part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six | part seven | part eight | part nine | part ten | part eleven |
we have reached the epilogue! you know what that means? it means you can send in any mycroft/jane asks that you have, and i shall try my hardest to see to them ! i would also like to do a shameless plug of my current johnlock fic on ao3, which delves further into moriarty and sherlock's relationship if that is something you're interested in. i would just like to say a big thank you to everyone that supported and liked this fic, and everyone that has followed me because of it! im so glad to share it with you all!
opalite: the epilogue (m.h.)
The story of Silas Holmes' downfall was published within a week of their return home, and the wedding came shortly after. It was a small, quiet ceremony in the Oxford church, but it was everything she had ever dreamed of. Marie was not able to make it on such short notice, but she sent a letter with her congratulations and boasted wildly about her having predicted it. Wallace had a difficult time smuggling Buckle into the ceremony, but managed it nonetheless. Mr. Gilden wept the whole time, and was only consoled when she assured him that he could stay at the manor any time he liked.
What was left of the Holmes' attended as well. Cordelia was elated, what with the return of Beatrice and the marriage of her eldest son. Sherlock and James made it to the church on time, which was all that could be asked of them.
They spent their honeymoon in Mycroft's flat at 221b Baker Street, recovering from the events that had led them there, while scarcely being able to keep their hands off of one another. After these blissful few weeks, they returned to Appleton Manor, which Mycroft had inherited since his father's demise. Jane spent her days gutting all traces of Silas Holmes from the house, and redecorating to her liking. She was mindful of Cordelia's opinions as she did not want to get rid of anything dear to her, but Cordelia maintained that they should burn the whole place down and start from scratch. Jane deemed this unnecessary, and worked on bringing color and life into the home.
Mycroft spent this time working his way up at work, and doing so with a success that startled all of his superiors. He had gained a new confidence since his father's death, along with an ambition to provide not only for his wife but for his sister and mother. But the one who used up most of his resources was Sherlock. It was not money that he used, but time and energy. Mycroft had employed several people to keep an eye on Sherlock, giving him eyes and ears in every corner of London.
Moriarty— exactly as Mycroft had suspected— had begun to build his connections in the criminal underworld. Mycroft tried, many times, to have this conversation with Sherlock. It became clear that Moriarty had adopted Silas Holmes as an inspiration, and wished to replicate his empire tenfold. Mycroft feared that he would be able to do so, and with very little difficulty.
Sherlock struggled to come to terms with this, and much to Mycroft's dismay, began spending many a late night with him. Sherlock's mind was becoming more faulty by the day under Moriarty's influence, and Mycroft was the only thing keeping him afloat.
"He has gone to see him again?" Jane said sympathetically at Mycroft's solemn expression as he entered their bedroom and began to undress.
Mycroft sighed, pulling on his dressing gown, "I can hardly make him stay away. God knows he won't listen to me."
Jane watched him intently, as handsome as ever, "Come here, my darling," she persuaded, patting the empty spot on the bed beside her.
Mycroft smiled, climbing in beside her and pulling her against his side. "I know, I know," he brushed his nose against her, making her giggle, "I worry too much."
"No, I would say in this case you are worrying a proportionate amount," she cupped his cheek, "You may worry to your hearts content, my love, so long as you come home to me and let me soothe your fears. You needn't worry alone."
He pressed his lips softly against her own, "I shall never be alone now, dearest."
part eleven of (probably) twelve!! some of you are still enjoying this fic, and though it has been orphaned on ao3 due to unforseen circumstances, mycroft and jane still live on, and i would like to see this fic through for the next few chapters! content warnings for this part are jam packed so pay attention to those. we've got a big one.
cw: death (spoilers for the show, obviously), explosions, general emotional turmoil, graphic sexual content, mycroft lowkey does not gaf that silas is dead to be honest with you guys, anyways we have made it to the smut but in order to unlock it you have to read some absolute torment, not proofread we die like silas :p
part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six | part seven | part eight | part nine | part ten |
when i get you alone it's so simple (m.h.)
They set off the next morning for the factory. James and Sherlock seemed to be on speaking terms again, which pleased her. She hoped that perhaps James had apologized for whatever qualm Sherlock had found in him. When she whispered her hopes to Mycroft, he only squeezed her hand and gave her a pitying glance.
Finally reaching Afshin, they stumbled upon what was most certainly Silas' factory, given that they spotted him walking around nearby, but seemed to just be at the side of a mountain.
"Shall we go and have a gander?" James said over Sherlock's shoulder, a strange sort of gleam in his eye as he gazed at him.
"That's all well and good, James," Mycroft interjected, "but how do we get in?"
As she looked up at Mycroft, she noticed that he too was looking at Sherlock expectantly. He had an expression reminiscent of a parent waiting for a child to find the solution to a very simple problem. He masked it with genuine curiosity, which may have fooled Sherlock, but did not fool Jane.
"Suggestions in a hat, if you please-" Sherlock called back, before pausing. He observed the side of the mountain closer. "The map in Silas's study. The outline of these mountains. They match."
Mycroft's eyes lit up, but he schooled his expression as he urged Sherlock further. "I thought you told me that map was useless? It didn't even have North marked on it."
"It's not a map," Sherlock replied eagerly, "It's a cross-sectional plan."
James joined Sherlock in his observations, swiftly deducing a second, less guarded entrance to the tunnels.
"You knew," she accused quietly as they made their way down, "You knew about the map."
He smiled, "You read me far too easily, dear," he said with fondness, "Yes, I knew. I went to look at the map before we left. But, it is better to let Sherlock figure these things out on his own. He needs the mental exercise."
James felled the guard outside the entrance very easily, and Sherlock felled the one inside, albeit with much less brutality. James looked pleased, almost hungry as he praised his work. Xiao-Wei, Emine, and James split from the group to go after Malik. Mycroft seemed pleased with this arrangement, and kept a steady hand on her the entire time they searched for Beatrice.
When they found her, she seemed to be already paranoid. Sherlock attempted to persuade her, but it was Cordelia who truly broke through to her. Beatrice, Jane realized, is possibly Silas's worst victim. To take a child away from a most loving mother and two elder brothers, molding her into a puppet, was perhaps more despicable than locking Cordelia in an asylum. Cordelia had support in her sons, while Beatrice was isolated and preyed upon in a way that Jane could only imagine.
A bittersweet reunion was had between the mother and daughter, and she found herself wiping tears from her eyes. But they were soon in motion again, as Beatrice led them to Silas. Jane thought for a moment that they had been duped, and that Beatrice was still very much loyal to her father. That was, until she pulled a gun on him.
As she understood, Silas had asked Sherlock to be the heir to his criminal enterprise, while having also promised Beatrice the same. Beatrice had overheard this the night prior, which led to her distrust of him. Silas, to his credit, tried his hardest to manipulate her back onto his side, pulling her into his arms. Beatrice seemed to reciprocate his embrace, but they soon found that this was only a ploy to press the gun to his side, firing a shot through his stomach.
The shot had only just rang out when an explosion ripped through the tunnels. Mycroft was atop her in a moment, shielding her from the debris and dragging her away.
"Where is he?" he yelled to Sherlock, "Where did he go?"
Beatrice grabbed hold of Cordelia's hand, calling for her brothers to follow as she led them outside.
Jane held her breath until the fresh air hit her lungs. But just as she inhaled, another explosion echoed from behind them, knocking both herself and Mycroft off their feet. She was still for a moment, barely registering the scuffle around them until she heard James call Sherlock's name. When she looked up, Xiao Wei, Sherlock, and Beatrice had fled along with Silas, and gunshots rang from the mountain. She looked over to Mycroft, who was already sitting up again and watching them retreat.
"James?" she called, seeing his crumpled form on the ground. She crawled over to him, and watched as he shoved a paper into his pocket. "Are you hurt?"
It was when he looked up at her that she finally saw the extent of what Mycroft meant by his affliction. His eyes were wide and manic, his pupils twice their usual size. His usual charm was gone, and what was left behind was something deeply unsettling as he stared past her after Sherlock. "…James?"
Mycroft pulled her away just in time as James moved to push her out of his line of sight. "Come. He can take care of himself." He hauled her away, and pulled her into the shade of a nearby tree, taking his handkerchief from his pocket and wiping the soot from her face.
"Are you hurt?" she asked, checking him over for any blood.
He shook his head, "A few bruises, and perhaps a temporary aversion to loud noises, as is typical for a bombing."
"Should we not go after Sherlock?" she questioned.
Mycroft looked up the mountain, "They took the horses," he said, "It is of no use. The probability of Sherlock being seriously hurt is low. It is three people against an already wounded man. It would do no good for you to witness such things, anyhow."
James had finally pushed himself up, and hobbled towards them. He too looked unharmed apart from a few bruises. "Terribly sorry, Jane. Had quite the shock," he tapped the side of his head lightheartedly.
"It is alright," she replied as gently as she could. James seemed back to his usual self now, but she couldn't shake the sight of his black, vacant eyes. "You should sit down, James."
The sound of hooves diverted their attention as three horses made their way towards them. Sure enough, Silas was not among them.
"He is dead," Xiao Wei announced.
Mycroft stood, noticing Sherlock's horse lagging behind slightly. He dismounted shakily, ignoring James' greeting completely, tears in his eyes as he tottered towards his brother, who moved closer to him. Sherlock crumbled before their eyes, seeking refuge in his brother's arms as he sobbed violently. Mycroft assumed the position naturally, softly shushing him until his breathing evened out again. "He fell," Sherlock whimpered, "He held me— and then he fell. I tried to- I tried to stop him but he wouldn't-"
Cordelia seemed tearful as well, so Jane joined Beatrice in consoling her. Emine and Xiao Wei gathered their things and prepared for their journey back to their own horses. James stood and observed from the sidelines, scanning the human devastation before him.
Sherlock did not speak for the entire day's drive back to Constantinople. James tried his hardest to comfort him, but did not succeed in breaking through to him until they were safely back at Silas' manor in Constantinople.
The house was abandoned when they arrived, which was a relief to them all. She made her way to the room she had been assigned before they left, changing out of her clothes and bathing herself with the washbasin in her room. She was pleased to find that there were nightclothes in the wardrobe, as it was already very late at night, and she did not wish to impose upon Beatrice any further.
She had only just pulled her dressing gown on when there was a knock at the door. She had the good sense to peak through the crack in the door before opening it this time. She was very happy to find that it was Mycroft, and swung the door open. He smiled nervously at her, and it seemed that he too had cleaned himself up. He looked almost sinful, standing before her in his own dressing gown, his skin still damp.
"Mycroft," she cooed, wrapping her arms around him and pulling him into the room. "How I have missed you in the past-" she glanced at the clock, "half an hour."
He laughed, "As I have missed you," he countered, "I… Well, I thought you may like a bath, so I've had one drawn for you, if you are not too weary."
She leaned back, looking up at him, a smirk tugging at her lips. "You are seducing me, Mr Holmes," she triumphed.
He grimaced at the phrasing, "I would not put it so lewdly."
"I would love a bath," she insisted, taking his hand, "Lead the way, my love."
He led her down the hall, giggling and shushing her so as not to rouse suspicion as the others settled in their beds. She was pleased to see that the bath was large enough for two.
"You will be joining me, yes?" she hoped, and he flushed softly.
"If that is what you wish," he squeezed her hand. She practically leapt at him, pressing her mouth against his much in the way they had at sunset two days prior. He groaned softly against her lips, "May I undress you?" he asked in a whisper.
"You may do whatever you'd like to me," she smiled, and he swallowed, squeezing his eyes shut.
"Do not say such things," he whined, "At least until the wedding."
She scoffed, "We are still waiting for the wedding?"
"It is what's proper, Jane," he replied firmly.
She stepped back and untied her dressing gown, letting it drop to the floor, swiftly followed by her nightgown until she was bare in front of him. She knew it was a foul move on her end, to resort to such lowly tricks, but she could not resist— especially when his lips parted in shock and he clapped a hand over his eyes after they had already spent a long moment flickering over her form, observing every detail.
"This," she stifled a laugh, blushing to her shoulders, "Is quite the opposite of propriety, Mycroft."
"Jane!" he tittered, "You startled me!"
He uncovered his eyes again once he heard the unmistakable sound of the water sloshing against her skin. He began to laugh, a contagious laugh that spread until they were both covering their mouths so as not to wake the whole house.
"My point still stands, you know," he added as he began to disrobe as well. "The marital act is named so for a reason. You are a lady, and deserve to be treated as such, yes?"
She made no response, only staring at him, entranced. He was beautiful, traitorously so. There was a light scattering of hair over his chest and a trail down his stomach, leading to the already rigid length of him. She was not oblivious to carnal desire by any means, she had more than once imagined him in such a state in the dark of her bedroom. Yet, he was more enchanting in the flesh than her imagination ever conjured. Despite all they had endured, all that he had endured, he was happy— comfortable even in this moment.
"It is your turn to fluster, then?" he teased, stepping in beside her and settling into the water. "Have you no witty reply to bestow?"
"You are magnificent," she exhaled, gliding atop his lap and kissing him fiercely, the water nearly splashing out of the basin, "You are the most handsome man in the world, and I the most fortunate woman."
He blushed and put his hands cautiously on her hips, one sliding up her back to tangle in her hair. "I must endeavor to best you, and tell you that you are much more magnificent than I. I feel I do not often remark on your beauty, so as not to seem shallow— but you must know that it occupies much of my mind. And now that I have seen you like this, I fear I shall never think of anything else again."
"Mycroft," she moaned against his neck, straddling his thigh and rutting against him.
"Heavens, Jane," he panted as she kissed and nipped at his jaw. "Perhaps- perhaps we can work around that one small limitation."
She giggled, "Yes. A loophole, perhaps?"
"Yes," he quipped eagerly with a chuckle, "Yes, that would be acceptable. We are engaged, are we not?"
"Yes," she nodded gravely, "Simple touches are not coitus. And we have had quite the difficult week, have we not? It is only natural to wish to unwind."
He laughed, and pulled her in again, parting her lips with his tongue and guiding her cunt over his thigh again, his eyes darkening at the whimpering moan that escaped her.
"There you are, darling," he praised in a hushed tone, "How is that?"
She found herself lost for words, and so she just nodded fervently, her lashes fluttering and her eyes wide as her hand ran over his chest and down his stomach. "Will you let me touch you?" she asked with equal amounts of timidness and desperation. His cock twitched, and he inhaled sharply at her words.
"Yes, God, yes," he muttered, his grip on her hair loosening in favor of cupping her face tenderly, pulling her in for another kiss. It lasted only a moment though, as she pulled away in order to trail her fingers down his pelvis. His breath hitched, and his brows furrowed as she wrapped her hand around him, squeezing the head softly. The water made him glisten as she stroked him, his swollen lips parted in ecstasy. She observed him keenly, watching every micro-expression on his face, every muscle twitch.
His firm grip on her hips never stopped, and she pressed her forehead against his, as she canted more and more desperately against him, whimpering with every praise he offered. Each of his breathy curses sent her closer to her pinnacle, and she gripped his damp hair with her free hand. "Mycroft-" she gasped, "Mycroft, I-"
"Yes, I- he shuddered, "Yes, I know, my darling. Go on. You've done so well."
He tensed his thigh underneath her, and with a few more splashes of water over the side of the bath, she found release in his arms, trembling violently and letting out sounds that were much louder than they should have been given the late hour. Mycroft did not seem to worry about that, however, as he spent over her fingers with a guttural groan.
"My darling," he said through labored breath, pulling away enough to look into her eyes, "I love you so very much. More than anything in the world."
"As I love you," she smiled, her own chest heaving. "More than life itself."
They laid there for several minutes, until the water began to run cold, and he helped her out of the bath and into a linen towel. "Your legs are shaking," he observed after drying himself off and putting her nightclothes back on her.
"If they are, the fault is all yours," she accused, tying his dressing gown and leaning against his chest.
"Indeed, you are right, my dear. I shall do my best to atone for my mistakes," with that, he swept her off her feet, shushing her playfully as he carried her to the other side of the hall and into his room.
"Who are you and what have you done with Mycroft Holmes?" she whispered through a laugh as he placed her gently down on the bed and perched next to her.
He leaned down to kiss her forehead before laying down beside her and allowing her to slot against his side, "You bring it out of me, my love."
He didn't dim the lamp on their bedside, as they both preferred to look into each other's eyes as they drifted off.
we made it to part ten! slight nsfw near the end but don't get too excited. also, graphic depictions of a wound. this one is a little longer than usual, but i hope you enjoy all the same! thank you so much for all the love on this series so far, we are nearing the end! i mean, not really, but we are getting there. you guys' comments are my favorite part of the day! ps. not proofread. all mistakes are my from my own flawed, human brain.
part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six | part seven | part eight | part nine | ao3 |
you pull me in and i'm a little more brave
The next day, Jane and Mycroft were indeed escorted to the telegraph office by one of Silas' guards. She ignored the wink Silas gave her as she followed Mycroft out, and paid no mind to Sherlock, James, or Cordelia. She was still infuriated with all of them. She had half a mind to load Mycroft into a carriage and start back to London. She knew he would never agree, and she would much rather know Silas was dead before leaving.
Stupidly, Silas had only assigned one guard to escort them, which made their plan much simpler. They tried first to shut him outside of the telegraph office, but when he followed them inside, Mycroft was forced to take matters into his own hands.
"Do you mind sharpening this for me?" he asked the clerk, who nodded and took the broken pencil from him and sharpened it with his pocket knife. The moment he set it down, Mycroft maneuvered it from the desk and into the guard's leg, snatching the gun from his holster and holding it to him.
"So sorry about this," Jane told the clerk with a placating smile as Mycroft ordered Silas' employee into the backroom in a tone of voice that made her squeeze her thighs together, "Just business, you know."
"Apologies, sir," Mycroft called back at him as he grabbed her by the hand and fled the office, the unfinished telegraph still on the desk.
"Oh, what fun!" Jane giggled, "You are so very handsome when you're holding someone at gunpoint, I hope you know."
Mycroft grinned humbly, his cheeks flushed, "Thank you darling."
They were able to go undetected to the lodgings in which Emine and Xiao Wei were residing, and were able to get their help to infiltrate Silas' manor again. Xiao Wei was pleased to see her, and she was just as glad to see her doing well, having stayed away from Silas. Clearly, she had no intentions to stay away from him for long, as she was very eager to break into his house.
"You," Mycroft nodded at her, and took her hand, "Will stay here until we come to fetch you."
Jane only rolled her eyes, "You would like me to let you run into what presumably will be gunfire alone?"
"Yes, that is exactly what I want, Jane," Mycroft replied evenly.
"Well, that will not be happening, will it?" she retorted angrily, "I am coming with you. Besides, we are not yet married, so I am a free woman."
With the help of Emine and Xiao Wei, she insisted upon her joining them. Realizing that he was outnumbered, Mycroft conceded uneasily and they made their way back to Silas's home.
As they peeked in the gates, she could see Sherlock, Cordelia, and James surveying Silas's men from above. Mycroft waved, capturing their attention, to which Sherlock seemed to have finally put the pieces together. They made their way down to the gates as well, knocking out the two men that had been guarding them.
"Well done, brother dear," Sherlock praised Mycroft after letting them inside. Mycroft returned the sentiment, but Jane merely glared at him. Sherlock no doubt observed this, and was going to say something when a series of gunshots rang throughout the courtyard. She grabbed onto Cordelia and pulled her behind the many crates that were piled around. However, she left her hand out for a split second longer than she should have. A bullet grazed her palm, right between her little finger and her ring finger.
The adrenaline was enough that the pain was not excruciating. She had not even noticed it until the gunshots had ceased and Mycroft looked down at her in horror.
"It is alright," he muttered to her (and himself), holding her hand up and examining the wound. Her eyes widened as she looked up at it, and to the blood that was spattered across her dress. She could hear the concern of Cordelia beside her, and Sherlock had also joined them at her side. Mycroft continued, ripping a piece of cotton from her petticoat, " I am going to wrap it up for you, yes. Don't look at it, darling— stop looking at it. It is alright. Just a…. minor abrasion."
"That is not minor abrasion at all," Sherlock corrected as Mycroft wrapped the fabric tightly around her hand. "A 'laceration' would be a more accurate term, brother dear. Abrasions are superficial, but lacerations can be fatal if not treated."
Her eyes widened at this, and tears started to fall. The pain, mixed with the panic, made her bottom lip tremble until she began to sob. The sight of the blood had started to make her feel faint, and Cordelia held her head up, softly stroking her hair.
"Do shut up, Sherlock," Mycroft scolded, "It will not be fatal, because we are treating it," he soothed.
Sherlock seemed to have realized the social cue he had missed, and backtracked accordingly. "Oh yes. Not to worry, sister dear. You will be just fine. The feeling of impending doom is likely due to hysteria, as opposed to a real medical emergency. It will need stitching, of course, to prevent infection."
"Sherlock, unless you happen to have a doctor on hand, I would advise you to make yourself scarce and follow James up to Father's office," Mycroft once again admonished as he applied a firm pressure onto the wound. Sherlock nodded at this, and was gone at once. "Look at me, Jane. The bleeding is already slowing. You are going to be just fine." He glanced at Cordelia, "Mother, I need you to find me a silk thread and a needle. Beatrice would likely have both in her bedroom. If you cannot find them there, check Father's office and meet us back in the drawing room."
Cordelia was dispatched to her task, leaving Jane alone with Mycroft. "I am so terribly sorry, Mycroft," she whimpered, "I do not mean to be a burden."
"Never a burden, my dear. Come now, up you get. Deep breaths, you're going to be just fine," he helped her up, never once letting up on the pressure to her palm as he led her into the small drawing room they had been sitting in the day prior. He covered her eyes as they went, to make sure she did not see the many bodies littered throughout the courtyard (James' doing). He deposited her onto the sofa just as Cordelia returned, smiling brightly, "Mycroft, I have found surgical equipment! I stole it from Silas' desk! He always kept such things close at hand."
"Oh Mother, you are a genius," Mycroft praised her as he took the small metal box, "Could you fetch a candle as well?"
Mycroft briefly exited the room to wash his hands. Jane was trying hard not to look down at the blood that built up on the fabric, and even more so to stop the pitiful tears falling down her face, his absence only making them come faster.
Cordelia returned with a flame in which Mycroft could sterilize a needle. "Now then," he narrated as he unwrapped her hand and threaded the silk through the small curved needle, "This should be simple enough, but it will hurt. That is typical, and you needn't worry. You must try to keep still, my love."
She was going to reply, but could only respond with a sob as he pierced her skin. Cordelia sat beside her and fetched a pillow for her to squeeze with her other hand.
"I know," Mycroft soothed, "I am so sorry, dear," he pulled the skin taut, "We will finish this business," he made another stitch, "and we will go home. I shall buy you whatever dress you like, and we will be married within a week," his brow furrowed as he made the final stitch, "Then we shall never be involved with any of this foolishness again. We will live a nice, solitary life together with no criminal fathers to chase around, and I shall dote on you till the day I die," he tied it off, and pushed her skirts up again to rip another piece of her petticoat off. "So sorry, dear, but it must be done. I shall buy you a new one. In fact, I will buy you ten."
"I do not think I need ten petticoats," she jest shakily as he secured the cotton.
