented, but you are still a kid. Can't be older than 20. You really shouldn't be here. But you are. And I can't—I can't fix it, I can't save you from our inevitable doom. I can't." Tears well in Grace's eyes.
"But I can tell you that I'm not going to let anything happen to you. Even if I'm scared shit-less, which I am, believe me. I'm the ultimate scared shit-less guy." You laugh faintly, and it makes him smile
"Quit cursing." You mock him with zero intent to make him stop. Ryland huffs and looks to the floor of the ship. It takes him a moment to collect himself before he continues. More tears threaten to pour as he meets your gaze.
"You are the most important thing to me, I can feel in my bones—in my—my soul. I look at you and—" He chokes on his word. His fist flies up to his mouth to muffle the sound of his sob. He takes a deep breath to steady himself. "And I think, god, I love that kid. And I would rather die in some dark, solid—somehow—xenon tunnel, by getting eaten by aliens than let you die." You let out a wet laugh.
"So please, let's do this together, calmly, so that you won't have to be alone." You nod solemnly, watching him in his red EVA suit. He smiles and reaches out to squeeze your shoulder.
Just before he turns to the air lock, you add, "Just—look, don't touch, and—"
"Waft not sniff." He interjects with a nod, you halfheartedly smile and nod too. Grace then turns to the door, puts on his helmet, and walks down the circular hall to the edge of the ship. You shut the large door behind him, making sure it's locked before nodding at him. Just before you turn to get back to get on coms, he lifts his hand and gives you a lazy grin, thumbs up.
The coms come to life with a static crackle. You quickly pull up the live feed from Grace's EVA suit. Your whole body feels on edge, your ears perk at every tiny sound, and your hand twitches against the metal trackball mouse. You're suddenly very aware of the fact that the sleeve of your EVA ventilation garment is brushing against your wrist. Trying to roll it up your arm only results in further irritation, and pulling it down is of no use due to the fact that it was built perfectly for the length of your arm. You huff out, trying to ignore it as the feed from Grace's suit loads. It's pitch black, nothing but darkness beyond the edge of the airlock.
"Any way you can light this up?" Grace's voice cuts through the coms. He sounds just slightly unsteady as you watch him grip the edge of the ship.
"Let me see." You answer back, clicking away to find a way to turn the outermost lights on. Brows furrowing, your eyes scan the screen for anything. You look to see if there are more lights, because you can run to the control room to turn them on manually, but you would prefer it if you could stay with Grace and do it through Mary's database.
"Anything?" He asks. You glance back at the live video and see Grace's hands gripping the ledge of the airlock. You grumble in frustration, and you reach out to mash down on the button that lets Grace hear you.
"Afraid not." You take a shaky inhale before letting out an audible huff of irritation. "I'm sorry."
"It's alright." You watch as Grace pushes off the ledge of the ship.
"Do you—" You swallow, watching his movements with anticipatory dread. "You can come back inside—"
"No, my head lamp will do fine. Just have to stay near the edge." Grace interjects reassuringly, his tone still soft even as he stands on the very edge of uncharted territory. The push propels him toward the side of the tunnel. He collides into it with a grunt.
"Are you—"
"I'll be okay," Grace says comfortingly. With a heavy sigh, he slowly begins to haul himself along the side of the xenon tunnel.
You watch in silence for a long while as Grace trudges on. What seems like hours go by while you watch with bated breath, even though you know it can not have been more than six minutes. All you can really see is the side of the tunnel, the rope floating to the side of Grace's arm, and the seemingly endless darkness.
"Everything okay?" You ask, watching his feed. You want to hear it from him, not see it from his body cam.
"Everything is swell." His voice comes out strained. You watch as his grip on the wall fumbles slightly. Your posture straightens as you watch. His breathing gets heavier as his hand slips from the wall.
The video from the feed cuts out for just a moment, and when it flashes back on, you can no longer see the wall but just darkness. Your breath catches as it clips out again, and you hear a pained noise before the video cuts in again. Now all you can see is a close-up of the opposite xenon wall.
"What's happening?" Your trembling fingers against the coms button as you speak. He lets out a grunt in response, and the video shows him pushing back away from the wall.
"Just a slip." He replies, continuing his forward motion. It doesn't take long for him to reach the end of the tunnel. "I can see the ship." Is all he says as he approaches a solid wall of xenon.
You watch as Grace runs his gloved fingers along the wall, looking for some sort of opening. No sounds leave you as your heart pounds loudly in your ears. Part of you wishes it were you out there, stumbling over yourself. If anything happens to Grace, you know you won't be able to piece yourself together. And all the people of Earth would die because you couldn't be brave, because of your failure. Another part of you knows that if you had been the one to go out, you probably would have peed yourself already, and after that, very little would get done.
After a short search, Grace's camera shows a small window near the bottom of the tunnel. The shoulder-width, trapezoid-shaped window is only visible for a split second before his camera is pressed against the wall and your visibility goes to black.
"What do you see?" The question goes unanswered, and your heart rate picks up. "Grace? Are you okay? Whats—"
"Fine. Good, everything—everything's fine." Grace's voice trails off, and you have to assume he sees something. You hear two thumps through his intercoms before he speaks again. "It's just more darkness. If it weren't for the messages we got, I'd think the ship was abandoned."
"There has to be something there, right? Shine your light through—"
A flash of light is the first thing you see to cause alarm, followed by a bang and a yell. Grace's distinct voice ripples through the speaker of the coms like an earthquake. You watch helplessly while the feed flashes as he spins. Your heart pounds against your ribcage, and you're calling for him again the second your brain catches up with what's happening.
"Grace?" You press down on the coms. "What's out there? Are you okay?"
The camera feed stabilizes before his breathing can be heard again. Now, fuzzy, you see Grace approaching the xenon wall once more. His voice comes in breathless as he speaks into the intercoms.
"It was—there was a claw—"
"Grace? Please, tell me what's happening. Are you alright? Are you hurt?" The desperation in your voice catches his attention. His movements stop momentarily for him to respond.
"I'm fine. I just saw—something. I'm not sure, I think it's—it's a—"
Once again, the camera presses up against the xenon wall, blocking your view of what's happening. Two more thumps come in through the speaker, and you remain quiet, listening for anything to help you understand what's happening. Grace lets out a noise, close to disbelief and relief. Through the coms, his voice cracks, and his words sound somewhat terrified but also a hundred percent certain.
"It's a rock!"
a/n: This took a while but it’s finally here. Thanks to all of those who commented on my initial post about this you really helped me finish it. This will probably be the longest part of the entire series, because Im thinking each post will be little snippets that add to the big picture. Feel free to comment or send in any asks about this series. Please be patient for the next part. Thank you.
Summary: Ryland Grace and you wake up on the Hail Mary with no memories of who you are or how you got there. Slowly through flashbacks and memories you begin to understand how you are connected.
Let it be knowns/Warnings: THIS IS A PLATONIC SHIP, father daughter relationship, cursing, mentions of abuse, mentions of violence, found family.
Parings: Ryland Grace x fem!reader (Platonic!!)
Notes:
This post will be updated as more is revealed in the fic. Be patient with me Im human. Comments, asks, and likes are highly encouraged!
This story starts when they first meet Rocky.
This fic is loosely tied to actual events in the movie. Meaning I will include important plot points but not exclusively that.
Reader age is as of now unstated, but she is in her late teens early twenties. (I know it’s crazy but bare with me)
Warnings: no use of y/n yearning, crying, bad relationship with father, let me know if I missed any.
Word Count: 1.5k
a/n: (at the end)
(Series masterlist)
James Moriarty's love is something one expects to be explosive. Yet it is anything but. It is subtle and overwhelming but also absurdly intoxicating. It is something you only truly notice when it gets quiet. Because to have his love be known was something that truly terrified James. Nothing good ever came from having your secrets laid out for everyone to see.
And James feels it happen; The switch in his behaviors, the drift of his attention, the second you walked into a room. And of course, because his love is so unsuspecting, it's only fitting that it makes itself known at such a vulnerable moment.
You’ve been irritable all day. That’s how James knew something was going on. Sherlock had made a joke, and you didn’t laugh. That was odd. James made a snide remark, wanting simply to make you smile. But instead, you blow up in his face and storm off to your dormitory.
James hasn’t known you long, but thus far he has never seen you so aggravated for seemingly no observable reason. Of course, you had called him a cock sucker before, but it had been with an eye roll or a smile you attempted to hide, but he still saw. Never had you been so serious or cruel with your intentions when you said it before. If it weren’t for the way you stormed off after you’d said it, James would have taken earnest offense. But as you ran, he thought he saw tears welling up in your eyes, and instantly all hostilities were dropped before they began. Sherlock hadn’t noticed, too busy giving all his attention to some inconsistencies he found in what Mycroft had told him earlier.
James is quick to follow after you, leaving Sherlock with some made-up excuse he'd be too preoccupied to question twice. He trails after you through halls and down corridors, calling out your name. You just keep on until you finally make it to your room, where you shut the door in James' face.
With a huff, he calls your name through the door. "Come on. I did not mean what I said. You know I didn't mean it." James his head against your door, catching his breath.
"Please just go, James." His breath catches as you speak.
"Not until this is settled," James says definitively, trying the doorknob. It's locked.
"I forgive you. There it is settled." You utter through the wood. But James can hear the sniffle you let out, so he presses on.
"If you forgive me, why is it that you still sound upset?" He tries, leaning into the door as if that will somehow get him closer to you. "Was it really me? Or did someone else do something?"
"James—"
"Because, as you know, I am not above getting my hands dirty."
"James, stop." You announce, cutting through his words. There is a stillness where neither of you speaks; all that can be heard is shuffling from your side of the door. The sound of a key sliding into a keyhole pulls James to step away from the door.
The door is pulled open tentatively. When you finally come into view, you look somewhat disheveled. It pulls at James' heartstrings uncomfortably. Your eyes are red and puffy. Clearly, you've been crying more than he initially saw. James' nonchalant persona cracks just slightly under the weight of the sight.
"It has nothing to do with you." Your voice quietly. Like every syllable claws at your throat as it comes out.
"Then what is it?" James dips his head down to meet your gaze. You shift your weight from foot to foot in hesitant contemplation. James holds his gaze steady.
Reluctantly, you step aside to let James in. He steps through the threshold of your room and gazes around. Lying across your desk, which sits near the door, he sees letters scattering the surface. Some are unfinished letters, a couple are crumpled up, but in the center of your desk is a letter clearly not in your distinct penmanship. On this letter are creased wrinkles left in shapes only tears could make.
"Tell me what is wrong." James tears his eyes away before you notice. He faces you now, concealing his anguish behind furrowed brows of curiosity.
It takes you a minute to gather the courage to tell the truth. You trust James, but you also know that behind his facade of charm and quips, he holds so much weight. He doesn't need yours. But his stance is unwavering. He holds his ground as he waits for you, ever the gentleman.
“It’s my father.” You divulge. You say it as though if you say it too loudly, your father himself will hear you from across the Atlantic.
"Ah," James voices solemnly. That's what the letters must have been about. He takes a moment to mull over his words.
“You’ve never mentioned him before,” James decides. No connotations as to not upset you more. He is not sure of your own opinions on him yet.
“I don’t like even thinking about him.” You let out a self deprecating noise that leaves James with a familiar understanding and distaste. One thing he feels often when thinking about his own father.
Your mind runs a million miles a minute, trying to compose itself. The mere thought of him brought feelings that, if you could, you would have killed and buried and never spoken of again.
“Why’s that?” James' eyes don't leave you for even a second. His gentleness is so exposing, so stripped down and bare, it makes you curl in on yourself. You’ve never been one to get much attention unless you explicitly put yourself in the spotlight. No one had ever looked at you without you predetermining it and deciding it would happen. That is, until you met Sherlock and James. They both look at you without you having to grab their attention with some big gesture or loud character trait. They see you even when you don't want them to. And even worse, James can read you even when you wish he couldn't.
James knows you in some impossible way. In the short time he has known you, he has learned almost everything about you. Your tells, the way you cower ever so slightly when someone makes you upset, how you fight tooth and nail to be tolerated even though you are so easily loved. He knows that just about everything you do is calculated to push you higher and get you further. He knows you as if he has known you his whole life, and you see it. And it excites you, it terrifies you.
"He's like an insect," You being. "He crawls into the weakest parts of you and terrorizes and taunts and calls it love." You don't elaborate, but it seems to you that James understands. He always does. As grateful as you are, a part of you aches for him. You would never wish your pain onto him, but he seems to always already possess it.
“I seem to always be doing something wrong. I can never make him happy." You continue. James's presence is a welcome anchor that seems to be calming the waters of your mind.
"The only reason I’m here is that I thought that if I agreed to go to Oxford, he would finally let me be. But I was sorely mistaken." More tears well up in your eyes as you take a seat at the foot of your bed. James takes a step closer.
"Is the letter from him?" James cautiously asks, but it only seems to bring more tears and a grave nod.
"If I do not improve my marks, all familial ties will be cut." A sob leaves your throat as you sink into the mattress. "I will be estranged and left destitute to fend for myself in a country that I do not belong to. I may never see my mother again." James sits with you now, warmth and comfort radiating from him.
"I will not let that happen," James affirms, jaw set tight. You struggle to control your uneven breathing.
"I promise you this," He says, your name as though it is a vow never to be broken, and takes your hand in his. "He will never hurt you again." Your breath hitches at the stubborn crease of his brow.
"Even if you fail out of Oxford, you will see your mother again." His words are resolute. He says them as if they are fact rather than simple hopes. "His threats are empty. You have me, you have Sherlock. You will never be on your own again."
The damn collapses, and you slam into James' sturdy frame. You cry freely now, no longer able to hold back your fears. James is startled only for a moment before he sinks into the feeling of you in his hold. He holds you securely and lets you set the weight of them down. He lets you come apart with the knowledge that he will be there to help build you up again.
And that's when he feels it. Sitting in your bed on an unsuspecting Sunday afternoon, he feels it. That ache deep in his chest, the pulsing in his veins, the confirmation in his heart. He loves you. And because he loves you, he will never let you go.
a/n: All the comments on the first part of this series is seriously motivating so thank you!! Hope you enjoyed I have nothing else to say. Good day.
A Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty fic masterlist
Summary: In your first year at Oxford you meet Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty who quickly welcome you into their duo. Tensions brew as deeper feelings being to grow and disrupt the balance of the group.
Let it be knowns/Warnings: Use of a last name but this is not a OC fic, Cursing, violence, typical James and Sherlock banter. (More will be added as they come up)
Parings: Sherlock Holmes x fem!reader x James Moriarty
Notes:
I honestly have no end in sight I just play the game because the game is fun.
Reader is American!
I know because of the time this show is set that reader could realistically only be a white woman but for the sake of the fic that history is non aplicable. Reader’s race is not specified and if there is anything that insinuates it let a girl know so I can edit.
PART 1: Let the Games Begin
PART 2: Unsuspecting Love (James) | Sherlocks coming…
This had been swarming in my brain for a while now. Im currently trying to wrangle my thoughts into writing. If anyone cares at all it should be out soonish!
Also I’d like to formally apologize to any book fans because I have yet to read the book. I will eventually but dyslexia isn’t the kindest.
Warnings: explosion, historical inaccuracies, sherlock doesn’t like physical touch, slow burn but not really, not proof read
Word Count: 3.9k
Summary: Sherlock Holmes attempts to be apart of your life again.
a/n: I keep taking forever to write this fic, I’m sorry, I just want it to be good so I overthink everything
Part One, Part Two, Part Three
Classes and studying took up most of your time at Oxford, but the times you found yourself wandering the campus suddenly felt too frequent. Now knowing that Sherlock Holmes was somewhere around the university was a bit startling.
You’d come to realize, during your short conversation with the Holmes boy, that you did not have any interest in speaking with him. A bitterness that had been buried deep within you suddenly reemerged, resentment that you carried for Sherlock after he left you in that countryside years ago. While you understood the circumstances of his departure, it never sat right with you. He never said goodbye to his friend, he had just forsaken you.
Now, his attempts to rekindle whatever friendship you once had would be neglected by you.
You’d spotted Sherlock a few times along the campus streets. Once when he was collecting trash, another as he raked the leaves along a courtyard, and a third time delivering fresh toiletries to a public lavatory. Each time, you failed to evade his gaze. It was like Sherlock had a sixth sense for you. Nevertheless, each time, you would quickly pivot and shift your course away from his. Of course he called out for you, but you knew the campus better than he did and you managed to escape.
A couple days after you first reunited with the youngest Holmes brother, you had been departing from your residence hall when you ran into yet another familiar face. You were surprised to recognize Mycroft Holmes so quickly, but the confident, composed nature of how he presented himself had always been so irresistible when you were younger. You would recognize it anywhere. Mycroft strode along the cobblestone streets, cane in hand, no doubt only to show off the aristocratic man he’d become. His suit had been tailored to perfection, and a hat that further embraced his respectable status. Mycroft Holmes was still, if not even more compelling than last you saw him. Even if you had outgrown your silly infatuation with the eldest Holmes, you found yourself unintentionally moving towards him. You weren’t upset with him like you were with Sherlock, Mycroft had left the countryside to pursue work long before the incident. At least he said goodbye.
“Excuse me, Mr. Holmes?” You approached him, a delighted grin pulling at the corners of your lips. Mycroft turned at the sound of his name, squinting slightly as his eyes landed on you. It had been years since you had last seen each other, and you weren’t the young girl he remembered. While he donned a new mustache above his upper lip, you changed in more ways than one.
It took Mycroft a moment longer than Sherlock before he spoke your name, expression lighting up with surprise. “How remiss of me to forget you attend this University!” A polite smile replaced his previous countenance as he removed his hat before tipping his head respectfully.
You bowed your head in return, “It’s lovely to see you.”
“And you as well.”
“What brings you here?” You inquire, brows furrowing curiously, though a slight smile remained on your face. “I don’t suppose you’re here as a scout too?” You teased, earning a slight chuckle from the older gentleman.
“Business for the foreign office.” Mycroft answered simply, carefully placing his hat back on his head. “I’m on the way to attend Professor Hodge’s gala opening for the new science building.”
“Oh, don’t let me keep you any longer then.” You moved to step back, excusing yourself from the conversation.
Mycroft shook his head, “No, join me, I insist. I could use a friend.” He smiled again, more genuine than the first, indicating he truly meant his offer. He extended his arm out to you.
You took a short moment to think it over. “Sherlock won’t be there?” You asked, framing the question as a casual inquiry, although there was much more intent behind it.
Mycroft sighed like he knew something, shaking his head as if your question was ridiculous. “For both of our sakes, I certainly hope not.” He lifted his arm a little higher, extending the offer to you once more.
You gave in and accepted, nodding your head and looped your arm around his.
The Gala was a polished, yet pretentious event, full of professors and other high society members, all gathered in one place to celebrate Oxford's newest accomplishment. It was the kind of place your parents wanted you to be, and the kind that Sherlock would argue you aren’t made for.
You sat beside Mycroft at a table near the back of the room, seated with Professor Hodge’s assistant you knew as Edie, a few professors you weren’t familiar with, and a couple of men who aided in funding the building.
“Nothing has such power to broaden the mind as the ability to investigate.” Professor Hodge stood upon the stage, arms resting atop a podium as he addressed the crowd. You found yourself giving the professor barely a fraction of your attention, eyes wandering around the room as you inadvertently searched for Sherlock among the sea of faces. Although you knew events like this weren’t exactly his cup of tea, the chance of his arrival was not unlikely.
Hodge continued, “I must now make mention of our brilliant mathematician, Professor Charles Thompson, for his invaluable contribution. Ladies and gentlemen, I invite you to charge your glasses-” A resounding thump interrupted the professor's speech, startling you along with a few other guests. The noise came from the wall behind Professor Hodge, brick and mortar crumbling as the structure collapsed more and more with each thud. You had to crane your neck, sitting taller in your seat as you attempted to get a better look at the commotion.
“Holmes, what the devil are you doing in my chimney?” You overheard the professor before Sherlock came into view, heading poking out of the opening he had created in the wall. Your eyes flew wide and you turned to look at Mycroft, who let out a defeated sigh, now hiding his face behind his hand.
“Sorry to bother you, sir! A rather pressing issue,” Sherlock replied, voice strained with effort as he continued to break the wall down.
“Well, I hope it is for your sake. What is it?”
“A bomb!” Sherlock spoke louder now, a more desperate tone to his voice. “A bomb is an incendiary device-”
“I know what a bloody bomb is, Holmes! What has that got to do with interrupting my speech and destroying my chimney?”
“Proximity, sir. It’s likely to go off within the next thirty seconds, killing anyone within the blast radius, which I would assume is likely to be… pretty likely this whole room, sir.” Sherlock emerged from behind what used to be the chimney.
Professor Hodge responded quietly, something you couldn’t hear from where you were sitting. Your eyes passed over the guests who made no effort to heed Sherlock’s warning. To be fair, it sounded ridiculous.
“Should we be moving?” You whispered to Mycroft, slight panic in your voice.
James Moriarty stepped out from behind Sherlock, much more urgency in his tone. “For God’s sake, would you stop being so English! There’s a bomb!” With that, the room erupted into screams of panic. Mycroft quickly urged you up and out of your seat, trying his best to guide you through the crowd as people began to run. Chairs screeched against the floor as guests shuffled to get out. Everyone made for the door, some tripping over themselves as they pushed past others.
You barely made it out of the room before an explosion went off behind you, bursting with fire and soot. The detonation left a ringing in your ears, the world becoming quieter, the guests frightened screams fading into no more than a fuzzy white noise. You looked around, slightly disoriented. Mycroft was beside you still, already looking down at you and asking if you were okay. You only nodded, bringing a hand up to rub your temple in efforts to soothe a subtle throb that had begun to develop.
Once again, you found yourself searching the crowd for Sherlock. Unlike the last few times, you realized you wanted to find him. Your heart rate began to pick up when he was nowhere to be found. Sherlock’s name slipped from your lips unintentionally. Mycroft noticed and placed his hand on your shoulder in a comforting manner. He said something to you, but you couldn’t focus beyond the loud ringing in your ears. You turned, looking back towards the smoking entrance of the science building, and as if on cue, Sherlock Holmes emerged from inside with James Moriarty by his side.
He was wiping soot from his face when his gaze caught your own. Sherlock stopped in his tracks, afraid that if he moved any closer, you would disappear like all the other times. This time, you didn’t turn away. You felt your concern ease, instead replaced by something else.
Much to Sherlock’s surprise, you approached him in a quick, dire stride. He almost smiled, thrilled that you had come to your senses and decided to speak with him again, but he recognized your expression, and any trace of a grin faded in an instant. “Oh no,” he muttered, horror crossing over his features.
“What?” James questioned, turning to follow his friend’s line of sight, though he wasn’t quite sure what he was looking for.
Before Sherlock had time to answer, you were in front of the two men, hands flying out to hit Sherlock on the chest over and over again. “You absolute fool! What is wrong with you?” You scolded him, releasing your pent up anger through the light blows to his chest.
Sherlock’s shoulders tensed, his eyes shutting as he took the strikes without complaint. Of course it wasn’t an enjoyable sensation for him, but he didn’t have the guts to tell you to stop. “I’m not sure I understand this reaction?” He forced the words, peaking through a squinted eye.
You stopped hitting him, though the angry glare hurt him just as bad. “Really? You think you can show up without warning after six years! And on top of that, barge into this gala, blow it up, and still have the nerve to act like everything is fine and you’re the hero!”
“For your information, I did no such thing. I had no part in this explosion, James and I were attempting to stop it.” Sherlock defended, rolling his shoulders back in efforts to remove the tension. You gave him another sharp look which earned an amused snicker from James. Sherlock quickly swallowed his words, realizing his mistake. He adjusted his coat and cleared his throat as he regained his composure. “James, would you give us a moment?” Sherlock spoke staidly, looking towards his friend, who teased shamelessly,
“Oh, of course, don’t let me keep you two lovebirds.” He bowed his head, feigning politeness before backing away slowly and disappearing into the chaos of the explosion aftermath.
Sherlock let out a huff, nostrils flared with his momentary irritation before his gaze caught yours once more. Something softened, though he looked at you now with uncertainty. “I don’t understand,” Sherlock shook his head. “You have been avoiding me for days. What’s changed?”
“Oh, don’t be a hypocrite. If distance is what is confusing you, then you should not have disappeared six years ago.” The words hit Sherlock hard, realization rushing over him all at once.
He blinked, for once at a loss for words. “No, that…” Sherlock shook his head, regret overwhelming him suddenly. He longed to reach out to you, as if that would be any reconciliation for how you were feeling, for this misunderstanding, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so. Words didn’t feel like enough with you, they never did, but that’s the only way he ever knew. “That’s not what happened,” He began to protest, but was unable to when his name was called somewhere in the distance.
It was a very dishevelled looking Professor Hodge, accompanied by Edie and Mycroft, all whose patience seemed to be a short fuse. Sherlock looked back and forth, torn between his options. He opened his mouth to speak, but was once again interrupted by the sound of his name, this time from Mycroft. Sherlock sighed, knowing he wouldn’t have much time before being rudely interrupted once again. “I can assure you, I never intended for that to happen. Allow me time to explain. I’ll find you later. Just promise you’ll listen?”
You looked at him, eyebrows a tense line as you considered his advance. You didn’t answer, but something in you softened, and of course Sherlock noticed. He always noticed. “Thank you.” He said softly before making his way towards Hodge and the others.
Sherlock didn’t find you in your dorm later that night. He knocked on the door once and waited, but there was no response. He knocked a second time, telling himself you just needed a moment to compose yourself. Still, there was no answer. Then he knocked a third time, and once more after that for good measure. You never answered and he felt his heart falter with defeat. It was simply too late. It seemed Sherlock Holmes had lost you for good.
When he returned to his room later that night with James Moriarty at his side once more, he slumped into a lopsided chair beside his desk and sighed deeply. Guilt and frustration overcame him, a frown pulling at his lips and a deep crease forming between his brows. He discarded his jacket, tossing it lazily onto the foot of his bed before running a hand through his hair as James approached him with a drink.
“You look rather down in the dumps for a man who should be celebrating.” James remarked, sitting down on the armchair across from Sherlock, looking rather proud with that signature smirk he always wore.
“And what exactly should we be celebrating?” Sherlock inquired, picking up his drink and swirling the liquid inside the glass as he looked down at it. “We haven’t exactly solved anything. We don’t know who planted the bomb. Or why?”
“And that is not our concern.” James countered, nonchalance radiating from him as he comfortably reclined back in his seat.
“Not our concern?” Sherlock repeated, leaning forward in contrast to James.
“We set out to find the scrolls. We found them. I’m not losing my scholarship, and you’re not going to prison. So I think that’s worth raising a glass to.” James retorted, lifting his glass and taking a sip of his drink with a look of assurity on his face.
Sherlock didn’t argue. He turned, resting his chin on the palm of his hand as his gaze roamed over the window. The room was silent for a moment before James began humming to himself. Sherlock was moments away from slipping away into the safety of his overactive imagination and hyperanalyze every action of his day when a knock sounded at the door.
James and Sherlock shared a look before the Irishman spoke, “Are you expecting company?”
Sherlock stood, shaking his head as he made his way to the door, “I am not.” He eyed the door suspiciously, taking hold of the knob before twisting it open to reveal you. Your name passed from his lips, his tone the most encouraged it had sounded in hours. “You weren’t in your room?” He recalled, brows furrowing with curiosity as he looked at you.
“I was not.” You shook your head. “I wasn’t sure I was ready to face you.”
“And now?”
You held his gaze for a long moment, your expression finally free of any animosity or preconceptions. “May I come in?”
“Of course,” Sherlock stepped to the side, allowing you into the room. He watched as you entered, his gaze burned to you like he was afraid if he blinked you would be gone again. He closed the door behind, flexing his fingers as he released the handle.