He smiled, and pressed a soft kiss to her hand, "Oh my darling, I insist." He reached up and wiped the tears off her face.
"Father is building rockets designed to deliver a deadly nerve agent permeating out of Afshin," Sherlock's voice snapped them out of the moment.
Mycroft sighed, "His factory."
"Is in Afshin," Sherlock confirmed, "And is but a day's ride from here. I have sent James and Shou'an into town to fetch us some riding clothes, and then we will be off."
"Her name is not Shou'an, you know," Jane rolled her eyes, standing up.
Sherlock ignored her, "As lovely as it is here, I believe we should go back to our former lodgings until James returns."
They made their way out of the home with no trouble, and soon they were back in that same little sitting room that the brothers had been playing chess in when they had first arrived. She realized that she had not written to Gilden and Wallace since she had left. With the little time she had before James and Xiao Wei returned, she sat down to write, thankful that her dominant hand was unharmed.
Dearest Gilden,
I pray that you share this letter with our dear Wallace, as it is filled with news. First, I would like to inform you that Professor Malik is working with Mr Silas Holmes on a deadly nerve agent that travels through the very air we breathe. Indeed, this is my dear Mycroft's father. We are working on tracking him down. There is much more to be told, including his abduction of ourselves, but I shall save it for when I return.
I must also inform you that despite the many horrors inside of the Holmes family, I am soon to be a part of it. You will be very pleased to know that you were correct in your estimation of Mycroft's feelings, and that I am to be married to my beloved as soon as we return.
Fear not, I would not dream of abandoning this story, and you can be certain that the Oxford Journal will be the first to hear of it.
Give Buckle my love. Remember to feed him!
Love, Prima.
Mycroft insisted upon sending the letter and had her sit a while longer. James and Xiao Wei arrived with their clothes, which Mycroft scoffed at.
"I think you shall look very nice in this hat, Mycroft," she teased, placing it atop his head. "Very… rugged."
Mycroft snatched it from his head, "Yes, well hopefully it pairs well with those ghastly boots," he glared at the pile of clothes that James had brought him. Jane smiled tiredly.
"Let me help you dress, dear Jane," Cordelia said, dragging her away, "We will be matching! Though, mine is a sort of buttery yellow, and yours is more of a periwinkle…"
Emine had arranged for horses to be drawn for them, and luckily she would be riding with Mycroft, since her hand rendered her a useless driver. Being so close to him, her chest pressed against his back for hours at a time in the warm sun, made it nearly impossible not to fall asleep against him. The white horse they rode was a sweet, docile thing that made the ride very smooth. She made sure to feed it some of her dinner when they stopped for the night.
"Four more hours tomorrow," Mycroft said as he grabbed her waist and helped her down. "We shall fetch Beatrice, leave my father for Xiao Wei's judgement, and return home."
She laughed at his matter-of-fact tone. "When have things ever gone so easily for us, dear?"
He glanced briefly around, and then leaned in to kiss her cheek. "We will make it easy," he whispered. She giggled, and flushed softly.
"We must make a fire," Xiao Wei announced, "I will create the flame, but the English men must fetch our wood."
"I am tending to the horses!" Sherlock protested.
"Come, James. Let us do the honorable thing, since my brother clearly will not," Mycroft huffed.
"I am not English," James grumbled, but nonetheless started to collect firewood with him. However, his attentions were soon drawn back to Sherlock, and he abandoned his post completely in favor of watching him. If Mycroft noticed, he did not say anything. Emine, the good woman that she was, assisted Mycroft once he had waved Jane off and insisted she sit back down. With their help, the fire was soon roaring.
"How is the hand?" James' Irish drawl came from behind her. She jumped, and laughed at his having startled her.
She could not deny the new sense of unease she had been feeling around him ever since her conversation with Mycroft. However, she could not bring herself to hate him so easily, as Mycroft had no trouble doing. Perhaps it was a feminine optimism that made her believe that James Moriarty could be saved, or perhaps it was plain naivety.
"Oh, it is a mere trifle," she replied happily, "Mycroft stitched it up quite nicely."
James put his hands on his hip and sat next to her by the fire. Mycroft was speaking to Sherlock, who looked petulant and aggravated.
"M'sure he did," James cooed, "Would not want you to perish before the wedding."
She laughed at his joke, "And how have you been, my dear James? Sherlock not driving you too mad, I hope?"
"No more mad than usual," he grinned.
"You know, I must ask," she said quietly, "About you and Beatrice."
James raised his brows, "I would not have believed you so bold," he teased, poking her arm playfully. "Yes… we are familiar. She is a beautiful woman."
"Of course she is," Jane agreed— and lowered her voice to a barely audible whisper, "A beautiful woman who just so happens to look nearly identical to your best friend, if I may say so."
James chuckled, but there was no real humor in his eyes, which were now filled with the dancing flames of the fire. "Aye, I haven't noticed," he jest.
"Of course not," she nodded gravely, "Just an observation."
James was silent for a moment before adding, "Beatrice is a woman. And she is available."
"James," she continued gently, "You needn't defend yourself to me. But you must know that I remain a friend. Should you need someone to speak to… about anything— I am here."
James stood and bowed dramatically, kissing her hand. "Of course, m'lady."
She sighed as he jaunted back to Sherlock, and Mycroft returned to her in turn. "How is 'brother dear'?" she asked lightly as Mycroft returned. He picked up the bedrolls they had brought, and laid them down near the fire.
"Moriarty has upset him," he sighed, leading her over to the array of blankets and settling in beside her. "He will not tell me why, but it is rather obvious."
"Do you think he has discovered James and Beatrice's tryst?" she questioned, resting her head on his shoulder.
He considered this, wrapping an arm around her. It seemed that the danger they had been in for the past few days had significantly lessened his strict need for propriety. "It is likely he has noticed it, but that is not the cause of his dark mood. I suspect that he is starting to understand Moriarty's newfound… motivations."
She rolled her eyes, "You are both being dramatic, I think. Xiao Wei murders people every day, and we do not think she is… particularly deranged."
Mycroft grumbled, "He has charmed you, as he does to everyone else."
She looked up at him and gasped softly, "Am I speaking to a green-eyed monster?" she teased.
He rolled his eyes, "You think very low of me if you believe I could be jealous of James Moriarty."
"I have been jealous of much more ridiculous people," she replied, "I was a little jealous of that man you stabbed in the telegraph office."
That coaxed a smile out of him, and he gazed down at her affectionately, "I thought I noticed that, but I concluded I must have been deluding myself. What was it that enthralled you?"
"I find that particular tone of voice very… pleasing," she answered bashfully. "Suffice to say, I will not judge you for envying Moriarty's easy charm. But rest assured that he will never compare to you, my darling."
He cleared his throat, "Would you… care for a short walk before bed? The sun is still setting."
"Oh," she hoped she understood his meaning, "Yes, I do long for a walk."
He took her hand, leading her towards the large open field.
"Perhaps some shade?" she suggested, "The sun is very… damaging to my… delicate constitution."
"Certainly, dear," he led her towards the trees. They did not truly provide any shade, as the dry climate did not provide very wide leaves, but it did shield them from view of their campsite. She leaned back against one of the wider trees, shooting him a wicked smile as he grasped her hip with one hand, the other resting on her jaw as he kissed her. It was different from their previous ones— much more hungry, bordering on depraved.
"I love you," he rasped, "I crave you-" he kissed her again, "-like nothing else."
She gasped a needy whimper against his tongue, gripping the hair at the nape of his neck. His knee slotted between her legs, and she rocked against him haphazardly. "Mycroft-"
He pulled away, turning around and taking a deep breath before facing her again, straightening his waistcoat. "My apologies."
She gaped at him, "You are joking!"
"No, no. We must wait until the wedding. That is what is right. That is how it is done," he muttered, mostly to himself.
"Oh, for god's sake, Mycroft, do not make me beg!"
"I would not dream of it," he smoothed his hair down, and then her own, placing another chaste kiss to her cheek before taking her hand and leading her back into the clearing. "Still, you are a lady."
"I am going to murder you with my bare hands, Mycroft. Do ladies do that? Do ladies strangle their betrothed?"
He laughed, his cheeks still pink, "You would not dream of it. If you kill me, there will be no wedding."
They returned to their bedrolls as dusk fell, but before they could lay down Sherlock's hushed voice interrupted them where he was sat up next to a sleeping Cordelia.
"You as well Mycroft?" he hissed quietly.
"Brother dear?"
"Have we completely disregarded the sanctity of marriage? Why is it that I am surrounded by degenerates?" he laid down, dramatically turning away from them both.
"Perhaps…" Mycroft whispered to her, "He is a bit more peeved at James's tryst than I thought."
seven by taylor swift was playing the entire time i wrote this. this is a relatively short chapter with some holmes family background because it got too long to incorporate into the next chapter. and i think with the few weeks in between my last two updates, i owe you all a new chapter! cw warning for holmes childhood and also silas being a creep. thank you guys so much for all the kind comments, they are very encouraging and i adore them! i hope you enjoy! not proofread bc im lazy #sorry
part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six | part seven | part eight |ao3 |
i think your house is haunted, your dad is always mad and that must be why
"What on Earth do you want?" she could not hide the surprise in her voice as she stared back at Mr. Silas Holmes in shock. She was now very much aware that Mycroft had locked her door from the inside, and that she had removed the lock without second thought. The realization sent a primal fear through her bones.
He chuckled, and leaned casually against the doorframe. "I merely wanted to ensure you were settled, darling."
"I am not your darling," she hissed with a grimace, "And I could certainly never be settled while I reside in your house."
Silas sighed, and pinched his brow. A gesture that she noticed Mycroft must have picked up from him. "My family has a flair for the dramatics, Miss Jane, you must know. Surely you cannot believe me to be so wholly evil as they say?"
"On the contrary, I believe you to be much worse," she retorted. "And I would like you to leave me be."
He ignored her and continued, "Mycroft is… well he always was rather… subdued, in a sense. He never was a man of passion. You saw how he betrayed his brother, and for what? He is rather weak-minded. Easily conquered. I cannot imagine a lady like you would settle for such… mediocrity."
Her jaw dropped, "What is it that you are implying?"
He laughed, seeming very much at ease. It was utterly unnerving, watching him employ such easy charm, as if he had not torn his family apart. "I am just curious about you, Jane." His voice was rich and warm like molasses, begging her to jump in and drown. She saw through him, and felt nothing but disgust.
"Have you no morality? To expose yourself in such a manner as this? To your son's betrothed?" she asked in disbelief.
"We are none of us above nature," he replied lowly, as if he was imparting some ancient wisdom.
She shook her head, cringing, "Is that supposed to mean something? Perhaps you are akin to a wild animal, but I can assure you that the rest of us are civilized. Your son, despite all you have done to belittle him— all you have done to- to break him down— is more of a man than you could ever hope to be."
"You are loyal," he pointed a long finger at her, not at all bothered by her words as he pushed off the doorframe, "That is good. But if you change your mind, do let me know, yes?"
"Goodnight, Mr. Holmes," she warned through gritted teeth.
"Goodnight, Jane."
She slammed the door shut, her chest rising and falling in rapid succession, her heart pounding with fear.
"The audacity!" she breathed aloud, "Treacherous, odious scoundrel of a man!" She paced around the room before donning her dressing gown and scoping the hallway, making sure it was clear before speedily walking down the halls to Mycroft's room.
Her attention was drawn, however, to a noise coming from behind James' door. She was at first concerned that he was in pain, leading her to approach the door with her hand raised to push it open. However, as she got closer her eyes widened as she heard the unmistakable sounds of James and Beatrice engaged in what could only be carnal acts. She backed away from the door as if she had been burned, miming a gag as she practically sprinted to Mycroft's door. He must have memorized her footsteps, as he had opened the door before her knuckles even touched the grain.
"Whatever is the matter, Jane? You should have called for me," he demanded, beckoning her inside with a hand on her back. He too was dressed for sleep, and she had a very difficult time not looking at the glimpse of his chest under his dressing gown.
"This house is filled with rakes!" she exclaimed, resting her back against the wall, "I shall be sleeping with you tonight."
Mycroft flushed, his brows shooting up, "What?"
She had the decency to blush as well, continuing, "I am sleeping in your room with you. I do not want to be alone in this god forsaken house. Your father just came to my door, and I am positive he was making advances upon me!"
His face hardened, his brows furrowing, "Are you hurt? You should have called for me." He gave her a once over, his eyes flickering over her face and down her body as if to check for fingerprints.
"He did not lay a hand on me, he only… insinuated. It is unimaginable," she paced back and forth, pulling at her dressing gown sleeves. "How could he do such a thing?"
"Power," Mycroft replied simply, rubbing the crease on his forehead, "Of course, I should have expected he would… try such a thing. God, Jane, I am so… I am so sorry you had to… that I have…"
"No," she interrupted, "Do not apologize to me. You have done nothing wrong. The fault is on your father. He alone has distressed me. Not you."
"It is frustrating," Mycroft huffed, "I can never anticipate things correctly when it comes to him. I cannot… predict them as I should. I can usually connect the dots very easily, but when it comes to my father the lines are blurry." He looked at her again and led her towards the bed, "Do sit down. Shall I fetch something for you? A glass of wine perhaps?"
"No, no," she dismissed, "I am well. But it is not this matter alone that vexes me! As I was walking the hall to your room, you will never believe what I heard from James' room!"
Mycroft froze. "I-" he looked closely at her face, analyzing her expression before relaxing slightly, "Beatrice?"
"Precisely!" she said astonished, "You can very well infer what they were up to! And to think they speak of your betrayal! I mean— James? Can you believe it?"
Mycroft sighed, "I can very well believe it, Jane."
She raised a brow, "I know that he is rather bold, but to behave in this manner? How could you fathom it? I would scarcely believe it had I not witnessed their coitus with my own ears!"
Mycroft frowned as he walked across the room, staring at her in the mirror opposite them, "Moriarty is impulsive, intelligent, and has an affinity for violence. He is not to be trusted."
"What? How- How could you possibly know he has an affinity for violence?" Jane urged, though she did not believe him to be lying. She knew very well how easily Mycroft could deduce such things from people.
"He killed a man, a soldier, in Paris. His reaction to the killing was atypical. That is, atypical for the average person, but very typical for a man experiencing manie sans délire— or insanity without delirium. He seemed to experience a high from it. My guess is that it was not the physical act of the killing, but rather the trill of holding another life in his hands. This coupled with his overly charming personality suggests he likely enjoys power and manipulation just as my father does."
Her head was spinning as Mycroft divulged this. "Insanity- I- But how come you have not told Sherlock? Surely he must be in danger?"
"No," Mycroft waved his hand, "Not yet. Moriarty is only just now discovering himself in this sense. As for Sherlock, he was never able to see our father's affliction for what it was until he proved it himself. He would not believe me if I were to share my concern, and would likely continue his acquaintance just to spite me."
"But-" Jane was reeling with the shock of this revelation, and yet it made perfect sense, "But James loves Sherlock."
Mycroft once again stilled. "You have observed it then?"
"It is obvious," Jane replied, and sensing his hesitation to speak more, continued, "I am familiar with the concept, Mycroft. It is hardly a secret that many men enjoy male company. I worked at the opera, you know."
Mycroft gave a small nod, "I do not believe what Moriarty is feeling for Sherlock to be love. Obsession, I believe, is more accurate. Though, love is not so objective a feeling like happiness or sadness. I struggle to truly define it."
She thought on this for a moment before replying, "Love presents itself in different forms, determined by the occasion in which it is present. You feel love for me, but it is different from the love you feel for Sherlock. But for all of the people you love, you are thoroughly devoted to their health and happiness. Do you believe that Moriarty feels this way for Sherlock?"
It was now Mycroft's turn to pause, and he did just that before finally answering, stroking his mustache in thought. "No… No, I believe he would like to make Sherlock worse. To make him… crumble. To have him in his power."
She stood, joining him by the mirror and taking his arm. "Do you believe Sherlock… Well… That is to say…" she pursed her lips, unsure how to phrase the question, "Do you believe that Sherlock is also… that he shares the same… Do you believe him to be in danger of heartbreak?"
"If you are asking me if Sherlock is an invert, I would say yes. He has only ever shown attraction towards men. As for his heart… I would not know, as I have never seen Sherlock in love. He certainly cares for Moriarty a great deal, but I do not believe him to be in love. Perhaps a childish sort of infatuation, as he has never had a friend before, and Moriarty is certainly his dearest friend, but I do not believe Sherlock would long for Moriarty as I would for you." Mycroft turned to face her, and took her hands, his voice taking on a pleading tone, "But Jane, you mustn't tell anyone of Sherlock's-"
"Mycroft, of course. I would never dream of it," she assured, placing a hand on his chest comfortingly.
He smiled, looking down at her hand and putting his own over it. "Yes, I know. I just worry for him."
She watched his eyes glaze over, and pulled him in for a hug. "I know you do, darling," she murmured, "I know."
He kissed the side of her head, the hair above his lip brushing against her temple. "You must get to sleep, my darling. Come now. Into bed you get."
He pulled back the blankets, and practically deposited her into the bed, tucking her in as one would do to a small child. She looked questioningly up at him when he had finished, kissing her forehead and putting the lamp out, as if he was following a routine.
"Mycroft," she coached warily, pulling the sheets back, "Won't you join me?"
"Oh," he blinked, "Oh, yes, of course." He laid carefully next to her, leaving at least five inches of space between them.
She turned her head to look at him, and giggled. Her laughter was contagious, and he was much more comfortable once he was laughing with her in the dark. So much so that she was able to inch closer to him, placing her head on his shoulder and holding onto his arm. "You tucked me in like a child," she accused.
He chuckled, "I am used to having put Sherlock to bed," he admitted. "Old habits, I suppose."
"And Bea? Did you put her to bed?"
"No. Mother always did, since she was so very young. Father was supposed to put Sherlock to bed, but he always delegated the task to me. And I never liked leaving Sherlock alone with him."
She tilted her head up, her nose brushing his cheek as she kissed it. "And I am certain you did a very good job of it."
"Yes, well he was not as well behaved as you are. I would typically have to herd him into the bed like a sheepdog. Even then, he would often escape after I left, and I would have to bring him back to his room. Many nights I would have to tell him riddles, some without any plausible answers, until his mind exhausted itself enough to sleep. Still, he was a kind boy."
She laughed, and kissed his temple again. He leaned his head closer to her, fidgeting with the tie on his robe.
"And what about you?" she encouraged, "What were you like as a child?"
"I was eight years old when Sherlock was brought into the world. But before that, I can assure you that I was the perfect child. Everything was perfectly orderly, precisely as it should have been. I was shy, certainly, but I was a smart, level-headed boy who listened to my parents. I could read by the time I was three, and I spent much of my time doing so when I was not otherwise employed in playing with my model trains. By the time that Sherry was born, I was practically an adult, and I took a great deal of care of him."
"I am sure you did, as you still do now," she whispered. "It is only a shame that you had to grow up so quickly, dear."
"It was not terribly inconvenient," he assured, "Sherlock and I were very close. He was a troublesome child, but I loved him all the same. I was able to manage him in a way our parents were not. I came to understand his mind and how it worked, as it was not too dissimilar to my own. His moods, however, came and went in cycles just as Mother's did. But they were much more difficult to regulate, and a great deal more intense . You can imagine how taxing it would be for him. When Father sent us away, I was so very worried for Sherlock, but I also enjoyed the quiet of being out of the house and away from our father," he paused, "I feel very guilty about it."
She propped herself up on her elbow, "Your guilt is misplaced, once again. Your father had a responsibility to ensure Sherlock was well cared for, and he did not. You were but sixteen at the time, Mycroft. You should not have been Sherlock's primary caretaker. And it makes perfect sense that you would have been more at ease whilst outside of the house."
He gave a small 'hmph' and guided her back onto the mattress. "It does seem rather unreasonable when you say it aloud," he conceded, his voice low and tired.
"I am very often reasonable," she yawned against his shoulder. They fell into a comfortable silence, which soon lulled them into an adequate sleep despite the dark, unsettling room.
im alive!! so so sorry for the late update, you guys, but i should be back on track soon. emergencies arose, but i shan't trouble you with my author's curse. this chapter is a little heavier because of silas, so i hope that's alright with you. i would once again encourage you to watch the show for full context, as i wont be delving into some of the canon scenes too deeply, as i think they're pretty perfect the way they are. without further ado, the holmes family's tragic reunion! as always, please let me know if you enjoy! your comments mean the world to me!
part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six | part seven | ao3 |
i want your complications too (m.h.)
Emine showed them to their lodgings, which were not as grand as Hotel Therese, but was pleasing nonetheless. They were afforded a small sitting room, where they recuperated after the day.
"You're tired," Mycroft observed, crossing the room to take her hand, concern etched in his face. "Perhaps you should retire early, my dear."
She was tired. The last few days had been eventful. She had not had the chance to get a full night's rest in days.
"Only if you assure me that you will rest as well," she bargained, holding his tie in her hands, "I know your mind is racing, but you need sleep as much as I. Truthfully, you need it more."
"Adorable, you two," James cooed dramatically, resting against Sherlock's knees on the floor beneath his armchair in the small sitting room. Sherlock did not seem bothered by his closeness, his hands resting on his stomach uniformly, completely aloof.
"Brother dear," Mycroft spoke up, ignoring James' teasing. "Would you care for a game of chess?"
"No."
"A book, then?" he urged.
"I am not a child, Mycroft," Sherlock mumbled, not sparing a glance at him.
Mycroft huffed exasperatedly, "Then do not sulk. At least not so unabashedly. It is improper."
Sherlock turned up his nose, looking petulant before finally pushing James off his legs. "Chess, then, brother dear. And do not let me win. I will know."
"This will take at least an hour," Mycroft told her, "But I will follow your orders as soon as it is over, my dear."
"Following orders already, Mycroft?" James goaded playfully, "You aren't even a married man yet."
"Big talk for a man whose backrest has just abandoned him," Jane countered, and James feigned hurt, clutching his chest.
She made her way to the room she was assigned, stripping down to her chemise and releasing her hair from the pin that held it. As her face hit the pillow in the dark room, the exhaustion finally caught up with her. This, she thought, would be enough to lull her to sleep. Yet, her body was unsettled with the solitude. She had become accustomed to Mycroft's presence as she slept, and being without him felt wrong in every way. She tried to strain her ears and see if she could hear them in the other room, but Sherlock and Mycroft were apparently content to play in utter silence. At most, she could hear James exclaiming his commentary every few moves.
And so she tossed and turned for an hour, falling into a fitful sleep— and more than once considering marching to Mycroft's room in her nightgown. She decided against it, thinking she may give him a heart attack.
The next morning was all aflutter. Mycroft was a mess of emotions, but he kept it together as he always did.
"You didn't sleep well, my love," he observed over their quick breakfast.
"You are about to meet your dead sister again, and you are worried about how well I slept?" she sipped her coffee, which was much too strong for her tastes. He noticed this of course, and swapped it for tea instead.
"I am an expert in multitasking, you know," Mycroft gave a nervous smile, "I can worry about a multitude of things, all at once."
"I am well aware of your possessing that particular talent," she answered, making Sherlock chuckle, "But I slept well enough. We must be off soon, yes?"
They did not speak much on the way to see Silas, and Beatrice, presumably. But Mycroft held tightly onto her hand the whole way. Jane had her own suspicions on whether or not Beatrice would truly show. From everything she had heard about Silas, he was not a man that should be trusted.
They waited by the entrance of the market square while Cordelia and Sherlock went further in to look for Silas. Mycroft followed them with his eyes, his hand not once loosening its grip. Sherlock's eyes met Mycroft's for a moment before he left his mother to go further into the marketplace. Mycroft wrapped his arm around her waist as he sped towards his mother.
"He wishes to speak to Silas alone," Cordelia nodded towards Sherlock, who was now chatting with a man she recognized as their father.
She had only seen a glimpse of him from above at the Les Foiles Bergere, but looking at him now she understood the grip Silas Holmes had on them. He was abhorrently handsome, and had a charming smile that— with all due respect— neither of his sons possessed. He was speaking to Sherlock, who he had betrayed to the utmost degree, and yet he showed no trace of it in his expression.
Silas nodded, and a guarded door opened, revealing a young woman who she could only assume to be Beatrice. Cordelia raced towards her immediately, and Beatrice looked very glad to see her. Mycroft hadn't moved yet, and she patted his arm, encouraging him to go to her as well.
The happy reunion lasted only a moment, and then Cordelia's face fell.
"Cordelia," Jane said gently, "What is it?"
"It's not her," she said shakily, staring at the woman, and then to Silas.
Jane took a closer look at the supposed Beatrice, and recalled seeing the same woman at Les Foiles Bergere.
"This is a performer, dear. From the cabaret," she held Mycroft's arm, and Cordelia nodded fervently, as if she had proved her suspicions. Sherlock seemed to be observing her as well, until several gunshots echoed through the square.
Mycroft held her closer as they ducked, backing towards the wall. Cordelia was screaming at the false Beatrice, and Mycroft and Sherlock were pulling her away. Jane looked around for the source of the gunfire, and saw Silas with his pistol drawn. The square was nearly empty besides themselves and what they assumed to be Silas and his henchmen.
"I knew you would betray me Sherlock!" Silas raged, before composing himself, "Are you not my son, after all?"
"Edie?" Jane called, bewildered as she stepped from behind Silas, "Are you alright?"
Edie ignored her, staring at Cordelia, her face hard as she said evenly, "Hello mother."
Mycroft and Sherlock looked at each other, finally putting the pieces together, realizing that Beatrice was under their noses this whole time. Jane felt nothing but anger as she looked upon Beatrice, who had clearly conned all of them, including her own brothers.
At gunpoint, they were escorted back to what she assumed to be Silas' manor house. How he afforded it, she could only imagine. Silas led them inside and told his guards to make sure they stayed put. Mycroft apologized to her the entire way, and she noticed his hands trembling.
"I am so sorry, my love," he chattered, his hand on the small of her back, "Truly, I never wanted you to be wrapped up in my father's mess."
"I would have had to meet the in-laws sometime, Mycroft. Now is as good a time as any. Isn’t that right James?" she snickered.
"Oh, I am just tagging along for the fun of it," James replied from Sherlock's side as they entered the drawing room. Sherlock didn't acknowledge him, as he was too busy soothing his mother.
Silas smiled charmingly, as if it would make her forget the fact he was holding them against their will. "It is so very good to meet you, Jane. I had my doubts on Mycroft's ability to secure a wife. Certainly one so beautiful as you," he reached for her hand, but Mycroft pulled her back.
"Do not touch her," he warned, his voice suddenly ice cold.
Silas raised a brow, "Standing up to me now, Mycroft? My, my, how things have changed!"
"You bastard," she seethed, "Have you no heart at all?"
"Oh, do not be ridiculous," Silas clapped his hands, "I was a perfectly amiable father, was I not, Mycroft?”
"Dearest," Mycroft placed his hands on her arms, and turned her to face him, "You mustn't let him get to you. It will be alright."
Cordelia began to scream again, and Silas thought it best to leave them until dinner. He let them have access to most of the house, so long as they did not attempt to escape, even having the guards show them to their rooms.
She joined Mycroft in his room down the hall (much too far for her liking), taking his hand as he stood staring out the window, deep in thought.
"It has been a taxing morning, my love," she rubbed her hand over his chest, noticing his racing thoughts, "Unburden yourself. Lay your thoughts upon me.”
He furrowed his brow in thought for a moment, absentmindedly stroking her hip, which made her breath hitch. "We will have to stage a betrayal. If I tell my father about the deal… He will let us out to go to the telegraph office, at which point we could go and fetch Shou'an," he whispered it into her ear, his breath warm on her skin. It made her blood run hot, arousal pooling in her stomach despite the circumstances. She inhaled sharply, and pulled back slightly, assessing what he had said.
"Mycroft," she cocked her head, keeping her voice low "They would never believe you to be capable of such a thing. Your father, maybe— but your mother? And Sherlock?"
Mycroft looked down at her, cupping her jaw softly, his thumb tracing her cheek. "My dear," he smiled, "They do not… know me as you do."
She crossed her arms, still recovering from his being so close to her, "I refuse to believe they would think you capable of such a thing, Mycroft. Sherlock will figure you out in an instant."
"Part of me hopes you are right," he mused, "But the other part of me knows that Sherlock is a terrible actor when it comes to our family. I can only pray that if he does suspect something, that he will go along with it well enough to fool my father."
"Your father is an imbecile. He thinks only of himself. Once he is distracted by the prospect of being paid, he will not even notice your brother" she grumbled, looking up at him, their noses nearly touching.
He hummed, and his eyes flickered down to her lips. Her lashes fluttered, her heart pounding.
"I love you," she purred, her voice breathy and light.
He closed the distance between them,his lips parted against hers. She ran her tongue over his, whimpering into his mouth. He made a sound deep in his chest that almost resembled a growl as the grip on her hip tightened. She pressed impossibly closer, so their chests were flushed.
Knock knock. Knock.
"I love you too," he pulled away, his voice low.
KnockKnockKnockKnockKnockKnock-
Mycroft kissed her cheek one last time, and swung the door open. "What is it, Sherlock?"
She knew she did not look at all composed, so she looked down at her dress, suddenly very interested in the lace on her bustle.
"Oh," she could hear the smile in Sherlock's voice, "My apologies. I did not know you had company."
"It is alright, brother dear," Mycroft replied evenly, "What did you need?"
"Beatrice says that dinner will be at eight," Sherlock informed.
She was finally breathing normally, and she spoke up, "We are supposed to have dinner with them?"
Sherlock gave a weak smile, "Welcome to the family, sister dear," he turned his gaze back to Mycroft, "Do join us in the drawing room. I am doing my best, but I am not nearly as experienced in the art of comforting Mummy as you are, brother."
"Yes, of course," Mycroft nodded and looked towards Jane, "Dear, do get some rest. I will come back for you before dinner."
She shook her head, "No, no, I am alright. I will come with you."
Sherlock grinned, and extended his arm to her, "We are just alike, you know, sister dear. Always doing the opposite of what he asks of us."
She laughed and took it graciously, "It seems our Mycroft enjoys being kept on his toes. And you know I am not yet your sister, yes?"
Sherlock shrugged as Mycroft rolled his eyes and took her other arm, "Technicalities. Now, we must hurry. I should not have left James alone with our mother. He is a terrible influence."
She embraced Cordelia in a hug when they reached the drawing room, before settling beside James on the Sofa.
"What a mess we have gotten ourselves into, Jane," James gave her his usual smile. She looked closer at him, sensing something beneath the surface. She wrote it off as his typical yearning for Sherlock. She was unsure of the true nature of their relationship, but it seemed to her that Sherlock was not as… enthusiastic as James. Perhaps Sherlock's lack of affection was finally taking a toll on dear James. Privately, she thought they were much too similar to be partners in any other capacity than friendship. She thought that if their relationship got any deeper that they would be in danger of loathing one another for all eternity. Still, it was not her place to comment on the matter.
"Anything for our Holmeses, yes?" She placed a comforting hand on his arm.
"Oh, certainly," James flashed a smile at Sherlock, who was standing stoically by the window.
"Mycroft," Cordelia held his hand tightly where he sat next to her, "Distract me, dear. Tell me how you fell in love. I have heard it from Jane, but I wish to hear your perspective."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, and Mycroft huffed, his ears turning slightly pink. Jane herself was interested in his answer.
"Oh please, dear," she teased, "Enlighten us."
"I believe it was when you told me to 'pick up my damned cane' whilst I was chasing after you. I purchased the ring the same day," Mycroft answered, and Cordelia laughed, her spirits improving after the explanation.
Dinner, however, dampened everyone's mood. Cordelia began the night by trying to attack her husband, which only made her look worse in the eyes of Beatrice, who Jane had decided she very much disliked. Mycroft was not coping well with the yelling. He would flinch at every loud noise, specifically when his father clapped his hands down on the table loudly. Mycroft's hand never left hers, and she held on tightly, as if she was the only thing keeping him afloat in a sea of his family's madness.
Mycroft did indeed mention the deal to Silas, and Silas agreed to have someone escort him to send a wire the next morning. Mycroft insisted that he be allowed to bring Jane.
"Very well," Silas smiled, "It is the least I can do, son."
But Jane was distracted by Sherlock and Cordelia's reactions. They did believe him, it was written all over their faces. They were heartbroken. Rage of the acutest kind filled her very being. How could they believe he would betray them so? After all that Mycroft had done for them? All that he sacrificed? It was all she could do to keep her mouth shut, to not lunge across the table at Sherlock.
"I cannot believe it!" she exclaimed as they returned to their room, slamming the door behind her. "How terrible they are. They all are!"
Mycroft made no response, only sitting down on the side of the bed, running his hand over his hair. His eyes were filled with tears. Her anger subsided, replaced with concern for him. She rushed to his side, but found she could not find any comforting words, so she simply held him and rocked him in her arms.
"It is ridiculous," he trembled, "I should be glad they believed me."
"How could you expect to be glad of such a thing?" she whispered against his temple, "They have all of them done you so very terribly, Mycroft. I have half a mind to leave them here, but I know you would never allow such a thing."
"I love them so much," he sputtered, "I know they love me just as well. I just wish they… saw me. I wish they could see how very hard I try."
Her heart once again sank at his longing, and she cupped his face. "I can only endeavor to see you so clearly that they have no choice but to see you as well," she brushed his hair back. "Know that you will never again go unnoticed."
He sat up and wiped his eyes, "I apologize. I have wept in your arms twice now."
She snorted, "It is a credit to your disposition that you have not wept thirty times. You have been through hell, Mycroft."
"And I have dragged you through it with me," he murmured, pulling her in to rest her head on his shoulder, placing his chin atop it.
"You are determined to hate yourself," she grumbled, "I would have joined you whether you wanted me to or not."
He wrapped his arms around her, pressing his lips to hers. She giggled against his smile.
"You have a way of cheering me up, my dear," he squeezed her hand, "However, you should get to sleep."
She groaned, "I do not want to, Mycroft."
The thought of laying alone in Silas' manor house made unease shoot through her. He clearly saw it in her expression and brought her hand to his lips, "You need your rest, darling. I cannot have you being exhausted. It is nearing midnight."
She nearly asked if she could stay with him, but her nerves got the best of her, and so she let him walk her down the hall to her room. He kissed her goodnight, insisting she call his name if she needed anything. She agreed, and lingered in his embrace longer than she should have. Finally, he lit her lamp and left her with one final kiss to her forehead.
She had only just changed into her nightgown when a rapping at the door caught her attention. Excitement built in her chest, as she was certain it was Mycroft. However, the moment the door swung open, her hopes plummeted. Standing there in the hallway, looking back at her, was Silas Holmes, his face twisted into that same charming smile.
chapter seven! thank you all so much for all the love on the previous chapters. chapter eight will be turning up the heat a bit, i think (if you guys arent sick of this series all together haha). bigger chapter we have here. and like all the others, not proofread. sorry you guys but this is a one-woman show and i unfortunately cannot spend all day writing fanfic :/ anyways, few tw's for this chapter including discussions of past child abuse, and other eldest son horrors. other than that, this chapter is mostly sunshine and rainbows. as always, let me know what you guys think! also i am sorry for the gap between updates, it is finals week at college. have to write real essays :( i hope you enjoy, lovelies.
part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six | ao3 |
wreck my plans, that's my man (m.h.)
"Luckiest Englishman alive," Mycroft held Sherlock's face in his hand, leaning over him with a fond smile. Jane busied herself in fetching Sherlock some water just as James opened the door, looking almost manic. He insisted he was fine, however, and immediately began to tease Sherlock for lazing about.
At Sherlock's asking about Shou'an's whereabouts, James replied that she was standing outside, wishing to speak with them. The atmosphere changed instantaneously as Shou'an's head poked in the door. Mycroft was immediately on edge, but fortunately she was not at all armed or intending on killing Sherlock.
Shou'an, who they now knew as Xiao Wei, explained the weapon the professors had been working on, and how they sold it to Silas Holmes. An alliance was made to combine their efforts, finding Beatrice and ultimately leaving Silas to die by Xiao's hand.
To her surprise, Mycroft did not seem at all opposed to this plan. After a conversation with his mother where he stated his guilt about his father hearing about a government project from Mycroft himself, they were on their way back to the Hotel Therese to clean themselves up before Mycroft headed to the British Embassy. Luckily, Marie was there to give her clothes back to her after Mycroft paid for their rooms. Mycroft, however, had to wait for his clothes to be laundered.
She sat in the beautiful Parisian hotel room—small, but still much grander than her own room back at the Journal— and wrote a letter to Mr. Gilden, detailing her whereabouts and forwarding the information she had so far.
A knock came at the door, and for some reason she could tell just by the way he knocked that it was Mycroft. Gentle and controlled. She pushed herself out of the wooden chair and made her way to the door, opening it to reveal a freshly cleaned Mycroft.
"There you are, my dear Holmes," she opened the door wider and motioned for him to come inside. He hesitated, so she added, "I have not even slept in the bed, Holmes, stop being so uptight, please."
"Only being polite, Jane," he replied, but stepped inside nonetheless. "I am here to ask that you stay here while I am at the embassy. I know you have a tendency to wander."
She rolled her eyes, "Oh please, I do no such-"
He gave her a warning look, and she shut her mouth, before glaring at the smug look it produced on his face.
"Stay put, will you, dear? I will be back shortly, hopefully sometime before nightfall."
Dear.
"Do be careful," was all she could muster.
He smiled, kissed her hand, and left without another word.
Dear? What did that mean? He was exhausted, she reasoned, perhaps he had started to go mad.
Or perhaps she had been wrong. Maybe he loved her too. That was two kisses on her hand now. Surely that meant something.
She did as she was told—much to her surprise— and stayed put. That was until the sun started to set, and worry built up in her chest. He said he would be back before nightfall, and night had certainly begun to fall. The sun disappeared, replaced with the silver light of the full moon.
She had just opened the door, stepping out onto the plush carpet of the hall when Mycroft rounded the corner.
"Where are you going?" he asked, but she only sighed in relief, running towards him and embracing him tightly.
"What took you so long?" she demanded against his shoulder, "I was coming to find you. I thought I would have to drag you back to that horrid hospital.
Mycroft gave a small chuckle, "They took their time seeing me."
She pulled away, still looking upset with him, and he nodded towards the door to her room. She huffed, turning around to open it again and invite him in.
"I have gotten my job back. The government would like me to facilitate the purchase of the weapon from my father," Mycroft said quietly once the door was closed.
Her brows furrowed, "What are we going to do?" she questioned just as softly.
"I will tell them that he was dead before I could find him again," Mycroft replied. "And I will accompany you back to London before returning for my brother."
The thought of leaving him to deal with this by himself was incomprehensible. The mere thought of sitting behind her desk making copies whilst he went through hell was so horrid to her she could do nothing but glare harder at him.
"No!" she retorted swiftly, "I am not leaving you alone."
Mycroft pinched his brow, and looked out the window at the night sky. "Must you always do this, Jane?"
"Mycroft," she continued, her voice breaking slightly, "I am not leaving you. Your father-" she inhaled shakily, "he could kill you."
"And he could kill you!" Mycroft retorted, the vein in his neck popping out again, "I am not letting you die for my-" he flailed his arms, "-dysfunctional family."
"I am my own woman, and I can go where I choose!" she barked, marching towards him as her eyes filled with tears, "And I wish to go with you," she hit his chest lightly with frustration. "I wish to go with you as long as you will have me."
Mycroft gripped her wrists with his hands, stopping her featherlight blows against him. He looked down at her, and something in him seemed to snap. All of the events preceding had stripped him of his rationality and strict regulations he had placed upon himself. He cupped her face with one of his hands and pressed his lips against hers in a tender kiss.
She gasped, and he pulled away. He seemed to be on the brink of an apology until she wrapped her arms around him and took his bottom lip between her own.
His arms froze at his sides for a moment before he responded with equal enthusiasm, his hands resting at her waist. She could feel his heart beating rapidly against her own as they moved in tandem. It felt perfect, as if something had settled between them. As if the fire that she had been trying to put out for the past few weeks had been safely relocated to a hearth.
"I will have you forever, Jane. I-" Mycroft panted as he pulled back slightly, his mouth ghosting against hers, "I love you."
"You-" she swallowed, vulnerability lacing her tone, "You mean it?"
"I love you," he repeated breathily, as if the words had been ripped out of him, cupping her face again, "I believe that I have always loved you. I have only ever wanted to see you safe, and- and happy, Jane," his eyes briefly lingered on her parted lips, "That is all I want."
She closed the space between them again. Their noses brushed together lightly, and he groaned under his breath.
"I…" she pulled away , her mind feeling like it may implode, "I love you too. Of course I do, but-"
"I know you have no… dowry or connections or any of that-" he waved his hand in dismissal, "-nonsense. And I know you think that it matters, but it does not."
"How would you know what I think?" she managed to tease up at him through wet lashes.
"Because I watch you," he smiled, pushing her hair from her face, "I observe everything you do. Every movement you make. Every… hitch in your breath. I love you so dearly, Jane. I-" he grinned excitedly and reached into his pocket, "You distracted me. I was going- Well, I have been meaning to ask you-"
"Is that what you have been fiddling with in your pocket all this time?" she demanded as he pulled out the ring. It was beautiful, just as everything else that came from him was beautiful.
"I was nervous," he defended himself, "And I thought that we would find Malik and then I would propose at that pretty sort of river that we passed on the way here. But everything went so terribly wrong and I did not know what to do. All I know is that I cannot wait any longer. You- you do not have to make the decision now, of course. But I would like- I would want nothing more than to marry you, Jane."
"Of course I will marry you, you idiot," she laughed, tears rolling down her cheeks, "Of course I will."
He kissed her again, and again, and again as he slid the ring on her finger. Kisses exchanged like promises between giggles.
"We will go shopping in the morning for new clothes," Mycroft said as she ran her thumb over his mustache, "Like a normal couple. And then we shall visit my family at the hospital."
"That is, if Sherlock is still in the hospital," she added, and he ran his hand over his face with exasperation.
"Do not speak such a thing into existence. God knows where he would have gone. Or what trouble he would have dragged our mother into," he groaned. He looked out the window, and his eyes widened slightly. "Oh, dear Jane, you must get to sleep," he said, "You need your rest. You have had such a long day."
"My day was certainly not as long as yours," she retorted. Still, she was tired, she had to admit. "You will leave me all by my lonesome after proposing?"
He smiled down at her, "A little longer, then."
That is how they ended up laying on the plush bed in her room, talking into the night about the day they had, and a variety of different, mundane topics that only Mycroft could make interesting. Despite the occasional gunfire outside, she had never felt more content than in that moment, laughing with him in the darkness of the small hotel room.
"I am glad you enjoy my company," Mycroft said in the dark, but it sounded like a confession
She turned to her side, "You say it like you're surprised."
He sighed, "I am, to be frank. I was never… the most interesting."
She sat up. "That is absurd," she retorted loudly.
He laughed quietly, pressing his finger to her lips. "Try not to wake the whole city, Jane."
She laid back again, "Who has told you that you are uninteresting?"
"Hodge, most recently," he said thoughtfully.
She snorted, "Well Hodge was never known for his good judgement."
"Sherlock says so often as well. But… I have never really had time to explore things the way Sherlock does. Father never let me," he whispered into the dark, like a secret.
"Mycroft, you are undeniably interesting," she insisted. "You just spend so much time on other people, you fail to see yourself. You are the smartest person I have ever met. But above that, you are unshakably good. The way you see things, the way you view other people, even— I will spend my whole life watching you, and yet I am certain I will never tire of it. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen."
He leaned over and kissed her again. A chaste, short kiss that he pulled away from before it could drag him under. "I love you," he said, voice full of emotion. "I find it hard to put into words how very much I adore you, Jane."
He laced their fingers together, and it did not take long for them to fall asleep.
When she woke, Mycroft was already awake, bustling about the room. She sat up, her hair sleep mussed and her eyes fluttering open at the sunlight hitting her face. She looked down at herself sleepily, still fully clothed, her boots still laced.
He chuckled at her bewildered look "Good morning, my dear."
She gave him a dreamy smile. "We are engaged."
"I am glad you remember," he took her hand, kissing it softly, his mustache brushing against her skin. "I would not want you to forget so quickly."
She yawned and fell back against the pillows, much to his amusement.
"Up you get, darling," he commanded gently, "We must get you a new gown."
"What is wrong with my current one?" she grumbled, but did as she was told, unable to deny him after the endearment.
"You have been wearing it for three days," he replied, helping her up and arranging her hair nearly with his fingers.
"Two and a half, really," she argued, "I was dressed like a harlot for a few hours."
He raised his brows at her, but she only pouted up at him. "What is the time?" she sighed.
"Nearly ten," he replied, taking her hand and wrapping an arm around her waist as she stood.
"Did you sleep well?" she asked with a hint of concern.
He laughed, "I believe that was the best I have ever slept."
The streets of Paris were much calmer now. The inner part of the city was much more settled than the outskirts. They had to briefly separate into different areas of the modiste—which was separated into two shops by ladieswear and gentlemen's clothing— to purchase their new attire. It was torturous, and she did not exactly know what to pick. She settled on a burgundy set, and soon they were on their way.
They had just left the hotel, set to go back to the hospital, when they were intercepted by James, who was winded from running there.
"We meet again!" James clapped as he saw them. "Silas is in Constantinople. We must get you two lovebirds to the station."
"Constantinople?" Mycroft blurted, "How do you know?"
James held out his arm for Jane, and she took it with a grin. Mycroft did not look pleased, and took her other arm. "We have our ways, Mycroft," James flicked the tip of Mycroft's bowler hat.
"Well, let us make haste," Jane urged them. "Before he runs off again."
"You found them?" Sherlock asked James at the station.
James looked back at him, much too closely, their noses nearly touching. Sherlock did not seem at all phased. "I did. But they found their own attire."
"Mycroft insisted upon it," Jane interjected, "I was perfectly fine."
Mycroft greeted his mother first, that same careful composure overtaking his features.
"Brother dear," Sherlock gave them both a once-over, "Congratulations."
Mycroft smiled, "Thank you, brother dear."
James raised a brow, "Hmm?"
"He has proposed," Sherlock told the group, "Finally. He was quite nervous."