“Oh, I was not aware anyone else was here.” You look between James and Sherlock, deciding whether you should stay or come back another time.
“Don’t mind me,” James waved it off, now on his feet and approaching the floor mirror which held his jacket. “I have a previous arrangement to get to."
“Yes,” Sherlock nodded, agreeing though he had no such knowledge of these arrangements James spoke of. “He was just leaving.”
James smiled in the way he always does, first to Sherlock then to you as he shimmed into his jacket. “So, Romeo, Juliet, good night, good night.” He teased, backing towards the door. “Parting is such sweet sorrow that I shall say good night… ‘Cause I am off to the pub.” With that, the door swung close behind him and you and Sherlock were left alone.
The room almost felt smaller now. Filled with a tension so great it was almost palpable. The silence was deafening and your heart threatened to escape from your chest. Sherlock wasn’t exactly sure what to say, where to begin. All he knew was that he was treading on thin ice. “Would you like something to drink?” He finally spoke, the words coming out strained.
You nodded quickly, “Yes, please.” While you would usually say no, the situation at hand felt in dire need of one.
In an instant, Sherlock was moving towards his liquor table to fix you something. You stood awkwardly in the middle of his room, looking around at nothing in particular. The walls were bare and the room itself lacked personality, yet you found it easier to observe rather than the man in front of you.
“How did you know where to find me?” Sherlock asked, pretending to be occupied on pouring a drink, not yet having the courage to look at you just yet.
“Mycroft mentioned something earlier.” You shrugged, fidgeting with your hands idly as you turned to look at Sherlock- or more so his back, which your eyes inadvertently roamed over, his white undershirt not leaving much to imagination. You cleared your throat when you caught yourself, quickly peeling your eyes away when he turned.
“Ah, of course he did.” Sherlock nodded, pressing his lips together in a thin line. “What more did brother dear say about me?” He inquired, handing you your drink.
You looked down at the cup, “To be truthful, there was minimal interest in the topic. Just a few fleeting mentions here and there.” You took a sip of the strong liquid, the drink burning the back of your throat, just delightfully enough to distract you from the tension between you and Sherlock.
“Right then…” Sherlock trailed off awkwardly, picking up his own drink before suddenly becoming aware of the fact that you were both still standing in the middle of his room. “Oh, please sit. Do make yourself comfortable.” He stretched an arm out, pointing towards the armchair James sat on only moments before.
You sighed and made no movement toward the chair, just shaking your head before saying, “Sherlock, we both know I’m not here to catch up.”
“Yes, you’re right,” He exhaled, knowing he couldn’t avoid anything any longer. Sherlock took a step, finding his chair before slumping into it like before. He took a moment, going over the millions of things he could say, thinking back on the speech he’d prepared to say to you earlier, but once again, the words didn’t seem adequate. He began despite, “I never meant to leave you so suddenly, those six years ago.”
“You did not intend to, yet you did.” You spoke defensively, the words leaving your mouth before you could suppress the reaction. “You disappeared Sherlock. You did not have to. You could have written at least.”
“You are right. I should have. I was foolish not to.” Sherlock placed his drink down, looking at you with the most sincerity you had ever seen from him. “After everything that happened that summer. After Beatrice, then my mother, everything became disoriented.” He shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “Father told me he was sending me to finishing school that very same day I left, it was all so sudden. I wanted to say goodbye, I did, but I thought that maybe it would be better if I just disappeared. Your life had a clear path, mine did not. I always knew your parents disliked my interference, in fear that your life would become disorderly like mine. So I decided to step back. Your life would be better without me. I acted in your best interest.”
“You acted in my best interest?” You repeated, almost dropping your glass. “Your disappearance was you being gracious to me?” You took a few steps closer, looking down at him with your brows raised.
“Yes…” Sherlock nodded, confusion spreading across his features, like he wasn’t quite sure what he had said wrong.
You continued looking at Sherlock with absolute disbelief. “You thought you could just decide what is best for me, and I would just accept it? Just move on and forget about you so easily like you never meant anything to me?”
“Well… when you put it like that-”
“Sherlock, you were my best friend! I was never afraid of your mess, I didn’t care! I don’t! So do not try to act in my best interest. The life I wanted was never about order or the things you felt you could not offer me. The life I wanted always involved you!” You spoke firmly now, voice raised the slighted bit, though there was a desperate frailty to it.
Sherlock stood there just looking at you, his eyes wandering over your face, trying to find the right words to respond. Eventually, he managed, “I am so sorry.” The words came out weak and broken. “I’m not sure what I can say now to make things right. I’m not sure anything could ever suffice for what I did to you… All I ask is another chance?”
You didn’t answer instantly, although you knew you wanted the same thing. Him back in your life. Your gaze travelled across his face, eventually lingering on a patch of dried blood over his temple. “You missed some,” You said softly, turning to the wash basin behind you and reaching for the face cloth beside it. Tenderly, you brought your free hand to his chin, tilting his face upwards before bringing the cloth up to his temple to rub at the blood stained there.
Sherlock’s eyes were glued to you. Your touch burned into his skin. Unlike other times, he found himself dreading the moment you would inevitably move away. He leaned into you, wanting to be close, needing to. The six years without you were not without his own displeasures. He missed you dearly throughout it all. Despite his uncertainty as you delicately held him, and the racing of his heart from being so close to you, he savored the feeling and didn’t want you to let go.
To his disappointment, you did eventually pull away, placing the wash cloth down and stepping back before softly speaking, “I should go.”
Sherlock swallowed, “Alright.” It was all he could manage at the moment, looking up at you through half lidded eyes.
You slowly turned, moving towards the door and fidgeting with your fingers as you debated whether or not to speak again. “I suppose I will see you tomorrow.” You finally said, hands on the doorknob, turning over your shoulder to look at him one last time.
Sherlock nodded, a small smile finding its way onto his lips. “I look forward to it.”
grace, who has been alone for five minutes: oh my god. an alien! im not alone anymore! i hope he wants to be friends :)
rocky, coming up on 50 years of solitude, imprinting on grace in ways baby ducklings can only dream of: if you leave me to sleep where i can't watch your heart beat i am blowing up this tunnel with us both in it
summary: you and grace put on a puppet show for rocky at his request so he is able to understand human culture better. little do you know, the engineer is setting you both up.
tags: a lot, a lot of rocky. he thinks humans are gross and stupid and you and grace should mate already. statement ryland referred to as "grace".
Waking up to see a sentient alien creature waddling about in a glass looking ball in the Hail Mary is not something you could say you expected when taking on this mission.
Said creature being the most hilarious living organism you have ever encountered in your life was also not on your list of expectations.
Bracing a hand on the ball, you double over, wheezing at him just tearing Grace apart (likely without meaning to, though sometimes he's so intentional with it it cannot be a coincidence) with a clumsily translated string of words.
"Friend sick, question?" Rocky inquires, bracing a claw against where your hand is resting. Then, voice taking over a more urgent tone — how did Grace manage to convey that via code or translation system, you will never know —, another claw tapping to get Grace's attention; "Grace! Grace! Friend leaking! Emergency, statement!" Pressing his head to your side of the xenonite in a hasty attempt at comfort, "Grace! Intervention. Now!"
"They're good, Rock," Grace sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "They're laughing because they think you said something funny," Turning to you, he points an accusatory finger at you in such a way that an image of him scolding a rowdy student in a classroom flashes in your mind. "About my "inability" to pilot, by the way!" He even does air quotes to emphasize his point. Cute. "Ouch!" He presses a hand against his chest, then waving it off with a dismissive huff. "So pay no attention to the fact that they sound like they're dying."
"Friend alright, statement." Rocky pulls back from the xenonite as he awaits confirmation.
"Yes."
Visibly relaxing, "Grace so dramatiiiiiic—" Rocky drawls, and you're sure if he had eyes, he would be rolling them. "Grace is bad pilot. It fact. Friend try. See if better than Grace. Rocky thinks so. Grace worse than average."
"Mary! Back me up, please?" Grace looks to the ceiling for any kind of support.
"Dr. Grace has no previous records of pilot training received." Echoes from Mary's speakers, dealing the final blow as Grace purses his lips in a pout.
In Mary's defense, that does contribute to his argument. He can get better if he trains a bit more, but alas. The delivery of the line has comedic timing too good to ignore.
"Oh my God—" you cackle, snorting to catch your breath, "Let him live, both of you!"
"Rocky is no threat to Grace. Grace live. Odd human expression, question?"
Nodding, you manage to choke out a sound resembling yeah, wiping your eyes. As if remembering something, Rocky turns to you, and uh-oh, looks like you're next on the chopping block as the finger-like appendages meet into a point to gesture to you.
"Friend also! Inefficient human design. Leak for everything! Disguuust! Make Rocky worry. Apologize, statement."
Shaking with laughter, you lean against the xenonite, wrapping your arms around it in a hug. It's not like you can be mad at him for worrying about you, even though the things that worry him come with human anatomy itself. "Sorry for being human, buddy."
"Acceptable."
Rocky rolls next to your bunker when you're cleaning up your space a little.
"Friend. Time good, question? Rocky have question."
"Sure, hun. What's up?" you settle down to get comfortable. Rocky usually doesn't have simple questions, especially when seeking you out in private. If you're not the readily available human to ask in the first place, the reason why he seeks you out is to either get a second opinion (or confirm the information previously provided), or that he has not been able to get a satisfactory answer out of Grace.
"What word mean, question?" Rocky echoes, tilting his head, tapping a claw twice on the xenonite floor.
"Oh," This might be the first time you call him that petname, actually. "It's short for "honey", — a sweet subtance for consumption. It can also be used as a term of endearment for people who are close to you."
"Do not consume Rocky. Will not digest." You're still amazed at how well the humour carries on despite the translation device. "Eridian term of endearment not have "sweet" substance for consumption. We have ♫𝅘𝅥 𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮♩ ♪___♩. ♪ ♬𝅘𝅥𝅭 𝅘𝅥𝅮 ... But not same word."
"Do you want me to add it as a word?"
"No. Rocky think for more similar word. Question, now. Statement," Rocky tumbles closer, "Rocky observe. Friend no touch Grace. Hand up," he raises a claw, acting as if he's going to touch his another claw, then suddenly puts it down and slumping in place. Putting a show for your dumb little brain, as Grace would say. "Then change mind. Display intention, but no act. Why?"
"That's a loaded question, bud," A long sigh leaves you before you can stop it. Shrugging, you opt for a mild; "I don't want to cross any boundaries, you know?"
"Rocky not know. That why Rocky ask."
Oh, great.
"Boundaries, Rocky knows." Rocky supplies after a brief moment of silence to prompt you into talking, "Grace has explained before. When Rocky first arrive on ship. But you Grace same. Species, same. Mission, same. Same same same. Why boundary, question?"
"... Humans are—" you start.
"Stupid. Statement." Rocky finishes your sentence for you.
"I was going to say complicated, but you know what? You are absolutely right."
Rocky makes a satisfied noise, "Rocky always right." There is a dolphin-like sound you pick up as Rocky shares up and down, laughing. You think he's being smug about being right until he adds; "Rocky is favourite. No boundary. More hug. Friend love Rocky more than Grace."
"Hey, now—"
"What counts as human mating behaviour, question?"
Unlike Grace, you live to yap with Rocky about the differences in species, perhaps owing to a personal interest in anthropology.
"Ooh, very sudden but flavourful question," grinning, you tap your chin in thought, "Do you mean like, courtship, or behaviour displayed exclusively between mates?"
"Second."
"You first, then. Just to provide an example."
Rocky gives a contemplative hum, one claw fluttering over the turquoise mark along his arm. "Mating mark, here. Rocky have Adrian mark."
"It's beautiful..." your eyes graze over the mark. Even with the sentimental meaning aside, it does look like something precious, like a gem or mother of pearl. "A little similar to that, humans have tattoos. We, uh... force ink under our skin to create patterns we like. But it's more of a personal expression, and not exclusive to mates, even if you get matching tattoos with another."
Rocky thrums, and he's definitely judging. You can tell.
"Otherwise, off the top of my head? Kissing, but... on the lips. That's exclusive to mates, I think. Kissing the cheek or hand for example, are not, and can be a display of affection or even respect, depending on the culture."
"... Matching patterns not sign of mate. Touching mouths is sign of mate." Rocky makes an exaggerated motion with his body, displeased at the mere idea, though before he can comment any further, you jut your hands out in a panic;
"We have wedding bands!" you blurt, pointing at your ring finger, "It's when you — supposedly and arguably — commit to your mate for life. You take a vow, and the collective recognizes you as a pair. Traditionally, you wear matching rings made of precious metal to signify the "unbreakable bond" or something."
"... Are you explaining the concept of marriage to Rocky?" You whip around to see Grace leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and with an amused grin on his face.
"Help," Pleading, you reach out for him, and surprisingly, he takes your hand momentarily as he sits down.
Unnecessary physical contact.
You might, in fact, be so touch starved that you classify the action as flirting before you bury it deep down.
"Rocky no understand. Do puppet show."
Both you and Grace blink.
"For... for what..?" Grace asks, putting the glasses hanging off his chin back on his nose bridge.
"For everything! Rocky study Earth culture. Do puppet show! Grace and friend as puppets for better understanding, statement."
Rocky opens and closes his claws in a very enthuastic display of jazz hands.
".... I can narrate." you offer dumbly, the mere thought of close contact with Grace frying your mind, "We both can, actually. ... Shall we?"
The two of you get up, casting one last awkward glance at each other before holding hands and interlocking fingers.
"Why does this feel like explaining reproductive biology to middleschoolers..." Grace sighs, and you bark out a startled laugh.
"Ryland Grace!" you squeak, putting on your best scandalized form, swiftly delivering a light smack to his bicep, "We're not procreating! Certainly not in front of Rocky!"
"Would procreate if Rocky leave room, question?"
"Don't even, Rocky." Grace raises his pointer finger at him, brows raised as the ultimate warning.
After a getting past the initial awkward phase of trying to talk through scenarios and where to put your hands, you realise both you and Grace have a knack for acting.
It starts off with showing Rocky an initial meeting, mostly consisting of explanation and dialogue. Then come the dates, with a lot more props involved, like a makeshift wheel made out of a large valve as Grace pretends to pick you up from your home. It's like a dam has been broken with how many ideas flood the two of you.
Neither of you comment on how you're essentially acting out on your fantasies.
You act out a fancy dinner date, blundering through explaining why mood lighting in the form of candles is so important. Then, a more causal dinner date, something like a diner; showing classic things like sharing a milkshake with two straws, and somehow it's cute and playful to steal fries off of your lover's plate.
Moving rooms, you start getting more specific.
Acting out beach dates and swimming together, and at some point the conversation derails so bad that Grace ends up having you sit on his shoulders while he sits on his knees, and;
"It's played with two pairs. The one on the bottom is usually the stronger out of the pair, both to be able to carry the other and to have a strong foundation so the other pair can't push you off that easily," He keeps a hand on your thigh as a safety measure while he gestures to his waist with his free hand, "You would be in the sea water waist-deep at the very least, though going higher is usually preferred. And then the ones on top try to topple each other, and the pair who stays standing wins."
"It's a bonding activity for all parties and induces some friendly competition," you add, a hand resting on Grace's head, absentmindedly noting how soft his hair is before you pat the crown of his head to signal you want to get off.
"Display of strength. Rocky understand."
Then come the cinema dates, and Grace, of course, does not miss out on the opportunity to show the classic "pretend-yawn-and-embrace" move, to which Rocky visibly looks confused at, and Grace covers all his bases as he mentions cuddling is much more common in more private viewings, like at home.
"Okay, and then— again, traditionally," Grace shoos you a few steps ahead before tapping your shoulder, sinking to one knee as you turn around, bringing his hands together, then opening it as close to a ninety-degree angle as he can, pretending to open a ring box. "The male gets down on one knee to propose."
"Propose what, question?"
"Marriage, Rock."
"Oooh. Ceremony, question? Knee down also part of propose?"
"Eh," Grace makes a small, non-commital noise, "Pre-ceremony, more like. As for the kneeling, yes, but I'm not sure of the reason."
"I heard it dates back to knights." Avoiding his gaze in favour of looking at Rocky, your hands cup his, "Like, bending the knee to take the chivalric oath, or to swear loyalty to their chosen Lady. Haven't checked my sources, though, so don't quote me on that."
"That... makes so much sense, actually."
"Ceremony over when knee down, question? Proposal just gesture?"
"Oh! No Rock, you actually give a speech," Grace tilts his head like a cat, "Let me think, uhh..." A short sniffle out of reflex, "Something like..." gears in his head turning, he takes a moment before clearing his throat, fixing his posture before looking into your eyes, a hand resting over yours, "I, Ryland Grace—"
No matter how nervous you feel, you must not flex your hand, he will feel it. Pull it together, deep breaths. Deep breaths.
"Promise to love and cherish you for all my days. I promise to be true to you in good times and the bad, in sickness and in health,"
Can he feel your pulse from your wrist? God, you hope not. It feels like your heart is trying to beat itself out of your ribcage.
"Will you marry me?"
Time stops.
Something in his gaze is different. You look for any semblance of humour or pretend, just something to let you know that he is doing this for the sake of the puppet show, and find... none.
"Yes," you manage to breathe out, the sound barely audible.
Grace— Ryland? Even if it was an act, you just proposed, and accepted the proposal respectively — does not take his eyes off yours as he rises, leaning a bit closer, breath mingling with yours, and—
He bypasses your face entirely, opting in for a hug.
"Couples usually kiss after that, since it's a happy event." He presses you closer to him, talking to Rocky over your shoulder.
You don't mourn the fact that you cannot see his face when you can feel his heart beat is just as thunderous against his chest when you're so close you can feel the heat emanating off his skin.
"Touch mouths after everything. Uuugh! Unsanitary. Disguuust!"
Pairing: James Moriarty x reader, Sherlock Holmes x reader
Summary: How you meet Sherlock and James.
Warnings: no use of y/n, cringe dialogue, violence, explosions, chases, cursing, drinking, yearning, love triangle??, let me know if i missed any
Word Count: 7.7k
a/n: (at the end)
There was a shift in the air when your boat from New York City first docked in England. It was subtle, but one you couldn’t shake. It wasn’t until you stepped out of your carriage at Oxford that you placed the feeling. The feeling was a precognition; an air of anticipation surrounded the institution. Still, with that feeling in place, you were unsure whether the outcome would be in your favor.
Growing up a fifth avenue elite alongside families such as the Vanderbilt family, the Hamiltons, the Rockefellers, and others, you were accustomed to the haughty nature of those with much money and big shiny names. You yourself are a part of the Willborn family. Your family comes from a long line of riches, stretching as far back as King George I. Which attributes to why the name holds such weight in the world of those with power and money. Along with the fact that after a stroke of luck from your father's business days, your family’s wealth prospers due to the growing industrialized world. Your father had insisted that you attend Oxford as he had. And you, the ever-gracious daughter, had agreed, after your father agreed, to keep his hands out of your education while you were there.
That day of your arrival, you must have seemed troubled because that was the day you had met a scout named Sherlock Holmes. He had asked you what was causing you distress as he hauled one of your trunks up into his arms with little exertion. A conversation soon followed and continued all that afternoon as he helped bring your belongings up into your room. That evening, he had quelled your worry and left you feeling at peace with the future Oxford had in store for you.
After that day, you had only seen him in passing with friendly smiles and small exchanges of pleasantries. He was one of the only people at Oxford that you had met who didn’t act like they had a stick up their ass without good reason. He was incredibly smart and somehow also kind. It was a startling change from the arrogance of New York and the cruelty of your lectures. Even still, your interactions remained at a minimum.
All that said, the last thing you had expected to happen was to be accused of stealing the princess's scrolls alongside Sherlock Holmes and his Irish friend. The morning of the accusation, it had been explained that the three of you had been the last seen going into the Library before the scrolls disappeared.
——
The second real conversation you have with Sherlock Holmes happens in the library. Sherlock had summoned you with no particulars, just that you meet him there as quickly as possible. You, curious as ever, were standing outside before he himself got there.
“Sherlock!” You call out as you see him. He nods with a smile. He says your name in greeting and then stations himself next to you. His shoe taps against the ground of the hall. You note the anxious air to him, but don’t speak of it.
“Why am I here?” You ask, turning to face him. He smiles faintly as he takes a breath.
“Ah, yes. I suspected the information wouldn't have reached you yet.” Sherlock's smile turns into a thoughtful look when his brows furrow in thought.
“What information?” You muse, tilting your head at him. He meets your eyes with a serious look that sets you standing straight again.
“You were one of the last people seen in the library before the princesses' scrolls were stolen.” He explains, his hands moving to his hips. Stollen? You had just been in the library trying to get some quiet from Alice, the girl who sleeps in the room next to yours. There was always some commotion or another happening in that room.
“You think I stole the scrolls?” You inquire, a scoff hinting at the tip of your breath. Sherlock shakes his head profusely before answering.
“No, of course not. You hardly have the need for the money that selling them would get you.” Sherlock clarifies. “Besides, I have faith in you.” You smile at that. Somehow, it is reassuring in a way you didn’t think possible. You had only met Sherlock once, and already you felt oddly safe in his presence, like there had been some unspoken vow of protection cast over you by him.
“Well, I am glad I can be trusted,” You smile softly. “But how do you know all this, and I do not?” You question.
“I had a run-in with a constable,” Sherlock explains quickly. “And you were asleep when I got to your room, so it's no wonder you know nothing.” Sherlock shakes his head with a smile, mildly entertained with himself.
Just then, a man rounds the corner. The man is wearing a deep blue waistcoat with matching trousers and a mustache so sharp it looks like he just stepped in from shaving it in another room.
“But why are you here?” You continue, paying little mind to the astute man.
“A question I would also enjoy the answer to, brother dear.” The man says as he stops in front of the two of you. He looks unamused to say the least.
“Mycroft,” Sherlock greets. You remember now, Sherlock mentioning his brother the first time you’d met. He had been reluctant to say more than just that he existed and worked at the school. Now, seeing him in person, you somewhat understand.
“Your brother?” You query to Sherlock, an amused smile tugging at your lips at the clear distaste on both men’s faces.
“Unfortunately,” Mycroft responds for Sherlock, who, in return, ignores him. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mycroft Holmes.” Mycroft Holmes bows just slightly, you do as well, followed by your name and a polite greeting. “Well, shall we make our way inside?” He continues, but Sherlock shakes his head.
”We’re waiting for James.” Sherlock informs, now turning to you before you can ask what he suspects you will. “A friend of mine, James, we were also one of the last people reported to be seen going into the library.”
“So we’re all suspects, and we’re all going back to the place of the crime, for what exactly?” You ask, face riddled with confusion.
“Another answer I would like.” Mycroft scoffs, stepping closer to Sherlock.
“To prove our innocence.” Sherlock smiles, trying to sound reassuring but failing quite amazingly.
“I don’t know if this will help our case. May only hurt it.” You remark. Mycroft hums in agreement. You aren’t sure why you’re still standing here, or if following along with this, practically, strangers' ideas is even safe. But you somehow find yourself intrigued by the idea of solving a crime, of the thrill of a chase. So you say no more.
“Might I point out,” Sherlock starts, his eyes gleaming slightly, “that you don’t seem to be leaving. So maybe you know that it isn’t such a bad idea.” Sherlock states with a sort of smug look on his face. As if he can read your every thought running through your head just by watching your face. You tilt your head at him, quirk a brow, and bite back an amused smile, but say nothing.
“Hmm, as I suspected.” Sherlock bows his head with a smile.
“Enough with the flirting, Sherlock, we don’t have all day.” Mycroft distrusts the moment, stepping in front of Sherlock. “Where’s your friend?”
“I'm here!” A voice calls just as another man rounds the corner. You turn to put a name to a face. Just as you turn to see him, his eyes catch yours. You take him in curiously, the curls adorning his head, his thick dark eyebrows, and deep brown eyes. He’s wearing a brown striped lounge suit, with a matching vest and a brown tie with gold accents. He looks irritable, though of course you understand. The school must not be taking this lightly. Not wanting to be caught staring, you glance at Sherlock.
“You must be James. Sherlock’s told us about you.” You clear your throat and look back at him. His expression shifts as you acknowledge him by name. He pulls his charm out of his back pocket and slabs it onto his expression. Making sure his next few words will swoon the pretty girl he just met.
“I am,” He smiles, “Though Sherlock hasn’t graced me with the pleasure of your name.” James’ head tilts downward as if to draw you in closer with just a look. Yet as attractive and enticing as it is, you know better than to fall for it. No man in the history of the human race has ever been so charming without having alternative motives.
Sherlock is quick to save you from him and tells James your name. “She is also a suspect. Now, if you please, go into the library; we have no time to waste.” Sherlock gestures to the tall burgundy door.
You don’t protest and follow as the three men walk into the library. Mycroft lingers by the door and lets the three of you walk on. “You got ten minutes. Don’t embarrass me again.” Mycroft calls as you all walk. Sherlock ignores him again, so you and James do too.
You glance around, not even sure what you're looking for. Sherlock and James walk quickly down the rows and shelves of books, only stopping a couple of times to get a better look at something before deciding it was nothing and moving on.
“You know what we’re looking for?” James asks, shifting his glance over the room.
“Not really, no.” Sherlock quickly answers.
“How wonderful.” You think aloud, sarcasm weighing your words down. James huffs out a laugh before looking over at you with amusement.
Sherlock abruptly stops at the edge of the row. You, not looking, nearly bump right into him. Sherlock's mind is clearly elsewhere because he moves down the row. You look up to where he and James have set their attention. A broken window.
“A hole in the window. Wonder what that’s for?” Sherlock says flatly. He is quick to begin climbing the shelf to get a closer look.
“You should be a detective,” James chimes in, just as dry, hand slipping into his pocket as he watches Sherlock from the edge of the aisle. Now, on the stone ledge of the window, Sherlock leans on his knees to analyze it more closely.
“Hard to escape my powers of observation.” Sherlock again replies sarcastically with little emotion, but you know he’s amused by where the conversation is going. So you continue it.
“And what might these powers of observation be telling you now?” You shift your weight to one foot and fold your arms over your chest. James and Sherlock’s heads both whip around to you, surprised that you had said anything at all to play along with them. Sherlock gives you a smile before turning back towards the broken window to formulate a response.
“There has been, wait for it, a break-in.” He glances over his shoulder to consider your reaction. How easy it is to amuse them, you think. They let you speak freely without feeling the need to mediate your words, as many others you meet have. You can’t count on the number of times a man at this institution has told you or another woman to stop speaking because you said something smarter or funnier than them, and they got embarrassed. But these two didn’t seem at all concerned.
“Astounding.” You shake your head.
“How did you develop these skills of penetrating deduction?” James is back to his flat tone, but now his eyes also fall toward you.
“We’ve been gifted a couple of paw prints,” Sherlock notes, standing straight and backing from the window.
“There's a hook there, who’s missing his guest,” James notes, pointing to the hook on the wall where a clock should be but isn’t.
“Think I’ve clocked the guest,” Sherlock jokes with a close-lipped smile, but before you can add anything, Mycroft calls you all back to the entrance of the library. Reluctantly, you all slowly make your way back, but not before making a few more clock jokes.
It’s when you return to Mycroft that you see the source of his anxious posture. Sir Bucephalus Hodge, his assistant, Constable Lestrade, and Princess Shou’an. Hodge looks far from pleased, and you can’t help but get nervous yourself. He glares daggers at all four of you.
“Mycroft, would you mind telling me why your brother, the prime suspect, is standing at the scene of the crime?” Hodge asks, as you predicted would happen.