Jane could not bite back her smile as she showed the ring. Cordelia gasped, engulfing them both in a hug. "Oh, such happy news! "She squealed, "My dear boy, you are to be married! And dear Jane, how happy we are to have you in the family. Goodness knows we need it!"
Mycroft seemed very happy with the reaction, and James cooed at her ring dramatically, which made her laugh. Xiao Wei even offered her well-wishes, which was very nice of her to do after shooting his brother in the stomach. Sherlock waited for the short celebration to be over, before turning to Mycroft. "Were you successful?"
"I was," Mycroft said carefully, "The British government has offered her full support in helping bring Father to justice."
She hoped that her confusion did not show on her face as he said it. Why would he conceal the true nature of what happened at the embassy? She brushed it off, and felt a sick sort of pride at the fact that he trusted her before his family.
"Best if Sherlock thinks that he has their support," Mycroft whispered down at her as they entered the train, "Encourages him to behave a bit better."
She gave a subtle nod, and sat down beside him. Cordelia spent much of the train ride with her, insisting on learning every little thing about her. She listened intently to every story, and demanded all the details about how they had first met. Mycroft watched them with a fond smile. She also managed to crack a few jokes with Xiao Wei, who was much more comfortable with her than she was with the gentlemen. By the time they arrived in Constantinople, Jane could say with confidence that she had made some good friends.
Constantinople was unlike anything she had ever seen before, but Xiao Wei led them through the crowds with ease. She wondered if Mr. Gilden had ever been here. Gilden was always traveling, so it was very likely he had seen it before. Still, none of his stories lived up to just how exciting it was.
"This is Emine. She has agreed to help us," Xiao Wei introduced them to a friendly Turkish woman.
Sherlock showed the photo of Silas, and Emine called for a small boy, who took the photo and ran with it. If all went to plan, the little children that roamed the city would come back with information on Silas. All that was left to do was wait. And so they waited.
"Jane," James approached her thirty minutes in, "My lady, do come with me to search for some food. Sherly needs something in his stomach before he smokes himself ill."
She smiled, pushed herself up from where she was sitting beside Mycroft.
"Oh, darling," James mocked, taking her arm, squeezing it like an affectionate old woman, "Do be careful!"
She laughed, and Mycroft rolled his eyes as they made their way towards the market square.
"Engaged, hm?" James smirked.
"Indeed," she replied, "It seems that spying on handsome men pays off."
"Will you still work?" he asked curiously as he purchased a few things from a local baker.
"Mycroft insists that any work I do from here on out must be for my own pleasure," she told him, "I may help out from time to time, if I feel so inclined."
"Ah," James teased with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, "It is a shame we cannot all marry well-off men."
"There would have to be a great many more well-off men," she jest back at him, "But you know you will always have a seat at the Holmes table, James. That is, once I clear all the taxidermy animals off of it."
"Always?"
"Always. That is unless you become a criminal mastermind or a serial murderer," she tried to cheer him up with a joke, and he perked up, but he still wasn't exactly his usual self as he finished up the shopping and headed back.
She and Xiao Wei enjoyed what the woman at the stall had called Tahinli Çörek. She even managed to make Sherlock have a few bites of the cinnamon pastry after he had refused to eat anything ( since Mycroft had instructed him to).
A small boy returned to Emile, whispering in her ear, and her face fell. She reluctantly explained that Silas was indeed in the city, and that he had learned of their looking for him, and requested to speak to Sherlock alone.
Sherlock, of course, was ready to comply, but she could tell by the way Mycroft's hand tightened around hers that he was not so amiable with the idea. She patted his hand as comfortingly as she could, though she was not certain she could offer any consolation.
"You think he will be alright?" she asked quietly, ensuring the others could not hear them. She thought he must have been sure of Sherlock's safety, or he would be following him.
Predictably, Mycroft nodded. "He was never… violent towards Sherlock. I do not believe that will change today. It is more likely he will try to use more manipulative, emotional tactics," he said quietly, his voice tight.
She watched his expression closely, reading between the lines. "Was he… violent with you?"
His eyes seemed to glaze over with what she recognized as resignation. "At times," he admitted. "I am the heir. He believed that a… firmer hand was needed when it came to me. Not that it is any excuse. To treat a child in such a way is… sickening. But I had more responsibilities. I needed to set an example for the children. Sherlock's… penchant for breaking the rules often reflected on me."
She couldn't help the appalled look on her face, "No," she rubbed circles into his hands, "Silas needed to set an example for the children, and he placed all of his responsibility onto you. How could you set an example for the children if you were never given the chance to be a child?"
Mycroft gave her a grateful kiss to her hand. "You are good to me, darling. You have a way of shining a light on things I have only ever perceived in darkness," he looked up at the sky, thinking for a moment before adding, "I must admit that I feel a slight guilt that I never told the rest of my family about his treatment of me… I think I was ashamed as a boy. He never showed any signs of hurting the others. I think I thought that perhaps if I… took the brunt of it, it would not spread throughout the household. And as Mother became more fragile, and Sherlock more unpredictable, I thought it best to keep it to myself."
"You have nothing to feel guilty for, my love," she insisted, her own eyes slightly glassy as she tried not to imagine a young Mycroft in such a scenario, "That is a perfectly natural response. If anything, it shows your devotion to your family. A lesser man, in your circumstances, would have abandoned your family the moment you were given the chance. And you would be within your rights to do so. But you stayed. That requires a certain goodness that only my dear Mycroft Holmes could possess."
He seemed to be searching for a response, formulating it in his head, but all he could manage was, "I love you."
"And I love you. I always will, you know."
The sound of Sherlock clearing his throat interrupted their hushed reverie, and he stood before them once more. Unharmed, just as Mycroft predicted.
"We shall see Bea. In the square. This time tomorrow."
part six baybeeee. this shit is NOT proofread you guys i am TIRED. still, i am proud of this one. its a little longer than the other chapters, so i hope that's okay! i would also like to preface this by saying that i know a trip from oxford to paris in the victorian era would have taken like a week. the show, however, does not care about this, so i dont either. anywho, i hope you enjoy mycroft losing his shit and also the cabaret! thank you so much for reading and please let me know if you enjoy it <3 you guy's comments make my day and encourage me to keep posting!
part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | ao3 |
i love you, it's ruining my life (m.h.)
She left a note detailing her plan on both Wallace and Gilden's desk.
Gone to Paris to find Malik. Will return by next week at the latest. If not, presume to be dead. Do not worry too much, I have my dear Holmes to keep me safe. He shall fight off any hooligans with his cane. I also took the pistol in Gilden's desk drawer should the cane fail.
Love,
Your dearest Jane.
PS. Remember to feed Buckle. I have also left instructions for flower-pressing for Wallace. Preserve my myrtles, please.
They stopped at Mycroft's home before they set off, where he changed clothes and had some light foods prepared for the journey. She laid on his sofa while he bustled about the house.
This, she thought, was inexcusable. There was no way she could rationalize this in her head to come to any conclusion other than the unmitigable fact that she was in love with this stupid Englishman. Why else would she be accompanying him to Paris so he could get his job back? She had more than enough content for the newspaper. It was an idiotic decision to fall in love with him, but not at all one she made consciously.
You can still be friends with someone you are in love with, yes? Even as she thought of it, she could see the rest of her life playing in her head. Tortuously pining and yearning after him. Making polite conversation with his wife, likely a kind, wealthy, well-bred woman that Jane would find herself wishing would hurry up and die so she could have him to herself again. Would she look back on these moments with him? Would she replay them in her head until the day she died? Would Wallace's teasing turn into pitying glances?
"You are having second thoughts?" Mycroft asked, looking down at her.
She bolted upright, "No!" she argued. "You will not be getting out of bringing me along, Holmes."
"What has you so troubled?" he said as if he knew, without a doubt, that she had been tearing herself apart in her head.
"I am not troubled," she insisted with a laugh, getting up from the plush sofa and arranging the cushions back into their rightful place, "I am very eager. I get to sleep tonight with my most favorite pillow," she touched his shoulder lightly.
Mycroft laughed, his hand in his coat pocket, where he was fiddling nervously with something. "As you wish, Jane."
"Now, are all your ducks in a row? We can leave now?" she asked, placing her hands on his shoulders.
He nodded, guiding them both out of the house just as dusk was starting to fall. The carriage was waiting for them on the street. Mycroft loaded a basket onto the boot, and they set off to Paris.
"Tell me all that you have deduced about me," she requested, putting her book down.
"Pardon?"
"Go on," she nodded, "You said you knew I was an orphan the day we met. What else do you know?"
Mycroft looked uncertain.
"I will not be offended," she pressed, "I am an open book."
He chuckled, "There is one thing I am rather curious about, and I have not known how to bring it up in conversation."
She gave him an encouraging look, and he continued. "What happened that had you put in the asylum?"
"You are good," she guffawed, her ears turning red, "How did you know?"
"It was no real feat," he smiled, "You knew exactly where it was, and recognized the man at the desk. You were very uneasy."
"Yes, well," she sighed, "You are right. I had a brief, three month stay when I was fourteen."
He made no indication of reply, and so she had no choice but to continue. "I found my files at the orphanage, and learned that my parents never died, they were just… unmarried," she shut her eyes, debating for a moment before saying, "No, let me be frank. My mother was a prostitute, and was in no state to care for a child. This revelation sent my already delicate mental state into a full hysteria, and I was deemed a danger to myself. My stay at the asylum was cut short, though. The manager of the local opera—the one who is now in prison—was called down to the asylum by the director, who said I was a promising young showgirl. I had always loved the arts, and I had no desire to stay in the asylum, so I took the opportunity."
Mycroft looked angry, "That is- so terrible."
She laughed, "It is, isn't it?"
"It is not at all amusing, Jane," he huffed.
"No," she smiled, "It is not. And yet, it is life. We may as well find humor in it, yes?"
Mycroft only frowned, and she groaned. "Now you are in a mood," she accused, "You asked me, I answered, and now you are grumpy. Tell me something else you deduced. Something fun."
Mycroft gave a weak smile, "You need to stop hunching over your typewriter," he accused, "It is giving you back pain."
They spent the next two hours talking about various things, from their favorite pastries to the games they played in childhood. Mycroft seemed to have relaxed significantly, and made no protest as she fell asleep on his arm whilst he was telling her about the intricacy of beehives.
Surprisingly, she slept very well. When she woke, it was to the sunlight peeking through the curtains on the carriage windows. She was faintly aware of his arm around her, and the fact that she could hear his heartbeat in her ear. She was, much to her alarm, practically atop of him. She pulled herself off of him quickly, which roused him from his own slumber.
"Good morning," he mumbled, his voice gravelly with sleep, "I did not mean to doze."
Something about the way he sounded after he just woke up made her whole body flush, her thighs pressing tightly together.
"You were going to stay awake the whole night?" she challenged, schooling her expression.
"It would have been the gentlemanly thing to do," he replied, straightening his tie. "You slept through four stops, you know. I had to check and make sure you were still breathing a few times."
She giggled, "You are exaggerating."
"I never exaggerate."
She rolled her eyes, "What is the time?" she looked out the window at the rising sun.
He checked his pocket watch, "Just past eight in the morning."
"I would be concerned if the sun was just rising at eight in the evening," she jest, which made him laugh. She felt a familiar warmth in her chest.
They ate a small breakfast of scones and coffee, stopping several times for both rest stops and opportunities for the drivers to switch.
When they reached the outskirts of Paris around noon, they were once again reminded that the country was in the midst of a revolution. Whilst no fighting was currently taking place, tensions were high.
"This will prove difficult," Mycroft told her, "We will need to find a way to get past the barricades."
"Difficult?" she raised a brow, "No. You are fluent in French, I hope?"
"Yes, of course."
"Perfect! I shall swoon, and you— doing your best impersonation of a Frenchman— will seek shelter for me in the Hotel Therese, which is very but a walk away from Les Foiles Bergere, according to our map," she pointed at the small parchment.
"You will swoon-?" but before they could discuss their plan further, their carriage was stopped, and she slumped over on the seat, closing her eyes and purposefully timing her breathing to be ragged and uneven.
A stern, female voice spoke to Mycroft through the window, to which he replied in a very frantic tone, his hand touching her forehead as he spoke. After a moment, the carriage began to move again.
"I cannot believe that worked," Mycroft muttered.
"Oh ye of little faith," she peeked one eye open, looking out the window opposite her as the city of Paris passed by.
The hotel was beautiful, and she selfishly hoped that the search for Malik would take longer than expected, and they would be able to stay there.
"Jane?" a woman's voice called her name, and she turned around to see one of her old friends from the opera.
"Marie!" she laughed, meeting her by the fountain outside the hotel and engulfing her in a hug. "What are you doing in Paris?"
"Les Foiles Bergere!" Marie exclaimed happily, her dark curls glistening in the sunlight.
"You look very well, indeed!" Jane remarked.
"Is this your husband?" Marie asked, nodding to Mycroft.
"Oh-" she blushed, "No, this is Mr. Mycroft Holmes. He is a dear friend of mine. We are on our way to Les Foiles Bergere. Mycroft, this is Miss Marie Thomas.
Marie's brow furrowed in confusion. "You are accompanying a man to the cabaret? I have never heard of such a thing, especially from you, dear Jane."
Jane laughed, "We are here on business."
Marie cocked her head, "Another investigation, Jane? You and your sleuthing," she teased.
"Yes, well someone has to do it," Jane said, "By the by, have you heard of a man by the name of Professor Malik?"
Marie's eyes lit up, "Now that you say so, I believe I have heard his name mentioned. He was listed in a group of men meeting at the cabaret tonight. It has been all an uproar, preparing for their arrival."
"Was it mentioned what they were meeting for?" Mycroft asked kindly.
"No, sir. None of our concern, they said," Marie shrugged, turning back to Jane, "You know, I could get you one of our gowns, Jane. It would be much easier to blend in with the crowd if you were dressed the part, chérie. You will draw so much attention to yourself dressed like this," she motioned down to Jane's day clothes. "No man wishes to see a working woman at the cabaret."
"Thank you but that will not be necess-"
Jane held up a hand in front of Mycroft to shush him, "Oh, Marie I would be delighted!"
"Believe me monsieur, you will be very happy with such a change," Marie dismissed Mycroft, clapping excitedly at her old friend. "Come now. Into the hotel, we must get you made up! Your man may wait in the lounge."
"Hear that, Mycroft?" she smirked, "You can wait on me in the lounge."
Mycroft rolled his eyes and whispered to her, "Are you doing this because I spoke for you?"
"Yes, I am. Perhaps this will finally teach you to hold your tongue, my dearest Holmes."
Marie's lively conversation helped take her mind off Mycroft sitting downstairs, likely looking dangerously beautiful as he worried himself sick.
"Magnificent, Jane!" Marie exclaimed as she tightened Jane's bodice, looking at her through the mirror on the wall, "Such modest attire stifles your beauty, you know."
She laughed, gazing at the crimson gown in the mirror. It was almost like traveling through time. She had not worn such a low neckline in five years. Her hair, usually pinned up neatly, was in a much looser style, adorned with a large fabric rose. "I never enjoyed feeling like a circus attraction."
Marie gave her a pitying look, "You must embrace it. Find power in their stares. You-" she tapped Jane's nose, "-will be playing them like a fiddle tonight with your little investigation. Do not let these men put you in a position where you forget who you are."
"You always knew how to cheer me up, Marie," she smiled, looking outside at the sunny day, subtly pulling the pistol from the pocket of her discarded skirts and putting it in her gown."But we must get going. Mycroft must be worried."
"I expect an invite to the wedding," Marie said as they descended the staircase.
"He is a friend," Jane replied, looking down at her gloves.
"You sound unconvinced," Marie whispered.
Mycroft's eyes found hers immediately. He stood, turned pink, and then turned around again.
"Oh please," Jane rolled her eyes, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him out the door, "Do not be so dramatic, Mycroft."
The short walk to the cabaret was filled with Marie talking of her move to Paris, and Mycroft pointedly avoiding eye contact with Jane and holding his breath for so long that the vein in his neck popped out.
"I must leave you now," Marie told them at the entrance, "I am needed backstage. But do enjoy yourselves, and I shall hopefully see you again soon!"
They thanked her, and entered the dimly lit building and went up the stairs to the main hall. It was bustling with life and the smell of cigar smoke. Gentlemen of every kind were littered throughout, along with scantily clad women who were feigning enthusiastic interest in them. When she looked up at Mycroft, he was outwardly grimacing.
"This is my worst nightmare," he muttered.
Jane laughed, scanning the room and finding the balcony that overlooks the hall. "Perhaps you could observe from above. A birds-eye view may prove more useful in searching for Malik," she offered over the loud music, "And you can keep an eye on me, if you wish."
Mycroft visibly relaxed at the suggestion, "Yes, that would suit me nicely. I really do hate…crowds and… screaming."
She smiled, patting his cheek fondly, "I know you do, Mycroft. Go now, before you faint."
"Do be careful," he told her firmly, "I will be watching you."
"How scandalous, Holmes," she winked, watching him flush before turning and heading into the crowd, observing every group of middle-aged men with a keen eye. Finally, she spotted Malik at the bar.
"-A fee he can't afford. Now if you wouldn't mind, I'd quite like to find Silas," a voice—undoubtedly Sherlock's— echoed faintly behind her.
"Sherlock?" she said aloud, turning to look for him.
"Gilden?" James looked back at her, a woman wrapped around him. Sherlock's head turned as well.
"Miss Gilden?"
"Call me Jane," she replied, muttering, "Now that you've seen most of my bosom, I think we are on a first-name-basis."
"What're you doing here lookin' so pretty?" James chortled.
"Mycroft," Sherlock replied. "Where is he?"
"Hiding from the world," she replied, pointing up at the balcony, where Mycroft was watching Malik like a hawk.
"Mother," Sherlock called, and a finely dressed woman with light hair followed his gaze.
"What is Mycroft doing here?" she asked softly.
"Mrs. Holmes?" Jane asked, seeing the resemblance without a doubt. She had the same curious cadence that Sherlock did, and her nose was identical to Mycroft's.
"Cordelia, this is Miss Gilden," James told her with a knowing smirk.
Cordelia's face lit up in a welcoming smile, "You are Miss Gilden?" she took Jane's hands in hers, "Oh, I have heard so much about you, my dear girl. And how beautiful too!"
"Mrs. Holmes-" she started.
"Cordelia, please dear," she corrected.
"Cordelia. I am so sorry to meet you under such circumstances. I am doing an investigation, you see? I assure you I am usually much more-" Jane rambled, aware that she was likely blushing furiously at meeting Mycroft's mother in such a state. James was grinning at her torment.
"Nonsense, darling!" Cordelia said fondly, "You look very well! Oh-"
Sherlock had pushed past them and started up the stairs, with James on his tail. "Come now, Cordelia, we must keep up with our boys, yes?" She took Cordelia's arm and followed them up the stairs to the balcony.
"Sherlock?" Mycroft's jaw fell open, "You brought Mother to Paris? Have you finally lost your marbles, brother dear?" he spat.
"It wasn't his decision, darling. I'm fed up of people making decisions on my behalf," Cordelia greeted her son. Mycroft seemed to accept this explanation, seeing how very well Cordelia looked, and embraced her happily.
Jane smiled at the scene. Mycroft's care for his family played on his face very clearly, leaving no doubt of just how devoted he was to them. It was something that anyone could not help but admire, but for Jane it felt like her heart might explode.
Sherlock's face turned serious, "What are you two doing here?"
"Following him," Mycroft pointed to Malik. "More to the point," he said sternly, "What are you all doing here?"
"We have been following," Sherlock pointed to a table in the corner of the room where several men were jovially gathered around glasses of wine. She was confused as to how Mycroft would possibly know which man Sherlock was referring to until he replied-
"Father."
"Alright, what the hell is going on?" she demanded of them both.
Sherlock was silent for a moment before saying warily, "We think Beatrice might still be alive. And Silas knows where she is."
"Silas-" Mycroft stammered, "Father- I- What?"
At that moment, Silas got up from his seat, gathering a large party and moving about the room.
"No time to explain," Sherlock said, racing towards the stairs.
Mycroft was still for a moment, his face utterly crestfallen. He looked down at her, "I should've-" he said breathlessly, "How did I not notice?"
She grabbed his hand, squeezing it firmly. "Come on Mycroft, we have to go."
They followed Silas at a distance until he disappeared behind some velvet drapes. Cordelia, thinking fast, swooned through the curtains to distract the man guarding the door.
"Great minds think alike, do they not?" Jane smiled at Mycroft, but he was so lost in his own head he could not register her joke as they both raced to Cordelia's side, allowing Sherlock and James to slip past undetected. The man guarding the door escorted them back outside the curtains. It was then that Cordelia turned to Mycroft and explained why they were following Silas.
She listened, watching Mycroft's face morph from concern, to heartbreak, to resignation. Not knowing what else to do, she grabbed his hand again. "Shall I get you a drink?" she asked.
As he opened his mouth to respond, a gunshot rang out from somewhere below them. All three of them stood as screams echoed throughout the building, and people began filing out from where Sherlock and James had just gone in.
Another gunshot was heard, and Mycroft was gone, pushing through the crowd to get to Sherlock. Cordelia and Jane followed him, but were much farther behind, struggling not to get caught up in the stampede of people escaping. When they finally made it down the stairs into the stone basement, they saw Mycroft carrying a limp Sherlock towards them. Cordelia shrieked.
"He's been shot," Mycroft huffed, any emotion in his eyes from moments before was replaced with sheer determination as he hauled him up the stairs. Jane got on the other side of Sherlock, who was making some witty comment about needing a dash of opium.
The setting sun soon greeted them, along with the scent of gunpowder as they made it out of the cabaret. There was only one hospital left open in Paris, and as Mycroft so eloquently observed, it happened to be where the gunfire was coming from.
Still, they made it inside, and were able to lay Sherlock down. Whilst Mycroft applied pressure to the wound, Cordelia and Jane set out to find a doctor. They secured one finally after lots of bribery, which left her with not a shilling to her name. It was worth it to see the slight relief it granted Mycroft as they brought Sherlock into a separate room for surgery. She sat down with Cordelia on the small bench, watching Mycroft as he paced up and down the hallway. He was more nervous than she had ever seen him, and he refused to make eye contact with either of them.
Finally, the doctor returned, and they were allowed to see Sherlock. He looked well, or as well as he could be for a man who had been shot in the stomach. Yet, he was still very much unconscious, and the question remained if he would wake up.
And so they waited. Hours went by in silence. Cordelia, being exhausted, fell asleep slumped over Sherlock's bedside, holding his hand in hers.
"Mycroft," Jane whispered softly, "Come sit in the hall for a moment, yes?" She hoped that he might be able to let his guard down if he was not worried about his mother seeing him.
He turned from where he had been looking out the window, tapping his foot restlessly, and nodded. With another glance at Sherlock, he followed her out. She guided him to the bench where she had been sitting with her mother, and wrapped her arms around him. The result was immediate. Mycroft crumbled beside her, practically laying in her lap as he trembled violently, tears rolling down his face. "I am so sorry," he whimpered, "I'm so sorry, Jane. I never meant for you to get wrapped up in all this-"
"No, no. There is no need to be sorry," she shushed, cradling him against her collarbone."There is nowhere that I would rather be, Mycroft."