For the next couple of minutes, both groups go back and forth. The Princess and Sherlock have a conversation in Mandarin, and it seems, with the princess at the very least, to have solved some issues. You stand beside James as the conversation goes on, and you glance over to him as if to ask what’s happening. And he simply shrugs, smiling, but you can feel sadness from him. Dejectedness after Hodges' assistant said she did not know him. Somehow, you knew she did. You could feel it in the way James stood, less tall, less sure of himself. Yet you notice that there is no surprise. He’s not shocked at the blatant cruelty of her words. He’s used to it.
“I can help you find your father’s scrolls,” Sherlock says to the Princess.
“We.” You correct him. Everyone turns to you, as if they are only now realizing you exist. You shift uncomfortably under their gazes. “We can help.”
“There’s a very good reason why you can help find them. One of you stole them.” Hodge seethes, voice flaring with anger.
You regret only for a moment speaking up. Though soon your regret quells when the Princess convinces him. But only after she practically threatens him and his assistant politely suggests they leave. Constable Lestraude, Hodge, and his assistant all take their leave, but the Princess stays behind. Mycroft also leaves, having more pressing business to attend to.
“I’m coming with you.” You state firmly, after Mycroft leaves.
“Now, you don’t have to.” Sherlock clarifies, thoughtful as ever. “I only called you down here to inform you of the situation at hand.”
“I’m coming.” You stand firm in your decision. This time, James steps forward, hands in his pockets.
“Really,” He says your name, and it sounds so nice, so careful.
“I want to.” You say again, annoyance creeping in.
“There’s no shame in staying back.” You assume James only means it to be reassuring, but it simply makes you irritated. He says it like you're breakable.
“What would be a shame is me kicking you in the balls. But I'm not opposed to being shameful.” A silence falls over the four of you as the words leave your mouth. You're unamused. The annoyance of being questioned one too many times is clear on your face and in your posture.
James stands there, somewhat stunned, his eyes frozen wide open and mouth slightly ajar, no witty response in sight. Sherlock, on the other hand, is biting back his laugh; his closed fist presses to his mouth to cover his shit-eating grin. The Princess chuckles and starts for the exit of the library.
Without looking back, she says, “You heard her, off we go.”
——
“According to Lestrade, the thief scaled down the side of the building and into a boat. Lestade told me there’s a river in the woods where the thief towed from Candlin College. Then they disappeared.” The princess informs.
Princess Shou’an has taken the four of you to a riverside, one quite a ways from the school. There is an abandoned boat sitting on the damp sand that looks like it was hastily abandoned by whoever had been there before you. The boat's oars are haphazardly thrown into the boat's keel.
Thoughtfully, you hum as you step around the boat, looking for anything that may help the search. But you hardly feel useful; there’s not much to really look at after all. All you see is a boat, some rocks and sand, ropes, and water. You spin around on your heel to see if Sherlock or James got any farther in their investigations.
“Footprints?” James points towards Sherlock’s shoes. Sherlock turns to get a look.
“There’s only one set of tracks, only one thief.” Sherlock smiles just slightly as his eyes meet yours from his position leaning over the sand.
“Headed off this way,” James adds almost absentmindedly as he quickly darts up a small trail leading away from the riverside. Sherlock is right on his tail, following him up mossy rocks and onto the grassy ground. Such boys, the two of them. You roll your eyes at the thought before following after. The trail from the river leads past a stone wall and wooden gate to a dirt road. The footprints that James was following disappeared at the edge of a pair of carriage tracks. The impressions of the carriage’s wheels continue down the muddy road. One of the prints left by the wheel is askew, having left a crooked mark in the dirt.
“Footprints end here,” James utters as he tilts his head toward the long road ahead. You move to stand next to him and lean to peer around his body.
“So the thief got into a carriage?” Your head tilts while watching the road. Sensing you next to him, James turns to look down at you over his shoulder. James bites back his grin, and Sherlock, seeing it, rushes over to your other side, quickly grabbing your attention.
“Now there’s no need to deprecate. Next time, say it, don't ask.” Sherlock advises with a smile on his face. James sighs out his annoyance and turns back to the road.
“The thief got in a carriage." You try again, this time not questioning it.
“That’s the spirit!” Sherlock smiles now, fixing his eyes on the road as well.
“Aye aye. Looks like one of them wheels was a little drunk.” James notes as he points to the crooked wheel track.
“And a drunk wheel would need to sober up,” Sherlock adds, beginning down the road. The princess follows close behind him.
The trek ahead seems to go on forever. You attribute it to the fact that Sherlock and the Princess are up ahead of you and James chatting away in Mandarin while you and James shuffle after in relative silence, aside from passing comments about the scenery. You wonder now, walking beside him, if his concern before was sincere or if he really thought you incapable. You wonder if the charm he put on before you insulted him was for show. Either way, on both fronts, you haven’t known him for long enough to rule out either.
It doesn’t take long for the quiet to be inevitably broken by him. He clears his throat, and you turn your gaze to him expectantly. When his eyes meet yours, he smiles. But not like all the smiles before. This one is less showy, more real. You think it might be the most of him you’ve seen all day.
“You’re pretty quick,” James says, officially breaking any peace that was previously established.
“Is this going to be another one of your compliment-painted insults?” You question, only sparing him a fleeting glance before securing your vision ahead.
“No, no, nothing like that.” James dismisses with a wave of his hand.
“Oh? Then what is this?”
“It’s a truce.” It takes a second for him to settle on something to say. “I wanna recruit ya’”
“Alright, for what?” You laugh. A smile grows on his face as the sound fills the air. A weird feeling of warmth fills your chest as he smiles at you.
“You're fast, smart, we’d have fun with someone like you.” It catches you off guard how easily he says it. Like it hadn’t been something he thought hard about because it was simply a fact, something he could look at you and notice over and over again.
“We?” You say before you can let that thought go on any longer.
“Sherlock and I. He may be smart, but Sherlock hasn’t even half the wit you’ve got. He could use the teacher, and I could use the accomplice." James’ walk slows to a stop. He shifts to face you, wanting your undivided attention. It startles you, the way he’s looking at you. It's a welcome, and almost its own initiation ritual. You aren’t sure if you should be intimidated or impressed. And you aren’t sure what to say.
“Sherlock's got wit. He has to, otherwise I wouldn’t have spoken to him.” You find a loophole out of this uncomfortable corner James backed you into. And it seems to work.
“Okay, so maybe I’ve exaggerated to sway you,” James smirks playfully, this signature look you are now recognizing as such plastered on his face.
“Oh, alright, I see.” You nod back, your own fondness protruding on your expression.
“Well, have I? Swayed ya?” James eyes trail over your face, waiting for your response. You feel exposed, vulnerable to his prying eyes. Yet sitting at the center of his gaze, you feel a strange security. As though, now that you're in his radius of awareness, you’ll always be there, and he’ll be there always.
“Hurry up, you two! We haven’t got all day.” The princess calls from up ahead, where he and Sherlock have stopped to glare back at you and James. Sherlock's calls after you both before you get the chance to respond. You and James are quick to hurry along after them.
After what feels like an hour of walking, you see a house in the distance. It looks like an Inn just a ways down the dirt road. It’s a bit run-down, but it looks quaint; it’s surely a nice change of pace from Oxford's old money dining halls and lecture rooms. It vaguely reminds you of the houses you’d pass in uptown Manhattan on your way to Connecticut for long weekend vacations.
“Oh, hello. A coaching inn.” Sherlock confirms, slowing his pace to your left.
“Where one might get a wheel fixed,” James adds, moving to stand to your right.
“I wanted to ask.” The Princess begins, her attention moving to Sherlock as she walks beside him. “Were you trying to impress me?” Your interest piques, and you glance at James to see that he has too. You share a smirk of curiosity before pretending you're only half listening.
“Impress you?” The sheer confusion lacing Sherlock's voice is enough to force you to suppress a laugh.
“At the maths lecture.” She continues, “When you corrected Professor Thompson.” You can feel the amusement radiating from James.
“The professor 's calculations were incorrect. That was all.” Sherlock states, as if the mere concept of that interaction being anything more is absurd.
“Disappointing.” Is all she says in response. You aren’t sure if she’s gotten the hint, but you guess she will in due time.
“Well, frankly, I don’t know what you see in him.” James, ever the hero, swoops in and saves the impending awkward silence. “I mean, yes, he is handsome in a sort of obvious, clumsy kind of way.” You laugh, and it spurs him on. Sherlock, on the other hand, his head whips around and glares daggers into James’ head. “But if anyone here were ever looking for something a bit more niche. A bit more bespoke, more mysterious, well—”
“Where might someone find a man like that?” Sherlock interjects, hands moving to adjust his cap, before his pride is completely ripped out from under him.
“As stimulating as this is, chaps, I need to return to my carriage.” The princess stops any further teasing, as she comes to a halt just short of the gate to the inn.
”Why? We were just beginning to have some fun.” You smile, turning to face her. You really didn’t want the only other woman to leave you this far into the journey.
“The gala opening. Hodges new science building. I promised him I would be there.” You meet her eyes and nod in understanding. “Thank you for your help. All of you.”
She turns to walk back the way you all came from before any formal goodbyes can commence. But Sherlock takes that as a sign to keep going. James bows sarcastically in her wake; you don’t catch what he says, just that it’s unserious nonsense, maybe a way to shield the disappointment at the princess's clear lack of interest in him. You move to catch up with Sherlock.
“A welcome oasis in the parched deserts of this rural wasteland,” Sherlock notes to you as you jog to his side.
“I was just thinking the same thing.” You smile.
A plaque of wood above the entrance of the Inn reads The Hare & Hounds. Sherlock walks in first, you’re quick to follow after, James steps in last, and closes the door. As you walk in, you notice a gentleman with a graying beard playing the fiddle at the far end of the room. He’s wearing a black hat and dusty gray coat, one that looks like it has seen a lot of hard days of work. Beside him is an open door to a back room.
To the left of the room is a bar, with stools lining the countertop. Behind the bar stands a lady, a bottle of liquor in hand. “What can I do for you lot?’ She inquires, attention shifting between pouring a drink and you three.
“Three whiskeys, my good lady, and whatever you’d like for your fine self.” James leans against the counter with a charming smile.
“Ever the gentleman.” You roll your eyes. “And only two whiskeys for us.” You smile at her.
“Sure, love.” The lady nods before turning to James and thanking him. Sherlock begins to dig in his pockets for change.
“Aye now, I’m getting this. Your money's no good here.” James is quick to slide his money over to the lady.
“I’ll get the drinks, you get the tip,” Sherlock says, flicking a coin, catching it, and pushing it in front of James’ money with a sly look. “Sure, you don’t want anything?” Sherlock asks over his shoulder, and you nod.
“‘And out of his pocket he pulled the sovereign bright…’” James begins, quoting someone you are sure you’ve never heard of before. As you go to question it, Sherlock steps in and finishes the line.
“‘And the landlady’s eyes open wide with delight.” Sherlock's smile is subtle but there as he leans against the bar top.
“What was all that about needing me earlier? You two seem like you’ve got everything under control all on your own.” You smirk brazenly.
”Oh, I don’t know about that; a couple of quotes don’t mean anything.” James chuckles, his arm resting so casually against the bar. He knows exactly what he’s doing, but you aren’t that easy, and you figure now is as good a time as any for him to learn. Sherlock lifts the glass of whiskey to his nose with a smile as he watches you scoff.
Unfazed, James turns his attention back to the lady. “Excuse me. Our carriage is in need of a bit of repair. You see, we’ve been traveling for a couple of days now. My brother-in-law, my wife—”
“His sister.” You correct, before James can finish his sentence. You take hold of Sherlock's arm without thinking twice and lean against him with a big phony smile. “We’re on the way to our parents' home,”
A flush takes over Sherlock's face as his body is pulled up against yours. He’s not angry, just caught off guard. He wasn’t expecting you to be such a quick and easy liar. He also wasn’t expecting your lies to piss off James this much. James is standing there with his jaw drawn up tight. His lips are pulled into a thin line as he watches you paint this story that was supposed to be his. You think about stopping it there, but you can’t help the amusement you are getting from that look on James’ face, or the feeling of Sherlock beginning to play along as he wraps an arm around your waist.
“My mother’s been wanting to see us ever—well, the baby.” You whisper coyly, drawing out this narrative just to see the irritation in James’ expression grow with each passing second. You put on this persona so easily that it impresses Sherlock.
“She’s been going on and on about it in her letters. So you understand the urgency.” You say. Now completely immersed in the story, Sherlock adds something of his own.
“And my dear brother-in-law has a horrible sickness in rocky carriages, his stomach is so very weak—”
“That’s enough.” James cuts him off before he can say anything more. “It’s the wheelwright around, and might we have a word with him?” The withheld anger in his tone forms a laugh in your lungs, and you have to suppress it by turning your face toward Sherlock and into his side. There, you bite down on your lip to stifle your explosive giggles. Sherlock, also near laughter, clears his throat to stop himself.
“He’s done at the village, but he’ll be back shortly.” The lady, clearly confused at the whole situation, says with a sigh and then turns to get back to whatever work she was previously doing.
“We’ll wait then,” James grumbles out, taking his whiskey and stomping off to a table at the opposite wall.
You pull away from Sherlock with a smile. “Is he mad?” You ask, still biting back a smile.
“Oh, extremely," Sherlock smirks down at you before he begins moving too to the table. He sets his drink down and takes a seat next to a still unimpressed James. You sit to James’ left, across from Sherlock, around the small table.
James finishes his shot of whiskey and leans back in quiet annoyance. You, feeling the tension, lean towards him with a smile as a peaceful gesture.
“You wanted fun.” You say. “Here’s my fun.” There’s a moment of contemplation before James lets out a big sigh,
“Fun.” He shakes his head, a grin growing on his lips. “You’re something else, I’ll tell you that, Ms—”
“Willborn.” Sherlock finishes with lifted brows.
“Ms Willborn.” James nods, testing the name out on his tongue. It sounds illegally good coming out of his mouth. “Here comes the fun.”
Just then, the fiddle-holding man sets down his instrument and scurries away through the back door. You hum in interest, and Sherlock and James share a look. Oh, this will be fun.
“Let the games begin,” Sherlock adds, now downing his own drink.
——
What followed was nothing short of preposterous. Never in your wildest imagination could you have predicted even relatively accurately. Yet, it had thrilled you in a way you couldn’t explain. Not that you would ever want a day like today to ever happen again, you can’t rule out that it wasn’t magnificently eye-opening.
The man with the fiddle had turned out, as suspected, to know about the missing scrolls. He had, in fact, had a scroll holster fastened over his shoulder. Sherlock followed him out of the back of the Inn and was attacked by the fiddle player and left with a blood-dripping nose. On some odd instinct of James’, he’d pulled you out of the establishment and around to the back in search of Sherlock. There, you had found him on the ground with the fiddler over him, ready to strike. Before you could cry out, James was on the fiddler, shoving him away from Sherlock. Once he was off, he fled away from the inn down the road.
After some trouble in running after him, you pulled off your healed shoes, had to tell the boys to run ahead, and that you would catch up—the three of you corner him in a barn house just off the main road. Following James's knocking the fiddler unconscious, the holster was found to be empty.
There was, after that, a brief period of reassessment. Sherlock deduced that it had been a decoy to lure you away from the school. He explained to you, after he and James used their so-called overactive imagination, that the scrolls had never left the school. You had then all gone back to the school and into the library, where you had discovered that the break-in was fabricated and that the scrolls were hidden in a pedestal displaying a marble statue of a man's head.
The cabinet that the scrolls had been sitting atop had vanished since you were last in the library, and the three of you were quick to follow the trail of inconsistency. No one could have taken it out of the room since that morning due to the police guarding the entrances. The only way the cabinet could have been moved was through the walls of the old medieval banquet-hall-turned-library. Through a slab of wood paneling on the wall, James was able to remove the paneling to reveal one of the old banquet corridors. Down the corridor halls, you find the cabinet with a bomb ticking inside it.
It had all been because of the gala. Hodges gala for the new science building that was opening. The gala was taking place just on the other side of the chimney, which was in the room where the cabinet sat. With but 90 seconds to spare, the three of you smash through the chimney and successfully warn everyone at the gala about the bomb. Though, of course, not without getting caught on the edges of the bomb’s radius.
Sherlock had gotten the brunt of it. He had pushed you forward, making sure you got out before him, but ended up with a gash on his left temple. And he, along with James and you, had been thrown to the ground by the impact of the blast and enveloped head to toe in ash. James had been quick to help you up off the soot-covered floors as you stumbled in your heels. Sherlock made swift work of getting the three of you out of the building and to a medical professional. The ringing in your head only stopped after the sun had set two hours later.
——
After being held for examination for what felt like days, Sherlock, James, and you are let go. It’s dark by the time you get out, and on autopilot, you follow James and Sherlock back to Sherlock's room. You end up on his bed, sitting against the headboard as the men take off their jackets. You want to take your corset off and finally breathe and relax, but you know better.
By the time you get comfortable against the headboard, Sherlock has hung his coat next to James’ on the rack by the door and is in only his white undershirt. You have to peel your eyes away from him when he first turns in your direction to sit at his desk. In no world would you be caught staring at him. You try to move your attention to James, hoping for some reprieve, but instead you find James in his obnoxiously tight-fitting vest. Now you really wish your corset were off, or at least looser.
“So drinks?” You hear James call out, but keep your eyes on your lap, not wanting to know what seeing him from the back in this state will do to you. The contents of your lap are uninteresting, but you find a few specks of debris to keep yourself occupied. You pick them off the fabric of your skirt and rub the debris between your fingers. You actually do get lost in watching it roll unsymmetrically against your skin. That is, until James calls out your name.
“Do you want any?” James asks. And you have to take a breath before looking up to meet his eyes and shake your head.
“Water’s fine.” Is all you get out. Your eyes flicker to Sherlock, and you have to try to act like this isn’t the first man you’ve seen without full clothing on. But he certainly, one hundred percent, is. A good first thought, you think.
“Well, alright, more for us, eh, Sherlock?” Sherlock just hums in agreement absently as he watches the dim light filter in through the window above his desk. A flicker of something crosses James’ face, but he says nothing and turns to the small wooden table housing the liquor.
James hums a song as he prepares the two drinks. Unable to place it, you want to call out to him and ask. But the tune sounds almost personal, with a folk twang you’ve only truly heard in Irish lullabies mothers in New York sang to their kids when they scraped their knees playing in the streets. You decide to ask about it another time.
“So what exactly are we celebrating? We haven't solved anything. We don’t know who planted the bomb. Or why?” Sherlock voices just as James hands him his glass and makes his way over to you. James smiles as he outstretches the glass to you. Heat invades your senses as your fingers graze him. God, that blast must have done something to your head. You’re not normally this reactive.
“And that is not our concern.” James moves now to take a seat on a cushioned chair by the liquor table; he reclines with a glass in his hand and an easy look on his face.
“That's not our concern?” Sherlock exasperates, sitting up straighter in his chair.
“We set out to find the scrolls. We found them. I'm not losing my scholarship, and you’re not going to prison.” James starts, rubbing his head as if to scrub the annoyance from his mood. Sherlock, in turn, sighs before turning to look out of the window again. “So I think that’s worth raising a glass to.” James raises his glass, you halfheartedly raise yours, your attention still a little stolen by your lap, and reluctantly Sherlock does as well. But he doesn’t take a sip, only sets the glass down at his desk.
“Why aren’t you drinking?” James questions, annoyance too far to settle now. You can hear it in his voice, and your attention is pulled. You begin to speak, attempting to quell his frustration.
“James. Sherlock. It’s been a long day for all of us. Please, both of you, stop arguing. I thought the ringing was gone, but you’ve somehow brought it back.” You complain. Sherlock goes to open his mouth and argue, but James beats him to it.
“She’s right,” James concludes, now standing in his anger. “As much as I would love for you to be wrong.” His eyes meet yours with a dash of sympathy. “All of us are a bit scrambled. I think it would be best if I got going. We could all use a good night's sleep.” James begins to make his way to the door.
“Wait—that is not what I meant—” You try, now sitting up to start towards him.
“No, it’s quite all right,” James takes hold of his coat and slowly begins to dress himself. “I know my limits, I believe I'm in need of some hard alcohol and a full 8 hours.” Jame’s smile is as radiant as ever, even in anger. Your brows furrow as you watch him slip his arms through his sleeves, and Sherlock notices the weariness in your expression. Now realizing the effect James disparate is having on you, Sherlock backtracks.
“James—let’s—” He’s hesitant with the next part, not really wanting to do what he’s offering, but he knows you’ll be happier. “At least finish our drinks,” Sherlock’s tone is unenthusiastic, so much so that it almost makes James laugh at him and call him out.
”That’s alright, Sherlock. Another time, goodnight.” James bows just slightly to you as he backs away towards the door. “Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I should say goodnight.” He nods to Sherlock and then to you before opening the door and stepping out. “Now, fair Romeo, don’t keep our young Juliet up too late.” There’s one sly smile before he shuts the door.
Following the clicking of the door, Sherlock downs his glass. You slump back onto the headboard and let out an exasperated sigh. You could hardly respond to James’ name-calling without embarrassing yourself. Your eyes now land on Sherlock, who's hunched over himself on his desk chair. Consumed by thought, he barely glances over when you shift to set your glass down on his nightstand. By this point, you have pushed past the initial embarrassment of seeing Sherlock in nothing but his undershirt.
“Do you think he’s right?” Sherlock asks suddenly. When you look, his eyes are already on you, his body facing you.
“Right about what?” You ask quietly, making sure your eyes don’t travel from his.
“Would you call this a victory? Even when we are nowhere close to the answers to anything.” The look in Sherlock's eyes melts something in your exterior. The room feels stripped bare of all the playfulness that once disguised the truth. It’s as if Sherlock ripped all the wallpaper off the walls and left you both standing in a barren room.
“Im—.” There is hesitancy in your response, not out of fear but out of your lack of answers. “I don’t think you have it in you to stop searching here. And I don’t think James’ conscience has any reason to keep searching.”
”But what do you think?” Sherlock urges you, his brows furrowed.
“Are you trying to get me to take a side?” You ask carefully, eyes still locked with him.
“I'm trying to get you to say what you think.”
“But you hope what I think aligns with what you think.” You note, stepping closer to where he’s sat.
“Well, of course I do.” Sherlock sighs, eyes breaking from yours and settling on the wood of the desk. “Do they?”
“I don’t think I agree with either of you. All the way at least.” You say, watching his face for his reaction. You aren’t sure what you want to happen. All you know is you don’t want this to be a reason you argue. “I do want to know the truth, but I don't know if I have the ability to fight for it as you can. I wish I did, but I think there is only one you.”
Sherlock says nothing in response, only leaving the cold, naked air between you. You think for a moment that you should go. Maybe this night is not the ideal night to stay for longer than necessary. Slowly, you begin to stand from the bed, you fix your dress as if you moved too quickly or with too much force, it would rip.
When you pass by where he sits, you comfortingly rest your hand on his shoulder. You brush your finger over the fabric of it. You, ten minutes ago, would never have imagined getting this close to an underdressed Sherlock, but now you find the proximity reassuring. And as you move forward, Sherlock’s hand darts up and captures yours on his shoulder.
“Don’t go.” It’s quick and low. So much so, you almost are not sure if you simply imagined it. You stand like a statue, taking in the feeling of his warm hand against yours. You want so badly to stay. Especially if staying means that the warm feeling in your chest would stay even for a moment longer.
“Well, I—“
“However, you are free to return to your dormitory.” Sherlock retracts his hand all too soon.
“Sherlock.” You interject with a scold. “I do enjoy the company.”
“As do I.” Sherlock is quick to add. You sigh at the interruption but continue.
“But are you sure you want me to stay this late? I should be getting back to my rooms.” You say and glance at the clock sitting on his mantel. “It’s already a quarter past eleven.”
“Oh wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?” Sherlock tries halfheartedly to match the enthusiasm James had earlier, but he only succeeds in sounding like a child attempting to reenact his father. A look of fondness passes over your face.
“What satisfaction canst thou have tonight?” You speak the next line of the play and are surprised at how suggestive it comes out. You hold your ground even as the mild embarrassment springs again into your stomach. Sherlocks cocks his head to the side with a grin of amusement.
You see the contemplation in his eyes, whether or not to say Romeo's following line. You aren’t sure if you want him to say it or not. Unsure if it will serve to increase the dizzying tension or break it into something that can not be put back together. ‘The exchange of thy love’s faithful vow for mine.’ It’s not a line that should have any lasting impact, but somehow, as you stand here, it seems a life-or-death decision.
It never comes. Instead, Sherlock's face softens as he gazes up at you from his seat. Your own resolve fades as you look into his mesmerizing green eyes. Eyes that seem as if you look long enough, you will discover all the secrets of the world. Sherlock Holmes is truly a puzzling character. You hardly know him, yet you feel this indescribable force pulling your mind and soul to him in every way possible.
“So will you stay?” It's a quiet plea that makes everything else in the world stop. Your breath hitches.
“Of course”
——
That day had caused a chain reaction of events that unraveled your life completely. Soon, you were being dragged into all and every situation the two idiots found themselves in. Murder accusations, police chases, going undercover, break-ins, mystery solving, and, on occasion, lazing about the public spaces of the institution, laughing about one thing or another. Mycroft quite liked you and was in full support of the good influence you had on them.
Over the course of a couple of weeks, the three of you had become practically inseparable. You’d become very fond of the two dimwits who had slivered their way into your life. Though you weren’t mad at their constant presence. It made you feel that even though you were across the ocean from everything you’d ever known, at least you weren’t alone.
a/n: This took me way to long. Anyways there will be more parts so strap in and enjoy. Comments feed my motivation!
Summary: The days leading up to your birthday, you move through a world that feels rather gentle. Your family however, don't know they're counting down to the last moments they'll ever have with you.
CW: ANGST, you die bro rest in pieces. death, sustained injuries, description of blood and bodily harm, mention of suicide, grieving, nausea, vomit, swearing, tears (the whole shabang) If any of these tags are triggering, please click off for your own wellbeing.
WC: 6.3k (my longest fic to date)
READ PART 2 HERE - READ PART 2.5
The manor is warm in that quiet, lived-in way it only gets late at night.
Someone left a mug in the sink.
Damian’s boots are by the stairs, kicked off without care.
Tim’s PC hums faintly somewhere it shouldn’t be.
Titus is chewing on someone's bowtie, probably your fathers, instead of his toys.
Alfred has turned down most of the lights, leaving pools of gold along the hallways.
You’re in your room, standing in front of the mirror, smoothing your hands over the fabric of the dress again.
White. Soft. Elegant.
Something you don’t usually pick—but it made Dick’s eyes widen when you stepped out earlier, made Steph whistle, made Cass tilt her head and smile in approval.
Bruce had looked up from the Batcomputer when you’d come downstairs, mid-briefing, and stopped talking entirely.
“That’s what you’re wearing?” he’d asked.
“For my birthday,” you’d said, turning once. “Is it too much?”
He’d shaken his head slowly. “It’s perfect.”
You remember that now, as you leave the dress folded neatly on your bed instead of putting it away. You’d tried it on again after everyone went to bed, just to make sure. Just to feel excited.
Your birthday is coming up, precisely 23 days. There’s a party. You don’t know the details, but you know something’s being planned. You can feel it.
You hum to yourself as you change, utterly unaware of how fragile the moment is.
Bruce doesn’t know either.
The Batcave hums like a living thing.
Screens flicker to life one by one, bathing the stone walls in cold blue light. The air smells faintly of ozone and oil, familiar enough to be comforting—if not for the tension threaded through it. You’re already in suit, cowl down, standing near the Batmobile with your arms folded, weight shifted to one hip. The rest of your family wait for the instructions.
Babs’s voice cuts in before anyone else can speak.
“Alright,” she says, calm but sharp, the way she gets when the stakes are ugly. “Listen up.”
Every screen syncs to her feed. A schematic blossoms across the displays—an industrial complex sprawled beneath Gotham’s east docks, layered with red warning markers like open wounds.
“This isn’t a smash-and-grab,” she continues. “This is a pressure cooker.”
She highlights the lower levels.
Power grids. Structural supports. Something pulsing faintly at the centre.
“That core?” she says. “
Experimental energy converter. If it destabilises, we’re not talking a building-level blast. We’re talking a radius. People live three blocks out.”
Jason swears under his breath.
Tim leans closer to the screen, eyes scanning. “They’re running it hot.”
“They’re running it desperate,” Babs replies. “Someone wants it activated tonight. Whether it’s finished or not.”
Dick crosses his arms. “So we shut it down.”
“Yes,” Babs says. “But not cleanly.”
The map shifts again—automated turrets, drone patrols, reinforced bulkheads.
“Security is layered,” she explains.
“Mechanised response systems tied to motion and heat. Cass, Steph—you’re crowd control topside. Duke, you’re cutting exterior power relays. Jason, Dick—goons and internal lockdowns. Tim, you’re with me on system overrides.”
Her cursor pauses.
“Nightingale,” Babs says, and your name in her mouth feels heavier than usual. “You’re the linchpin.”
You straighten slightly.
“You’ll breach the lower level,” Barbara continues. “
Manual access only. The failsafe is old tech—analog switches buried behind the core housing. You’ll have to get close.”
“How close?” Damian asks, sharp.
She exhales. “Close enough that if the converter surges before shutdown… you won’t have time to clear the blast zone.”
Silence.
You don’t move.
Don’t flinch.
You just nod once.
“I can do it,” you say.
Not bravado.
Not arrogance.
Just certainty.
Bruce’s gaze snaps to you. “We’ll find another way.”
“There isn’t one,” Babs cuts in gently but firmly. “I checked. Thrice.”
The screens dim slightly, as if the cave itself is holding its breath.
“The window is narrow,” she continues. “If Nightingale doesn’t flip the failsafe, the blast hits residential zones. Hospitals. Schools.”
She pauses.
“This mission succeeds,” she says quietly, “or people die.”
Your fingers curl into a fist at your side.
“Then we succeed,” you say.
Bruce’s jaw tightens. “Everyone moves fast. No heroics.”
You glance at him, softening just a fraction. “Always do.”
Babs's voice lowers, more human now. “Comms will be open the entire time. I’m with you every step.”
You look up at the screens.
At the red markers.
At the stakes laid bare in light and lines.
“Let’s go,” you say.
The cave roars to life.
And somewhere deep in your chest, something tightens—quiet, unnameable—as the mission begins to move toward you.
Gotham’s industrial quarter is alive with danger—steel skeletons of half-built towers, conveyor belts still humming, floodlights cutting harsh white lines through the dark.
This isn’t a smash-and-grab.
It’s coordinated.
Compartmentalised.
Everyone has a role.
Everyone moves at once.
Dick is already airborne, flipping down a corridor, cracking jokes he doesn’t quite believe. Jason tears through goons with this brutal efficiency, rage tightly leashed. Tim’s fingers fly over a portable console, muttering something under his breath. Steph and Cass move like ghosts, silent, lethal. Duke’s light cuts through darkness as he takes out turret after turret.
You’re everywhere at once—covering Damian, flanking Bruce, moving where you’re needed most.
The stakes are high.
Hostages on-site.
You get it.
The drive is heavy in your hand when you pull it free.
Mission accomplished. The relief is sharp, fleeting.
That’s when the floor shudders.
Not from the main charges.
This is deeper.
Hidden.
A failsafe.
“Oracle—” Bruce starts.
“I didn’t see that—oh god—delayed detonation, structural—Nightingale, MOVE—”
You shove Damian hard, sending him sprawling behind cover.
The explosion tears through the building like it’s made of paper.
You don’t feel pain at first.
Just impact.
Weightlessness.
Then the ground slams into you, breath ripped from your lungs as something punches through your side.
Your suit absorbs some of it. Not enough.
You don’t scream.
You force yourself up.
The building is collapsing in sections, alarms screaming, fire licking at broken beams. You stagger away from the blast zone on pure instinct, every step slower than the last.
Your vision blurs.
Your leg drags.
Something inside you is wrong—wet, hot, spilling.
“Nightingale, respond!” Oracle’s voice cracks for the first time.
He’s there almost immediately, cowl off, dropping to his knees in front of you. His breath leaves him in a sharp, broken sound when he sees you.
“No,” he says. “No, no, no.”
He presses his hands to your wound, tries to apply pressure, tries to be Batman about it—but it’s slipping through his fingers.
There’s too much blood.
Your skin is already going cold.
“You finished the mission,” he says desperately. “You did it. Help is coming.”
You look at him, really look at him.
Your dad. The man who’s always saved everyone.
Your thoughts then return to the state of your body.
You’re so tired.
The world feels distant, almost like you’re underwater.
You think, fleetingly, about Jason—about how he died scared and alone, about whether this is how it felt.
You reach for your father, arms weak, wrapping around his neck the way you did when you were little.
Childlike. Instinctive.
He pulls you closer immediately, a hand behind your head, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.
Your breathing stutters.
Your heart flutters, then slows.
Bruce rocks you slightly, forehead pressed to yours, tears streaming unchecked.
“I’m here,” he sobs. “I’ve got you.
You manage the ghost of a smile
Fear crashes into you then, raw and haunting. “I’m scared.”
“I know,” he whispers, breaking. “Stay with me.”
“Daddy,” you breathe, the word slipping out like a prayer.
“Am I gonna die?”
The comms are silent.
Everyone hears it.
“No,” he says, lying badly.
“Promise?”
He doesn't answer
You smile faintly. “I did it though, right?”
“You saved them,” he chokes. “You saved everyone.”
“That’s good,” you whisper. Your breath rattles. “That’s… really good.”
Damian skids in, dropping beside you, hands shaking as he grabs your arm.
“Do not leave,” he says fiercely, his voice breaking, trying to remain stoic but the sight of you bleeding out makes a rare breed of horror blossom in his chest.
“I forbid it.”
You look at him.
Your little brother.
So angry.
So scared.
You gaze at his face a little while longer, he glares back.
“You’re… so strong,” you murmur. “You’re gonna be better than all of us.”
“Say it later,” he pleads, he was getting desperate. He held your gloved hand in his.
“Say it when we’re home.”
You try to breathe again.
You can’t.
Your chest tightens, a string of wheezes comes out of you. Your vision starts to go dark at the edges. You give Damian's hand one last squeeze.
“I love you,” you say—to all of them. “Hey, uh tell, tell Alfred I—”
Your heart stutters.
Once.
Twice.
Then stops.
A sigh escapes your lips, followed by your eyes closing, your grip loosening on Damian's hand.
Bruce feels it happen in his arms.
“No,” he whispers. “No—no—baby please—”
Your body goes limp.
The first thing they see is the blood.
Your blood.
It’s dark against the concrete, soaking into the cracks of the floor, smeared across Bruce’s gloves, streaked along the edge of your suit. It doesn’t look real at first—too much, too still.
Bruce is on his knees, cowl off, hunched over you like a shield, your body folded against his chest, your head tucked beneath his chin the way it used to be when you fell asleep on long flights.
For one suspended, awful second, no one moves.
Dick is the first to arrive—and the first to understand.
He skids to a stop a few feet away, boots scraping against debris, escrima sticks dropping to the ground, breath leaving him in a broken sound that doesn’t quite qualify as a word. His eyes track slowly, unwillingly, from Bruce’s face down to your limp arm hanging at an unnatural angle, fingers slack, utterly unresponsive.
“Oh,” he whispers. “No. No, no—Y/” He couldn't bring himself to speak your whole name. Babs tears are heard over the comms, not loud, but there.
Jason comes in hard behind him, ready for violence, already braced for another fight. The rage drains from his face in an instant. He freezes mid-step, dropping his gun, helmet tilting as if his brain can’t process what his eyes are telling him.
Bruce looks up.
His face is wrecked—blood, tears, something raw and unrecognisable carved into his expression.
He doesn’t say anything.
Because he doesn’t have to.
Jason’s breath punches out of him. “Bruce…?” His voice is hoarse, disbelieving, his helmets in-built voice modulator doing little to hide his heartbreak. “Why isn't—why—what happened?”
Tim arrives next and stops so abruptly he nearly trips over himself. His gaze snaps to the ground first—always the details—a crimson pattern, blast residue, the sickening scent of gunpowder, the way Bruce’s arms are locked around you too tightly, too desperately.
He turns away suddenly, hands braced on his knees, his chest heaves as his body betrays him. The sound of him getting sick, his retches, echoes too loud in the ruined space, obscene in its normalcy. The sight of your lifeless body was nauseating, that combined with the smell of iron in the air made something churn in his stomach.
Stephanie stumbles in, already breathless from running.
She sees Dick on his knees.
Jason frozen.
Tim retching.
Then she sees you.
Her hands fly to her mouth.
“Oh my god,” she gasps, the words fracturing into a sob. “Oh my god, no—no—”
Her breathing goes erratic, shallow and fast, chest hitching as panic sets in. Cass is there immediately, silent and steady, gripping Steph’s wrists to ground her, forehead pressed briefly to her temple. Cass’s own face is pale, eyes dark and glassy, fixed on the way your head lolls against Bruce’s shoulder, lifeless.
Duke arrives last, light flickering uselessly across the devastation.
He takes one look and goes very, very still.
“She was just—” he starts, then stops.
Swallows.
“She was just talking.”
Damian makes a noise from beside you.
“Father,” he says, voice cracking. “Why is she not responding?”
Asking even though he knows the answer.
After all, Damian is rather accustomed to death.
Just not when it's someone he loves.
Bruce finally moves then—just enough to adjust you in his arms, to tuck you closer like he can still protect you from the world if he holds on tight enough.
“She saved the mission,” Bruce says, hollow. “She saved everyone.”
The silence is foreboding, so suffocating, that everyone can hear a couple drops of your blood hit the pool already on the floor as Bruce stands.
Damian shakes his head sharply, denial flashing hot and violent across his face. “That is not an answer.”
No one has one.
The sirens in the distance fade.
The fire dies down.
Gotham keeps breathing.
You however, don’t.
The Batcave has never felt so big.
Every footstep echoes too loudly as Bruce carries you down the platform, your weight slack against his chest. Alfred stands at the base of the stairs, posture perfect out of sheer habit, but his hands tremble violently at his sides.
He takes one look at you and his composure shatters.
“Oh,” Alfred breathes, stepping forward despite himself.
His voice breaks completely. “My dear child…”
Bruce doesn’t stop.
He doesn’t look at anyone.
He lays you down on the central platform with a care so reverent it hurts to watch.
Your cowl is removed. Your hair spills loose. You look peaceful in a way that feels wrong—like a lie, it looks like you'll wake up at any second.
Everyone stands around you in a loose, broken circle.
Tim sinks down against a console, head in his hands, shoulders shaking. Steph paces in tight circles, muttering under her breath, eyes wild, trying not to scream. Duke leans against the Batmobile, staring at the floor like if he looks up, something inside him will fracture permanently. Cass stands closest to you, silent tears sliding down her face, fingers curled into fists at her sides.
Jason doesn’t move at all. He stands in the shadows, arms crossed tight over his chest, jaw clenched so hard it might crack.
His eyes never leave your face.
Dick finally rises, unsteady, and steps closer. He reaches out like he’s going to touch your shoulder—then stops himself. His hand falls uselessly back to his side.
“I was supposed to get there faster,” he says softly. “I should’ve—”
Bruce lets out a sound that is barely human.
Alfred places a hand on Bruce’s shoulder, gentle, devastating.
“Master Bruce,” he murmurs. “You may let her rest now.”
Bruce doesn’t respond.
He doesn’t move.
He just stares at you, eyes hollow, arms empty for the first time since he carried you out of the ruins—like if he looks away, the truth might finally sink in.
And none of them are ready for that.
Damian does not collapse when it happens.
Not in the tunnel.
Not in the Cave.
Not when Alfred’s voice breaks.
Not when Bruce doesn’t move.
He stands beside the platform where your body lies, blood cleaned away, hands clenched so tightly his gloves creak. He watches Bruce like he’s waiting for him to fix it. To undo it. To do something impossible, because Batman always does. But tonight, he's just Bruce Wayne, a father.
When no one does—when no one can—Damian simply turns and leaves.
No one stops him.
He opens the door to your room.
It still smells like you.
It’s subtle—fabric softener, shampoo, something sweet he can’t place, the inviting scent of your perfume. Damian closes the door behind him and stands very still, like the air might shatter if he moves too fast.
Your dog, Elizabeth Taylor lifts up her little head from her luxury velvet dog bed you insisted on getting her, expecting you, but looking rather dejected at the sight of Damian, regardless, she trots over to him in a sleepy state and demands to be held.
Damian holds her to his heart reverently.
Your bed is made.
Too neatly.
Alfred must have done it.
The dress is gone.
He notices that immediately.
For a split second, irrational hope flares—you’re wearing it. Then reality crashes back in, merciless.
Damian walks to your vanity, putting Elizabeth on your bed. Your things are still there: lip gloss, a hair tie, the stupid pen you stole from him and never gave back. He opens the drawer without thinking.
That’s when he sees it.
The Polaroid.
It’s crooked, half-slid under a soothing face mask.
He pulls it free with shaking fingers.
It’s the two of you, squeezed into the frame. You’re perched on the edge of the vanity, grinning like you’ve just gotten away with something. Damian is scowling, arms crossed, but his shoulder is pressed into yours. He remembers this—remember you laughing because he “looked like a pissed-off cat.”
His breath stutters.
He sits down hard on the floor, back against the vanity, Polaroid clutched to his chest like it might burn a hole through him.
“You promised,” he whispers.
His voice cracks on the second word.
The sound that comes out of him next is raw and small and nothing like Robin. It echoes in the room, swallowed by silk curtains and expensive furniture that suddenly feels obscene.
Damian Wayne cries alone on his older sister’s bedroom floor, forehead pressed to his knees, the Polaroid trembling in his hands.
Damian Wayne was accustomed to death.
But not to grief.
The world doesn’t find out right away.
For thirty-two hours at least, everything stays contained in the cave—sealed behind stone, firewalls, and the kind of silence only grief can produce.
Bruce doesn’t release a statement.
Wayne Enterprises goes dark.
The Watchtower runs on autopilot.
Dick is unreachable.
Phones ring and ring and ring until they stop.
In those thirty-two hours, the city keeps moving.
People go to work.
Kids go to school.
News cycles churn through politics and markets and weather.
Your name doesn’t exist on the ticker.
Yet.
And then, suddenly, it does.
The screen fades in from black to the familiar set of the Central City Citizen Evening News broadcast.
The television is already on when it happens.
Dinah isn’t really watching it—just background noise while she wipes down the kitchen counter, humming softly to herself. Ollie’s voice drifts in from the living room, sharp and animated as he argues with someone from Queen Industries on the phone about patrol rotations, about coverage, about things that still assume the world is intact.
The anchor changes.
Dinah glances up without thinking.
It’s Iris.
She’s dressed in black.
Something cold drops straight through Dinah’s chest before a single word is spoken.
Iris’s hands are folded on the desk, fingers interlaced too tightly, her engagement ring gleaming, knuckles pale under the studio lights. Her expression—usually warm, composed, unshakeable—is fractured.
There’s a pause.
Too long.
Long enough for dread to bloom and take root.
“It is with a heavy heart,” Iris begins, and her voice is already unsteady, “that I inform you all that one of America’s most beloved young women—”
Dinah’s hand stills on the counter.
“—daughter of Bruce Wayne, philanthropist, women's rights activist, and humanitarian, Y/N Wayne—”
The room tilts.
The cloth slips from Dinah’s fingers and hits the floor soundlessly.
“—has tragically passed away.”
Dinah stares at the screen.
The words don’t make sense.
They slide past her, wrong and unreal, like a language she doesn’t speak. Her ears ring, a high, thin sound drowning out everything else.
Iris swallows hard, eyes shining.
“According to officials,” she continues, slower now, careful, “Her death has been ruled a suicide. She was found dead in her bedroom approximately thirty-two hours ago. Authorities have stated there is no evidence of foul play at this time.”
Suicide.
The word lands like a gunshot.
Dinah’s breath leaves her all at once. “No,” she whispers, the denial automatic, instinctive. “No, that’s not—”
Iris presses on, voice trembling but determined.
“Y/N Wayne was more than a public figure,” she says. “She was… she was a light. A young woman who used her platform not for vanity, but for service. For change.”
Her voice breaks on the last word.
Dinah’s knees buckle.
She reaches for the counter and misses, sinking down onto the kitchen floor as if gravity has suddenly doubled. Her back hits the cabinet, the impact sharp but distant. Her chest aches, tight and hollow at the same time.
Iris looks down at her notes, then back up—and she’s crying now.
She doesn’t hide it.
Tears spill freely, tracking down her face as she struggles to breathe evenly.
“Those of us who knew her personally,” Iris says, choking, “knew her kindness. Her humor. Her unwavering belief in the good of people—especially heroes who never thought of themselves that way.”
“I loved her,” Iris admits, voice barely holding together. “She loved my family. And today—today the world is quieter without her.”
Iris lifts a hand to her mouth as the tears finally overwhelm her. The camera lingers—not cruelly, but honestly. A nation watching a woman grieve in real time.
The broadcast fades to footage of you.
Photos.
Videos.
You laughing at a gala.
You and Cassandra in your father's arms .
You standing between Dinah and Ollie, grinning wide, arms slung around them like you belonged there—because you did.
Dinah makes a broken sound, somewhere between a sob and a gasp.
Ollie is there suddenly, phone forgotten, kneeling in front of her. His face is white, eyes fixed on the screen behind her.
“That’s—” His voice cracks. “Dinah, that’s not real. That’s not—”
She shakes her head, tears streaming unchecked. “She was here,” Dinah whispers. “Ollie, she was here two nights ago.”
Ollie freezes.
The memory hits them both at once.
You sprawled across their couch, feet kicked up on Ollie’s lap despite his protests. Dinah braiding your hair absentmindedly while you gossiped about nothing and everything. You laughing when one of your AirPods slipped out and vanished into the cushions.
I’ll grab them after a mission, you’d said, waving it off because your father called you home to get ready for Damian's piano recital. Promise.
Dinah’s gaze snaps to the side table.
The AirPods case sits there.
Exactly where you left it.
“Oh my god,” Dinah sobs, clutching it to her chest like it might shatter. “She was coming back.”
Ollie pulls her into his arms, holding her tight, his own breath hitching as he presses his forehead to hers. His voice is raw when he speaks.
Ollie pulls her into his arms, holding her tight, his own breath hitching as he presses his forehead to hers. His voice is raw when he speaks.
“She was supposed to come back.”
The television keeps playing in the background—other anchors now, other networks, all saying your name, all using the same words: tragic, shocking, suicide, beloved.
The world keeps turning.
But in the penthouse, time stops.
The Watchtower meeting room is stalled.
Not delayed—stalled.
Bruce’s chair is empty, again.
At first it’s irritation.
Subtle, restrained, but there. Hal keeps glancing at the chrono on the wall. Guy’s already leaned back, arms crossed, foot tapping, irritation buzzing off him like static.
“We can’t keep waiting,” Guy mutters. “The agenda’s stacked, and Bats doesn’t own the clock.”
“He owns this room,” Hal replies automatically—then stops. Because even he doesn’t fully believe that right now.
Something feels wrong.
Clark has been uneasy since he arrived. He hasn’t said it out loud, because saying it would make it real, but his hands haven’t stopped clenching and unclenching at his sides. His hearing keeps drifting, involuntarily, searching for a sound that should exist.
A heartbeat.
A familiar one.
It stopped a day and a bit ago.
Abruptly.
Completely.
While he was in his sleep.
He told himself it was interference.
Space does weird things to sound.
Magic does worse.
He told himself anything except the truth clawing at the base of his throat.
J’onn feels it before the screen turns on.
The emotional temperature of the room drops—sharp, sudden, like oxygen being sucked out.
Fear, confusion, dread. A collective intake of breath that never quite releases.
The broadcast flickers to life.
Iris West.
Black dress.
Hands folded too tightly.
The shock is deafening.
Every single one of them locks in.
Barry is already on his feet. “Why is Iris—”
The name hits.
The ruling hits harder.
Suicide.
No one moves.
No one breathes.
It’s like every sound has been sucked out of the Watchtower at once.
Hal’s boots hit the floor with a sharp clang. “That’s—no. That’s not—” He drags a hand down his face. “Oh God, that’s Bruce’s kid.”
Arthur mutters a curse under his breath, ancient and furious. Diana’s eyes widen—not in disbelief, but in something far worse: recognition.
Clark staggers back half a step.
He doesn’t speak at first.
Then, quietly—devastatingly—
“I felt it.”
Every head snaps toward him.
Superman's voice shakes. “I didn’t know what it was at first. Just… silence. Like something vanished from the world.”
His hands curl into fists. “Her heart stopped. I heard it. And I couldn’t get there in time.”
Barry swallows hard. “Clark…”
Diana finally speaks, a hand on her heart, voice low and steady and cracked straight through the middle.
“This world does not spare the gentle.” She says solemnly.
No one argues.
They all look, again, at Bruce’s empty seat.
“That’s why,” Hal says hoarsely. “That’s why he hasn’t answered. That’s why Dick vanished.”
Diana closes her eyes. “He has lost a child.”
The Watchtower remains silent.
No Bats.
No Batman.
Only the echo of something irreplaceable gone.
At Titans Tower, the mood curdles into something heavy and sick when they get a glimpse of the TV.
Before that though, the Titans’ tower felt wrong.
Too quiet.
Too still.
Like the air’s gone bad.
Dick hasn’t answered in days.
That alone has everyone on edge.
Wally’s pacing, too fast even for him. Kori stands near the window, staring out into the night sky like she’s waiting for it to explain itself. Roy’s sitting on the arm of the couch, bouncing his knee. Garth hasn’t moved in ten minutes.
Donna’s phone buzzes.
Once.
She glances down without thinking.
And then she gasps—sharp, loud, visceral.
“What?” Roy asks immediately.
Donna doesn’t answer. Her face drains of colour as she stares at the screen, fingers trembling.
“Oh no…no, no, no, no” she whispers.
They’re on their feet before she even says it.
She turns the phone so they can see.
Y/N WAYNE DEAD.
GOTHAM HEIRESS COMMITTED SUICIDE
BRUCE WAYNE LOSES A DAUGHTER
Someone turns on the TV. It doesn’t matter who.
Every channel.
Every headline.
Every word is unbearable.
The understand now why Dick went off the grid.
His sister was dead.
Lois is already crying when Jon walks into the room.
The volume is low, but it doesn’t matter. He sees Iris. He sees the black. He sees your picture on the screen.
“No,” Jon says immediately. “No, that’s not—”
Lois pulls him into her arms as the words land.
His big sister.
Gone.
“She wouldn’t,” he sobs. “She wouldn’t leave. Mom that's not fair.”
Lois’s voice breaks. “I know, sweetheart.”
“They said she did it to herself,” Jon cries, devastated, angry, confused. “Why would she do that? Why didn’t she tell us?”
Lois holds him tighter, tears soaking into his hair. “Sometimes people hurt in ways they don’t know how to explain.” She couldn't tell him what all the other heroes knew, what Clark had called her to tell.
You died in combat.
Jon looks back at the screen, chest heaving. “She was my big sister,” he whispers. “She was supposed to be there.”
Lois can’t answer that.
No one can.
The day of your funeral, the city feels muted the moment people begin to arrive.
Not quiet—muted.
Like someone turned the saturation down on the world and left only grey behind. Gotham’s skyline looms in the distance, blurred beneath swollen, low-hanging clouds that threaten rain but never quite deliver.
Outside the funeral hall, black cars line the street in perfect, somber symmetry. Drivers wait with hands folded over steering wheels. Security stands still, eyes forward, expressions carefully neutral.
Inside, the air is heavy enough to press against the lungs.
Every step echoes too loudly.
Every whisper feels like an intrusion.
The hall itself is vast, elegant, suffocating in its stillness.
Black drapery cascades from the ceiling, broken only by soft white light trained on the front of the room. Your casket rests there—closed, polished, devastating. White lilies and roses surround it in excess, their scent thick and cloying, curling into throats until breathing feels like work.
A slideshow plays silently on a massive screen behind the podium.
You as a child, perched on Bruce’s shoulders, laughing.
You with Dick, missing teeth and scraped knees.
You between Steph and Cass, arms slung around their waists.
You holding Damian when he was younger, his scowl already perfected.
You sprawled on the floor of the library with Tim and Jason, surrounded by books.
You holding Elizabeth Taylor the day you got her.
You at galas.
You with your family.
You alive.
Steph sits in the front row, clutching Elizabeth Taylor to her chest. Your dog is wrapped in a warm blanket, donning small black ribbons at her ears, her body trembling slightly as she whines under her breath, confused by the absence she doesn’t understand. Steph’s jaw is clenched tight, tears streaking silently down her face as she buries her nose briefly into the soft fur.
Cass sits beside her, rigid, eyes locked on the casket like if she looks away, something worse might happen. Duke’s hand grips hers so tightly his knuckles threaten to pop. Tim sits just beyond them with his friends, shoulders slumped, gaze unfocused, like he’s only halfway present in his own body.
Jason stands behind Dick, close enough that his presence is felt even when neither of them speaks. Dick hasn’t stopped shaking since he walked in.
The Justice League fills row after row—Clark, Lois, and Jon seated together. Jon’s face is blotchy and red, eyes fixed on the floor, fists clenched in the fabric of his suit pants. Diana sits tall and unmoving, grief carved into the stillness of her posture, Steve mirroring that. Barry’s leg bounces uncontrollably; Iris keeps one hand wrapped around his wrist like an anchor. Hal stares straight ahead, jaw tight. Arthur’s massive hands rest on his knees, fingers flexing slowly, Mera's face hasn't changed from one of sorrow. J’onn sits quietly, his presence heavy with emotion he cannot shut out. Zatanna and John, Shayerah, Ted and Michael, all grieving in their own ways.
The Titans occupy an entire section—Donna’s expression is carved from stone, Wally’s leg jittering as he presses his palms together, Kori’s eyes glowing faintly with restrained grief, Roy’s jaw set hard, Kyle staring blankly at the slideshow as if he’s afraid to blink.
Members of the GCPD, Commissioner Gordon and Babs, WE Board members, Luke and Lucius, all present.
When Bruce enters, the room changes.
He walks slowly, deliberately, dressed in black so severe it feels ceremonial.
He holds Damian’s hand, his grip firm, grounding. Damian walks beside him, spine straight, chin lifted, his green eyes glassy but unblinking. The room rises instinctively, respect and grief pulling them to their feet.
Bruce does not look at anyone.
He looks at you.
At the casket.
At the photos.
At the life he is being asked to survive.
He and Damian take their places in the front row.
Bruce does not let go of his son’s hand.
The service begins.
Words are spoken—formal, respectful, distant.
Achievements are listed.
Foundations named.
Your kindness, your generosity, your advocacy spoken of like a legacy carved in stone.
But it’s the slideshow that breaks people.
Photo after photo of you woven between speeches, proof that you were here. That you mattered.
Dick is the first to stand.
He makes it three steps before he stops, hand braced on the podium like he needs it to stay upright. He looks out at the room, at the heroes, the family, the people who loved you. His mouth opens. Closes.
“Y/N was my sister,” he says, voice already splintering. “My baby sister.”
A photo flashes behind him—Dick at eight years old, grinning proudly with you balanced on Bruce’s arm, two years old and giggling.
“I was supposed to protect her,” Dick continues, tears spilling freely now. “That was my job. I thought— I really thought I’d always be there in time.”