"You cannot possibly mean that," he sobbed, rubbing his eyes with his handkerchief.
"Oh, but I do," she leaned back against the cold, stone wall and brushed his hair back from where it had fallen over his forehead, "I am right where I want to be Mycroft," she debated in her mind before adding "… with you."
Mycroft scoffed tearfully, "I… I just want to be… normal for you. That is all. All I want is to be ordinary. To live an ordinary life, where my brother is not constantly in danger, where my mother is safe, where my father is-" he let out a ragged breath, "Gone."
"You will never be able to control other people, Mycroft," she smiled down at him, "I cannot offer any comfort on that front. I am certain, however, that you are capable of getting through this. You have enough talent to secure your job back, and climb up the ranks as high as you wish. Marry a… nice woman, and have a quiet life. Comparatively, of course, to running around revolutionary France."
"I-" Mycroft sat up, his face stained with tears, his eyes puffy and his lips bitten. He reached into his pocket, "I was going to-"
"Mycroft!" Cordelia called from inside, and they burst through the doors again, their eyes darting to the bed, where Sherlock was slowly blinking his eyes open.
here is part five ! It has occured to me that 90% of this series is just them riding around in these goddamn carriages. Sorry you guys but theyre ON THE MOVE. Also, slight diversion from canon in the sense that I could not come up with a good reason for Jane to have Lestrade's address, so they meet him at the police station instead. :p i would also like to add that i dont go too in-depth on the scenes that are in the actual show, but i skim over them enough to get the context. i assume most of you lovelies have watched the show, but if you havent you should! it makes much more sense in context! this is a bit of a filler chapter for more context, but ive got big plans for the trip to paris. (and no i DONT mean a trip to paris with mycroft and moriarty iykwim) (this is a family show) (at least for the next chapter or two).
part one | part two | part three | part four | ao3 |
wherever you stray, i follow (m.h.)
"Oh dear god," Mycroft pulled her back, shielding her with his body.
"What is it?" she demanded, peeking over his shoulder, "Buckle!" she pushed past him, kneeling in front of the cat that was outside her front door, meowing happily at her.
"You know this animal?" he asked breathlessly.
"This is my cat," she told him indignantly, picking up the creature like a baby, "His name is Buckle."
"That," Mycroft breathed, pointing at it, "Is not a cat. That is a Lynx."
She pulled the cat away from her face, observing it closely, as if it had potentially changed species in front of her. "He is just a house cat. He cannot help that he is rather large. I must say I am surprised at his being out, he is usually very unsociable," she put him back on the ground. The cat approached Mycroft, who went still, looking down at the creature who was now rubbing against his legs.
"Where did you find him?" Mycroft asked her, raising a brow.
She shrugged, "Mr. Gilden brought him back from one of his trips. Said that he had been abandoned by his mother and asked that I care for him."
"Mr. Gilden brought you a wild animal from North America?" Mycroft echoed disapprovingly.
"He is not wild!" she argued, "See, look." She snapped her fingers, "Buckle, come."
Buckle looked back at her, but ignored her, instead hopping back up to the windowsill in her bedroom, meowing loudly.
"Oh, well, he would like me to go to bed," she reasoned, "But he truly is a good cat. Very well behaved. Except for one incident in which he put a dead rat on my pillow. But still, I believe he had only the best intentions.
"You delight in straining my nerves, Jane," he laughed, looking down at her with eyes that could only be described as adoring.
"I think you delight in straining your own nerves," she countered, "You are under no obligation to continue your acquaintance with me, and yet you choose to anyway."
"You know," he reached past her and opened her door, "You are my dearest friend, I could not possibly stay away, even should I wish it."
"And to think," she scoffed, "You called me rude when we met."
"Well, you were spying on me when we met," he smiled. He took her hand and pressed a soft kiss to the back of her gloved palm. Her lips parted in surprise, heat flushing over her face at the sensation. He looked up at her through his lashes, his eyes darting over her face, and his fingers subtly wrapping around the pulse-point in her wrist. After a second, he pulled away, looking pleased with himself. "Goodnight, Miss Jane. I shall call on you in the morning."
She stared at him, her lips opening and closing as she tried to speak. "Goodnight," she stammered, "Sleep well."
He watched her for a long moment, "Well?" he implored.
"Wh- what?"
"I am waiting to make sure you get inside. Go on," he nodded towards the door.
"Oh. Oh! Yes. Yes. Of course," she said all in one breath, turning around to step inside, "Goodnight Mr. Holmes." She shut the door before he could respond.
She breathed a sigh of relief. She had not realized she had been holding her breath.
"Prima?" Mr. Gilden's voice came from the hallway. He had stepped outside his own flat on the lower floor to see her.
"Mr. Gilden!" she jumped, "You startled me."
"With Mr. Holmes again?" he questioned.
"Yes sir," she replied. And she was quick to add, "Professor Hodge is dead."
Gilden's brows shot up, "Indeed?"
"Yes sir. A gunshot, but no bullet wound," she confirmed.
"How marvelous!" he clapped his hands together, "My dear Prima, you have done it again. I will miss you if Mr. Holmes decides to sweep you away."
"Mr. Gilden, do not get your hopes up. I doubt you will be losing me any time soon," she started up the stairs to her room.
"I believe I was wrong in my prior assessment!" he called up after her, "I should not have spoken so, Prima! If you do manage to secure him, you must have me round for tea every week!"
"If I manage to secure him," she said over the railing, "You may have all the tea in the world, Mr. Gilden."
"Good lass."
The next morning was once again spent in preparation of seeing Mr. Holmes. As she applied her perfume she once again played last night's farewell in her head. Do wealthy Englishmen usually kiss ladies' hands? He had never done it before, so what had changed that he wished to kiss her hand now? Why did he look so very smug? Did he know what she was feeling?
"You look very well," Wallace assured her, shutting her pocket-mirror. "Stop your worrying."
"I am not," she argued, "I am not worrying."
Wallace snorted, and the bell above the door rang. Mycroft stood in the doorway, removing his hat.
"Mr. Holmes," she smiled, "Good morning." She looked down at his hands, which were holding a bouquet of white flowers.
"Good morning, Miss Jane," he smiled at her, but she noticed his eyes were once again filled with exhaustion. "I passed a florist's stand on the ride here, and they had a beautiful display of myrtle. I do hope you like them."
"Oh," she stood up straight, tenderly taking the flowers from him, "Thank you, Mr Holmes. They are," she swallowed, feeling suddenly short of breath, "I shall find a vase."
"Now, now," Wallace interjected, taking the flowers from her arms, "I will take care of that. You must be going, Prima."
"Holmes, this is my good friend Mr. Wallace Stewart," she introduced, "Wallace, this is Mr. Mycroft Holmes."
"At your service, sir," Wallace bowed, "We have heard so much about you."
She pursed her lips, "He is exaggerating."
"It is good to meet you, Mr. Stewart," Mycroft returned cordially, "But we must get going. The coroner expects us at eleven."
"Yes, let us get a move on," she agreed, "Thank you, Wallace," she gave him a look that suggested she did not feel very thankful for his input at all.
"My pleasure, luv."
Mycroft helped her into the carriage as he always did, climbing in behind her. "Prima?" he asked.
She sighed, "Mr. Gilden introduced me as "Primadonna" and I have been unable to shake the name since. You must bear in mind that I never actually claimed the title of primadonna in my days at the opera. I was mostly a choir girl. And of course a commodity at many parties."
"They were safe for you, I hope?"
"Oh, heavens no!" she laughed, "I had to stab a man in the leg once. It was horrid. Choir girls are not awarded the same propriety as the ladies of society."
He frowned, "How terrible. I am so terribly sorry-"
"Nonsense, Holmes," she dismissed, "My situation is much improved, there is no need to dwell on the past. Now tell me earnestly, did you sleep at all last night?"
He chuckled, "A few hours. In my armchair."
She shook her head disapprovingly, "You will strain your back that way, Holmes."
"I thought I instructed you to call me Mycroft," he corrected with a raise of his brow.
"You may instruct me to do anything, Holmes," she teased, "Whether or not I will comply is another thing entirely. I do enjoy vexing you."
"Clearly," he smiled. "Now, you will wait outside while I speak to the doctor. You do not need to see the body."
"Oh, you will find that I do need to see the body, sir," she leaned back against the plush seat of the carriage. "'Boots on the ground', they say. I cannot just take your word for everything."
"I suppose there is no use trying to convince you?" he huffed.
"You can beg, if you wish."
The carriage arrived at the coroner's office. They thanked their driver, and made their way inside. Edie, Hodge's faithful assistant, was there waiting for them.
She gave the woman a civil smile as the doctor led them into the room.
"He looks quite well for a dead man," she commented, looking down at Hodge.
The doctor applauded her observation, and he himself assessed that the body was in excellent condition other than the fact his airways were filled with fluid that would indicate drowning.
"Except he didn't drown. I was there. It was on dry land," Mycroft told him. It was at this moment that Edie began to lose her composure, sniffling from where she was standing beside him.
She placed a comforting hand on Edie's arm. She was going to ask if she needed to be excused when Mycroft suddenly asked the doctor to give them a moment alone.
"Do you know what he was working on? Because if you do, now is the time," Mycroft said, almost threateningly as he rounded the table to face her.
Jane turned to look at Edie, who quickly replied, "No. It was, um, something for the government. Most secretive."
"So, he and Professor Malik, they were working together, is that right?" Mycroft pushed further.
"Yes," she breathed, "Though he never shared any of the details with me."
She watched Edie with a critical eye. She did not believe that a woman like Edie, who she had seen follow Hodge's every waking moment, had no idea what it was he was working on.
They were interrupted by Lestrade, who came with a wire for Mycroft, summoning him to the foreign office.
"Would you be alright to wait outside?" Mycroft asked her as they made their way out of the coroner's office. "I am afraid the foreign office does not take kindly to journalists."
"I can escort Miss Gilden back to the journal if she so wishes," Lestrade interrupted.
"That won't be necessary," Mycroft insisted. "There is a small park but a few yards from the office. Miss Gilden enjoys taking solitary walks and I am sure she will find it most pleasing."
"May I remind you that I am still here," she looked between the two of them. "But I do enjoy a park, so that will be just fine, Mr. Holmes. Though you would do well to remember that I am capable of making my own decisions."
"Of course," he cleared his throat, "I apologize, Miss Gilden."
"You are forgiven," she shrugged, "Come along now, Holmes. We would not want you to keep the foreign office waiting. Good day to you, constable."
As soon as the carriage door closed she blurted, "She was lying, yes?"
He chuckled, "Yes, I believe so, yes. Perhaps a misguided loyalty to her former employer." Jane doubted that a woman like Edie would feel so strongly about Sir Bucephalus, and clearly her doubt showed on her face, because Mycroft continued, "I doubt that Hodge would have given her any information that would be useful to us. Certainly not enough for us to interrogate a grieving woman."
She thought that 'grief' was a strong word, but let the subject drop. "What do they need from you at the foreign office?"
"It is likely that they wish to interrogate me on Hodge's death," Mycroft replied, "Hopefully they will give some indication as to what Hodge was working on."
"You will be alright here?" he asked gently as she stepped out of the carriage, looking at the small park across the street from the foreign office. It was a rather cloudy day, typical for England, but she did not mind.
"Yes, I will be alright," she rolled her eyes, "Unless pirates descend upon me in the middle of the day."
He mimicked her expression, "Yes, well I will only be an hour at most. Do be careful," he added as he turned away and started his walk to the office. "And don't wander!"
She debated straying from the park just to bother him, but decided to sit on the bench and write the day's revelations in her notepad.
It took only twenty minutes for Mycroft to show up at her side again.
"That was swift," she joked, but frowned when she saw the look on Mycroft's face.
"Yes, well, we got into a bit of a row," he said, offering his arm to lead her back to the carriage.
"A row?" she tried to imagine Mycroft arguing with the foreign secretary.
"Yes, they were rather upset with me for allowing Hodge to die on my watch. And I was rather upset about Hodge dying for a supposedly secret government project that they refused to inform me of. So, I no longer work for the foreign office."
She kicked his shoe teasingly as she settled in her seat, "You fought with the foreign secretary?" she laughed, "I underestimated you."
He gave a weak smile, but he was clearly very upset, even glassy-eyed. "To the Journal," he told the driver.
"No," she interjected, "The Oxford Police Station, please."
Mycroft gave her an inquisitive look, "Why?"
"Because," she kicked her feet up on the space beside him, "We are going to recruit Lestrade to help find Malik, and hopefully get your job back."
"How could Lestrade help us?"
"Access to criminal records, Holmes. Lestrade is not exactly headed for Scotland Yard given the current state of his career. He was also responsible for finding Malik. Therefore, he has ample reason to help us," she explained before adding teasingly, "And if all else fails, I can always use my feminine charm in order to persuade him."
Mycroft scoffed, "That is unethical practice, Jane."
"Certain sacrifices must be made in the pursuit of truth, Holmes."
Mycroft seemed to have cheered up by the time they reached the station, where Lestrade was waiting for a cab, presumably to go home.
"Wait, Constable, please!" she called out.
Lestrade's head turned to her, his brows furrowing with concern, "Is everything alright, Miss Gilden?"
"Yes, it is. I just—Well, Holmes and I were wondering if you could help us with something. Regarding Professor Malik's file," she smiled sweetly.
"We wish to find him," Mycroft spoke up, leveling with him, "It is a safe bet to say that Malik killed Hodge. If we were to find Malik—to apprehend him— we may just be able to save both of our careers."
"I will be certain to publish a story on it," she added, "Citing both of your help in securing him."
Lestrade listened intently before saying, "The file is empty. Just his name and address."
"If he had no criminal record, why bother to create a file for him in the first place?" Mycroft questioned, and at Lestrade's lack of response continued, "Answer: There was something in that file that has since been taken."
"But there was no arrest report," Lestrade replied, but sounded unsure of himself.
"Worth another gander, don't you think?" Mycroft smiled.
Lestrade thought for a moment, and then spoke with newfound conviction, "Follow me."
The police station was rather empty, so she simply followed Mycroft like an obedient assistant as he greeted the man at the desk, and was able to slip in with no trouble.
Predictably, Malik's file was empty, but upon further inspection Mycroft found remnants of ink on the inside of the file which did not match up with the paper inside it. The writing was backwards, but with the help of Mycroft's dressing mirror they were able to decipher an additional name and address that she added to her notes.
"London!" she grinned, "Today has proven to be quite the adventure, has it not, gentlemen?"
Mycroft laughed fondly, "Back into the carriage we go then."
She spent much of the ride making polite conversation with Lestrade, and even learned that he kept goats, which she found fascinating. The trip to Bayswater proved to be very informative indeed. They managed to secure a meeting with Mr. Gordon in his office. She then informed him she felt quite faint, and asked for a glass of water. This gave Mycroft leave enough to investigate Gordon's desk, and found a travel guide. With some more thinly veiled threats from Lestrade, they soon had the location of Professor Malik.
Professor Malik. Paris, France. Assembly at Les Foiles Bergere tomorrow evening.
"Brilliant, Constable!" she praised as they left the hotel.
"Bluff and blackmail all in the same breath," Mycroft added, "You will go far at Scotland Yard, I am quite sure."
Lestrade replied that he would be unable to join them in coming to Paris. And after thanking her for her assurance that she would publish his assistance in the search, he bid them farewell.
"Well, we must be going soon!" She hit his chest lightly. "If we wish to make it in time."
"It is a whole day's trip," Mycroft argued, "Would you not be missed at the Journal?"
She laughed, "Mr. Gilden would not have me miss such a story! Unless he wishes to go himself, which he will not, he will be glad to be rid of me. Les Foiles Bergere!" she sighed as she climbed in the carriage, "How exciting!"
Mycroft looked unconvinced, "It is not a place for a lady."
She glared at him, "I am not a lady, Mycroft."
"You are a woman," he said softly, "You deserve the same respect as any lady."
"I appreciate the sentiment, Mycroft. However, I will be going with you. I need only to stop at the Journal and tell Gilden where I will be going."
Mycroft was silent, his head falling back onto the wall of the carriage. "You will follow me if I leave without you?"
"Obviously."
"To Paris it is, then."
Note: according to The Language of Flowers, a book published in 1851, myrtle is cited as a symbol of love, particularly a love so strong that it eclipses all other feelings and limitations. Something to keep in mind.
hello! id like to preface this by saying that personally (spoiler warning for young sherlock obv) , i think that mycroft probably distrusted silas before sherlock did. i feel like since he was older than sherlock when he went away, it was easier for him to fathom that his father may not have good intentions, especially after learning about cordelia and the asylum. so, heres my take on that! i hope you guys enjoy this chapter and im sorry if it has some errors, its super late when im writing this! please let me know your thoughts, i love reading you guys feedback. thank you so much for reading <3
part one | part two | part three | ao3 |
we learn to live with the pain, mosaic broken hearts (m.h.)
"I-" he paused, "I believe that he went to get a pint with Mr. Moriarty."
"A pint?" she said sleepily, "He did not look in the mood for a pint, Mycroft."
"I have no explanation for his behavior, Miss Gilden. He is not in any danger of being shot down by law enforcement, which means I have done my job."
"Just Jane," she yawned, "Just call me Jane. And don't tell anyone I cried tonight, or I will kill you with my bare hands."
"I shan't tell a soul, Jane."
He shook her gently awake when the carriage came to a stop, and walked her to the door as he usually did.
"I am going to pay a visit to Oxford Jail tomorrow morning," he cleared his throat, "And then I will be back at Oxford. I was thinking that I could perhaps— if you are available, that is— tell you what I learn."
Her eyes lit up, "That sounds perfect, Mr. Holmes. I shall meet you outside your house at Oxford and we will go for a walk, yes?"
They settled on three in the afternoon, and Mycroft's ears turned pink as he bid her goodnight.
Friends, she thought. That is what they were. Good friends. She was not so foolish as to believe that he would love her. Men like Mycroft Holmes did not marry women like her. To believe otherwise would be to set herself up for a lifetime of disappointment.
And so she went to sleep, and woke the next morning not at all counting down the minutes until she would get to see her beloved companion. She had a story to write after all.
"You seein' Mr 'Olmes today?" Wallace asked through a mouthful of his breakfast sandwich.
"Yes I will be getting a statement from him at three. He has gone to visit the prison where Shou'an is detained."
"A statement," Wallace scoffed, "Sure. That's why you're goin to see 'im."
"He offered," she shrugged, "I merely accepted."
Wallace put his breakfast down, "You're falling for him," he whispered, pointing an accusatory finger at her.
She gasped, "I am not!" she retorted much too quickly. Wallace sighed, and looked around to make sure they were alone before he got up out of his desk and leaned on her own.
"You do realize that if you manage to secure his hand you would not have to work anymore?" Wallace said quietly, "You could have a nice life with him, Prima."
"That is a fairytale, Wallace," she rolled her eyes, typing a little faster, "Please, think rationally."
"You fail to understand that you are exactly the type of woman a man would marry below his station for."
She raised a brow with a laugh, "I appreciate the sentiment, Wally, but how would you know?"
"I can imagine what it would be to love a woman!" he argued. "I am capable of thinking of it."
She only laughed, and Wallace dropped the subject, instead talking about a burly blacksmith he had gone home with the night prior.
Perhaps she was eager. She was allowed to be eager to meet with a friend, yes? It was not so ridiculous that she was standing on the street outside his house at half-past-two, hiding behind the hedges so he did not see her waiting. What if something happened on the way there, and she was delayed? It was good journalistic practice to show up to an interview early. That was all.
"Miss Gilden!" a familiar voice called her name, but it was not from the beautiful townhouse behind the hedges. It was from down the street. She narrowed her eyes, cursing her bad eyesight as the blurry carriage got nearer.
"James?!" she exclaimed, "Mr. Holmes?"
"Sherlock, please! No need for the formalities, Miss Gilden! Besides, we shall soon be brother and sister!" Sherlock called from where he was holding the reins.
"What?" she squeaked, "What are you-"
"He is only teasing, Miss Gilden. Do not look so alarmed. Sherlock is not very good with humor," James shouted.
"I was not-" Sherlock started, but James elbowed him in the ribs.
"Sherlock, why are you driving a carriage?" she demanded as the horses came to a sudden halt, courtesy of Sherlock's shoddy steering.
"I have come to see my brother!" he replied, jumping down along with his companion. "You will have to delay your walk, I am afraid, it's urgent business."
"Where have you been?" she interrogated as they neared the gate.
"Think of the most strange, off-putting, large manor you can. Now, fill it with dozens of taxidermied animals and chemistry equipment. That, my dear Jane, is the Holmes Family manor," James set the scene, and she shook her head in shock.
"Well, it has been dormant for a long time," Sherlock explained, "It is much more welcoming when it is occupied."
They were met by Mycroft, who was halfway out the door when he saw them. "Sherlock?" he cocked his head, "Jane?"
"My dear Holmes," she curtsied, "I once again come bearing your baby brother."
Mycroft smiled, and looked at Sherlock and James expectantly, his smile dropping when they didn't say a word, only pointed at the door and pushed past him inside.
Mycroft sighed and looked at her, "Do come in, Jane. I apologize we will have to delay our walk."
She waltzed happily inside, "It is no matter, Mr. Holmes. I do enjoy James and Sherlock's stimulating company.
"Stimulating indeed," he muttered, closing the door behind them. As soon as the latch clicked, Sherlock spoke from the other room.
"There was a listening device in mother's room. Or, more accurately, in the walls of her room. So, I retrieved her, and she is now at home."
Mycroft stopped in his tracks for a split second before bounding into the drawing room.
"You did what?"
She watched, already pouring him a drink, as he put his hand to his forehead, rubbing his pinched brow.
"They were recording her, Mycroft. I don't know what you expected me to do," Sherlock argued back.
"How exactly did you know about the listening device in the wall?" Jane asked, pressing a glass into Mycroft's hand, which he set down on the table without drinking.
"We broke the wall down."
"Ah. Of course," she sipped her drink and poured two more for James and Sherlock.
Whilst the brothers argued, she sat down on the chair across from James, listening intently as they recounted a childhood quarrel about bees.
"Ten minutes with Shou'an," Sherlock requested finally, after learning that Professor Malik had conveniently disappeared.
"No."
"Nine minutes," James chimed in.
"Oh, if we are taking a trip to the prison, I would love to attend," she added excitedly, scribbling the newfound information on Malik in her notepad.
"You— all of you— will be the death of me, you know that?"
"Oh, do not die so soon, Mycroft," she implored, "We would miss you terribly."
The trip to the prison was uneventful. She managed to get a statement from the man at the front desk, but much of the visit was spent sitting on a bench and waiting for Sherlock's return.
When he did return, he did so with Shou'an behind him.
"The Princess has some information on Professor Malik."
Wednesday the 23d, 1871— Notes
Malik is missing— Shou'an in prison.
Shou'an maintains that she is a hired assassin and agrees to give information on Malik.
Malik involved in the murders? Knew the bomb would go off at the gala?
A safehouse with a coded lock— Shou'an has taken Sherlock to investigate
She tucked the notes back into her pocket. Mycroft peered over her shoulder.
"Your writing is small," he commented absentmindedly as he paced.
"As is my notepad."