His shoulders collapse inward.
“She was everything good,” he sobs. “Everything bright. And I couldn’t— I couldn’t save her.”
He can’t finish.
Wally and Roy are beside him instantly, arms around his shoulders, guiding him gently away as Dick clings to them like he’s drowning.
Tim stands next.
He hesitates before speaking, eyes flicking briefly to the casket, then away.
“In the beginning,” Tim says quietly, “me and Y/N didn’t actually get along that well.”
“I thought she was too stuck up,” he continues, voice shaking. “She thought I was trying too hard to impress Dad.”
A few sad, breathless laughs ripple through the room.
He swallows.
“I’m happy to say we don’t think like that anymore.”
His fingers grip the edge of the podium. He stumbles over his next words.
“Y/N wa—” He stops. He couldn't bring himself to say 'was'
Breath hitching.
“Is— is, Y/N is the greatest of all time.”
A photo flashes—Tim and you sprawled on the Batcave floor, surrounded by schematics and snacks.
“She isn’t just my sister,” Tim says, tears slipping down unchecked now, “she’s my friend. And I think her presence in my life is one of the greatest blessings I’ve ever had. I think I’m so privileged to have known her personally.”
His voice breaks completely.
“I think— I think losing someone you love this much,” Tim continues, “it’s like losing a tooth. At first there’s blood. Panic. Pain. But after it fades, there’s just… this empty space.”
He presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek unconsciously.
“And you feel it every time you move. Every time you breathe, every time you eat. And it hurts. A lot.”
The slideshow changes—your handwriting on a sticky note, a book left unfinished on the coffee table, a pair of Crocs abandoned by Tim’s bedroom door, your sweater draped over a chair.
“I see her everywhere,” Tim whispers. “In the pictures on the walls. In the book she didn’t finish reading. In the sweater she left on my chair. I tried to play Minecraft to get away from it… but all I could think about was the world we built together.”
He steps away, shoulders shaking.
Damian follows.
He stands stiffly, hands clasped behind his back, eyes forward.
“This morning,” Damian says, voice quiet but razor-sharp with control, “I walked into my ukhti’s room expecting her to be there.”
A photo appears—Damian sitting on your bed, scowling while you grin at the camera.
“I went there instinctually,” he continues. “I thought I would hear her say, ‘Damian, what do you want?’”
His throat tightens.
“But there was nothing.”
His eyes flick briefly to Bruce.
“Her room is next to mine,” Damian says. “Normally in the evenings, I hear her closet shuffling. Her telling Elizabeth off for… defiling couture and chewing on her shoes. Or the girls causing chaos.”
Silence stretches.
“I heard nothing.”
Bruce stands last.
The room feels like it caves inward.
“My daughter,” he begins.
The word lands like a blow.
“I buried my parents,” Bruce continues, voice steady but frayed at the edges. “And now I am burying my child.”
The room breaks.
Quiet sobs. Hands to mouths. Iris presses her face into Barry’s shoulder.
“She made this world better,” Bruce says. “And I will live every day knowing it no longer has her in it.”
The burial at Wayne Manor is quieter.
Smaller.
More devastating.
The casket is lowered beside Thomas and Martha Wayne. Damian steps forward and places something small atop it. Bruce remains standing long after everyone else steps back.
Alfred approaches him, eyes red, hands trembling.
“I am so very sorry, Master Bruce,” he says softly.
Bruce exhales, shoulders sagging.
“I wasn’t supposed to outlive her,” he whispers.
Alfred bows his head.
Damian stares at the grave, silent, shattered.
The world moves on.
But something essential has ended.
And nothing will ever recover from it.
A/N: got yo ass heheheheh nah but i feel like i did rlly well on this one, super happy with how it came out. lmk what you guys think! i have this feeling im gonna gate death threats in my inbox idk. ill get back to my 2k event trust. give me ideas for part 2 guys.
Warnings: childhood friends to lovers, fluff, historical inaccuracies, minor plot detail differences, series of flashbacks, poorly rewritten show scenes, not proof read
Word Count: 3.4k
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has a habit of turning up places unannounced, creating irregularities in your life that had been meticulously crafted. Starting in childhood to the day you meet again at Oxford University.
a/n: I’m sorry this fic took forever. I hope this Young Sherlock fandom is still alive.
Part One, Part Two
divider by: @angeliicide
Oxford had always been a part of the finely wrought, mapped out life in which your parents planned from the moment you were born, alongside many other things. Life was laid out on a strict schedule, one you did not stray from. Everything had order, arrived precisely on time, and you were always there to measure up.
Sherlock Holmes was never a part of that plan. But he wriggled his way into it at a young age, somehow managing to inscribe his name onto everyday of your meticulously planned life. He was an unpremeditated arrival, nevertheless a compelling one. The day Sherlock waltzed- or more like barrelled into your life was the first day of four (that ever really mattered) in your whole life you had ever fallen off-course.
It was summer of 1858, the first sunny day after countless rainy ones. You had spent days cooped up inside of your family's new countryside home. Days were played out in the study, reading whatever material your mother laid out for you, solving puzzles with your father, or taking up chores with your nanny. It felt unlikely you’d never see the sun again. But then the rain stopped, replaced by sunshine, a warm breeze, and a game of pall-mall was set on the lawn.
Mother was sitting beneath a canopy with her afternoon tea, petting a shepherd dog your family called Alfie. Father was standing beside you, mallet in hand as he anticipated your ongoing turn, and you were eyeing the hoop just up ahead, evaluating the swing of your mallet, and where it would send the ball, when you heard it.
“Footprints! Going this way!” A voice called out across the yard, an enthusiastic and unexpected sound followed by quick, clumsy stomping, the sound of boots squelching against the moist mud hidden beneath the grass. A young boy appeared soon after, paying no mind to the game of pall-mall as he trampled through it, his muddy prints littering the yard.
“Brother dear!” Another voice called after, their tone vexed and weary. “Sherlock!” They called again, emerging from behind the treeline of the yard. It was an older boy, mindful of the game at play. “Apologies,” he dipped his head respectfully at your father before cautiously making his way around the pall-mall course. He called for the younger boy once more before finally catching up to him somewhere beyond the yard.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Your mothers exasperated query went unanswered as your father examined the footprints scattered along his yard. You too eyed the tracks curiously, befuddled by the strange occurrence. Alfie was barking wildly, desperate to charge after the agitators, though mother was quick to hush him and his desires.
Now side by side, the two boys found their way back into your yard. Apart from the older boy’s seemingly collected composure, he appeared to be lecturing the younger one. His voice carried just enough for you to register his tone and a few words before they stopped in front of the mess of a pall-mall track.
“Apologies, sir.” The older one spoke again, now looking towards father. “My brother, Sherlock, apparently stumbled across a mysterious path of footmarks and let his curiosity get the best of him. Quite frankly, we aren’t very accustomed to neighbors, and I’m afraid that is why he paid no mind to your game nor privacy unfortunately." He continued on for a little while more, using his words to dig his brother out of the hole they’d found themselves in.
You didn’t pay much mind to the older boy, instead your attention wandering to his brother. You could practically see the gears turning in Sherlock's head as he gazed upon the imprints in the ground, analyzing them so intentionally it’s like he wasn’t looking at them at all. Instead, he was somewhere else, a world of his own, one inside his brain that seemed to hold all the answers. And for some odd reason, you found yourself wishing to go there with him. It wasn’t often you were around kids your age. You didn’t have time for that, or at least that is what your parents made sure of. You were to be a proper, intelligent, accountable young woman, fitting of the family name, and ready to mingle with the higher ups of society as soon as you became of age. You didn’t have time for playing in the dirt.
“Where do the tracks lead?” The words slipped from your mouth, surprising the others around you, most of all your parents. But you couldn’t help it if your curiosity got the better of you, afterall, you were only seven.
Sherlock looked up, his gaze meeting your own, a flicker of confusion crossing over his face as he registered that he was now being spoken to. “A bridge,” He replied, words coming out somewhat uneasy at first, as if he was still trying to decipher something. “It crosses over the river bank, just a little ways ahead.”
This piqued your curiosity. “Can I go see?” You looked up at your father, a newfound excitement in your eyes, not at all comparable to how you were feeling over your previous game of pall-mall.
“Darling, you still have much to attend to today,” Father shook his head, forcing a small chuckle in hopes of letting you down carefully. He looked over at your mother and chuckled again, this time almost nervously, as if this singular moment would alter your future forever. Unfortunately, unbeknownst to both of them, it had. “We haven’t even finished our game.” He looked towards the pall-mall course, a small grimace curling at his lips as he recalled the state of the lawn.
“I can show you!” Sherlock exclaimed, his face lighting up with excitement at the potential of someone new to share his findings with.
“Sherlock, no,” His brother attempted to interject.
“Father, may I please!” You implore, looking up at him with a new, surprising, desperation he’d never quite seen from you before. He opened his mouth to reply, choking on the words before looking towards mother. She gave him a pointed look, her eyes communicating all that he needed before looking back down at his daughter. Your stare had only intensified making the old man’s heart twist with fatherly affection. He sighed, “Don’t wander too far, and get home before the sun begins to set.”
“Thank you, Father!” You wrapped your arms around the older man’s waist gratefully for a quick moment before running after Sherlock as he waved you along, leading you towards the path of footprints.
This was the first day Sherlock Holmes had ever swayed the course of your life.
No day after that was as your parents intended. They did their best to work around this new aberration called Sherlock Holmes, but he was stubborn and refused to disappear from your life. For years, mother and father wrestled Sherlock for the time he stole from your days of preparation and learning, but it became nearly impossible. He became a regular feature within your life, an unstoppable force they could not desist.
The second time Sherlock altered your world was in 1864, at just 13 years old.
Every Christmas Eve, it was tradition for your family to spend the evening with father’s colleagues, as well as their families. Though he had a rather dull place of work, Christmastime always seemed to be an exception. And while Sherlock Holmes usually never graced this particular event with his presence, that night also turned out to be an anomaly.
Festoon curtains of red and green were draped along the walls, while extravagant candelabras and chandleries were brightly lit across a rather large dance hall, sparkling through your peripheral. Some guests swayed around the dancefloor, while others remained refined to the tables, hiding behind a glass of wine, or awkwardly conversing with people they didn’t care for. The ladder had unfortunately been forced upon you. Now that you were getting older, your parents were set on securing a place for you in society.
The Holmes family arrived at the party about an hour after you did. Mr. Holmes and his sons were dressed in their best, sharp black tailcoats and trousers, white cotton shirts, and light blue ties to pull it together. Mrs. Holmes wore a stunning dark green gown, while little Beatrice Holmes wore a simple white gown, sleeves and collar hemmed with red and green.
An older gentleman had captured your parents in a long conversation. You weren’t quite sure what it was he was droning on about, but you wanted very much for the conversation to cease. Needless to say, you were certainly relieved once your eyes caught sight of the Holmes family.
Quietly excusing yourself from the dreadful conversation your parents were stuck in, you crossed the floor and greeted the first Holmes you stumbled upon.
“Hello, Mycroft.” You smiled sweetly, a slight pink tinting your cheeks as you looked up at the eldest Holmes brother. He turned, somewhat startled by his name being called. “‘Tis unusual seeing you here?” You looked at him curiously as his gaze met yours.
“Ah, well, Happy Christmas to you too.” He teased lightheartedly, the corners of his mouth tilting upward in a polite smile, his head dipping ever so slightly.
A small giggle passed your lips, your gaze turning towards your shoes in an attempt to hide the embarrassment on your face. “My apologies. Happy Christmas, Mycroft.” It wasn’t often you forgot your manners, but that year, Mycroft had an unintentional habit of making your knees feel weak, cheeks turn pink, and heart flutter out of your chest. You twiddled with the fabric of your dress before asking again, “What brings you here?”
Mycroft adjusted the lapels of his tailcoat proudly, “I’m the corporation’s newest hire.”
“You work with my father?” You inquired, wryly amused.
“Is that surprising?” His brows furrowed the slightest bit, though his small smile never wavered, only turning into a more curious expression.
“No, not at all.” You said quickly, shaking your head. “I only mean to say, Father’s job is rather dull and you’re… not.” You bit the inside of your cheek, hoping Mycroft didn’t take notice of your face crimsoning, or at least realize why you’d flushed bright red.
“You’re right. Dull isn’t the word I’d use to describe Mycroft. Perhaps.. tedious or monotonous?” Sherlock appeared, surprising both of you. His voice was laced with playful sarcasm, looking up at his brother with a look of challenge in his eyes.
“Reliable.” Mycroft countered.
Sherlock continued, “Wearisome.”
“Engaging.”
“Humdrum.”
“Consistent, responsible, charming, and astute, to name a few.” The older brother grinned smugly.
Sherlock turned towards you, all of a sudden over he and his brother's little game. “Alright then. Let us leave the drab individuals to mingle amongst themselves, shall we?”
“We shall.” You giggle once more, playing along and following Sherlock to another part of the ballroom you had yet to explore yourself, but not before bidding Mycroft adieu. You had to catch up with Sherlock again before you hit him on the shoulder disapprovingly, “Your brother is not a drab.”
Sherlock rubbed his shoulder. “Eventually,” He shook his head, slightly mumbling as he continued walking.
“Then I suppose we will be the same,” You sighed, your gaze drifting across the sea of adults in the ballroom, those Sherlock considered drab, and seeing your future among them.
“Not if I have anything to do with it.” Sherlock shook his head dismissively. He turned to look at you, taking in your absent minded expression. He didn’t need to ask to understand the fluctuation in your mood. Sherlock followed your stare and asked, “You wouldn't actually try to fit in with these people, would you?”
“Yes, I might.” You shrugged. “How come?”
“This life doesn’t suit you.”
Your eyebrows furrowed, “What do you mean?”
“For one, you’re a dreadful conversationalist. You anticipate every word and wind up asking far too many questions. More than any man would like or could answer. And another thing, your face gives away everything you’re thinking. Like now,” He gestured towards your knitted brows, “You’re so flustered and unsure whether you should be upset with me or listen to what I have to say.” You open and close your mouth a few times, attempting to find a response, but the query dies on your tongue. He continues, “You’re smart. You’re ambitious, and curious. You have far more personality than any woman in this room. You deserve far more than a life like this.”
You stand there for another moment saying nothing, your eyes wandering Sherlock’s face, searching for an answer. You find nothing. Before you have the chance to respond, his mother calls him from across the ballroom, beaconing him over to the rest of their family.
You never get the chance to respond to what he said that night. But it stuck with you for a long time after.
The summer of that same year, you and Sherlock became distant. After his sister was found dead, his mother grew ill and left to a mental institution, it was less and less often that Sherlock found himself out of the house. You were back to focusing on your studies, which your parents were grateful for, and the time you would usually spend exploring with Sherlock ceased, replaced by more lessons and books. Then the remaining Holmes’ moved away, leaving behind a vacant home, and a Sherlock shaped hole in your life.
With six years of your life untouched by the influence of a certain Holmes boy, you fell back into the schedule your parents had created for you. You excelled, motivated by the words Sherlock had said to you that night at the party. Not exactly out of spite, but ambition. You wanted so strongly to prove him wrong, to show him you could thrive in society, in the world he said you couldn’t. Even though you sometimes felt that he was right, though you’d never admit it.
The third day Sherlock shook your foundation was in 1870, during a maths lecture at University. You had been scribbling notes down onto your paper as Professor Thompson jotted down several equations onto the chalkboard. Your brows were furrowed in concentration, shoulders hunched forward ever so slightly as you looked down at your paper, wheels turning in your mind as your brain fought to solve the riddles on your page.
“Y,” A voice echoed suddenly across the classroom, a resonant and unexpected sound.
“Why? Why?” Professor Thompson forced a disbelieving laugh, astonished at the nerve of the student who had interrupted his lecture. “Because that is how it works.” You didn’t bother to look up yet, still lost in thought as you attempted to solve the equation on your own.
They countered, “An open disc of radius centered at Y… Not X.”
The professor hesitated and you looked up, both of you taking the words into consideration before the Professor began speaking again, “My apologies. Y.” He corrected, fixing the answer on the chalkboard before turning around. “Who so generously thought to correct me?” He scanned the room, as did you and the rest of your classmates.
In your peripheral vision, a figure stepped into the classroom. You turned to look out of curiosity, but waved it off when you saw a man in scout uniform. The professor continued, “Ah, Mr. Holmes,” Your head whipped back around. “The scout. I see you’ve read my books.”
He responded, “I did.” Your gaze was glued to him. Sherlock. Of course he managed to worm his way back into your life. He had a habit of doing that. He looked so… different. Six years had certainly done him a few favors.
“Which is more than I can say for some of my students.” The Professor sighed, eyeing his students distastefully. Only a moment later, the familiar chime of a bell rang in the distance, signalling the end of class. “Saved by the bell. Homework: find me all the solutions of this quintic.” He wrote down a puzzling equation on the chalkboard as the students packed their things, placing the chalk down with finality before leaving the classroom himself.
With a light, unintentional nudge from the student beside you, you were pulled away from the swarm of thoughts that had consumed your mind since your gaze first set on Sherlock Holmes. You were dizzy, shaken by the unexpected appearance of your childhood friend. What would you say after all these years, if anything at all?
When you turned to look back, Sherlock had disappeared from the doorway of the classroom and you found yourself releasing a breath you hadn’t even realized you were holding. For the most part, the classroom was clear, aside from a straggler or two- which included you and the classmate you knew as James Moriarty. The two of you shared a look, but it's clear his intentions lie elsewhere when he stood from his seat and exited the classroom soon after.
Sliding your notebook into your school bag, you stood from your seat and headed for the classroom exit, the thought of Sherlock still occupying your mind. You never imagined him in Oxford- though he certainly has the brains for it. But it was strange seeing him in a traditional university, after all his protest against it in your younger years. Sherlock always preferred being anywhere outside the classroom, exploring the world, figuring things out, hands-on for himself. But a life dedicated to the pursuit of learning was not something that fascinated him. And although he stood before you in the classroom only moments before in a scout’s uniform, it was still a peculiar sight.
Wrapped up in your own thoughts, gaze stuck on your shoes as you made your way up the stairs, you failed to take notice of the man walking opposite of you, making his way into the classroom while you went out.
“Pardon me,” He said politely, stepping out of the way so you could pass through the doorway before you.
You blinked a few times, finally taking notice of the gentlemen, “Oh, thank you.” When you looked up, after stepping through the doorway, you felt your eyes widen ever so slightly. “Sherlock.” His name slipped from your lips unintentionally.
There was a flicker of confusion in his eyes before, just as quickly, recognition crossed over him. He tilted his head slightly, taking you in from a new angle, like he couldn’t believe he was seeing things clearly. You could practically see the jumble of thoughts that passed through his brain all at once before your name passed from his lips. “You’re here.” A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, “Of course you are.”
“What are you doing here?” You countered, still looking at him with an uncertain expression.
“Well, I found myself curious about the equation on the board,” Sherlock pointed into the classroom, referring to the quintics the Professor had written down in chalk only minutes before.
“Not in the classroom, Sherlock. Here. Oxford.” You spoke more firmly now, chiding him for his foolish response. “Why? How? And as a porter?”
“Scout actually.” He corrected, matter of factly. You quickly lifted your hand and hit him across the shoulder, the action occurring through muscle memory. Sherlock winced, smile fading as he reached up to hold his shoulder and then continued, “My dear brother secured this lovely position for me. He thought it would be easier to keep an eye on me here after my… momentary incarceration.”
“Incarceration?” You repeated, astonishment laced in your tone. You resisted the urge to hit him again. “Sherlock, you fool!”
He must have sensed your desire, cause his hands were raised in an instant, prepared to fend off your attack. “I’m not quite sure I understand your hostility. Are you not happy to see me?” Sherlocks brows furrowed, clearly puzzled by your reaction.
You sighed, “I’m afraid I don’t have time for this at the moment, Sherlock.” Though that wasn’t true. It wasn’t time you didn’t have, but rather the energy. “If you’ll excuse me.” You set your gaze on the wall behind him, hoping he’d take it as a sign to move out of your way and let you through, to drop the conversation and just be over with the interaction that had become rather painful. Sherlock did eventually move, but not without hesitation. You moved past him with an urgency, though you really had nowhere to go beside your dorm room. No classes, no meetings, no plans. You just needed to get out.
“When can I see you?” You heard Sherlock call after you, but you left his question unanswered. He didn’t need a response. You knew that, whether you liked it or not, you would be seeing him again.
Because Sherlock Holmes had a habit of finding you. Even in the most unexpected of places.
Pairing: James Moriarty x reader, Sherlock Holmes x reader
Summary: How you meet Sherlock and James.
Warnings: not an OC fic but there is use of a last name purely for story purposes, no use of y/n, cringe dialogue, violence, explosions, chases, cursing, drinking, yearning, love triangle??, let me know if i missed any
Word Count: 7.7k
a/n: (at the end)
(series masterlist)
There was a shift in the air when your boat from New York City first docked in England. It was subtle, but one you couldn’t shake. It wasn’t until you stepped out of your carriage at Oxford that you placed the feeling. The feeling was a precognition; an air of anticipation surrounded the institution. Still, with that feeling in place, you were unsure whether the outcome would be in your favor.
Growing up a fifth avenue elite alongside families such as the Vanderbilt family, the Hamiltons, the Rockefeller's, and others, you were accustomed to the haughty nature of those with much money and big shiny names. You yourself are a part of the Willborn family. Your family comes from a long line of riches, stretching as far back as King George I. Which attributes to why the name holds such weight in the world of those with power and money. Along with the fact that after a stroke of luck from your father's business days, your family’s wealth prospers due to the growing industrialized world. Your father had insisted that you attend Oxford as he had. And you, the ever-gracious daughter, had agreed, after your father agreed, to keep his hands out of your education while you were there.
That day of your arrival, you must have seemed troubled because that was the day you had met a scout named Sherlock Holmes. He had asked you what was causing you distress as he hauled one of your trunks up into his arms with little exertion. A conversation soon followed and continued all that afternoon as he helped bring your belongings up into your room. That evening, he had quelled your worry and left you feeling at peace with the future Oxford had in store for you.
After that day, you had only seen him in passing with friendly smiles and small exchanges of pleasantries. He was one of the only people at Oxford that you had met who didn’t act like they had a stick up their ass without good reason. He was incredibly smart and somehow also kind. It was a startling change from the arrogance of New York and the cruelty of your lectures. Even still, your interactions remained at a minimum.
All that said, the last thing you had expected to happen was to be accused of stealing the princess's scrolls alongside Sherlock Holmes and his Irish friend. The morning of the accusation, it had been explained that the three of you had been the last seen going into the Library before the scrolls disappeared.
——
The second real conversation you have with Sherlock Holmes happens in the library. Sherlock had summoned you with no particulars, just that you meet him there as quickly as possible. You, curious as ever, were standing outside before he himself got there.
“Sherlock!” You call out as you see him. He nods with a smile. He says your name in greeting and then stations himself next to you. His shoe taps against the ground of the hall. You note the anxious air to him, but don’t speak of it.
“Why am I here?” You ask, turning to face him. He smiles faintly as he takes a breath.
“Ah, yes. I suspected the information wouldn't have reached you yet.” Sherlock's smile turns into a thoughtful look when his brows furrow in thought.
“What information?” You muse, tilting your head at him. He meets your eyes with a serious look that sets you standing straight again.
“You were one of the last people seen in the library before the princesses' scrolls were stolen.” He explains, his hands moving to his hips. Stollen? You had just been in the library trying to get some quiet from Alice, the girl who sleeps in the room next to yours. There was always some commotion or another happening in that room.
“You think I stole the scrolls?” You inquire, a scoff hinting at the tip of your breath. Sherlock shakes his head profusely before answering.
“No, of course not. You hardly have the need for the money that selling them would get you.” Sherlock clarifies. “Besides, I have faith in you.” You smile at that. Somehow, it is reassuring in a way you didn’t think possible. You had only met Sherlock once, and already you felt oddly safe in his presence, like there had been some unspoken vow of protection cast over you by him.
“Well, I am glad I can be trusted,” You smile softly. “But how do you know all this, and I do not?” You question.
“I had a run-in with a constable,” Sherlock explains quickly. “And you were asleep when I got to your room, so it's no wonder you know nothing.” Sherlock shakes his head with a smile, mildly entertained with himself.
Just then, a man rounds the corner. The man is wearing a deep blue waistcoat with matching trousers and a mustache so sharp it looks like he just stepped in from shaving it in another room.
“But why are you here?” You continue, paying little mind to the astute man.
“A question I would also enjoy the answer to, brother dear.” The man says as he stops in front of the two of you. He looks unamused to say the least.
“Mycroft,” Sherlock greets. You remember now, Sherlock mentioning his brother the first time you’d met. He had been reluctant to say more than just that he existed and worked at the school. Now, seeing him in person, you somewhat understand.
“Your brother?” You query to Sherlock, an amused smile tugging at your lips at the clear distaste on both men’s faces.
“Unfortunately,” Mycroft responds for Sherlock, who, in return, ignores him. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mycroft Holmes.” Mycroft Holmes bows just slightly, you do as well, followed by your name and a polite greeting. “Well, shall we make our way inside?” He continues, but Sherlock shakes his head.
”We’re waiting for James.” Sherlock informs, now turning to you before you can ask what he suspects you will. “A friend of mine, James, we were also one of the last people reported to be seen going into the library.”
“So we’re all suspects, and we’re all going back to the place of the crime, for what exactly?” You ask, face riddled with confusion.
“Another answer I would like.” Mycroft scoffs, stepping closer to Sherlock.
“To prove our innocence.” Sherlock smiles, trying to sound reassuring but failing quite amazingly.
“I don’t know if this will help our case. May only hurt it.” You remark. Mycroft hums in agreement. You aren’t sure why you’re still standing here, or if following along with this, practically, strangers' ideas is even safe. But you somehow find yourself intrigued by the idea of solving a crime, of the thrill of a chase. So you say no more.
“Might I point out,” Sherlock starts, his eyes gleaming slightly, “that you don’t seem to be leaving. So maybe you know that it isn’t such a bad idea.” Sherlock states with a sort of smug look on his face. As if he can read your every thought running through your head just by watching your face. You tilt your head at him, quirk a brow, and bite back an amused smile, but say nothing.
“Hmm, as I suspected.” Sherlock bows his head with a smile.
“Enough with the flirting, Sherlock, we don’t have all day.” Mycroft distrusts the moment, stepping in front of Sherlock. “Where’s your friend?”
“I'm here!” A voice calls just as another man rounds the corner. You turn to put a name to a face. Just as you turn to see him, his eyes catch yours. You take him in curiously, the curls adorning his head, his thick dark eyebrows, and deep brown eyes. He’s wearing a brown striped lounge suit, with a matching vest and a brown tie with gold accents. He looks irritable, though of course you understand. The school must not be taking this lightly. Not wanting to be caught staring, you glance at Sherlock.
“You must be James. Sherlock’s told us about you.” You clear your throat and look back at him. His expression shifts as you acknowledge him by name. He pulls his charm out of his back pocket and slabs it onto his expression. Making sure his next few words will swoon the pretty girl he just met.
“I am,” He smiles, “Though Sherlock hasn’t graced me with the pleasure of your name.” James’ head tilts downward as if to draw you in closer with just a look. Yet as attractive and enticing as it is, you know better than to fall for it. No man in the history of the human race has ever been so charming without having alternative motives.
Sherlock is quick to save you from him and tells James your name. “She is also a suspect. Now, if you please, go into the library; we have no time to waste.” Sherlock gestures to the tall burgundy door.
You don’t protest and follow as the three men walk into the library. Mycroft lingers by the door and lets the three of you walk on. “You got ten minutes. Don’t embarrass me again.” Mycroft calls as you all walk. Sherlock ignores him again, so you and James do too.
You glance around, not even sure what you're looking for. Sherlock and James walk quickly down the rows and shelves of books, only stopping a couple of times to get a better look at something before deciding it was nothing and moving on.
“You know what we’re looking for?” James asks, shifting his glance over the room.
“Not really, no.” Sherlock quickly answers.
“How wonderful.” You think aloud, sarcasm weighing your words down. James huffs out a laugh before looking over at you with amusement.
Sherlock abruptly stops at the edge of the row. You, not looking, nearly bump right into him. Sherlock's mind is clearly elsewhere because he moves down the row. You look up to where he and James have set their attention. A broken window.
“A hole in the window. Wonder what that’s for?” Sherlock says flatly. He is quick to begin climbing the shelf to get a closer look.
“You should be a detective,” James chimes in, just as dry, hand slipping into his pocket as he watches Sherlock from the edge of the aisle. Now, on the stone ledge of the window, Sherlock leans on his knees to analyze it more closely.
“Hard to escape my powers of observation.” Sherlock again replies sarcastically with little emotion, but you know he’s amused by where the conversation is going. So you continue it.
“And what might these powers of observation be telling you now?” You shift your weight to one foot and fold your arms over your chest. James and Sherlock’s heads both whip around to you, surprised that you had said anything at all to play along with them. Sherlock gives you a smile before turning back towards the broken window to formulate a response.
“There has been, wait for it, a break-in.” He glances over his shoulder to consider your reaction. How easy it is to amuse them, you think. They let you speak freely without feeling the need to mediate your words, as many others you meet have. You can’t count on the number of times a man at this institution has told you or another woman to stop speaking because you said something smarter or funnier than them, and they got embarrassed. But these two didn’t seem at all concerned.
“Astounding.” You shake your head.
“How did you develop these skills of penetrating deduction?” James is back to his flat tone, but now his eyes also fall toward you.
“We’ve been gifted a couple of paw prints,” Sherlock notes, standing straight and backing from the window.
“There's a hook there, who’s missing his guest,” James notes, pointing to the hook on the wall where a clock should be but isn’t.
“Think I’ve clocked the guest,” Sherlock jokes with a close-lipped smile, but before you can add anything, Mycroft calls you all back to the entrance of the library. Reluctantly, you all slowly make your way back, but not before making a few more clock jokes.
It’s when you return to Mycroft that you see the source of his anxious posture. Sir Bucephalus Hodge, his assistant, Constable Lestrade, and Princess Shou’an. Hodge looks far from pleased, and you can’t help but get nervous yourself. He glares daggers at all four of you.
“Mycroft, would you mind telling me why your brother, the prime suspect, is standing at the scene of the crime?” Hodge asks, as you predicted would happen.
For the next couple of minutes, both groups go back and forth. The Princess and Sherlock have a conversation in Mandarin, and it seems, with the princess at the very least, to have solved some issues. You stand beside James as the conversation goes on, and you glance over to him as if to ask what’s happening. And he simply shrugs, smiling, but you can feel sadness from him. Dejectedness after Hodges' assistant said she did not know him. Somehow, you knew she did. You could feel it in the way James stood, less tall, less sure of himself. Yet you notice that there is no surprise. He’s not shocked at the blatant cruelty of her words. He’s used to it.
“I can help you find your father’s scrolls,” Sherlock says to the Princess.
“We.” You correct him. Everyone turns to you, as if they are only now realizing you exist. You shift uncomfortably under their gazes. “We can help.”
“There’s a very good reason why you can help find them. One of you stole them.” Hodge seethes, voice flaring with anger.
You regret only for a moment speaking up. Though soon your regret quells when the Princess convinces him. But only after she practically threatens him and his assistant politely suggests they leave. Constable Lestraude, Hodge, and his assistant all take their leave, but the Princess stays behind. Mycroft also leaves, having more pressing business to attend to.
“I’m coming with you.” You state firmly, after Mycroft leaves.
“Now, you don’t have to.” Sherlock clarifies, thoughtful as ever. “I only called you down here to inform you of the situation at hand.”
“I’m coming.” You stand firm in your decision. This time, James steps forward, hands in his pockets.
“Really,” He says your name, and it sounds so nice, so careful.
“I want to.” You say again, annoyance creeping in.
“There’s no shame in staying back.” You assume James only means it to be reassuring, but it simply makes you irritated. He says it like you're breakable.
“What would be a shame is me kicking you in the balls. But I'm not opposed to being shameful.” A silence falls over the four of you as the words leave your mouth. You're unamused. The annoyance of being questioned one too many times is clear on your face and in your posture.
James stands there, somewhat stunned, his eyes frozen wide open and mouth slightly ajar, no witty response in sight. Sherlock, on the other hand, is biting back his laugh; his closed fist presses to his mouth to cover his shit-eating grin. The Princess chuckles and starts for the exit of the library.
Without looking back, she says, “You heard her, off we go.”
——
“According to Lestrade, the thief scaled down the side of the building and into a boat. Lestade told me there’s a river in the woods where the thief towed from Candlin College. Then they disappeared.” The princess informs.
Princess Shou’an has taken the four of you to a riverside, one quite a ways from the school. There is an abandoned boat sitting on the damp sand that looks like it was hastily abandoned by whoever had been there before you. The boat's oars are haphazardly thrown into the boat's keel.
Thoughtfully, you hum as you step around the boat, looking for anything that may help the search. But you hardly feel useful; there’s not much to really look at after all. All you see is a boat, some rocks and sand, ropes, and water. You spin around on your heel to see if Sherlock or James got any farther in their investigations.
“Footprints?” James points towards Sherlock’s shoes. Sherlock turns to get a look.
“There’s only one set of tracks, only one thief.” Sherlock smiles just slightly as his eyes meet yours from his position leaning over the sand.
“Headed off this way,” James adds almost absentmindedly as he quickly darts up a small trail leading away from the riverside. Sherlock is right on his tail, following him up mossy rocks and onto the grassy ground. Such boys, the two of them. You roll your eyes at the thought before following after. The trail from the river leads past a stone wall and wooden gate to a dirt road. The footprints that James was following disappeared at the edge of a pair of carriage tracks. The impressions of the carriage’s wheels continue down the muddy road. One of the prints left by the wheel is askew, having left a crooked mark in the dirt.
“Footprints end here,” James utters as he tilts his head toward the long road ahead. You move to stand next to him and lean to peer around his body.
“So the thief got into a carriage?” Your head tilts while watching the road. Sensing you next to him, James turns to look down at you over his shoulder. James bites back his grin, and Sherlock, seeing it, rushes over to your other side, quickly grabbing your attention.
“Now there’s no need to deprecate. Next time, say it, don't ask.” Sherlock advises with a smile on his face. James sighs out his annoyance and turns back to the road.
“The thief got in a carriage." You try again, this time not questioning it.
“That’s the spirit!” Sherlock smiles now, fixing his eyes on the road as well.
“Aye aye. Looks like one of them wheels was a little drunk.” James notes as he points to the crooked wheel track.
“And a drunk wheel would need to sober up,” Sherlock adds, beginning down the road. The princess follows close behind him.
The trek ahead seems to go on forever. You attribute it to the fact that Sherlock and the Princess are up ahead of you and James chatting away in Mandarin while you and James shuffle after in relative silence, aside from passing comments about the scenery. You wonder now, walking beside him, if his concern before was sincere or if he really thought you incapable. You wonder if the charm he put on before you insulted him was for show. Either way, on both fronts, you haven’t known him for long enough to rule out either.
It doesn’t take long for the quiet to be inevitably broken by him. He clears his throat, and you turn your gaze to him expectantly. When his eyes meet yours, he smiles. But not like all the smiles before. This one is less showy, more real. You think it might be the most of him you’ve seen all day.
“You’re pretty quick,” James says, officially breaking any peace that was previously established.
“Is this going to be another one of your compliment-painted insults?” You question, only sparing him a fleeting glance before securing your vision ahead.
“No, no, nothing like that.” James dismisses with a wave of his hand.
“Oh? Then what is this?”
“It’s a truce.” It takes a second for him to settle on something to say. “I wanna recruit ya’”
“Alright, for what?” You laugh. A smile grows on his face as the sound fills the air. A weird feeling of warmth fills your chest as he smiles at you.
“You're fast, smart, we’d have fun with someone like you.” It catches you off guard how easily he says it. Like it hadn’t been something he thought hard about because it was simply a fact, something he could look at you and notice over and over again.
“We?” You say before you can let that thought go on any longer.
“Sherlock and I. He may be smart, but Sherlock hasn’t even half the wit you’ve got. He could use the teacher, and I could use the accomplice." James’ walk slows to a stop. He shifts to face you, wanting your undivided attention. It startles you, the way he’s looking at you. It's a welcome, and almost its own initiation ritual. You aren’t sure if you should be intimidated or impressed. And you aren’t sure what to say.
“Sherlock's got wit. He has to, otherwise I wouldn’t have spoken to him.” You find a loophole out of this uncomfortable corner James backed you into. And it seems to work.
“Okay, so maybe I’ve exaggerated to sway you,” James smirks playfully, this signature look you are now recognizing as such plastered on his face.
“Oh, alright, I see.” You nod back, your own fondness protruding on your expression.
“Well, have I? Swayed ya?” James eyes trail over your face, waiting for your response. You feel exposed, vulnerable to his prying eyes. Yet sitting at the center of his gaze, you feel a strange security. As though, now that you're in his radius of awareness, you’ll always be there, and he’ll be there always.
“Hurry up, you two! We haven’t got all day.” The princess calls from up ahead, where he and Sherlock have stopped to glare back at you and James. Sherlock's calls after you both before you get the chance to respond. You and James are quick to hurry along after them.
After what feels like an hour of walking, you see a house in the distance. It looks like an Inn just a ways down the dirt road. It’s a bit run-down, but it looks quaint; it’s surely a nice change of pace from Oxford's old money dining halls and lecture rooms. It vaguely reminds you of the houses you’d pass in uptown Manhattan on your way to Connecticut for long weekend vacations.
“Oh, hello. A coaching inn.” Sherlock confirms, slowing his pace to your left.
“Where one might get a wheel fixed,” James adds, moving to stand to your right.
“I wanted to ask.” The Princess begins, her attention moving to Sherlock as she walks beside him. “Were you trying to impress me?” Your interest piques, and you glance at James to see that he has too. You share a smirk of curiosity before pretending you're only half listening.
“Impress you?” The sheer confusion lacing Sherlock's voice is enough to force you to suppress a laugh.
“At the maths lecture.” She continues, “When you corrected Professor Thompson.” You can feel the amusement radiating from James.
“The professor 's calculations were incorrect. That was all.” Sherlock states, as if the mere concept of that interaction being anything more is absurd.
“Disappointing.” Is all she says in response. You aren’t sure if she’s gotten the hint, but you guess she will in due time.
“Well, frankly, I don’t know what you see in him.” James, ever the hero, swoops in and saves the impending awkward silence. “I mean, yes, he is handsome in a sort of obvious, clumsy kind of way.” You laugh, and it spurs him on. Sherlock, on the other hand, his head whips around and glares daggers into James’ head. “But if anyone here were ever looking for something a bit more niche. A bit more bespoke, more mysterious, well—”
“Where might someone find a man like that?” Sherlock interjects, hands moving to adjust his cap, before his pride is completely ripped out from under him.
“As stimulating as this is, chaps, I need to return to my carriage.” The princess stops any further teasing, as she comes to a halt just short of the gate to the inn.
”Why? We were just beginning to have some fun.” You smile, turning to face her. You really didn’t want the only other woman to leave you this far into the journey.
“The gala opening. Hodges new science building. I promised him I would be there.” You meet her eyes and nod in understanding. “Thank you for your help. All of you.”
She turns to walk back the way you all came from before any formal goodbyes can commence. But Sherlock takes that as a sign to keep going. James bows sarcastically in her wake; you don’t catch what he says, just that it’s unserious nonsense, maybe a way to shield the disappointment at the princess's clear lack of interest in him. You move to catch up with Sherlock.
“A welcome oasis in the parched deserts of this rural wasteland,” Sherlock notes to you as you jog to his side.
“I was just thinking the same thing.” You smile.
A plaque of wood above the entrance of the Inn reads The Hare & Hounds. Sherlock walks in first, you’re quick to follow after, James steps in last, and closes the door. As you walk in, you notice a gentleman with a graying beard playing the fiddle at the far end of the room. He’s wearing a black hat and dusty gray coat, one that looks like it has seen a lot of hard days of work. Beside him is an open door to a back room.
To the left of the room is a bar, with stools lining the countertop. Behind the bar stands a lady, a bottle of liquor in hand. “What can I do for you lot?’ She inquires, attention shifting between pouring a drink and you three.
“Three whiskeys, my good lady, and whatever you’d like for your fine self.” James leans against the counter with a charming smile.
“Ever the gentleman.” You roll your eyes. “And only two whiskeys for us.” You smile at her.
“Sure, love.” The lady nods before turning to James and thanking him. Sherlock begins to dig in his pockets for change.
“Aye now, I’m getting this. Your money's no good here.” James is quick to slide his money over to the lady.
“I’ll get the drinks, you get the tip,” Sherlock says, flicking a coin, catching it, and pushing it in front of James’ money with a sly look. “Sure, you don’t want anything?” Sherlock asks over his shoulder, and you nod.
“‘And out of his pocket he pulled the sovereign bright…’” James begins, quoting someone you are sure you’ve never heard of before. As you go to question it, Sherlock steps in and finishes the line.
“‘And the landlady’s eyes open wide with delight.” Sherlock's smile is subtle but there as he leans against the bar top.
“What was all that about needing me earlier? You two seem like you’ve got everything under control all on your own.” You smirk brazenly.
”Oh, I don’t know about that; a couple of quotes don’t mean anything.” James chuckles, his arm resting so casually against the bar. He knows exactly what he’s doing, but you aren’t that easy, and you figure now is as good a time as any for him to learn. Sherlock lifts the glass of whiskey to his nose with a smile as he watches you scoff.
Unfazed, James turns his attention back to the lady. “Excuse me. Our carriage is in need of a bit of repair. You see, we’ve been traveling for a couple of days now. My brother-in-law, my wife—”
“His sister.” You correct, before James can finish his sentence. You take hold of Sherlock's arm without thinking twice and lean against him with a big phony smile. “We’re on the way to our parents' home,”
A flush takes over Sherlock's face as his body is pulled up against yours. He’s not angry, just caught off guard. He wasn’t expecting you to be such a quick and easy liar. He also wasn’t expecting your lies to piss off James this much. James is standing there with his jaw drawn up tight. His lips are pulled into a thin line as he watches you paint this story that was supposed to be his. You think about stopping it there, but you can’t help the amusement you are getting from that look on James’ face, or the feeling of Sherlock beginning to play along as he wraps an arm around your waist.
“My mother’s been wanting to see us ever—well, the baby.” You whisper coyly, drawing out this narrative just to see the irritation in James’ expression grow with each passing second. You put on this persona so easily that it impresses Sherlock.
“She’s been going on and on about it in her letters. So you understand the urgency.” You say. Now completely immersed in the story, Sherlock adds something of his own.
“And my dear brother-in-law has a horrible sickness in rocky carriages, his stomach is so very weak—”
“That’s enough.” James cuts him off before he can say anything more. “It’s the wheelwright around, and might we have a word with him?” The withheld anger in his tone forms a laugh in your lungs, and you have to suppress it by turning your face toward Sherlock and into his side. There, you bite down on your lip to stifle your explosive giggles. Sherlock, also near laughter, clears his throat to stop himself.
“He’s done at the village, but he’ll be back shortly.” The lady, clearly confused at the whole situation, says with a sigh and then turns to get back to whatever work she was previously doing.
“We’ll wait then,” James grumbles out, taking his whiskey and stomping off to a table at the opposite wall.
You pull away from Sherlock with a smile. “Is he mad?” You ask, still biting back a smile.
“Oh, extremely," Sherlock smirks down at you before he begins moving too to the table. He sets his drink down and takes a seat next to a still unimpressed James. You sit to James’ left, across from Sherlock, around the small table.
James finishes his shot of whiskey and leans back in quiet annoyance. You, feeling the tension, lean towards him with a smile as a peaceful gesture.
“You wanted fun.” You say. “Here’s my fun.” There’s a moment of contemplation before James lets out a big sigh,
“Fun.” He shakes his head, a grin growing on his lips. “You’re something else, I’ll tell you that, Ms—”
“Willborn.” Sherlock finishes with lifted brows.
“Ms Willborn.” James nods, testing the name out on his tongue. It sounds illegally good coming out of his mouth. “Here comes the fun.”
Just then, the fiddle-holding man sets down his instrument and scurries away through the back door. You hum in interest, and Sherlock and James share a look. Oh, this will be fun.
“Let the games begin,” Sherlock adds, now downing his own drink.
——
What followed was nothing short of preposterous. Never in your wildest imagination could you have predicted even relatively accurately. Yet, it had thrilled you in a way you couldn’t explain. Not that you would ever want a day like today to ever happen again, you can’t rule out that it wasn’t magnificently eye-opening.
The man with the fiddle had turned out, as suspected, to know about the missing scrolls. He had, in fact, had a scroll holster fastened over his shoulder. Sherlock followed him out of the back of the Inn and was attacked by the fiddle player and left with a blood-dripping nose. On some odd instinct of James’, he’d pulled you out of the establishment and around to the back in search of Sherlock. There, you had found him on the ground with the fiddler over him, ready to strike. Before you could cry out, James was on the fiddler, shoving him away from Sherlock. Once he was off, he fled away from the inn down the road.
After some trouble in running after him, you pulled off your healed shoes, had to tell the boys to run ahead, and that you would catch up—the three of you corner him in a barn house just off the main road. Following James's knocking the fiddler unconscious, the holster was found to be empty.
There was, after that, a brief period of reassessment. Sherlock deduced that it had been a decoy to lure you away from the school. He explained to you, after he and James used their so-called overactive imagination, that the scrolls had never left the school. You had then all gone back to the school and into the library, where you had discovered that the break-in was fabricated and that the scrolls were hidden in a pedestal displaying a marble statue of a man's head.
The cabinet that the scrolls had been sitting atop had vanished since you were last in the library, and the three of you were quick to follow the trail of inconsistency. No one could have taken it out of the room since that morning due to the police guarding the entrances. The only way the cabinet could have been moved was through the walls of the old medieval banquet-hall-turned-library. Through a slab of wood paneling on the wall, James was able to remove the paneling to reveal one of the old banquet corridors. Down the corridor halls, you find the cabinet with a bomb ticking inside it.
It had all been because of the gala. Hodges gala for the new science building that was opening. The gala was taking place just on the other side of the chimney, which was in the room where the cabinet sat. With but 90 seconds to spare, the three of you smash through the chimney and successfully warn everyone at the gala about the bomb. Though, of course, not without getting caught on the edges of the bomb’s radius.
Sherlock had gotten the brunt of it. He had pushed you forward, making sure you got out before him, but ended up with a gash on his left temple. And he, along with James and you, had been thrown to the ground by the impact of the blast and enveloped head to toe in ash. James had been quick to help you up off the soot-covered floors as you stumbled in your heels. Sherlock made swift work of getting the three of you out of the building and to a medical professional. The ringing in your head only stopped after the sun had set two hours later.
——
After being held for examination for what felt like days, Sherlock, James, and you are let go. It’s dark by the time you get out, and on autopilot, you follow James and Sherlock back to Sherlock's room. You end up on his bed, sitting against the headboard as the men take off their jackets. You want to take your corset off and finally breathe and relax, but you know better.
By the time you get comfortable against the headboard, Sherlock has hung his coat next to James’ on the rack by the door and is in only his white undershirt. You have to peel your eyes away from him when he first turns in your direction to sit at his desk. In no world would you be caught staring at him. You try to move your attention to James, hoping for some reprieve, but instead you find James in his obnoxiously tight-fitting vest. Now you really wish your corset were off, or at least looser.
“So drinks?” You hear James call out, but keep your eyes on your lap, not wanting to know what seeing him from the back in this state will do to you. The contents of your lap are uninteresting, but you find a few specks of debris to keep yourself occupied. You pick them off the fabric of your skirt and rub the debris between your fingers. You actually do get lost in watching it roll unsymmetrically against your skin. That is, until James calls out your name.
“Do you want any?” James asks. And you have to take a breath before looking up to meet his eyes and shake your head.
“Water’s fine.” Is all you get out. Your eyes flicker to Sherlock, and you have to try to act like this isn’t the first man you’ve seen without full clothing on. But he certainly, one hundred percent, is. A good first thought, you think.
“Well, alright, more for us, eh, Sherlock?” Sherlock just hums in agreement absently as he watches the dim light filter in through the window above his desk. A flicker of something crosses James’ face, but he says nothing and turns to the small wooden table housing the liquor.
James hums a song as he prepares the two drinks. Unable to place it, you want to call out to him and ask. But the tune sounds almost personal, with a folk twang you’ve only truly heard in Irish lullabies mothers in New York sang to their kids when they scraped their knees playing in the streets. You decide to ask about it another time.
“So what exactly are we celebrating? We haven't solved anything. We don’t know who planted the bomb. Or why?” Sherlock voices just as James hands him his glass and makes his way over to you. James smiles as he outstretches the glass to you. Heat invades your senses as your fingers graze him. God, that blast must have done something to your head. You’re not normally this reactive.
“And that is not our concern.” James moves now to take a seat on a cushioned chair by the liquor table; he reclines with a glass in his hand and an easy look on his face.
“That's not our concern?” Sherlock exasperates, sitting up straighter in his chair.
“We set out to find the scrolls. We found them. I'm not losing my scholarship, and you’re not going to prison.” James starts, rubbing his head as if to scrub the annoyance from his mood. Sherlock, in turn, sighs before turning to look out of the window again. “So I think that’s worth raising a glass to.” James raises his glass, you halfheartedly raise yours, your attention still a little stolen by your lap, and reluctantly Sherlock does as well. But he doesn’t take a sip, only sets the glass down at his desk.
“Why aren’t you drinking?” James questions, annoyance too far to settle now. You can hear it in his voice, and your attention is pulled. You begin to speak, attempting to quell his frustration.
“James. Sherlock. It’s been a long day for all of us. Please, both of you, stop arguing. I thought the ringing was gone, but you’ve somehow brought it back.” You complain. Sherlock goes to open his mouth and argue, but James beats him to it.
“She’s right,” James concludes, now standing in his anger. “As much as I would love for you to be wrong.” His eyes meet yours with a dash of sympathy. “All of us are a bit scrambled. I think it would be best if I got going. We could all use a good night's sleep.” James begins to make his way to the door.
“Wait—that is not what I meant—” You try, now sitting up to start towards him.
“No, it’s quite all right,” James takes hold of his coat and slowly begins to dress himself. “I know my limits, I believe I'm in need of some hard alcohol and a full 8 hours.” Jame’s smile is as radiant as ever, even in anger. Your brows furrow as you watch him slip his arms through his sleeves, and Sherlock notices the weariness in your expression. Now realizing the effect James disparate is having on you, Sherlock backtracks.
“James—let’s—” He’s hesitant with the next part, not really wanting to do what he’s offering, but he knows you’ll be happier. “At least finish our drinks,” Sherlock’s tone is unenthusiastic, so much so that it almost makes James laugh at him and call him out.
”That’s alright, Sherlock. Another time, goodnight.” James bows just slightly to you as he backs away towards the door. “Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I should say goodnight.” He nods to Sherlock and then to you before opening the door and stepping out. “Now, fair Romeo, don’t keep our young Juliet up too late.” There’s one sly smile before he shuts the door.
Following the clicking of the door, Sherlock downs his glass. You slump back onto the headboard and let out an exasperated sigh. You could hardly respond to James’ name-calling without embarrassing yourself. Your eyes now land on Sherlock, who's hunched over himself on his desk chair. Consumed by thought, he barely glances over when you shift to set your glass down on his nightstand. By this point, you have pushed past the initial embarrassment of seeing Sherlock in nothing but his undershirt.
“Do you think he’s right?” Sherlock asks suddenly. When you look, his eyes are already on you, his body facing you.
“Right about what?” You ask quietly, making sure your eyes don’t travel from his.
“Would you call this a victory? Even when we are nowhere close to the answers to anything.” The look in Sherlock's eyes melts something in your exterior. The room feels stripped bare of all the playfulness that once disguised the truth. It’s as if Sherlock ripped all the wallpaper off the walls and left you both standing in a barren room.
“Im—.” There is hesitancy in your response, not out of fear but out of your lack of answers. “I don’t think you have it in you to stop searching here. And I don’t think James’ conscience has any reason to keep searching.”
”But what do you think?” Sherlock urges you, his brows furrowed.
“Are you trying to get me to take a side?” You ask carefully, eyes still locked with him.
“I'm trying to get you to say what you think.”
“But you hope what I think aligns with what you think.” You note, stepping closer to where he’s sat.
“Well, of course I do.” Sherlock sighs, eyes breaking from yours and settling on the wood of the desk. “Do they?”
“I don’t think I agree with either of you. All the way at least.” You say, watching his face for his reaction. You aren’t sure what you want to happen. All you know is you don’t want this to be a reason you argue. “I do want to know the truth, but I don't know if I have the ability to fight for it as you can. I wish I did, but I think there is only one you.”
Sherlock says nothing in response, only leaving the cold, naked air between you. You think for a moment that you should go. Maybe this night is not the ideal night to stay for longer than necessary. Slowly, you begin to stand from the bed, you fix your dress as if you moved too quickly or with too much force, it would rip.
When you pass by where he sits, you comfortingly rest your hand on his shoulder. You brush your finger over the fabric of it. You, ten minutes ago, would never have imagined getting this close to an underdressed Sherlock, but now you find the proximity reassuring. And as you move forward, Sherlock’s hand darts up and captures yours on his shoulder.
“Don’t go.” It’s quick and low. So much so, you almost are not sure if you simply imagined it. You stand like a statue, taking in the feeling of his warm hand against yours. You want so badly to stay. Especially if staying means that the warm feeling in your chest would stay even for a moment longer.
“Well, I—“
“However, you are free to return to your dormitory.” Sherlock retracts his hand all too soon.
“Sherlock.” You interject with a scold. “I do enjoy the company.”
“As do I.” Sherlock is quick to add. You sigh at the interruption but continue.
“But are you sure you want me to stay this late? I should be getting back to my rooms.” You say and glance at the clock sitting on his mantel. “It’s already a quarter past eleven.”
“Oh wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?” Sherlock tries halfheartedly to match the enthusiasm James had earlier, but he only succeeds in sounding like a child attempting to reenact his father. A look of fondness passes over your face.
“What satisfaction canst thou have tonight?” You speak the next line of the play and are surprised at how suggestive it comes out. You hold your ground even as the mild embarrassment springs again into your stomach. Sherlocks cocks his head to the side with a grin of amusement.
You see the contemplation in his eyes, whether or not to say Romeo's following line. You aren’t sure if you want him to say it or not. Unsure if it will serve to increase the dizzying tension or break it into something that can not be put back together. ‘The exchange of thy love’s faithful vow for mine.’ It’s not a line that should have any lasting impact, but somehow, as you stand here, it seems a life-or-death decision.
It never comes. Instead, Sherlock's face softens as he gazes up at you from his seat. Your own resolve fades as you look into his mesmerizing green eyes. Eyes that seem as if you look long enough, you will discover all the secrets of the world. Sherlock Holmes is truly a puzzling character. You hardly know him, yet you feel this indescribable force pulling your mind and soul to him in every way possible.
“So will you stay?” It's a quiet plea that makes everything else in the world stop. Your breath hitches.