"Yes, but it has been small your whole life," he mumbled, "You learned to write in an orphanage, yes? They cut the papers into eighths, to accommodate as many children as possible with as little material as possible. Makes for abnormally small handwriting."
Her eyes widened, and she went completely still.
"Sorry," he said quickly, "My apologies. I just- I am nervous. Cannot properly regulate my brain and my mouth. Did not mean to offend-"
"-You just realized that I was an orphan by seeing my handwriting?"
"Actually I realized when I saw your handwriting at Hodge's gala," he flexed his fingers repeatedly, a nervous tick.
"So you really do think just like Sherlock," she turned in her seat, "You just hide it better."
"More or less," he breathed.
Then, the officers ran into the building that Shou'an and Sherlock had disappeared into, and they were up and moving, following them into the safe-house. The sound of screaming came from up the stairs, and soon the true princess was found.
"Are you hurt?" she asked, untying the rope that held her to the chair in the dim room, "Do you need medical attention?"
She shook her head no, but Jane elected to keep an eye on her. Hodge was not so caring, and requested that she look at the photo of Malik and reveal if she had seen him or not. Once again, she shook her head. Hodge breathed a sigh of relief, and immediately set about lecturing Mycroft.
"Unlike you, Professor Malik understands-"
"Malik?" the princess interjected. "They mentioned him. Only yesterday they talked of visiting him."
"Your highness," Mycroft knelt beside her, "Did they say where?"
"At Abdon. Behind the locks. That's all I heard."
"Behind the… behind…" Jane repeated under her breath, before nearly shouting. "Abdon and Sennen! The old abbey! The abbey in Oxford that's dedicated to Abdon and Sennen, the Christian martyrs. It is said to hold The locks of Marian. That must be where he is staying."
They looked at her as if she had grown another head. She momentarily thought she said something ridiculous, despite her confidence. "What on Earth is Gilden teaching you?" Hodge demanded.
"A typist has naught else to do but read, sir."
"Then let us collect the prisoner and get a move on," Hodge grumbled, "To the abbey."
Mycroft and herself made their way down the stairs, "That was clever. I must admit I'm a bit scratchy on my esoteric Christian martyrs."
"Good," she replied, "It feels nice to one-up you."
He chuckled, and when they turned the corner to find Sherlock, he looked deeply troubled.
"Sherlock?" Mycroft looked around, a phonograph sat on the table in what seemed to be Malik's study. "What is all this?"
A wardrobe full of phonograph cylinders sat in the corner of the room, each of them labeled with 'Cordelia Holmes'.
"They're recordings," Sherlock said solemnly. "Of our mother."
Mycroft's face seemed to crumble, and he stammered, "Why- why would someone do this to her, Sherlock?"
"We are working on that."
Mycroft told his brother of the potential whereabouts of Professor Malik, and they agreed that he should go with Hodge while Sherlock and James tracked down a solicitor that had met with their mother.
"I am so sorry to interrupt," Jane apologized, "But where is Shou'an?"
Shou'an, as it so happened, had escaped. Why they were all pretending to be surprised at this revelation, she did not know. It was quite obvious what was going to occur after she had insisted she not be accompanied by an officer. Even so, it only upset Hodge further.
"Come, Mycroft," she whispered gently, "We must get to the abbey." Truly, she was in no rush to get to the abbey, only to get Mycroft out of this room that disturbed him so greatly.
'Yes… yes," he cleared his throat, "Yes, we should go."
Mycroft was silent the entire way to the abbey, a far-off look in his eye. It was the sort of disassociation that she saw when Sherlock was deep in thought.
"It is not," she said quietly where she was sat beside him in the police wagon.
"Not what?" he snapped out of his trance.
"Not your fault," she clarified. "I can see you tearing yourself apart in there," she pointed playfully towards his head.
"I should have noticed," he huffed, "She told us. She told us about the whirring in the walls. We- we thought she was hearing things."
"Institutions such as the one that your father sent your mother to are designed to destroy the credibility of the patient. You trusted your father's judgment. That is no crime. We will figure this out, you know. Once the news of the recordings hits the papers it will only be a matter of time until people start talking."
They arrived in the abbey, and it was just as beautiful as she had imagined it. She had always enjoyed historical sites, and visited them when she could. She was so enraptured by the scenery that she nearly forgot they were searching for Malik.
Still, they searched the grounds. Hodge had gone off on his own in search of Malik. She briefly thought of Mr. Gilden back at the Journal, and wondered if he had ever been in a situation like the one she found herself in. She wondered how many stories she had missed in her life because she hadn't been in Mycroft Holmes' orbit.
A gunshot echoed throughout the air, and it occurred to her that leaving Hodge alone was an idiotic idea. He was bound to have killed Malik himself, thwarting the investigation, or got himself killed with his lack of tact.
"Hodge?" Mycroft yelled out, running towards the sound along with Lestrade. Indeed, Hodge was laid on his back in the grass. She knew he was dead the moment she saw him. A man like Hodge would not have allowed himself to be seen in such a position if he was even the slightest bit conscious.
"Stay right here," Mycroft pleaded with her where she stood, barely able to see Hodge. "This once, please listen to me."
"Holmes, I-" she looked up into his pleading blue eyes, and relented, nodding with a sigh. She watched as Mycroft and Lestrade kneeled over the body, checking for a pulse, and inevitably finding none.
"There's no blood," she could hear him say in astonishment, "No bullet wound."
Lestrade instructed his officers to return to town and retrieve medical personnel to help escort the body to the morgue. They took the opportunity to return to town as well.
"There was no bullet wound," Mycroft repeated as they got out onto the street outside his home, mostly to himself, "No blood."
"Perhaps the heart?" she asked.
He shook his head, "No. No, that cannot be. I-" he sighed, "Hodge was working on something. Something secretive. Malik must have known. These professors— they must have known."
"Forgive me for asking, Holmes, but how does this all connect to your mother? Why would Malik be keeping tabs on her?" she questioned, her voice soft, trying not to scare him.
"It must be my father. Something-" he paced, his hand on his hip, "He is a scientist. There must be something-" he groaned under his breath. "The butterflies— the butterflies."
"What butterflies?" she prodded, "Perhaps- Perhaps we should sit down, Mr. Holmes," she took his arm, leading him to the door and taking the key from his pocket. She pushed it open and lit the lamp next to the entryway.
"My father-" Mycroft rubbed his brow, "He has something to do with it. I can't-" he paced the hallway, "I can't connect the dots. Why would he—? Why would he put mother in the asylum? If you were— If I was married I…" he trailed off.
"Lots of men put their wives in asylums, Mycroft."
"But he loves her!" he argued, "He- he said that he loved her. But then… he said he loved me, and-"
"He does not treat you as such?" she finished for him.
"No," he agreed, "No, he does not. It's the butterflies- Something about butterflies— I cannot place it-" his voice wavered, and when she looked up at him she saw tears in his eyes.
She approached him, placing her hands on his arms and leading him into the drawing room, sitting him down on the sofa where Sherlock had been lounging a few nights prior. "Mycroft," she soothed, "You do not need to figure it all out now. We will work with what we know, alright? Tomorrow, we will visit the coroner's office and see what the doctors found on the body, and we shall go from there."
"But I know that there is something-"
"And that something can be found at another time," she insisted, "You have had a long day, you just saw a dead body, and you need to rest. Would you like tea or brandy?"
"Do not trouble yourself-"
"Brandy it is then."
She made herself busy getting him a glass, "How should I take your mind off things?"
"Hmm?" he hummed absentmindedly, "I- I am unsure that would be possible, Miss Jane."
She could think of a few things she could do to take his mind off things. She pushed the thought down. No, now was not the time to think about that.
"Well, it is getting late, and you need your rest," she said, pushing the glass into his hand, sitting beside him, "So what will help your mind stop racing?"
"Oh, we must get you home," he suddenly said, as if he had just now remembered.
"I am capable of making my own way," she smiled, placing her hand on his. He looked down at their connected skin.
"I-" he inhaled sharply, "Do you enjoy your work at the Journal?"
"It is a means to an end," she shrugged, standing up and looking out the window. The stars were bright in the sky. "It gives me something to think about. I am good at it as well, which helps."
"But, you would not be opposed to…" he looked up at her, watching her with bated breath as he asked, "Not… working?"
She smiled wistfully, "Not many young girls dream of working, Mr. Holmes. Of course I would not be opposed."
"That is… good to know," he breathed, "Come now," he stood offering her his arm, "Would you like to walk? Some fresh air and exercise may do us good, yes?" he quoted her own words back at her.
here we are for chapter three ! fair warning that in this chapter we get a name reveal! mostly because i could not get this far in only using "she" anymore. the name is a sort of play on "jane doe" so the character is as up to interpretation as i could make it while also giving her substance. anyways, this chapter touches on some heavy topics, so be wary of mentions of trafficking (brief), existential thoughts, and of course the dreaded period-typical sexism. on a lighter note, there is also some humor as well, so do not be too put off! thank you so much for reading and please let me know if you like it and want to see more. seeing you guys' comments and reblogs is so lovely and encouraging so thank you!
part one | part two | ao3 |
so inviting, i almost jump in (m.h.)
"What sort of club is this?" she asked quietly as they walked into the building where Mr. Ezra Hornsby was residing.
"Whatever do you mean?" Mycroft replied.
"It is just…" she trailed off, "It is rather… tame for a men's club, is it not? There are no ladies."
Mycroft's brows shot up, and James snorted. Even Sherlock cracked a smile.
"This is a private club," Mycroft cleared his throat. "For gentlemen."
Mycroft handled the man at the front desk, and they were soon led to Mr. Hornsby. The club was very grand, much more grand than any clubs she had been employed at in her days at the opera. There were fine lamps hanging off the walls, and there was even lively greenery littered throughout. It was well tended, and there was a distinct lack of alcohol spilled over the floor and scantily clad women working.
The interview with Mr. Hornsby was eventful. She got to see Sherlock's brilliant mind in action once again, which she found fascinating. He was a very eccentric man, unlike his brother. Mycroft was strict and polished, but his younger brother was neither of those things. Sherlock was unable to be caged, and had no wish to be. Mycroft seemed to be constantly fighting to stay inside the cage.
It was determined that Princess Shou'an was not a princess at all, but an imposter that was switched during a staged robbery on their way to Oxford. All of this was written down in her notebook, and they were on their way out again within the hour.
"Now, we must get you home," Mycroft told her as they reached the carriage. "What is the address?"
"The Oxford Journal," she told the cab driver.
"Your home," Mycroft said sternly, "Not your job."
"I live just next door, my dear Holmes," she said, "Mr. Gilden provided me with a small room above his flat."
"You never refer to him as your uncle," Mycroft said as they settled into the plush upholstery in the carriage.
"He is not my uncle," she smiled, "Though, you would do good to keep that secret."
She was never good at lying, and she was certainly not good at lying to beautiful, handsome, aggravating men such as Mycroft Holmes.
"Then your name is not Gilden at all?" James laughed where he was sat next to her, shifting in his seat to look at her.
"No, it is not," she shrugged, debating whether or not to share more information. But with one look into Mycroft's wide, confused eyes, she had no choice but to elaborate. "It is Jane. Jane Divett. But you must continue to call me Miss Gilden outside of the present company."
Mycroft repeated her name back to her, and the sound of it on his tongue made her face heat up.
"What an interesting character you are, Miss Gilden!" James chortled, "Now you must tell us where your experience with men's clubs comes from."
"The opera, yes?" Mycroft interjected. Her eyes widened.
"How did you know?"
"You're showing off," Sherlock accused of his brother,
"I am not-"
"He wants to impress you."
Mycroft flushed slightly and glared at him.
"Do not pin your brotherly rivalry on me, Mr Holmes," she retorted. "But I am impressed. My dear Holmes, do tell me how you knew." As she replayed the interaction in her head that night, she thought that perhaps the way she briefly switched her tone just to see if Mycroft would fluster was unfair of her. That particular, almost sultry voice that she had used to get information out of dozens of men before him. Still he seemed so untouchable, so tightly wound, she had doubted that it would work.
"I-" Mycroft stammered, "I merely observed your posture and the way you apply your rouge. This accompanied with the various plays on your desk- It was the next logical step." It seemed that Mycroft Holmes, despite everything, was still only a man. The thought made her smile.
"How very clever you are, Mr. Holmes. You are correct of course," she praised, and Mycroft puffed his chest out just a little. "I worked at the opera before I was employed at the Journal."
"You must have worked a variety of events then," James commented further.
"Well, you see, my old employer was a horrendous man, so the places his girls would perform tended to be less than savory. My exposing his criminal connections is how I met Mr. Gilden."
""Angelo Dondolo, was it not?" Sherlock piped up from beside Mycroft. "A former opera house manager imprisoned for human trafficking in September of 1868."
"Very good, Mr. Holmes," she nodded, "You must keep an eye on the newspapers, yes?"
"My mother and I read them together," Sherlock smiled.
The carriage stopped outside her flat, and Mycroft assisted her in her exit. James stuck his head out of the door, and called her name. "You must join us tomorrow! We will be speaking to Professor Hodge! Makes for a good front page, yes?"
She beamed, "Of course I will assist you James! If only to keep you out of trouble."
"Then we shall see you at noon tomorrow!"
"James?" Mycroft asked her, "He has asked you to call him his christian name?"
"He has," she replied, standing outside her front door and fishing the key from her pocket, "We have met before at the pub on Shoe Lane."
"Well," Mycroft fidgeted with his tie. "Call me Mycroft then."
"Mycroft," she echoed, and put her key in the door, struggling to make it turn.
"Here, allow me," he opened it for her.
"Mycroft," pondered aloud, "Hm. It is fine I suppose. But I do think I prefer 'my dearest Holmes.'"
"Oh, well that is-" he blinked, wrung his tie in his hands.
"I am only teasing you," she laughed, "Goodnight, sir."
"Goodnight, Miss Jane. Sleep well."
She was glad to return to her bedroom that night, kicking her shoes off and unpinning her hair. Her tabby cat meowed angrily at her.
"I know, I know," she huffed, petting its soft head, "I am sorry for the delay, Buckle. I was very busy."
The day had been abnormally long, and the amount of energy it took for her to not say something she would regret around Mycroft left her exhausted. She changed into her night-things and fell asleep in her twin sized bed soon after, Buckle purring contentedly on her chest.
"Where on earth were you yesterday?" Wallace interrogated her as she sat down at her desk the next morning, "I was worried sick!"
"Ah, yes!" she pulled out the hat she had bought him the day prior from the paper bag it was resting in on her desk. "I bought you a gift. A thank-you for managing the copies yesterday, and this afternoon. I have found out the true murderer of Professor Thompson and Professor Enright, with help from Mr. Sherlock Holmes and your friend James Moriarty."
Wallace's jaw dropped, and she spent the next two hours typing down everything she had learned all the while she explained it in very careful detail to her closest companion.
"Prima, that's bloody brilliant!" he laughed, pushing her playfully to expel his excitement. "Gilden will have no choice but to retire, and you'll take his place."
She giggled in response, and their attention was drawn by a carriage parking outside the window. Mycroft exited, his cane hitting the ground as he strode to the door.
"Your lover is here," Wallace feigned a swoon.
She kicked him hard in the foot just as the bell above the door rang.
"Miss Jane," he smiled, "Are you ready to depart?"
"Certainly sir," she curtsied dramatically, "Let us start our voyage!"
"That gown is very fine on you," Mycroft complimented, but there was a hint of nervousness in his voice.
She looked down at her clothes and wondered if he knew she had picked it out with him in mind. No, she reasoned, he is not a mind reader. Still, she flushed slightly. In retaliation to her face betraying her, she endeavored to humiliate him instead.
"How very kind of you to bestow such little compliments upon me," she said, "When you look so very fine yourself." She cleared her throat and placed her hand to her heart, "Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?Thou art more-
"Yes, yes, that is quite enough," Mycroft attempted to look peeved, but he smiled nonetheless. "Let us get a move on. Hodge is to meet at a private club with the foreign secretary."
"And we shall tell him of Shou'an?" she concluded as he helped her into the carriage, "Oh! Good afternoon!" she said with a flicker of surprise as she saw that both Sherlock and James were in the carriage as well.
"You did not think we would leave you unchaperoned?" James jested.
"I assure you that there is no man that it would be safer to be unchaperoned with than our dear Mr. Mycroft Holmes," she replied, taking her seat. Mycroft rolled his eyes and soon they were chugging along on the cobbled streets of Oxford.
"We are going to sneak inside through the servant's quarters while you speak to Hodge," James explained. "Feel free to… threaten him a bit, will you?"
Mycroft expressed his disapproval of this idea, to which he was ignored by the rest of his party. She watched with amusement as Sherlock and James applied fake beards and mustaches.
"I should invest in some of those," she commented, "I would be taken much more seriously."
"This is the epitome," James turned to her with his mustache upside down, "Of serious crime-solving, Miss Gilden."
"Bucephalus," Mycroft said as they stood from where they had been sitting in the hall of the club, waiting for his arrival. Hodge was very displeased with their being there, and declared that he had no need of them, despite Mycroft's insistence that he had information on the murders.
"Thank you Professor Hodge," she spoke up with a sweet smile, "The Oxford Journal will be glad to write of your indifference in the murder of your colleagues. Perhaps I will also mention how terribly you treat your employees. I did see you rather unceremoniously throw your coat onto your assistant as you walked in."
Bucephalus looked at her, as if he had not even registered her presence until now. "Are you threatening me, woman?"
"I think you will find that I am, sir," she replied coldly.
Mycroft stared at her in awe, his brow pinched.
Bucephalus scowled, "Very well," he motioned for them to follow him down the hall and into a lounge. Mycroft turned to him as his back was turned.
"Brilliant," he mouthed, his brows raised in surprise. She preened under the praise.
To their credit, the foreign secretary and his colleagues were more receptive to the idea of Shou'an being an imposter than she had expected. There was much less screaming than she anticipated when Sherlock and James revealed themselves from the window that they were sitting in front of. How they got there, she did not know.
It was determined that they would camp out at Walton Hall, where Professor Malik was staying, and wait for Shou'an to arrive. Sherlock seemed certain that this plan would work, and they had no choice but to trust him.
"That went surprisingly well," she told Mycroft, "I was half expecting to end up in jail."
"It did, didn't it?" Mycroft looked as if he had a weight lifted from his shoulders. He was not fully relaxed, of course, given the fact he was still unemployed and his brother could possibly be sent back to prison. She wondered, briefly (or not so briefly), if Mycroft had ever been completely relaxed. She could not help but wish to see him like that, unguarded and at ease.
"Now, you will return to the newsroom," he added firmly. "You cannot come to Walton Hall."
She groaned and threw her head back, "Must we do this again?"
"I am being serious," he shook his head. "I cannot ensure your safety in such an environment."
"I will be coming with you," she insisted, "I will curl up inside your pocket if need be."
"Oh come on, Mycroft," James said, putting a hand on his shoulder, "Let her go. She is such great company."
"No. No-"
She stepped towards him, "Mycroft," she said softly, looking up at him through her lashes, "Please."
Mycroft swallowed and looked down at the ground to avoid looking at her. "That is not fair," he whispered.
"What is not fair is that you would deny me," she whined under her breath, cocking her head to the side to intercept his gaze. Their faces were inches apart, not close enough to be outwardly improper, but close enough that it was intoxicating. She should turn away, a voice in her head told her. She should go back to the newsroom and leave him to his own devices.
A specific fear began to rear its head as she considered that she was not only going to Walton Hall to get a story. No, she was going to ensure that he was safe. She was going because she wanted nothing more than to see this weight lifted from his shoulders. Worst of all, she was going because she loved his company.
"Should we leave you two alone?" James whispered as well, placing his own face between theirs. She jumped back as if she had been burned.
"Fine! Fine!" Mycroft threw his hands up in surrender, "I cannot make you see sense."
She did not speak much on the way to Walton Hall, her head was much too full to form coherent conversation. Luckily, James and Sherlock were as capable of rambling as they ever were.
They reached the grand home, which was surrounded by police. She privately thought that this was an idiotic decision, and spoke to Constable Lestrade about her concerns. He must have taken her advice to heart, because by the time the sun set, the officers were out of sight.
All that was left then was to wait. She was never the most patient of women. In fact, she would go as far as to say that she is one of the most impatient people she knows. Still, watching Mycroft fret and pace gave her some solace.
"Wait, what's that?" Bucephalus muttered, and there was a long silence before he continued, "That's what's left of your career, Holmes."
She bit back a laugh. "Do not fret, Holmes. I am sure I could find you a job at the Journal. My assistant, perhaps?"
Mycroft put his head in his hands, and got up to look out the window again. She followed him, and placed her hand on his arm, "Do not let him get to you, Mycroft. She will show, and then he will be sorry."
There was commotion in the hall, and Detective Fidget avoided a terrible shot from Hodge's gun as he entered the room. The gunshot was so startling that she was rendered utterly useless for several seconds, and only came back to her senses at the sound of dozens of gunshots in the garden. She was the first to follow Detective Fidget out of the room, swiftly followed by Mycroft, who attempted to pull her back in. She slipped from his grasp and ran ahead of him, out into the yard, towards the firing shots. They had stopped by the time she got there, they were crowded around what looked like a scarecrow covered in dynamite.
"She must be inside," she panted, her eyes widening as she turned around to Mycroft, not even registering that his entire arm was around her waist and their faces were mere inches away. "Shou'an is inside, Mycroft. Sherlock is- Your Sherlock is still in there."
He let go of her as she pushed away from him and followed the police who were now into the foyer. Sherlock could be heard inside yelling unintelligible questions, but looking unharmed as Shou'an was dragged out of the house. Mycroft's eyes darted over Sherlock and then landed on her again.
"You!" his voice was raised, his face dangerously angry, "Get inside, now!"
"You cannot tell me what to do!" The adrenaline coursed through her brain, clouding the rational part of her that knew it was stupid to argue with him.
"Inside," he hissed, "Now."
She had seen him angry before, albeit not this angry. But always at Sherlock. It was directed at her now, and it had the effect of dousing gasoline onto the simmering fire in her stomach whenever he was near. This, she thought, was as unraveled as she had ever seen him. Relaxed? At ease? No. But unrestrained? Yes. Beautifully unrestrained.
With as much petulance as she could muster, she turned on her heels and stalked into the house, sitting in the first armchair she saw.
"Now what?" she challenged as he followed her inside, "You berate me?"
"Berate-?" he scoffed, his features morphed into an almost manic grin, "Yes, that is precisely what I am going to do. Do you understand just how reckless, just how stupid your behavior was just now?"
"How so?"
"You ran into gunfire! I have never seen anything so ridiculous except for in my idiotic brother! Do you understand just how horrified I was? Did you stop to think about what would have happened if you were to get hurt? If you were to die? Did you consider your friends at the Journal? Did you consider Mr. Gilden? Did you consider me? What I would have done if you died?"
This was not fun. She had sat in that chair looking forward to a passionate back-and-forth with this new side of him. Instead, she was being forced to confront her own will to live. She stood and turned her back to him as her eyes filled with tears.
"Why?" he demanded, "Why did you do it?"