“Of course”
——
That day had caused a chain reaction of events that unraveled your life completely. Soon, you were being dragged into all and every situation the two idiots found themselves in. Murder accusations, police chases, going undercover, break-ins, mystery solving, and, on occasion, lazing about the public spaces of the institution, laughing about one thing or another. Mycroft quite liked you and was in full support of the good influence you had on them.
Over the course of a couple of weeks, the three of you had become practically inseparable. You’d become very fond of the two dimwits who had slivered their way into your life. Though you weren’t mad at their constant presence. It made you feel that even though you were across the ocean from everything you’d ever known, at least you weren’t alone.
a/n: This took me way to long. Anyways there will be more parts so strap in and enjoy. Comments feed my motivation!
summary you and ryland got hit by some kind of dust
word count 8K
content 18+. smut. sex pollen. fuck or die. masturbation (m). penis in vagina sex. riding. humour (i tried). crack. ryland's glasses stay ON during sex.
a/n officially the longest fucking thing i have ever written. i'm not truly satisfied with this but it's whatever. i hope u guys enjoy it. english is not my first language
masterlist | read on ao3
you and ryland have been staring at yet another mysterious gift sent by rocky like it was a trunk shot from pulp fiction.
you know, the one where— okay so nevermind. that's not important.
what's important was what rocky had sent, which was another cylinder.
you glanced at ryland. ryland glanced at you. then you both glanced at the cylinder.
it sat in the center of the lab table, perfectly still, perfectly silent, and deeply, profoundly suspicious.
“so,” you said, arms crossed. “before you do anything impulsive and deeply stupid, let’s review our options.”
ryland didn’t even look up. “option one: we open it and potentially discover advanced human knowledge. option two: we don’t open it and i slowly lose my mind wondering what’s inside.”
“option three,” you added, “we don’t open it and you will forever be curious about the content but hey, at least you'd still be alive!”
he glanced up at you with a grin that immediately told you he was not going to pick option three.
“ryland last time you said ‘this’ll probably be fine,’ we almost suffocated.”
“counterpoint,” he said, straightening and placing a hand on the latch, “almost.”
you sighed.
“i just don’t like it,” you said for what was probably the fifth time.
ryland made a thoughtful humming sound that meant the exact opposite.
“you don’t like anything that comes from rocky.”
you crossed your arms without taking your eyes off the object. “that is objectively untrue. i like the parts that don’t explode, corrode, or attempt to rewrite the laws of physics.”
“so.... none of it?”
“exactly.”
pause.
just when ryland reached for the cylinder, you spoke out again.
“and just for the record....” you said, voice flat, “i am deeply against whatever you’re about to do.”
“come on. what’s the worst that could happen?”
you dragged a hand down your face, already bracing for disaster. “okay, i need you to understand that that phrase is cursed. like, historically cursed. civilizations have fallen after someone said that.”
he ignored you.
of course he ignored you.
the seal popped before you could argue more. the cylinder hissed open with a soft, pressurized sound.
for a second, nothing happened.
you leaned forward slightly, squinting, peering into the opening, expecting.... something. a device. a sample. anything.
“okay.... maybe it’s empty—”
poof!
a burst of fine gold dust shot out of the container in slow motion, catching the light as it drifted upward and outward, directly into both your faces before either of you could react.
“oh— come on—!” you coughed immediately, stumbling back and waving your hands uselessly through the air. “why is it always airborne—”
“i didn’t—” ryland coughed too, turning his head and blinking rapidly. “i didn’t know it was going to do that!”
“it’s a mysterious alien container, of course it was going to do that!”
the dust settled almost as quickly as it appeared, vanishing into nothing. no residue, no smell, no visible trace that anything had even happened.
you both stood there, breathing hard, staring at each other.
“....okay,” you said slowly. “status report.”
he blinked a few more times, then patted his arms, his torso, like he might find damage. “uhhh.... lungs: functioning. skin: not melting. vision: normal.”
“define normal.”
“i can see you glaring at me, so, yeah. normal.”
you exhaled. “great. fantastic. we inhaled space dust and survived. love that for us.”
“see?” he said, already relaxing. “nothing to worry about.”
you pointed at him sharply. “you do not get to say that. you lost that privilege the moment you opened it.”
“fair.”
then there was a beat.
“so.... that’s it?” you asked.
he peered into the cylinder, turning it upside down. only the residue of the dust fell, nothing else was inside.
“that’s it.” he confirmed.
“okay,” you said finally, though your voice carried a thin edge of disbelief. “either that was completely harmless, or we just inhaled something that’s going to kill us slowly and mysteriously.”
“statistically,” ryland said, already turning back toward the console, “it’s probably the second one.”
“great,” you muttered.
“yep.” he clicked his tongue and made a double finger gun. “nailed it.”
only for a while.
only for a while, it actually seemed like he was right.
you two ran scans, double-checked the air composition, monitored your vitals like you were waiting for them to spike into something dramatic and undeniable. everything came back normal. no toxins, no foreign pathogens, no radiation spikes, nothing that explained the golden dust or what it was supposed to do.
it should have been reassuring.
it wasn’t.
because about an hour in, you noticed something off.
not dramatic. not alarming. but subtle enough.
you shifted in your seat, tugging slightly at the collar of your yellow jumpsuit. the fabric suddenly felt too close, too warm against your skin.
“hey,” you said, not looking up from your screen. you were in your station in the lab, your back facing ryland. “did the temperature go up?”
ryland glanced at the panel beside him. “nope. holding steady.”
“huh.” you leaned back, frowning. “feels warmer.”
“maybe you’re just stressed.”
you snorted. “yeah, because inhaling unknown alien particles was such a relaxing experience.”
you tried to ignore it.
it didn’t work.
because by the second hour, it got worse. worse enough that it distracted you from doing your job.
you were restless now, shifting every few minutes, hyper-aware of your own body in a way that was getting increasingly distracting.
“okay, nope. something’s happening.” you said, standing up. you zipped down your suit. it pooled around your waist and left you in nothing but a dark green tank top you wore underneath. now you looked like a formula 1 driver walking around the garage in the middle of a malaysian heat.
except you were pretty sure that the heat in malaysia was tolerable enough and the drivers were used to it.
this, whatever this was however, was far from it.
“i'm sure it's nothing—” ryland finally turned but then paused.
“what?” you asked as you tied your hair into a ponytail.
he was sitting still. too still. his posture was stiff, shoulders slightly tense, like he was holding himself in place. his jaw tightened and his eyes that were currently fixated on you slightly dilated.
“....ryland?”
he flinched, snapping back to the present. he fixed his glasses while his eyes withdrew, focusing on somewhere else but you.
“yeah?” his voice came out a little too quick. a little too tight.
you narrowed your eyes. “you okay?”
“fine. totally fine.”
“you don’t look fine.”
he let out a short laugh that didn’t sound entirely natural. “well, looks can be deceiving.”
“you’re flushed.”
“it’s warm,” he said immediately. “i’m…. internally warm.”
“....that’s not a thing.”
“it is now.”
you crossed your arms, studying him.
“you’re acting weird.”
ryland scratched the back of his neck. you did not miss the way he licked his lips. and there was a faint flush creeping across his face, coloring his cheeks and the tips of his ears, subtle but unmistakable once you saw it.
“nothing. nothing. um—”
you frowned. “are you okay?”
“yes, yes,” he cleared his throat while still staring at a very specific spot on the floor, like he was avoiding your eyes.
“okay....” you turned, walking back to your station, trying to not let his sudden weird behaviour get to you. it's ryland. he was always a bit odd, even back on earth when you first met him on the ship.
by hour three, thankfully you finished your work quickly because the heat was no longer tolerable.
“fuck....” you muttered under your breath, standing up and started pacing around.
ryland was still busy with his duct-taped-computers, probably working on the algorithm to translate rocky's melodic language.
he stopped typing on the keyboard and grabbed his notebook, writing something there now.
your paces halted. and unfortunately your brain decided that right now was the perfect time to let your eyes wander to his arms out of all places.
you didn’t know why but it just happened.
you didn't get to stop yourself. you brain drifted, catching on the absolute ridiculous size of his biceps. since when did he work out? the thought of middle school science teacher ryland grace going to the gym and working out during the weekends got more ridiculous the more you think of it.
you should have stopped. should have sat back down and worked or went to take a nap or— oh my god his veins—
you flinched.
jesus, what the fuck?
since when the fuck did you notice that?
nope. absolutely not.
you squeezed your eyes shut briefly, exhaling through your nose like that might reset your brain.
it didn't.
you sighed, audible enough just to your ears. your gaze flicked, just for a second, and then immediately snapped back to somewhere else.
that was a mistake.
because now you knew, and knowing made it harder not to look again.
your brain, completely unhelpful, decided to supply additional commentary. since when does he have arms like that? it asked, again, like this was new information, like you hadn’t been working side by side with him for months.
you squeezed your eyes shut briefly, exhaling through your nose. get it together. this was ryland. your crew mate. your friend. the only other human being alive within literal light-years.
and yet—
“oh, for fuck's sake,” you cursed under your breath.
“what?” ryland immediately turned, ears sharp enough to hear you. he looked concerned for a bit.
“nothing,” you said quickly. too quickly.
he adjusted his glasses. “that did not sound like nothing.”
“it’s nothing.”
ryland tilted his head. a hint of amusement decorating his face.
“you were staring at me,” he pointed out.
you jerked your gaze away. “i was not.”
“you absolutely were.”
“i was not,” you insisted sharper, which would have been more convincing if you hadn’t immediately glanced back at him again.
he let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “wow. okay. so it’s not just me. good to know.”
you pressed a hand to your forehead, giving up on your pretenses. “no, it is definitely not just you.”
you paced again a few more steps, trying to shake it off, but it didn’t help. if anything, it made you even more hyperaware of everything. your breathing, the air, him.
and by the fourth hour, denial was no longer an option.
“okay, that's it.” you said, pacing now because sitting still felt impossible, “we need to figure out whatever the hell this is.”
“yep,” ryland said, standing up simultaneously.
“define what you’re feeling,” you asked.
he hesitated. “uh, okay. so, scientifically?”
“obviously.”
“i feel.... distracted,” he started, frowning slightly as he tried to articulate it. “like my brain keeps derailing. and also—” he stopped.
he looked at you and held his gaze for a second too long.
“ryland.”
“....also very aware of you,” he finished.
pause.
“define 'aware'. like when you were staring at me?”
“i wasn't—” he stopped, then frowned, like he was trying to catch his own thoughts mid-escape. “okay, maybe i was.”
you crossed your arms. “why?”
“i don’t know,” he said immediately, which somehow felt worse than any actual answer. “i just— looked up and— there you were.”
“i’m always here!”
“yes,” he said, a little too quickly. “i am aware of that. conceptually. but right now it’s.... more noticeable.”
you stared at him.
“more noticeable.” you repeated.
he rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “that sounded weird.”
“it sounded very weird.”
“i meant it in a normal, non-weird way!”
“there is no version of that sentence that is normal, ryland!”
“you were staring at me too!” he reminded.
you opened your mouth, then shut it again, abandoning whatever argument you were about to attempt. he got you there.
then you sighed. you realized that you both seem to be doing that a lot today.
“you know what? nevermind. just— are there any other symptoms? like what, hormones? perception? impulse control?”
“all of the above, probably.”
you exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to think. maybe it was—
“the dust,” you said suddenly, stopping in your tracks.
he went still. “what?”
you pointed at the cylinder. “it has to be that.”
“yeah,” he said, nodding slowly like he just pieced all the puzzles together now. “yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, that makes sense. mysterious alien substance, unknown effects, sudden onset of—” he gestured vaguely between you “—this.”
you raised an eyebrow. “'this?'”
“i don’t have a better word!”
“well, find one!”
“i’m a scientist, not emily brontë!”
you dragged both hands down your face. “oh my god.”
“okay,” you continued. “let's not panic. let us all calm down. so, we agreed we got exposed to an unknown particulate substance.”
“yep.”
“we’re experiencing.... thermal dysregulation.”
“yep.”
“and—” you hesitated, “—behavioral anomalies.”
he made a small, distressed noise. “that is a very scientific way to say that i cannot stop staring at your lips.”
you frowned. “you were staring at my lips?”
“and you were staring at my arms! we can do this all night!” he said defensively.
“did you just quote the sequels— nevermind. not important.”
you pressed your lips together. which, unfortunately, made his eyes drop there again.
you both noticed, and you both looked away at the same time.
“okay,” he said, pacing once, like movement might fix this. “okay, okay, okay, okay, we can figure this out. we always figure things out.”
“right,” you said, latching onto that. “we analyze.”
“we observe.”
“we hypothesize.”
“we do not panic.”
“we are absolutely not panicking.”
you were both very clearly panicking.
“let’s list everything again.” he said, forcing steadiness into his voice. “all symptoms. no judgment.”
“no judgment,” you agreed.
“elevated body temperature.” he started.
“check.”
“heightened sensory awareness.”
“check.”
“uh....” he hesitated, visibly struggling. “increased.... focus on.... specific.... features?”
you folded your arms tighter. “check.”
“compulsive attention,” he added weakly.
“check.”
he swallowed. “and a— a noticeable shift in, uh—”
“attraction?” you said bluntly.
he closed his eyes. “yeah. that.”
the word hung there, heavy but accurate.
you both went very still. because once it was said like that, clean, clinical, undeniable, something in your brain clicked into place.
not just the symptoms.
the pattern.
your mind started pulling threads together, faster now. the dust. the delivery method. the lack of any visible organism. the immediate onset being minimal, then escalating over time.
you frowned, thinking harder.
“okay,” you said slowly. “if this were any known terrestrial system, particulate exposure with delayed onset behavioral changes would suggest—”
“toxins,” he said automatically.
“but there’s no impairment,” you countered.
“cognitive function is intact. motor function is intact. we’re not disoriented.”
“right,” he said, catching up. “so not a neurotoxin.”
“and not a pathogen,” you added. “no immune response. no inflammation.”
“so it’s not attacking us.”
“it’s affecting us.”
you both went quiet again, thinking.
he ran a hand through his hair, pacing again, faster this time. “okay, so— delivery system: aerosolized particulate. effect: behavioral modification. targeted toward—”
he stopped.
you watched it happen. the exact moment the realization hit him.
his entire posture went rigid.
“....no,” he said.
your stomach dropped. “what?” you asked, even though something in you already knew but refused to acknowledge it.
he looked at you. then away. then back again, like he wished reality would swap out for a better option.
“no, no, no, no, no, no,” he muttered, shaking his head. “that’s— that’s not—”
“ryland,” you said, sharper now. “what.”
he gestured helplessly toward the empty cylinder. “there were no organisms. no plant matter. nothing visible. which means whatever this is, it doesn’t rely on traditional biological structures.”
“okay....?”
“which means,” he continued, words picking up speed like he couldn’t stop them now, “it could be a synthetic analog. or an alien biochemical system that doesn’t follow earth-based taxonomy. something that mimics a known function without the same physical form—”
“ryland.”
he stopped and looked at you.
you held his gaze.
“say it.”
he hesitated. like if he didn’t say it, it wouldn’t be real.
“....on earth,” he started, carefully, “there are airborne particulates that influence behavior in very specific ways.”
your chest tightened.
“they’re typically produced by plants,” he went on. “released into the air. inhaled. they trigger physiological responses that.... alter attraction. increase reproductive drive. reduce inhibition—”
your breath caught.
he exhaled, defeated.
“....pollen,” he finished.
silence.
thick.
absolute.
you stared at him.
he stared back.
“that’s not possible,” you said, even as your brain was already connecting it. "that's not fucking possible. what the fu—”
“i know,” he said quickly. “i know. there were no plants. there’s no visible biological structure. it doesn’t make sense.”
“so it’s not pollen.”
“it’s not plant pollen,” he corrected weakly.
you both paused.
“but it’s doing the same thing,” you said.
“yeah.”
another silence. longer this time.
he let out a hollow laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “that’s— wow. okay. that’s just— fantastic. amazing. incredible. we got hit with alien.... pseudo-pollen that—”
he stopped himself.
you finished it for him. “that makes people.... like this.”
he nodded, looking like he wanted to walk directly into space.
you swallowed. your skin still felt too warm. thoughts still kept drifting back to him.
to his hands. arms. the way he was looking at you right now.
you dropped your hands. wanna know the worst part of this? it's that now that you understood it, it didn’t make it stop. it just made it clearer.
“we’re in trouble,” you said quietly.
he nodded, equally quiet.
“yeah,” he said. “we really are.”
“and rocky just gave it to us with no warning?”
“to be fair,” ryland said, “he might not have known humans would react like this.”
you stopped pacing. “react like what, exactly?”
“like this,” he said weakly. “he probably thinks this is how humans reproduce. like, 'here, have some breeding dust, make more crew for the mission!'” ryland continued.
“oh, jesus.”
another pause.
longer this time.
he shifted his weight. “okay. solution-oriented thinking. we just.... wait it out.”
“wait it out,” you repeated.
“yep. it’s a chemical thing, right? it’ll metabolize, wear off, we go back to normal, and we never speak of this again.”
“not even a little bit.” you agreed quickly.
“not even in a funny anecdote way.”
“especially not in a funny anecdote way.”
he removed his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose with his eyes shut tight while his other hand was gripping the edge of his desk for dear life. firm, almost rigid, like it was the only thing anchoring him in place. “good plan. great plan. love that plan.”
you stopped pacing and looked at him properly.
really looked.
the flush hadn’t faded, it had deepened. his breathing was just slightly off, not enough to be obvious unless you were paying attention, but you were paying attention now. and the way he was holding himself. tense, contained, like he was actively stopping himself from—
“ryland,” you said slowly.
“yeah.” he did not look at you.
“why are you holding onto the table like it’s about to float away?”
he let out a short, strained laugh.
“because if i don’t,” he said, voice tight in a way that made something in your chest twist, “i might do something incredibly stupid.”
your stomach dropped. “define 'stupid.'”
his eyes flicked up to yours, and whatever you saw there made your breath catch.
“i think,” he said quietly, “you already know.”
pause.
you stole a look at him. ryland had gone very still, hands braced on the edge of the console, head bowed like he was trying to think his way out of this. he looked just as wrecked as you are. tense, flushed, jaw tight like he was grinding through it.
the lab suddenly felt too small, like the walls had inched closer, like the air had thickened into something you had to push through just to breathe. you were still standing too close to each other. close enough to feel the heat rolling off him. close enough that every tiny shift felt amplified. and neither of you seemed able to take that one simple step back.
you both pretended to think. which would’ve been easier if your thoughts weren’t constantly derailing.
“okay,” ryland said finally, too quickly, like he’d been holding the word in his mouth for a while. he wasn’t looking at you. he hadn’t been looking at you for a solid minute now, which somehow made it worse. “solution. we need a solution.”
you nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. “yeah. yeah, obviously.”
he paced once, twice, hands flexing at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. “we don’t know the duration of the effect. could be hours, could be longer.”
“right,” you said, your voice coming out tighter than you meant.
“it might not get worse,” he said quickly.
you both paused.
“it’s definitely getting worse,” you said.
“yeah,” he admitted. “yeah, that’s fair.”
another stretch of silence followed, thick and charged and deeply unhelpful.
another beat. he stopped mid-pace, suddenly locking eyes on your lips again as you bit the lower one in concentration. a visible shiver ran through him.
you, meanwhile, were transfixed by the way his t-shirt stretched across his chest when he breathed. arms. shoulders. that stupid little strand of hair falling over his forehead.
it was ridiculous. you were both adults. professionals. stuck on a ship light-years from home with an entire species depending on you not screwing this up.
and yet.
both of you looked away at the same time.
he continued pacing, then he straightened slightly, like he’d latched onto something solid. “okay. i’ve got it.”
you perked up. “yeah?”
“isolation.”
silence.
“what?” your voice came out small.
“we isolate,” he repeated, more firmly now, like saying it again would make it more reasonable. “separate areas of the ship. minimal contact. we wait for the effects to wear off.”
you stared at him. “you’re kidding.”
“i’m not kidding.”
“ryland, that’s not a solution. t-that’s— what if it gets worse? what if it doesn’t wear off?”
“then we reassess,” he said, easy. “but right now, the safest option is distance.”
you laughed, sharp and disbelieving. “distance? on this ship? we share literally everything. systems, controls, workload—”
“yeah,” he said, gaining momentum, talking faster now. “we separate. different sections of the ship. minimal contact. we only communicate over comms when absolutely necessary. reduce exposure to.... stimuli.”
“stimuli,” you repeated flatly.
he made a small, helpless gesture. “i’m trying to keep this clinical.”
you stared at him. really stared this time.
“ryland,” you said slowly, “we are on a single-crew mission with two people.”
“yes.”
“yao and ilyukhina are—”
“i’m aware.” his voice was tighter this time, jaw clenched.
“we barely manage everything together on a good day.”
“we’ll adjust.”
“adjust?” you let out a short, disbelieving breath, shaking your head. “we’re already compromised. you said it yourself. attention issues, cognitive interference. you think splitting up is going to make that better?”
his jaw tightened. “it removes the trigger.”
“it removes the only person who can help when something goes wrong,” you shot back. “we don’t have backup. we don’t have a third crew member to pick up the slack. if something breaks, and something will break, we need both of us functional.”
“we are functional,” he insisted, but it came out strained, like he didn’t fully believe it.
you took a step closer without thinking.
his entire body reacted.
it was subtle. so subtle you almost missed it. but it was there: the way his shoulders went rigid, the way his breath hitched just slightly, the way his hands curled like he was holding himself in place.
that alone made your point for you.
you gestured between the two of you. “this is not functional.”
he didn’t answer.
you softened your voice, just a little. “we don’t know how long this is going to last.”
“it could wear off in a few hours,” he said, but it sounded more like hope than certainty.
“or it could be days,” you said quietly.
he didn’t argue.
“or weeks or never at all!” you added, pushing it, because you needed him to really think about it, not just cling to the best-case scenario.
“it’s the only plan that doesn’t make things worse. it’s better than the alternative.” he replied.
you stilled. “what alternative?”
he didn’t say anything.
which, unfortunately, was an answer.
you exhaled slowly, your chest tight. “okay. no. we’re not doing this vague shit. we need to actually say it.”
“we really don’t,” he said quickly.
“we do,” you insisted. “because if we don’t, we’re just going to keep circling around it and nothing gets solved.”
he dragged a hand down his face. “no.”
“ryland—”
“no,” he repeated, firmer this time. “we are not— no. that is not the solution.”
you stared at him. you've never heard his voice went that rough. that low. “it’s the only solution that makes sense.”
“it’s not a solution,” he shot back. “it’s—” he stopped, jaw tightening. “it’s not something we should even consider.”
“we both know what this is doing to us,” you pressed, voice low but steady now. “it’s not just going to fade if we sit in separate rooms pretending we’re fine. it’s getting worse.”
“i said no,” he repeated, sharper this time.
“and what happens if it peaks while we’re in the middle of something critical?” you continued anyway. “a maneuver, a repair, a calculation— what then? we just hope we can think straight?”
“we will think straight,” he snapped. “we’re not animals.”
“no, we’re worse,” you shot back. “we’re aware of it and still can’t stop it.”
he looked away first, jaw flexing, like he was trying to clamp down on something.
“we are not going to make a decision like that under the influence of alien—” he gestured helplessly, “—whatever this is.”
“we might not have a choice,” you said.
“we always have a choice.”
“do we?” you asked. “because right now it feels like we’re both in agony and pretending that distance is going to fix it.”
he flinched. barely, but enough.
“you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” he said, quieter now. steadier. like he was forcing the words into place. “okay? whatever this is, it doesn't make that decision for us. you don’t—” he stopped, swallowing. “you don’t owe me anything. not for survival, not for the mission. nothing.”
your expression softened for half a second, before hardening again.
“this isn’t about owing anyone anything,” you said. “this is about reality. about what’s actually happening. we can’t function like this, ryland.”
“we can,” he insisted. “we will.”
“you don’t believe that.”
he didn’t answer.
you stepped closer without thinking. his shoulders tensed immediately, like proximity itself was dangerous.
“look at me,” you said.
he did.
“you’re telling me to isolate,” you said, softer now, but more intense. “to stay away from you, to fight this out on our own, when we both know exactly what would make it stop.”
his breath hitched. just slightly, but he held his ground. “knowing something doesn’t mean we should do it.”
“why not?” you asked. “if it works, if it stabilizes us, if it lets us actually do our jobs.... why not?”
“because that’s not a choice,” he said, the words coming out sharper than he meant them to. “that’s a reaction. that’s the pollen making the decision for us.”
“or it’s us making the best decision with the situation we have,” you countered.
“no,” he said, shaking his head, stepping back now like he needed the space. “no, that’s not the same thing.”
you followed without realizing.
“then what is?” you demanded. “we wait it out and risk compromising the mission? we split up and hope nothing goes wrong? how is that better?”
“because at least it’s ours,” he snapped.
the words hung there. then he froze, like he hadn’t meant to say it that way.
you frowned slightly. “what?”
he dragged a hand down his face, exhaling hard. “if we— if we do this, it shouldn’t be because we’re backed into a corner. it shouldn’t be because some alien dust messed with our heads and left us with one option.”
“it’s still us,” you said. “it’s still our choice.”
“is it?” he asked quietly.
that got you. because there was something in his voice now. something deeper than just logic. something personal.
“i don’t want that,” he went on, more quietly now, but more intense for it. “i don’t want.... something like that to happen because we had no other way out. because we were trying to survive it. i don’t want it to be something we look back on and think, ‘we didn’t really choose that.’”
you stared at him.
he looked away again, jaw tight.
“that’s not—” you started, then faltered. “that’s not what this is about.”
“it is for me,” he said.
there was a beat.
“we don’t have the luxury of waiting for perfect conditions,” you said, more gently now. “we have a mission. we need each other functioning.”
“i know,” he said. “i know that.”
“then stop pretending this is something we can just outlast.”
“i’m not pretending,” he said, voice rougher now. “i’m choosing the option where you don’t wake up later and regret it.”
pause.
you blinked at him. your voice came out quieter than you intended. “you think i’d regret it.”
“i think,” he said carefully, “that this isn’t exactly a clear-headed situation.”
you opened your mouth but no argument came out. because he wasn’t wrong.
“i’m just saying that it might fix the problem.”
“at what cost?”
a beat.
he stepped closer. just one step, but it closed the gap enough that the heat surged again, sharp and immediate, both of you feeling it.
his hands flexed at his sides like he was actively resisting the instinct to do something else with them.
“you think you won’t regret that?” he asked, voice lower now, rougher around the edges. “you think we won’t look back at this later and realize we only did it because we didn’t have a choice?”
you didn’t answer right away.
he shook his head, almost to himself. “that’s not…. that’s not how that should happen.”
there was something else in his voice then, something quieter, buried under all the logic and resistance. something that didn’t quite belong to the situation at hand.
“if we’re going to—” he stopped, jaw tightening, then tried again. “if something like that ever happens, it shouldn’t be because we’re trying to survive some alien.... whatever this is. it should be because we actually—”
you watched him cutting himself off. the way his shoulders were locked, the way his whole body looked like it was braced against something internal, something he was refusing to let slip.
“isolating wouldn't work,” you said quietly. “we can’t do this alone. not here. not now.”
“maybe not,” he admitted.
“then—”
“i’m still not doing that,” he cut in.
you blinked. “ryland—”
“i’m not,” he repeated, firmer now. “we’ll figure something else out. we’ll manage it. we have to.”
“even if it makes things harder?”
“yeah,” he said. “even then.”
you searched his face. trying to understand. trying to find the line he wouldn’t cross.
“you’re really that set on this,” you said.
“yeah,” he said quietly.
another pause.
“fine,” you said at last, though it didn’t sound like agreement so much as reluctant acceptance. “we do it your way.”
he nodded once.