"Because this is all I have!" she exclaimed as she spun around. "This is all I am good for, Holmes! I know you do not understand the feeling of having only one purpose in this world, but I have had to live with it! You have lost your job, and yet you are alive! If I were to lose this job I would have no livelihood. I have no husband, no family, no connections, and certainly no money! Without a story to write, I am nothing and no one," she responded with just as much anger as him, if not more. "You are your own man! You are your father's heir! You have a home that is your own! You can change the wallpaper and- and pick the flowers on your dining room table! I do not have that! This is all I have!"
Somewhere between the beginning of her outburst and the end, she had descended into sobs. He pulled her into his chest, shushing her softly. "It is alright," he soothed, "It's alright."
"It's not alright," she whimpered against his tie, her shoulders shaking violently. "Nothing is alright. I am trapped."
"I care for you," he grabbed her shoulders and pulled her back just enough that he could look at her, "I care for you so much. Much more than I should, given I have known you less than a week. It pains me to think you see yourself as a vessel to your work. You are a bright, intelligent, unwaveringly kind woman. The world would be dull without you, of that I am certain," he took a deep breath, "I have lost my baby sister, I barely recognize my mother, and my father is nowhere to be found. Sherlock is constantly getting himself into trouble, and it's an ongoing battle to keep him safe. I go weeks with no sign of him, and I fret for him the whole time. I cannot lose you as well, do you understand me, Jane?"
She nodded tearily, and hugged him tightly. She knew it wasn't a good idea. She knew it would only stoke the fire. And yet, she let him rub soothing circles into her back while she whimpered apologies into his shoulder.
"Come now, let us get you home, yes?" he said gently, and escorted her back to the carriage. If they attracted attention, she did not notice, nor did she particularly care.
"Sit with me," she mumbled as he climbed in behind her. He looked taken aback, so she continued, "I am a hysterical woman, and I wish for you to sit beside me so I can fall asleep on your arm. It is the gentlemanly thing to do."
He did as he was told, and sat next to her, allowing her head to rest on the side of his shoulder. There was silence for a moment, and she started to laugh. He looked down at her, worried she had begun to cry again, and furrowed his brow when his concern only made her laugh more.
"Why are you laughing?" he asked wearily.
"Because I cried all over your nice clothes," she said, "And also nearly got shot. And also caught a murderer. And also… whatever happened with your brother."
He chuckled despite himself, and rested his head against the back of the seat. "Clothes can be washed," he answered, "And let me remind you that you insisted upon coming here."
"Yes, I did," she giggled, "And I would do it again."
It took a mere three minutes before she was nodding off, and she had almost drifted into sleep completely when a thought occurred to her.
this is part two of this fic! i am also happy to announce that this entire fic is now crossposted to ao3! mostly because there is not enough young sherlock fanfic on ao3 :( anywho, i hope you guys enjoy this part, and please let me know if you'd like to see more <3
no cw really other than period typical sexism! some jealous mycroft near the end :p
your ivy grows, and now i'm covered in you (m.h.)
"Mr. Holmes?" she stared at him, shock overtaking her features, "Whatever is the matter?"
She put down the copy she was holding, maneuvering around the desks in the small newsroom until she stood before him. He looked to be very out of his depth in such an environment. His fine clothes complimented him well, but they did not negate the furrow in between his brows
He looked around the room, taking in every detail before his eyes returned to her face. "Miss Gilden. I apologize for calling upon you like this, but I find that I require your assistance."
Wallace looked at her from over his shoulders as he passed by with Gilden's coffee, wiggling his brows playfully. She ignored him.
"Come, Mr. Holmes," she motioned for him to follow her to her desk, where she pulled up a chair for him. "Can I get you anything?"
He sat across from her, fidgeting and full of nervous energy. "No, no, thank you."
She sat back in her chair, "Tell me what happened, Mr. Holmes."
"My brother," he started with a sigh, "Was arrested this morning for a crime he did not commit. The murder of Professor Thompson."
She narrowed her eyes, "How can you be so sure?"
"Because I am his older brother, and I practically raised him. If he was lying, I could tell, Miss Gilden," Mycroft said calmly. She nodded, holding a hand up to signal him to continue. "Sherlock told me that Princess Shou'an was the last person he remembers seeing last night. When he woke up, he had Thompson's blood on his face, and his knife was found in Thompson's back. Of course, I have spent the morning speaking to the police at Oxford Prison, who are utterly useless and refuse to look any further into the crime or take Shou'an in for questioning. I believe the constable is still at Oxford, so that will be my next stop after I leave," he seemed to be talking mostly to himself now.
She wrote bullet-points down in her notebook as fast as she could. "And you," she looked up at him, "Want me to publish your story?"
Mycroft looked down at his hands, "I simply want you to mention that Sherlock is only a suspect. He has not been convicted, and the investigation is ongoing. I know how the press is, and I do not want him to be labeled as a murderer and…" he took a deep breath, "Our mother reads your paper. She is in the local asylum. I worry for her health if she were to read such a thing."
She observed him, but detected no deception in either his face or tone. He looked broken, exhausted even, and she could not bring herself to deny him.
"Mr. Holmes," she reached across the table and placed a comforting hand on the desk in front of him, "I am a copyist. I will have a newspaper made with the story omitted completely, and you can deliver it to your mother yourself if that is what you wish."
His eyes darted up immediately, big, blue pools filled with a tenderness that made her heart warm. "Is that alright?" he asked, "I will make sure you are compensated-"
Her hand came up from the desk to give a placating gesture, "The only compensation I need is that you allow me to come with you to see the constable, sir. From what I remember, you have the power to open doors."
He glanced out the window, "I do not think you should become involved. I… I spoke with Professor Hodge, and he led me to believe there is some… larger conspiracy behind this crime. You are a lady, and you should not be swept up in this."
She scowled, "That is supposed to discourage me?" she stood up from her desk, "Mr. Holmes," she said, "If you do not allow me to come with you, I will follow you and break in myself. If I am caught, so be it. Perhaps I will get an interview with your brother after all."
He stood as well, shaking his head and sighing, "Very well. Shall I fetch a cab?"
"No, do not," she dismissed the thought with a wave of her hand, "It is but a short walk, Mr. Holmes. And you could do with some fresh air and exercise," she teased, "Let me fetch my parasol and tell Mr. Gilden where I am going."
Soon, she was walking beside him on the cobblestones outside, making their way to Oxford.
"Tell me about your family, Mr Holmes," she implored, "I must admit I have not had time to consult the archives."
Mycroft watched her intently as she spoke, and blushed softly when she caught him, clearing his throat and looking forward again. "My father is a scientist. He is currently working in Venice. Our youngest sister died when Sherlock was a boy, and our mother was taken with grief. My father thought it would be safest for her in the asylum, as he was unable to take care of her. We visit her often. Sherlock is very close with her."
"And you?" she prodded gently, "Did your father take care of you?"
"No. He went abroad. He arranged a government clerkship for me in London when I was sixteen, and Sherlock was sent to a boarding school."
"I am sorry, Mr. Holmes, " she tried to imagine a younger version of him, sent to work while his father abandoned him and his younger brother, "That must have been very difficult for you."
Mycroft looked down at her again, taken aback by her response, as if he had not considered how terribly sad his family life sounded. "Yes, I… suppose it was."
She gave him a soft smile. It did not take long before they reached the campus. He led her through the various frantic officers and professors until they reached Lestrade.
"Mr. Holmes," Lestrade glared at him, "I take it you have heard of your brother's escape?"
"I beg your pardon?" Mycroft countered, tensing up beside her.
"Mr. Sherlock Holmes has escaped from his cell."
"Escaped?" he retorted angrily, "What do you mean 'escaped?' My understanding was that nobody could escape from Oxford jail."
He engaged in passionate conversation with both Lestrade and the new detective, whose name she made sure to write down. She absorbed the information, Sherlock had escaped with an accomplice dressed as a washerwoman, who she privately assumed to be James Moriarty (based on his drunken ramblings about how brilliant Sherlock was the night prior). Yet, as she watched Mycroft pace back and forth, frustrated and demanding more information, she had trouble focusing. He looked utterly captivating like this. Angry and full of passion. It reminded her of how he had scolded her after the bomb at Hodge's gala. She realized after a moment that she was unabashedly staring at him with a stupid smirk on her face. He caught her eye and glared at her, and she put her hands up placatingly.
"Mr. Holmes," she spoke up, "Forgive me, but perhaps Sherlock may have visited your mother. You said that you see her often, and that Sherlock is particularly close with her."
"That…" Mycroft pondered it for a moment, "Is the next logical step, Miss Gilden. He would not have gone far without telling her."
"Then let us make haste, yes?" she nodded towards the constable and detective. "If you are so inclined."
Mycroft was suddenly aware that he had not yet introduced her. "Apologies," he said, "This is Miss Gilden of the Oxford Journal."
"I must admit I am just a copyist, Constable," she smiled innocently at Lestrade, "Mr Gilden has a headache, and none of the male workers were available to come visit today."
Mycroft's lip twitched upwards as Lestrade nodded at her.
"You're a terrible liar," he muttered under his breath as they made their way to the street.
"Not too terrible. They seemed convinced, did they not?"
"I believe Lestrade was rather distracted," Mycroft grumbled.
Constable Lestrade most graciously offered to escort them to the asylum in their carriage. Mycroft rolled his eyes as Lestrade helped her inside. The trip to the asylum was swift. Mycroft concluded that his mother knew nothing of Sherlock's escape, and with a few snide comments from the idiotic detective, they were on their way back to Oxford. Lestrade had offered to have her dropped off at the Journal, but she declined, citing her need to stretch her legs. Mycroft seemed particularly somber ever since he returned from his mother's room, and it pained her that she could do nothing to help him. She shook the thought away. He was a gentleman, and she had no business developing a friendship with him.
"Well, this is where we part, Mr. Holmes," she turned to him as he offered his hand to assist her out of the carriage. "It has been a joy," she added, "But I fear I must return to my employer. The story will not write itself, and of course, your special edition of tomorrow's paper."
As she looked into his eyes, she once again found herself defenseless. It was as if her soul was reaching out of her body for him and silencing her rational thought. It was a strange hunger to tease him, to push him, to fight with him, to comfort him. Mycroft Holmes had captivated her against her will. All she could do was school her expression and pray that the feeling would eventually dull enough that she could make her brain function properly around him.
"I will walk back with you," he insisted, "You cannot go alone."
"I assure you that I can, but you can tag along if you wish," she laughed, bounding ahead of him, "Do keep up, Mr. Holmes!"
"I-" he huffed, "Must you run, Miss Gilden?"
She turned around, the soft breeze pushing her hair into her face as she walked backwards, "Do pick up that damned cane, Mr. Holmes," she teased, "You would be much faster without it."
Mycroft blushed, and laughed despite himself, he looked around before lifting his cane off the ground and jogging after her.
She giggled, "There you are! Very good, Mr. Holmes! We will make an athlete of you yet!"
He fell into pace beside her and held out his arm. She sighed, taking it and slowing down to his pace. The sun hit their faces without the shield of the parasol that she held at her side. Mycroft peered down at her with a chuckle. "You are the most vexing woman I have ever met."
"Thank you sir," she gave a small curtsy, "It is an honor to hold such a crown. Trust that you are just as aggravating."
"Me?" he guffawed.
"Her majesty's foreign office," she said the phrase in an exaggeratedly posh accent. "You are the absolute worst!"
He laughed again. His laugh, she thought, could make any woman swoon. It was deeply unfair.
"Yes, well, I will see you tomorrow morning then?" he asked as they reached the door to the Oxford Journal.
"Bright and early," she replied, "It will be ready for you by six in the morning, Mr. Holmes."
And so she sat at her desk, drafting the article about Professor Thompson's murder both with and without Sherlock's name being mentioned. She ignored Wallace's teasing, waltzing around her with a fake replica of Mr. Holmes' mustache while she worked.
Mycroft was punctual, arriving at exactly 6:05 the next morning. "There you are, Mr. Holmes," she greeted, grabbing the newspaper from her desk. "Oh dear," she gave him a once-over, "You look exhausted."
"Well, my little brother is on the run," he said dryly, "And I lost my job at the foreign office."
Her lips parted in shock, "How on Earth did you manage that?"
He gave her a tired glare, "I was caught listening in on Professor Hodge's conversation with his colleagues."
"You got caught spying?" she clarified.
He pursed his lips, "More or less. I-" he sighed, "Hodge told me that it "suited his purposes" that Sherlock stayed locked up. I merely thought that if I were to learn what those purposes were, I would be better equipped to help him."
Her heart broke at the pain in his voice. "That is very sound, Mr. Holmes," she assured, placing a hand on his shoulder, "You love your brother very dearly, it is only natural you would do all in your power to help him. Hodge is a cold, unfeeling man with the common sense of a garden mouse. I would be glad to be rid of him."
"I must get my job back," he said, "It is the only way I can provide for both Sherlock and myself."
"And I have confidence that you will," she replied, "You have all the makings of a high-ranking government official. I have no doubt that you will make it there, Mr. Holmes."
He gave her a weak smile in the dim lamplight of the newsroom. The sun had only just barely begun to rise.
"Go now, Mr. Holmes," she insisted, "Would not want you to be late, now would we?"
"No," he seemed startled for a second, as if he had forgotten why he was there. He reached into his pocket and took out a number of shillings. "Here, for your work."
"Did I not tell you that the only payment needed was your cooperation in letting me tag along?" she replied, pushing his hand away, "Besides, it is you that needs to save money, Mr. Holmes. I am employed, you are not."
He sighed, and put the coins down on the front desk, bowing before taking his leave of the place.
"Prima!" Mr Gilden did the unusual honor of gracing the newsroom with his presence later that day. "How very well you have done, my dear! I just had a former colleague of mine send an express demanding where we sourced out information on the Holmes case!" he patted her on the back.
"Thank you sir," she put her pen down, "I am glad you are pleased.
"She has done exceptionally well!" Wallace added, "Mr. Mycroft Holmes made sure to see her back himself yesterday afternoon."
Mr. Gilden raised a brow. "Is that so, Prima?"
"You know, we are well acquainted enough that you can call me by my christian name, Mr. Gilden."
"And I would do so," he said, leaning on his walking cane, "If I could ever remember it," he looked down at her over his spectacles, "Now, answer the question, if you please."
"Yes, he insisted upon walking back with me," she said, feigning indifference, "You know how gentlemen are about that sort of thing, Mr. Gilden."
Gilden gave a small "hmph," and nodded, "Very well. But I know how ladies are, Prima. I do not want you getting carried away in your poetry and giving yourself false hopes."
She bit back a grimace at his belittling her down to a woman prone to hysteria. He meant no offense, she was sure, but it aggravated her nonetheless. "I assure you, Mr Gilden, that will not be a problem. I am not so weak as to be in danger of falling in love with a man such as Mycroft Holmes."
He merely smiled, and turned to limp back into his office.
"Sorry, darlin," Wallace said sheepishly from his own desk, "I was just teasin."
"I know Wallace," she smiled, "It's alright."
It was not alright. Not alright in the slightest. Something was very wrong. Something was causing a large pit of dread in her stomach when she thought about the fact that there was no reason for her to see Mr. Holmes again. "I think," she stood and straightened her skirts. "I think I will take a short walk, Wallace."
He stood as well, "Of course," he said, "I'll handle your copies today, Pri. You go into town. Buy yourself something, yeah? Might as well, since his royal highness insisted upon paying you personally."
She snorted, "Very well. It is the least you could do after that stunt with Mr. Gilden."
Wallace shot her an apologetic look, and she made her way out onto the street. It was daylight, so she needn't be too vigilant, but still her eyes were trained on her surroundings. A lady could not ever be too careful when walking alone.
The streets were a refreshing change of pace. The leaves were falling from the trees with the first signs of autumn, which was always a beautiful sight. She passed a gentleman's outfitters on her stroll, and it briefly occurred to her that she ought to purchase a new hat for dear Wallace, whose old bowler was tattered beyond recognition. She stepped inside the shop, and stopped in her tracks as she saw the backs of two familiar heads.
"You're that Sherlock Holmes. You murdered that professor!" the woman behind the counter was saying. Her face was one of both fear and confrontation.
"Yes, I do see the resemblance-" James started as Sherlock began to back away.
This is ridiculous, she thought. It is utterly ridiculous that she is about to get these two out of this predicament. And yet, she spoke up.
"William!" she smiled brightly as she approached Sherlock, touching his shoulder lightly, "Is that you?"
Sherlock stared, bewildered at her. James caught on much quicker.
"You know this young lady, Will?" James grinned.
"So sorry to interrupt, madam," she told the shopkeeper, who was even more confused than before, "It is just that we used to play together as children! I would recognize him anywhere! I have not seen you in so long!"
"Oh," Sherlock cleared his throat, "Yes! Yes, of course! How is the family, Margret?"
"Very well," she assured, placing a hat on the counter along with the coin that Mycroft had given her earlier that day. She looked up at the shopkeeper, "Such a small world, is it not?"
The shopkeeper gave a nervous laugh, nodding as she rang her up.
"Come, we have much to talk about, Will. And you must introduce me to your friend," she motioned for them to follow her out of the shop.
"Miss Gilden!" James laughed after the door shut behind them, "A brilliant display!"
She rounded upon Sherlock, pressing a finger to his chest. "What on Earth is the matter with you?" she demanded, "Your brother is worried sick, you know?"
"Mycroft?" Sherlock cocked his head, "You know Mycroft?"
"Yes, we are acquainted," she replied, "And you two," she pointed at the both of them now, "Are going to come with me and show him that you're alright."
"We were just on our way to his house, if you would like to tag along," Sherlock said placatingly.
"Yes, I very well will tag along," she retorted, "If only to make sure you do not run off again."
She accepted James' offer to carry her things, and they set off into town.
"You know, if you really are a murderer," she said to Sherlock, "And you do kill me, you will lose the only journalist that believes you to be innocent."
James laughed, "Sherly can't throw a punch on a good day, let alone stab a man to death."
"And you, Mr. Moriarty?" she countered, "Will you kill me?"
James put a finger to his chin in an exaggerated thinking gesture, "No, no I think not."
"Good," she said, "Wallace would be upset with you."
Sherlock's head turned to James, "Who is Wallace?" his brow furrowed.
"He is a friend of mine," she interjected on James' behalf, "We all met at the pub while you were with Shou'an."
James gave her a grateful smile, to which she only nodded.
She found them to be stimulating company for the long walk to Mycroft's townhouse. James was very lively, and seemed to bring out those same qualities in his companion. They asked several times how she knew Mycroft, but she did not wish to trip over her words, and so she avoided the question altogether. She was faintly aware that this made their relationship look much more suspicious than it was. Still, she learned that Princess Shou'an was the one killing the scientists, and that they were going to ask Mycroft when she had first arrived.
When they arrived, Mycroft was not in, and so they waited outside until his carriage pulled in the drive.
"You two wait a moment, please," she instructed, "So he does not faint with surprise, yes?"
"That is not necessary-" Sherlock smiled, going to push past her. She sighed,it is no wonder Mycroft was so peeved by him.
"Mr. Holmes!" she called out, jogging in front of Sherlock and up the steps behind Mycroft. Mycroft visibly jumped, which made her smile. "I have brought you a gift."
"Miss Gilden?" he smiled incredulously.
"When exactly did Shou'an first arrive in England?" Sherlock's voice came from behind her, and Mycroft jumped again.
"For the love of God!" Mycroft seethed, his smile dropping immediately as if he had been caught, "Why can't you ever start a conversation the way normal people do?" He glanced around before pointing at the door, "Get inside," he ordered dangerously. She bit her lip with a smile.
She followed the two brothers into the house, herself and James lagging behind while they bickered back and forth.
"I see now why you tagged along," James had a knowing look in his eye when he spoke in a hush tone.
She rolled her eyes, "Why is that, sir?"
"Just James is fine, love," he smirked. "We are friends, are we not?"
"Are we?" she laughed, "We have met only twice."
"Yet I can read you like a book, Miss Gilden. Is that not the very essence of friendship?"
"You have read nothing, James," she replied, "Mr. Holmes is a gentleman. But I am no lady. Also, he is rather trying at the best of times," she tried to sound convicted.
"I see," he whispered, "Another thing we have in common then. We can look, but not touch." He nodded at Sherlock.
She gave him a warning look, "James, you must be more subtle. It is not… safe for you to be so forthcoming."
James smiled, "You had already worked it out. Besides, an accusation is nothing without proof, which there is none."
They turned into the drawing room, to which she settled in an armchair. James brought them all brandy, and she watched with eager eyes as Mycroft berated his brother. Mycroft seemed surprised at the news that Shou'an was the murderer, but seemed to accept the explanation, and suggested that they speak to Ezra Hornsby, who accompanied the princess to Oxford.
"Forgive me," she interjected, "It is not that I doubt you. It is just… Actually it is in fact that I doubt you. How is it that you found her out?"
"It was simple," Sherlock said from where he was reclining on the sofa, "She was the one who planted the bomb, the scrolls were merely a distraction. There were remnants of a photo in her fireplace. We tracked down the photographer, and found the photo-"
"Sherly," James pointed his glass at him, "It is not our story she doubts. It is your ability. Miss Gilden does not know your mind as we do. Go on," he cooed, "Show off."
"Do not!" Mycroft growled, "Do not encourage him."
She looked between the two of them, smiling widely at Mycroft's annoyance. She turned to Sherlock, "Do go ahead, Mr. Holmes," she encouraged.
"Sherlock," Mycroft corrected in a grumble. He blushed when she looked questioningly at him. "I am Mr. Holmes. He is Mr. Sherlock Holmes."
Sherlock looked utterly elated as he stared playfully at his brother, "Do not be jealous, brother dear."
"Mr. Holmes," she said to Sherlock, "Do ignore your brother and focus on the task at hand."
Sherlock stood, circling her like a vulture. She felt very vulnerable as his eyes flickered over her, darting back and forth.
"Do not say anything untoward," Mycroft warned him.
"Would you wish to demonstrate instead, brother dear?" Sherlock offered. "You are just as capable as I."
"But not at all as willing to embarrass myself," Mycroft replied.
"I am confused," she admitted.
Sherlock spoke again, "Miss Gilden, you are employed as an assistant in a newsroom are you not? You are a typist, yes, as we can see by the callouses on your fingers. They are on both hands, so that rules out their being formed by an instrument such as the violin. But you are not only a typist, are you? You have ink stains outside the pocket of your dress, which suggests that you usually carry a notepad of some sort. That, along with the different varieties of mud on your petticoat, suggest you travel for work. A woman, however, cannot be an investigative journalist, so you would have to be an assistant that takes on a variety of jobs. That is how you met my brother, is it not? You also need to invest in a new hairbrush, Miss Gilden. Yours is fraying, you can see its traces in your hair."
Her jaw had dropped while he was speaking, and she chortled in response. "That was… brilliant, Mr. Holmes! However can you tell the difference between different kinds of mud?"
Sherlock turned pink at the praise, and bowed, "Practice, Miss Gilden."
"Are you quite done?" Mycroft hissed.
"Oh, do settle down, Mr. Holmes," she told him, "Your brother has proven himself. Let us find Mr. Hornsby."
"It is late, Miss Gilden," Mycroft sighed, "You need your rest. You should return home."