“we isolate,” you added. “but if it gets worse—”
“we reassess,” he said immediately.
neither of you moved.
just stood there, separated by a few steps and a whole lot of tension, both of you very aware of how fragile that distance felt.
like it could disappear in a second.
like he might cross it.
like you might let him.
his jaw tightened.
his shoulders went rigid again.
and for a split second, he looked like he might—
but then he turned away.
“i’ll take the lab first,” he said, voice a little rough. “you can have the cockpit.”
you swallowed. “okay.”
“we’ll.... check in. over comms.”
“right.”
—
you weren't sure what time it was, but two things for certain: you were going crazy because sleep refused to come and the ceiling was mocking you.
you had been lying in bed, tangled in your sheets for what felt like hours but was probably just twenty minutes, staring at the ceiling, flipping from one side to the other like a rotisserie chicken. the gold dust still simmered under your skin, turning every shift of fabric into slow torture. your tank top clung to your damp chest. your shorts felt too tight, too rough, too everything. you rolled onto your stomach, then flopped onto your back again, kicking the blanket off with a dramatic groan.
“this is stupid,” you muttered into the dark, dragging a pillow over your face like that might solve anything. “this is so fucking stupid. i am the pilot of the hail mary. i’ve navigated black holes in simulations. i should not be this horny because of some stupid alien dust.”
another wave of heat rolled through you, settling low and insistent between your legs. you whimpered softly, pressing your thighs together, but that only made it worse.
your brain refused to calm, looping the same thoughts over and over again.
ryland’s voice.
ryland’s face.
ryland's arms.
ryland's hair.
just him in general. the way he’d looked at you before you separated. the way his voice had tightened. the way his shoulders had gone rigid like he was holding himself together by sheer force.
you groaned softly into your pillow, pressing your face into it like that might smother the thoughts.
with a frustrated sigh, you shoved the covers off and swung your legs over the side of the bed, the cool floor a brief relief against overheated skin. you sat there for a second, breathing, trying to steady yourself before started pacing.
“isolation,” you scoffed under your breath, pacing faster. “yeah, great plan, ryland. fantastic plan, ryland. terrific plan! it was never gonna fucking work.”
you sighed again before stopping to take a deep breath.
“okay,” you said to yourself. “it's fine. it's fine! you're okay. you're doing good. just— breathe. it’ll pass.”
you closed your eyes and tried to focus.
in.
out.
in—
“mhmmph—”
pause.
you blinked an eye open.
what—
“mhmphhh— fuckk—”
—the hell was that?
you tilted your head slightly, listening.
at first, nothing. just the low hum of the ship, steady and familiar. long enough you were starting to think that your brain was playing tricks on you.
but then—
“oh, please— please—”
it was soft and faint. slightly uneven. and came from the other side of the wall.
and the other side of the wall was ryland's room.
you froze. you heard it again. a low, muffled whimper drifted through the thin wall
unmistakenably ryland.
he was in the room next to yours.
awake.
and very clearly not handling this any better than you were.
he was trying so hard to stay quiet, really committing to the bit, but failing miserably. another whimper followed, shaky and desperate, quickly bitten off. the faint, rhythmic sound of skin on skin. a muttered curse. your name, whispered like he was cursing the universe for putting him in this position.
heat flooded your face so fast you probably matched the emergency lighting. you stood there, mouth slightly open, ears straining despite yourself.
is he—
no.
no way.
no fucking way.
another moan, softer this time, but unmistakably him. he was doing a terrible job at being stealthy. the wall might as well have been paper.
you paced faster, hands flapping uselessly at your sides like a malfunctioning robot.
dilemma time. big, stupid, pollen-fueled dilemma.
option #1: stay in your room. be responsible. respect the isolation plan he’d suggested earlier like the noble scientist he was. suffer in dignified silence until the dust wore off. maybe meditate. or count rivets in the ceiling. very professional.
option #2: march over there, bang on his door, and finally deal with whatever this is, together.
you stopped, pressing your ear against the cool wall, right where the sounds were loudest. another whimper from his side. your stomach flipped. your body voted very enthusiastically for option two.
“but he said isolate,” you argued with yourself in a harsh whisper. “he was all ‘we’re professionals, we can handle this.’ what if i go over there and he freaks out? what if it gets awkward? what if he opens the door with his dick in his hand and we both just scream?”
you frowned at the mental image. not very flattering thing to think about.
“fuck, no. i’m strong. i’m a pilot. i’ve done evasive maneuvers in asteroid fields. i'm on a mission to save earth. i can handle one night of alien-induced horniness without climbing my crewmate like a tree.”
you resumed pacing, arms crossed tight over your chest like that would somehow contain the fire. three steps. turn. three steps. the sounds from his room continued. another low moan, a bitten-off “shit” that sounded way too sexy for your sanity.
you stopped again, staring at your door like it was the airlock to certain doom.
your hand hovered near the door panel. you yanked it back like the button burned.
“no. professional boundaries. we have a mission. we have dignity. we—”
a particularly broken moan cut through the wall, followed by a muffled thump like he’d smacked his head against something.
you groaned, dragging both hands down your face. “okay, fuck it. i’m weak. i’m so fucking weak. if he doesn’t want this he can yell at me tomorrow when the pollen wears off.”
a beat.
“if.... it ever wears off.” you added.
before you could talk yourself out of it again, you marched to the door, heart hammering like a faulty thruster. you raised your fist and banged on his door, loud, impatient.
no turning back now.
inside, everything went dead silent. then frantic shuffling. something clattered to the floor. then the door finally slid open.
ryland stood there, flushed crimson, hair a disaster, breathing like he’d just run a marathon. his glasses were crooked. shorts wrinkled, barely even on, one hand still guiltily hovering near his waist. his eyes widened comically when he saw you.
you didn’t give him time to speak.
you grabbed the front of his shirt, pulled him forward, and kissed him hard.
he made a surprised noise that got immediately swallowed when you kissed him, the door sliding open the rest of the way as he stumbled back into the room.
for a second, he didn’t move. just froze, like his brain had short-circuited.
then his hands came up instinctively, one landing on your waist, the other tangling in your hair as he kissed you back with pent-up desperation. you stumbled forward into his room, mouths still locked, and kicked the door shut behind you with your heel.
the kiss was messy at first. noses bumping, tongues fighting. but neither of you cared. you poured every ounce of frustration and heat into it. his back hit the wall and he pulled you closer, hips pressing against yours so you could feel exactly how affected he still was.
after a long, dizzying minute you forced yourself to pull back just enough to breathe.
“wait, wait,” you said, out of air. “you were the one who wanted to isolate. if you want me to stop.... say it. we can pretend this never happened—”
“no— no, no, no, no. don’t you dare,” he said immediately.
you blinked. “what?”
“don’t say we can stop and then actually mean it,” he said, like that was a personal attack. “that’s— no. absolutely not.”
you huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “you were literally the one arguing against doing this.”
“i know,” he said. “i was wrong. past me was— misguided. naive. deeply out of touch with current events.”
“current events,” you repeated.
“yes,” he said, nodding once, very serious about this. “new data has come to light.”
“and that data is?”
“i need you.”
a beat.
“please.” he stared at you, eyes dark and glassy, lips swollen. his hands flexed on your hips like he was scared you’d vanish. for a heartbeat the only sound was your ragged breathing and the low hum of the ship.
“i tried— i really fucking tried to be good. but this dust is evil and you were just right next door and you look too good in that tank top and i’ve been losing my mind for hours. please.”
you raised an eyebrow, smirking. “oh, so that's what the staring was for earlier?”
“i.... well, i mean— yeah.” he stammered, realizing there is no point of pretending anymore.
you couldn't help but chuckled. “yeah, okay. the feeling's mutual.”
“yeah?” he laughed too.
“yeah.”
“can i kiss you again then?”
you smiled. “thought you'd never asked.”
this time it was him who surged forward, kissing you slower this time, deeper, letting the burn build deliberately. his glasses fogged up immediately, the lenses clouding over from the combined heat of your breaths. he didn’t take them off. didn’t even reach for them. just kept kissing you through the haze, like the fog made it somehow hotter. your fingers traced his jaw, his neck, the rapid flutter of his pulse. he shivered under your touch.
you walked him backward toward the bunk without breaking the kiss. when his knees hit the edge he sat down heavily, pulling you with him so you straddled his lap. the new position pressed you right against the hard line of him, making you both gasp into each other’s mouths.
slowly, you started undressing each other. your hands slid under his shirt, palms mapping the warm, flushed skin of his chest. he lifted his arms so you could tug it off. you tossed it somewhere behind you, leaving him in only his glasses. he returned the favor, peeling your tank top up inch by inch, kissing every new strip of skin he revealed. your stomach, the underside of your breast, your collarbone, until the fabric was gone.
his fingers hooked into the waistband of your shorts. you rose up on your knees so he could slide them down your thighs along with your underwear. you kicked them away. then you focused on his shorts, tugging them down slowly, savoring the way his breath hitched when you freed him.
naked now, you settled back onto his lap, skin to skin. the contact was electric. you took your time, rocking gently against him without taking him inside yet, just feeling the slide and heat while you kissed him lazily, tongues tangling in slow, filthy strokes.
you reached between your bodies, wrapping your hand around him. he groaned loud, head tipping back, the sound vibrating through his chest. “fuck— your hand feels so good,” he breathed, hips twitching up into your grip. “please don’t tease me— been dying for this.”
“you sure about this?” you murmured against his lips between kisses, giving him one last out even as your hips rolled in a slow, teasing circle.
“never been more sure of anything in my life,” he breathed, hands gripping your thighs.
you laughed softly into his mouth, the sound turning into a moan when he shifted his hips just right. one of his hands slid between your bodies, fingers exploring with gentle, curious touches until you were trembling.
only then did you reach down, wrap your hand around him, and guide him to your entrance. you sank down inch by torturous inch, both of you moaning at the slow, perfect stretch. when you were fully seated you stayed there for a long moment, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other in while your bodies adjusted.
then you started to move.
slow rolls of your hips at first, savoring every drag and press. ryland’s head tipped back, exposing the long line of his throat. you leaned in to kiss along his jaw, his neck, sucking lightly at his pulse point while you rode him with deliberate, unhurried patience. his hands roamed your back, your sides, your breasts, learning every curve like it was new data he needed to memorize.
gradually the rhythm built. your movements grew deeper, harder. the bunk creaked steadily. soft gasps and moans filled the small room. his fingers found your clit, rubbing tight circles that made your rhythm falter and your breath catch.
“ryland— fuck, just like that—”
“you feel so good,” he panted, voice breaking on the words. “oh, baby— don’t stop, please—”
it hit you like a solar flare. you cried out his name loud, clenching around him hard, hips stuttering through the waves. he followed right after, burying himself deep with a broken, guttural moan.
“yes— fuck— coming— inside you— god, you’re perfect— take it all—”
you collapsed against his chest, both of you trembling, hearts hammering in sync. his arms wrapped around you tight, holding you close while the aftershocks rolled through, glasses still fogged and slightly askew on his nose.
for a long moment, neither of you said anything.
you were half sprawled across him, one leg tangled with his, your arm draped somewhere over his chest like you’d both simply.... collapsed and decided to stay that way. the room was quiet except for your breathing, slowly evening out, though not nearly fast enough to feel normal.
ryland was staring at the ceiling.
very intently.
like it had just revealed the meaning of life and he was still processing it.
“....so,” you said eventually.
“so,” he echoed.
another pause.
you shifted slightly, propping your chin on his chest so you could look at him. “on a scale from one to ‘we should never speak of this again,’ where are you at?”
he didn’t look at you.
“....i’m considering faking amnesia.”
you snorted. “wow. rude.”
“i’m kidding,” he said quickly, then paused. “mostly.”
“mostly,” you repeated.
“okay, no, that sounded worse than i meant it,” he said, finally turning his head toward you, eyes wide like he was trying to fix it in real time. “i don’t regret it. i do not regret it. i just—” he gestured vaguely with one hand, which was difficult considering you were partially pinning him down, “—need a second to emotionally catch up with my own life choices.”
you raised an eyebrow. “your life choices led you to space.”
“for the record, i did not consent to that.”
fair, but you ignored him. “and then to alien pollen.”
“unfortunately, yes.”
“and then to me.”
he hesitated.
“that part i’m less willing to categorize as a mistake.”
you stared at him for a second.
then narrowed your eyes. “that was almost smooth.”
“thank you,” he said. “i panicked halfway through it.”
“i could tell.”
another stretch of quiet settled in, but it was different now. looser. like the tension that had been buzzing under your skin all day had finally burned itself out, leaving something softer in its place.
“....for the record,” you added after a moment, “your ‘being quiet’ plan earlier? terrible.”
he made a strangled noise. “oh my god.”
“like, impressively bad,” you continued. “i heard everything.”
“you did not hear everything.”
“ryland.”
he covered his face with both hands, cheeks heated up. “i would like to be ejected into space now.”
“denied,” you said immediately. “we need you for the mission.”
“please, just kill me already.”
“also,” you added, very seriously, “for future reference, the wall is not soundproof.”
“i have gathered that,” he said into his hands.
“just making sure.”
he peeked at you through his fingers. “....are you going to bring this up again later?”
“oh, constantly.”
“i walked into that one.”
“you really did.”
another quiet moment passed.
you could feel his breathing steady under you now, less uneven, less strained.
“....hey,” he said after a while.
“yeah?”
there was a small pause before he spoke again, like he was choosing his words more carefully this time. “are you okay?”
it caught you off guard.
not the question itself, but the way he asked it. steady. grounded, like he needed the answer to mean something.
you blinked, then nodded. “yeah,” you said, softer. “i am.”
he turned his head then, just enough to look at you properly, like he needed the visual confirmation to go with it.
“okay,” he said finally, the word carrying more weight than it should have. “i'm glad.”
you nudged him lightly with your shoulder, a small, grounding kind of contact. “you?”
he let out a breath that sounded like it had been stuck somewhere in his chest for a while. “yeah. i think so. which is honestly surprising, given.... everything.”
another quiet stretch settled over you, but it wasn’t awkward. not really. just calm, in a slightly surreal, post haze kind of way.
eventually, the exhaustion caught up with you. real, actual exhaustion this time. not the restless, jittery kind from before.
you shifted closer without thinking, your head settling more comfortably against him.
he stilled for half a second then relaxed. his arm tightening just slightly around you.
“also,” he added, voice softer now, almost drowsy, “for the record…. i don’t regret it.”
your chest tightened. you didn’t lift your head, didn’t look at him. just let the words settle somewhere quiet inside you.
“…me neither,” you murmured.
that was the last coherent thing either of you said.
because a few minutes later, the exhaustion finally won.
summary | After a round of Gotham City, Bruce finds a lonely boy, and his paternal instincts are triggered by the impending birth of his little girl.
pairing | Bruce Wayne x Wife!reade; platonic! Dick grayson x batmom; platonic! Jason todd x batmom
note | Many thanks to the anon who gave me the idea, idk what I did with the request, i can't find it :(( . Also, I have two more stories prepared: one about how Batmom and Bruce meet, and Clark's interview.
hot wife serie
For weeks, Bruce's mind had been occupied by a single thought: protecting his wife and the unborn child. There were only a few weeks left until his life would undergo a major change, one in which he couldn't afford to make mistakes, and one that would further fuel his desire to improve the city. His instincts, which had always made him wary, were now on full blast.
Each night's patrol felt different. Gotham seemed even more dangerous, every corner hiding a potential threat, every shadow a possible enemy. But what worried him most wasn't the crime, but the possibility that something, anything, could reach the woman sleeping peacefully in their bed, her hands on the belly where his daughter was growing.
That night, when he turned into a dark, damp alley to finally head home, the last thing he expected to find near his Batmobile was a child.
He didn't expect to find anything special in that alley until he heard the metallic screech of a tool against the Batmobile. He moved forward silently, like a predator, until he saw the absurd scene.
A skinny boy, his knobby knees peeking out from under his oversized pants, was kneeling in front of one of the wheels. His small, scraped hands were struggling to loosen a nut with an old wrench.
"Do you know what you're doing?" Bruce's voice rumbled deep and low, and the boy jumped as if he'd seen a monster.
Bruce watched him for a few seconds. He didn't see a thief. He saw a child, one with marked bones, hunger in his eyes and wounds that no one had healed. A child with no opportunities and full of needs that no one was there to properly meet.
The boy, seeing this, tried to play dumb, slipping the wrench behind his back as if the gesture could fool the most observant man in Gotham. His lips twisted in a grimace meant to be cheeky, but it barely concealed the trembling in his hands.
"Me? I wasn't doing anything," he muttered, in the hoarse voice of someone who has shouted too much in the street.
Bruce raised an eyebrow beneath his mask. He took another step forward, and the boy backed away, shrinking against the wheel.
"That 'nothing' was going to mention broken bones. You're not as quiet as you think," he replied calmly. His tone wasn't threatening, but firm, like that of a father reprimanding a son.
Jason clenched his jaw. His pride wouldn't let him give in, even though the fear was evident in his eyes. "So what if I did?" he snapped, a spark of fury barely able to hide the trembling. "No one's going to feed me, you know? I don't care about your fancy car."
Bruce watched him silently. The dirt embedded in his skin, his scraped knuckles, and that old T-shirt that was so loose, either because of its large size or his light weight. He was just a kid, a kid driven by poverty to steal. A cruel reflection of what Gotham did to the vulnerable.
The murmur of rain on the pavement filled the silence. Jason clutched the key tightly behind his back, as if it were his only shield.
"You don't have to keep going like this," Bruce finally said, his deep voice dropping a pitch, almost to a whisper.
The boy frowned, suspicious. "I do," he replied, tersely, defiantly. "No one else is going to do it for me."
Bruce crouched down to his level. His cape brushed the wet ground. His blue eyes met the boy's green ones, and in that instant, Jason saw not Batman, the monster of the streets, but a man. "What's your name?"
The boy hesitated. The answer burned in his throat, as if saying it would make him more vulnerable. Finally, he murmured, “Jason.”
Bruce nodded slowly, and in that silent gesture he made a decision: he wouldn't leave him there. He wouldn't hand him over to the police, he wouldn't abandon him like Gotham had done so many times before.
Jason clenched his jaw, as if simply sharing her name had taken away some of his darkness, and pulled his dirty, worn hood back over his head, averting his gaze. "You told me what you wanted, now what? Are you going to give me up?" he said, his tone heavy with bitter irony.
Bruce watched him silently for a few seconds. There was something inside him, his instinct telling him not to rush. With street kids, every word could be a dagger or a shield. He had to think carefully about his words before saying them. "No, Jason. I'm not going to give you up."
The boy looked at him in disbelief, his lips parted. "So what? You're just going to leave me here?"
Bruce shook his head slowly. "No, I want to give you a chance. I can take you to a place where you don't have to steal to survive. Where you have a bed, food, security."
Jason gave a dry, mirthless laugh. "Why would you do that? Nobody gives anything away for free in this town. There's always a price."
Bruce held her gaze. “The price is simple, trust me.”
Jason shook his head, almost furious. "There's no such thing as that, man. Trust is what gets you killed on the street."
Bruce leaned in a little closer, lowering his voice to an almost intimate tone, still firm. "I know what it's like to have no one. I also know what it's like to live in fear of the next night, of the next person who wants to take advantage. I'm not going to force you—I can't, Jason—but I do want to give you an option Gotham never gave you: a home."
The boy swallowed uncomfortably. His nervous fingers fiddled with the screwdriver he still had in his pocket. "What if I say no?"
"Then I'll leave," Bruce replied without hesitation. "And you'll come back to this corner, to this life. But I don't want that for you. You have something special, Jason. You have guts, you're strong, you can be better than this if you have the chance, it's your choice."
The silence weighed between them. Jason looked down, unable to hold it. His torn shoes were soaked by a puddle he hadn't noticed. He saw his reflection in the water: a skinny, dirty boy with tired eyes. And when he looked back at the man in front of him, he didn't see a caped monster, but someone offering him something he'd never heard from anyone before.
“A… bed?” he murmured, his voice barely audible.
"A bed, a hot meal, clean clothes," Bruce listed firmly, as if painting a picture. "And a place where you're more than just a street kid."
Jason pressed his lips together. His instinct screamed not to trust him, that there was always a trap, but there was something in those blue eyes, in that deep voice, that slowly disarmed him. Why would the great Batman do anything wrong if he spent all his nights watching over the city? Finally, he took a small, uncertain step toward him. Jason took a deep breath and, with a jerky movement, as if afraid of regretting it at any moment, nodded.
Bruce extended his hand. Jason hesitated, eyeing it as if it were a trap, but finally, with trembling fingers, he took it.
Batman's cape opened, enveloping the boy from the cold of Gotham. For the first time in a long time, Jason didn't feel completely alone.
Wayne Manor had always seemed too big, even for those who lived there, so for Jason Todd, it was a whole new world. Every room felt like a museum, every object in his path a luxury he couldn't quite grasp. The high ceilings, the chandeliers that hung like inverted constellations, the walls covered in paintings and portraits of ancestors that stared back at him with stern stares. He walked slowly, but with his arms crossed and his back straight, like a stray cat ready to pounce at the slightest movement. He didn't belong there at all, and he knew it.
Jason carried with him that smell of asphalt, smoke, and the forced freedom of the street, something the mansion, so neat and quiet, seemed to repel with every step he took. He looked at everything with suspicion, as if afraid that if he touched anything, it might break or, worse, be reprimanded for doing so. His boots echoed on the marble floor, making his presence seem too loud for such a solemn place.
Jason moved cautiously through the hallway, feeling like every step was an invasion. The echo of his boots on the marble made him feel too present, too out of place. His gaze was alert, fixed on every corner, as if at any moment someone might come out and tell him to get lost.
Then a soft voice broke the silence. “So you’re Jason,” she said warmly, as if she’d known him forever.
He met a woman coming down the main stairs, despite it being the middle of the night, she looked radiant, she didn't look like the women he had seen in the alleys or in the shops, she was there with her hair loose and her belly rounded from the last weeks of pregnancy, she greeted him with a smile that Jason didn't know how to process.
"It's me... I guess," he murmured, his voice hoarse and distrust reflected in every muscle in his body.
She stepped down the last step and approached with firm steps. “Welcome, Jason,” she said sweetly, as if she really meant it.
Jason pressed his lips together, looking to the side, uncomfortable. He wasn't used to that kind of welcome. Before he could answer, another voice echoed from the side gallery. Deep, firm, unmistakable. "Is everything all right?"
It was Bruce. He'd been watching, giving him space, but now he was approaching with a confident stride. His presence filled the hallway like a protective shadow, and Jason felt it immediately.
"It's okay," she replied with a smile at her husband, then looked back at the boy. "He's just getting to know the house."
Jason rolled his eyes, muttering to himself, “Knowing the castle, you mean…”
Jason remained rooted to the marble, arms crossed, his gaze shifty. Her warmth made him uncomfortable, and Bruce's firm presence left him no room to escape. It was then that a new sound interrupted the scene: agile footsteps descending from the opposite wing of the mansion.
"Well, well," said a voice laden with irony. "Who's this?"
Jason looked up and saw him. A dark-haired boy, just a couple of years older than him, his right arm immobilized in a sling. He wore blue pajamas and slippers, moving with the ease of someone who knew every corner of the place perfectly. His bright blue eyes fixed on Jason with a spark that was hard to read, half curiosity, half discomfort.
"Jason, this is Dick," Bruce introduced calmly. " Our son."
Jason raised an eyebrow in surprise and snorted. “Sure… I thought so.”
Dick crossed his arms, unconsciously mimicking Jason's defensive stance. "So what are you doing here?" he asked, looking him up and down with a hint of barely disguised distrust.
"He'll be with us from now on" Bruce replied, with that authority that left no room for reply.
Dick pressed his lips together. He didn't argue, but his jaw tightened. His eyes returned to the skinny boy in front of him, with his worn clothes and street-scarred hands. Jason stared back fearlessly, as if accepting the challenge.
"So... I guess you're Bruce's new 'experiment,'" Dick said, trying to sound nonchalant, though every word was laced with veiled jealousy. His bandaged arm swung slightly, reminding him that he was restrained, but not about to give up any space on his territory.
"Richard, don't say that," Bruce's wife intervened, with the same sweetness she had shown from the beginning. "Everyone has their place here, Jason. You don't have to worry about competing with anyone."
Jason looked at them, surprised. He hadn't expected such warmth, such clarity. Still, as he walked carefully down the hallway, something inside him began to relax. Maybe, just maybe, he'd found a place where he could belong... though he still had to earn everyone's trust, including Dick.
The days passed quickly at the mansion for everyone, Dick and Jason's relationship had improved a little, it was anything but tense between them, Dick was going through a complicated phase with Bruce, after he broke his arm while patrolling with him as Robin, Bruce fired him from his position and since then the days at the mansion were marked by slight friction between father and son. Dick tried not to let his bad mood and frustration contaminate the atmosphere, aware that the only woman living there already carried enough weight with her pregnancy and with the care of a baby girl who would soon come into the world.
Jason, little by little, was beginning to adapt to the new routine, although always with caution and that distrust inherited from the street, still not fully assimilating that he now had a place to be, he had clothes and food, he didn't have to go out on the streets to steal to get even a little money, he was no longer cold at night. But deep down, he didn't want to get used to all this. This family was already formed, they had an adopted son, now they had a little girl, and what did he have to do there getting in the way?
Of course, this might have gone unnoticed by Bruce or Dick, but never by her. As he was arranging some books in the study, Jason felt a presence behind him. It was her, his wife, approaching with soft but steady steps.
"Are you okay, Jason?" she asked, with that warmth that seemed to penetrate every wall he put up.
Jason tensed slightly, turning to face her. “Yeah… I think so,” he replied, with a shrug that didn’t quite hide his uncertainty.
She smiled, tilting her head slightly. “You know… I’m setting up the baby’s room.”
Jason raised an eyebrow, surprised by the casualness with which she included him. "Oh... really? That's great." His voice sounded awkward, trying not to sound too interested.
"Yeah... and I was thinking of asking if you wanted to help me," she said, placing a small pillow on the crib's bed. Her smile was so genuine that Jason felt strangely comfortable. "You could hang these pictures or help me with the bookshelf. Bruce bought her a lot of things..."
Jason looked at her, and for a moment his usual wariness faltered. He nodded, and together they began working in the room. As she showed him how to hang a picture at the proper height, he listened, asking for details, awkwardly joking when he dropped something or when she gently corrected him.
For a moment, the anxiety that always accompanied him disappeared. But when she mentioned what it would be like to have a baby in the house, Jason felt a knot in his stomach.
"So... what will it be like when the baby arrives?" she asked, trying to sound casual, although her voice betrayed a hint of unease.
She looked at him with understanding, as if she'd read his thoughts. "It will be different, yes, but that doesn't mean anyone loves you any less, Jason. You have your place here, you always will."
Jason looked down, biting his lip. For a moment, he felt vulnerable, afraid that the love he was beginning to feel for the family would fade once the baby arrived.
As time passed, Jason began to notice his mistrust softening. Every small mistake, every shared laugh, every instruction on how to place a shelf or hang a picture made him feel like he belonged. For the first time in a long time, he wasn't just an outsider; he was someone who had a place, someone who could laugh and make mistakes without fear of judgment.
When they finally finished hanging the pictures and putting away the toys, she leaned back against the crib, looking up at him with a satisfied smile. "Look, Jason, the room's ready. And you helped make it perfect."
He crossed his arms, feigning modesty, but he couldn't help but smile. "I guess it wasn't so bad."
"No, it was great," she said, winking at him. "The baby is going to be happy to have an older brother like you. He's going to love you very much, I'm sure."
Jason felt an unexpected warmth in his chest. “Big brother…” he thought. The thought made him genuinely smile. For the first time, he realized he could belong to this family, that he could be part of something bigger than himself. And that feeling… was good, very good.