"Says the man who has not had a full night's sleep in two days," she challenged, "You are the one who brought up Mr. Hornsby. I will be interviewing him with or without your blessing."
while i was watching young sherlock, i found myself wondering how we did not hear about sherlock being all over the local papers, which lead me to this idea. so here is the first part (if you all want to see more) of a mycroft fanfic with a reader that works for a newspaper. fair warning that this includes two original characters because its basically impossible for a woman to live independently in this time period. please let me know if you want a second chapter of this <3
hustling for the good life, never thought i’d meet you here (m.h.)
Working as an assistant at The Oxford Journal was a wonderful occupation for a woman of her stature. Truly, it was. It was just that her duties expanded beyond an assistant. She was a typist, a copyist, a ghost-writer, and often the reason that the Journal got any stories. She had met her superior, Mr. Gilden, when she still performed at the opera. She had marched into the newsroom with an abundance of evidence that the manager of the opera house was involved in a trafficking scheme that was being covered up by local police. When asked how she found such evidence, she simply replied that she collected it herself. The story of the corrupt Impresario was swiftly published the next morning, and Mr. Gilden offered her a job that same day. From that moment on, she was "Miss. Gilden", supposedly a "distant niece" that helped Mr. Gilden on his stories when he couldn't be bothered (which was always).
Of course, despite her pay being very well, she could not be a journalist by name. Not outwardly, at least. Above all else, she was still a woman. No matter how lively her mind was, she would always be a woman.
"Prima, my dear, how was the trip to campus?"
Prima. Not her name, of course, but she had insisted that Gilden stop calling her "Primadonna" after the first week of her employment.
"Very good, sir," she replied, handing in a report of Oxford's recent happenings. "Princess Shou'an's scrolls have been stolen from the library. I do not believe the news has spread very far. Professor Hodge had only just learned of the break-in when I arrived. I was wondering if I could- well if you would wish for me to… investigate further."
Gilden put down the book he was reading on elephant migration, leaning forward on his tatty old desk, pointing a long finger at her, "You are my best reporter, do you hear me?" he pushed his chair back and rounded the desk, beaming widely at her as he placed his hands on her shoulders, "You go back out there and see what you can gleam, yes? I'll have Wallace do the copies today, God knows he can't write for the life of him."
And so she left for Oxford once more, which is how she ended up subtly following Constable Lestrade of the Oxford City police force all the way to the prime suspect.
"Sherlock Holmes!" Lestrade called out as he raced towards two men, one a porter, and the other a gentleman in a bowler cap. She scribbled the name down.
Suspect- Sherlock Holmes.
She had learned in her time at the Journal that the quickest and most efficient way to gain information was to eavesdrop. So she settled upon listening outside the cracked window nearest to the men. It took her a moment to get there from where she had been tailing the police, but when she did she leaned in to listen.
"-reprimanded by your chief officer, who happens to be my bridge partner, and is, as you know, a stickler for due process," she did not recognize the voice as one of the two officers she had been following, and he spoke too confidently to be a porter. The man with the bowler hat, she concluded, had been the speaker.
She was momentarily disappointed as he had seemed to scare the constable off with his talk of chief officers, but was enlightened again when the porter spoke, asking the other man to help him get into the library after ensuring that he had been wrongly accused. The connection between them was established when Sherlock thanked him, saying, "I am in your debt, brother dear. James is sulking in his room, but he will meet us there."
"You have been in my debt for as long as I can remember, brother dear," the other man said, sounding aggravated.
She scribbled in her notes.
Gentleman- Suspect's brother. Works for the foreign office. Strained relationship?
James - ???
Her next stop, it seems, would be the library. Though, she knew she would be unable to get in. It had been closed off since early that morning. No, it would be useless to follow them there. She would do better to find James. The next step was simple, wait outside the staircase for a sulking, perhaps aggravated man, and follow him instead. Then, at least, she could put a face to the name.
James was a handsome man, who did indeed look sulky, but also was in quite the rush as he followed the same corridor the other two men had taken. James was distinctly not a porter, but presumably a student. Though, he was not in uniform.
Unable to get past the police outside the library entrance, she waited behind a pillar. Soon, a collection of people exited the library, including Bowler Hat Holmes, Professor Bucephalus Hodge, his assistant, and Constable Lestrade. No Sherlock and no James.
"I do hope that the Princess' judgment is correct, Mycroft. On your head be it if it is not," Hodge told the gentleman. She edited her notes.
Gentleman Mycroft Holmes- Suspect's brother. Works for the foreign office. Strained relationship?
Mycroft? Her brow furrowed at the unusual name. No more unusual than Sherlock, she supposed. Their parents must be eccentric.
To-do: Search archives for Holmes family.
"I must get to my meeting," Hodge grumbled, "I will meet you back here for the gala, Holmes."
The gala. For the new science building. She would need to attend that anyhow, the added bonus of Mr Mycroft Holmes' being there was simply a welcome surprise. She looked up from her notebook as Hodge and his assistant were walking away, leaving Mycroft in the sunny courtyard. He was still for a moment, before turning to look at her, as if he could sense eyes upon him. Her breath hitched as he met her gaze, looking puzzled. He was truly a very handsome man and her face went hot. She cocked her head at him innocently, batting her lashes. He visibly swallowed, giving a polite and strained smile before shaking his head slightly and taking his leave.
The interaction lingered in her head long after he left. The feeling she had when he looked at her was like nothing she had ever felt before. It unsettled her so much that she had to close her notebook and take a solitary walk around the campus' gardens. When she returned, she went straight into the gala, where she showed the doorman the invitation that had been sent to Mr Gilden. People were only just beginning to file inside. Mycroft Holmes stood near the front of the room next to Hodge's assistant, and he did a double take when he saw her.
She watched him like a hawk as she sat down at a small table in the corner of the room with a few other journalists, all decidedly male, much to her exasperation. They thought she may have been lost, and laughed as she explained she was here in place of her employer.
"Gilden has a woman reporting back to him?" one guffawed.
The others laughed, and she merely gave a humorless smile in return. "Our papers are selling very well, sir," she replied, electing not to choose a fight.
Her explanation was not enough for them. "I thought he may be going soft but I did not think he was mad!" another man jested.
She was unable to school the expression on her face into one of indifference as they insulted Mr. Gilden. A strange man he may be, but a good one he most certainly was.
"Mr. Gilden is the very best of men," she glared at them. She looked down at the man's name card. "You're here for a student magazine, Mr Lloyd. I would not be belittling serious publications until you manage to find a seat in one."
Mr Lloyd was, as it so happens, not at all happy with her assessment. His smile fell, and his embarrassment was only exacerbated by the other men at the table, who laughed heartily. His expression turned into one of rage.
"What would a cunt like you know about real reporting?" he hissed.
"Grant, mate-" the man next to him put a placating arm on his shoulder.
Her face split into a grin. She had bested him. "More than you, I'd wager, my good sir, considering I am being paid for it."
His sweaty palms balled up into fists, the redness in his face extending all the way to his neck. "Why I should-"
"What is the matter, gentlemen?" a familiar voice cut into their lively conversation. She turned her head, and stood before her was Mycroft Holmes, with a concerned furrow between his brow. He nodded at her, "And ladies, of course."
"Nofing-" Lloyd growled.
"This lovely man is calling me a cunt, Mr. Holmes," she smiled, a pleasing flush spread across her cheeks with excitement.
Mycroft looked scandalized at her language, and turned to Lloyd, "Sir!" he said firmly, "I must ask you to leave."
"I'm not going nowhere!"
"You should work on your grammar, Mr. Lloyd, or you may never graduate," she added.
"Mr Holmes," the man whose hand was on Lloyd's arm spoke up, "It will not happen again, I promise. He only needs a moment to calm down."
Mycroft looked unconvinced, but even she knew that forcing this man out of the gala would cause a scene.
"Miss Gilden," Mycroft spoke. He must have read her name card. "Would you like to stand up with me? It will allow you a better view."
Who knew that being called a cunt would have such advantages?
"That would be lovely, Mr Holmes." she nodded. She noticed the tips of his ears turning a bit pink as he held out an arm for her to take. She did so, feeling the expensive fabric of his evening coat under her fingers as he led her away. "Thank you, sir. That was very good of you. Though you must know I could have handled myself."
"It would have been wrong to leave you among such company," Mycroft answered quietly. His tone was both gentle and firm, and she had a fleeting thought that she could listen to such a melody forever. He was silent for a moment as they came to a halt and she let go of his arm, before asking, "How is it that you know my name?"
"You are Sherlock's brother, are you not?" she answered.
"I am," he nodded, turning to face her, "You know Sherlock?"
"I have heard of him," she shrugged, cringing internally at her lack of a better excuse. He saw right through her, raising a brow.
She sighed, "I have been… looking into the disappearance of Princess Shou'an's scrolls."
"You were eavesdropping on my brother and I's conversation in the hall," he countered. "And then you followed us to the library."
"Correction," she held up a finger, "I followed James to the library."
"You know Mr. Moriarty?"
She opened her notebook.
James- ??? James Moriarty-
"I suppose not," Mycroft grumbled, watching her write. He scanned the page. "Search the archives for Holmes fam- What is this?" he demanded.
She looked up at him, pursing her lips slightly,unrepentant, "Well, it seems pretty self explanatory sir."
"Self-?" he scoffed and looked down at the notes again, "Our relationship is not strained," he objected.
"My apologies, I must have missed your making up after you told him he was indebted to you his whole life."
Mycroft was appalled, "You are…" he put his hand on his hip, "Rude."
"I am not rude," she mimicked his movement, her hand resting on her side. "If I was rude, I would have lied to you, Mr Holmes. I am investigating a crime in which your brother is the prime suspect, it is only natural I look into your family."
"Sherlock is innocent," he convicted, "You can put that in your paper."
"I will, if it is the truth-"
They were interrupted by the beginning of Hodge's speech. She watched as Mycroft took a deep, agitated breath and turned away.
The speech itself was boring, lots of patting himself on the back, she thought. What was not at all boring was Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty barging through the wall and declaring that a bomb was set to explode within the next thirty seconds. The reaction from the room was what one would imagine after such an announcement. People raced towards the door, clambering over one another. She, however, kept an eye on Sherlock and James, who were lingering behind, having come from the fireplace itself. Nothing could have prepared her for Mycroft Holmes grabbing her by the arm and dragging her outside himself.
The bomb went off as soon as she stepped foot outside, and Mycroft's arm was around her waist as he once again tugged her farther out into the sunlight. He rounded upon her.
"Are you mad?" he demanded rather loudly, "You could have gotten yourself blown up!"
"I was making sure your brother and his companion made it out!" she argued.
"No, I was making sure my brother made it out!" he pointed inwards at his chest. "You should have been trying to escape!"
"You care an awful lot about my safety for someone who thought I was so rude," she rolled her eyes.
"I- what? Well I do not want you maimed for being rude-"
"There he is," she pointed to Sherlock and James, who were only just now hobbling out of the burning building, "Your brother. He looks hurt." Mycroft's head turned so fast she was surprised he did not break his neck. "You go tend to him, I need to return to my employer. Do stop by for an interview, if you'd like, Mr Holmes."
She walked back into the newsroom covered in soot and sweat. Wallace gasped when he saw her. "Miss Prima!" his thick Scottish accent wrapped around his words, "What happened to you?"
"A bomb, Wallace," she laughed. "There was a fucking bomb at the gala."
He ran over to her, knocking over a large stack of papers. She laughed, "You fix those," she said, "I need to see Gilden. I'll tell you everything later. The pub, maybe?"
She related the entirety of the day to Mr Gilden, who listened intently.
"I'll tell you what, Prima," he sighed, "You go get yourself cleaned up, and I will get this gala story written."
"Very well, thank you sir," she smiled, giving a curtsy before taking her leave of his office.
She told Wallace the entirety of the story, down to Mycroft's lovely cheekbones, as they walked down to the pub. He listened intently, the good friend he was, as she detailed how vexing he was over their first round of drinks. The topic shifted, and soon Wallace had gotten up and started conversing with another man at the bar. She was quite content to sit with herself while he mingled until she saw the face of the man he was talking to. She scrambled out of her seat and approached them. Wallace's companion looked at her as she approached.
"You were at the gala," he grinned down at her as she stood between them.
"Wallace, this is our savior," she told her friend, "James Moriarty."
He gave a dramatic bow, "At your service, madame."
She laughed. "Where is your companion?"
James huffed, "Would you believe me if I told you he is being personally thanked for his service by Princess Shou'an?"
"Really?" she questioned, "You were not afforded the same sentiment?"
"I am but a lowly Irishman," James said with an exaggerated British accent.
The next few hours were spent in lively conversation. James told them about the bomb in the library and how they found it, and did not mind when she asked if she could write down the details in her notebook. He even walked with them as Wallace saw her back to the small room she had in Mr. Gilden's lodgings at the Journal. She had her own idea of what the two men were getting up to afterwards, but she said nothing on the subject.
She woke the next morning and went about her usual routine. She was reading over the gala article that Gilden had written in that day's paper when the doorbell rang, and a very panicked, flustered looking Mycroft Holmes stood in the doorway.
pairing: knight!bucky barnes x princess!reader (set in medieval times)
warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, forbidden relationship, yearning, oral sex (f rec), unprotected sex, creampie, possessiveness, lots of tension
summary: in a kingdom ruled by duty, you’re a princess promised to a prince you don’t love. sir james buchanan barnes is the knight sworn to protect you. but one touch turns into a secret affair, dangerous, all consuming and impossible to stop. and now, you’d risk everything just to be his.
word count: 2.6k
author's note: and i'm finally done with chapter 2, i can't tell you how many times i wrote and rewrote some parts of this chapter, because i genuinely want it to be perfect! i hope you guys will love it, thank you for stopping by! lots of love for you guys! <3
series masterlist
It was just after midnight as the corridors of the castle pulsed with quiet life, soft-footed guards paced their patrols beneath arched ceilings. A candle flickered behind a shuttered window in the library tower and somewhere deeper in the keep, a hound barked once before falling silent again.
And the rain, ever so persistent pattered against stone and slate, whispering secrets to the turrets, slipping through the ancient cracks like nature itself had a stake in the court’s treacherous games.
The air was thick with it, tension, grief, something unspoken and restless.
As if the gods themselves mourned something not yet lost.
But in your chambers, the world was still.
You stood at the tall glass windows of your quarters, your silhouette outlined in moonlight, arms folded across a thin silk shift. The hem kissed your thighs, dampened where it had stuck to your skin. The chill of the stone floor crept up through your bare feet and into your spine, but you didn’t move. Didn’t reach for a robe or call for warmth.
The cold sharpened your senses keeping you wide awake, raw, alive.
You watched the raindrops glide down the colored glass like tiny ghosts, racing each other to vanish at the sill. And behind your reflection, faint and superimposed in the glass, you could almost see him.
Bucky.
Four years ago, he’d been assigned to your personal guard, a former soldier, chosen precisely for his skill with a blade and his unwavering silence.
At first, he was a ghost in armour, present but unreachable, he never spoke more than necessary. Never lingered too long. But even then, even in those early days of practiced distance, you had felt the storm beneath his control.
He watched the court like a wolf watches a campfire—curious, calculating, always prepared to strike.
And when it came to you, he was worse. Or better. You couldn’t tell.
Wherever you walked, he followed, not just with his steps, but with those piercing cerulean eyes you’d quietly come to crave. Whenever other men dared to stare too long, he moved closer, ever silent and watchful. When your father’s advisers raised their voices in council, Bucky’s hand tightened around the hilt of his blade like a warning no one dared to ignore
When you’d once stumbled in a courtyard after your horse bucked, he was off his own before you hit the ground, arms wrapping around you with such speed it made you breathless.
And after that, something between you changed.
You began to feel it in the way his fingers sometimes lingered just a moment too long when helping you onto a carriage, as if memorizing the shape of your skin beneath his touch. In the heat that flared quietly in his gaze whenever your bodice dipped too low or your laughter carried too freely through the hallways.
He was never inappropriate. Never disloyal. But he watched you like a man drowning watches the sky, with a desperate awe, a fierce longing held tightly beneath a fragile veil of restraint.
It was a silent storm, fierce and unyielding, hidden behind the calm of his controlled exterior, a madness that whispered of things left unspoken and battles fought in shadows.
You should have ignored it. Should have folded that aching longing into the shadows like every other piece of yourself the crown demanded you to silence. Buried it deep where no one could find it, where it wouldn’t unravel you in the quiet moments between duty and expectation.
But you didn’t.
Instead, you let it pulse beneath your skin, stubborn and alive, a secret fire that refused to be smothered.
You found yourself standing too close when you spoke, the air between you shrinking without meaning to. Your fingers brushed his arm when he opened doors, a touch light as a whisper but charged with something unspoken. Your gaze lingered just a moment too long, stealing seconds that neither of you dared admit held weight.
And in response, the unyielding armor around him began to crack, slow fractures of vulnerability breaking through the walls he’d built so carefully.
Tiny fractures, barely visible to anyone else, but to you, they were as clear as daylight. In the tight clench of his jaw. In the way his eyes traced the shape of your mouth whenever you spoke.
And most of all, in that single, breathless moment in the garden just days ago, when he kissed you with the desperate fierceness of a man who thought it might be the last time you’d ever touch.
And now, with your betrothal publicly declared and your fate sealed with the cold hands of politics and power, that crack had become a chasm.
You pressed a hand to your chest, your fingers trembling. Your heartbeat thudded beneath your palm, loud in the stillness.
He was close. You felt it.
Like a tether drawn too tight. Like a shadow at the edge of firelight.
You hadn’t seen him since the king’s announcement at the banquet, hadn’t spoken to him, hadn’t dared, but your father’s words still echoed in your head:
“The alliance with House Hydra must be sealed by blood and marriage. The date is set. You will be a queen, and your duty must begin.”
A future traded for power, your heart for diplomacy, your body pledged to a man who looked at you as though you were a piece of meat for the taking, as though you were his to bend, wield and command.
And Bucky had been there. Across the hall. Standing behind your chair in full regalia, silent and still.
But his jaw remained clenched, a fortress of control. His shoulders tensed and coiled, like a bow pulled taut, ready to unleash. And his eyes, when you dared to meet them for the briefest moment smoldered with a fierce fire, as fierce and unyielding as the torches flanking the king’s throne.
You haven't slept since.
You didn’t want to.
Because sleep would bring dreams, and dreams would bring him, not as he was now, distant and restrained, but as he had been in the garden.
His hand on your cheek. His lips crushed against yours. The raw sound in his throat when you’d said his name like it meant salvation.
You hadn’t heard him enter tonight.
But you felt him before you saw him.
The air shifted, a pressure change, like a storm about to break. Your skin prickled. Your spine straightened. Your breath caught on instinct alone.
And then—
“Princess.”
The voice was low. Rough like worn leather. It rasped across the dark like a sin and a promise.
You turned sharply, your pulse hammering, but even before your eyes found him in the shadows near the stone archway, you knew.
You knew.
His hair was wet, rain still dripping from the ends, plastered to his forehead. His cloak clung to his shoulders, and the outline of his body beneath the damp leather was unmistakable—broad, strong, still humming with tension. Water trailed down his cheekbone in a silver ribbon, and his eyes were dark.
“Bucky,” you breathed, barely audible.
And in that moment, every night he had guarded your door, every battle he had fought at your side, every time his body had shielded yours from danger, it all came rushing back like a dam breaking.
He wasn’t just your protector.
He was the part of you that still felt like freedom.
He emerged from the shadows, dark as sin in black leathers, his damp hair clinging to the sharp planes of his face. The rain had soaked through his cloak, droplets gathering on his broad shoulders like scattered gems, but his gaze seemed to burn through you.
“You shouldn’t be here,” you whispered, though your voice lacked conviction. You took a step toward him like gravity itself demanded it.
“I know,” he said, voice hoarse. Broken. “But I couldn’t stay away.”
He looked like he’d walked through a storm just to reach you—and maybe he had. His knuckles were scraped raw, his eyes dark-ringed with sleepless nights, tension etched into every line of his brow. He looked feral, tired and somehow in all that still beautiful.
His gaze dropped, trailing over you—the way the silk shift clung damply to your skin, the curve of your thighs, the outline of your breasts beneath the sheer fabric. His jaw clenched.
“I needed to see you,” he murmured, stepping closer. “Needed to know you were still mine.”
Your breath caught, sharp and trembling.
“You can’t say things like that.”
“You want me to lie?” he asked, his voice rough, low, every syllable scraping against your ribs.
“No.” Your voice barely rose above the rain tapping the windows. “Never.”
“Then tell me to leave,” he said.
You couldn’t.
You wouldn’t.
Instead, you closed the last of the space between you. Your fingers brushing his. Electricity sparked, something inevitable and the dam cracked wide open. You slid your hand into his, and the world slipped away.
He kissed you like a man undone like someone who had held back too long and now burned beneath the weight of his own restraint. His hands tangled in your hair, twisting and anchoring you, while his mouth claimed yours with a fierce desperation that stole the very breath from your lungs.
You moaned into him as he walked you backward, his palms finding your hips, your ribs, the small of your back, greedy and fierce, like he couldn’t decide whether to worship you or break you.
The backs of your legs hit the bed and you let yourself fall, your body aching, wet and wanting. He followed, kneeling over you, tearing off his cloak and tossing it aside with a grunt.
“You have no idea,” he groaned against your lips, “what it’s been like. Watching you. Wanting you. Knowing I can’t touch you.”
“Then touch me now,” you gasped, pulling at the buckles of his tunic, your nails catching on damp leather.
A low, guttural sound escaped him, part breath, part whispered plea. He shed his armor with a fierce impatience, peeling it away piece by piece until only a thin shirt clung to his rain-soaked chest. His hands found your waist, pulling you close, while his mouth traced heated, open kisses along your throat.
“You’ve been thinking about this,” he murmured, voice dark silk against your ear. “Haven’t you?”
Your breath hitched.
“About me between your legs.”
“Yes,” you whispered, hips shifting toward him, “every night.”
He dropped to his knees, his hands trailing fire up your thighs. He pressed his face against your core through the silk and inhaled deeply, a broken, shaky sound rumbling from his chest.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “You smell like heaven.”
You arched, fingers tangling in his hair. He hiked up your nightgown and dragged it over your hips, baring you completely to his gaze.
“Mine,” he said again, voice like gravel, like thunder. “No one else will ever have this. No one else gets to taste you.”
He leaned in close, his breath warm against your skin before his tongue traced a slow, devastating line up your slit. Every flick and swirl was deliberate, teasing you with a precision that left you gasping, thighs trembling beneath his touch.
Your head fell back, lost in the tidal wave of sensation as he explored you relentlessly, tongue, lips, and fingers moving in perfect, unyielding harmony.
His hands gripped your thighs firmly, holding you wide open as if daring you to pull away, refusing to let you escape the delicious torment he was inflicting. Each slow lick, every teasing flick of his tongue ignited sparks under your skin, stripping you down to nothing but a desperate, aching need—need only he could quench.
“Oh, gods, Bucky,” you moaned, your voice cracking as your hips bucked against his mouth.
He groaned into you, the vibration sending shocks through your body. He flicked his tongue over your clit, fast and precise, before sucking it into his mouth, lips tight, tongue relentless. You cried out, legs shaking as pleasure built fast and hot in your belly.
Your first orgasm hit like a wave crashing through you, blinding and all-consuming. You sobbed his name, one hand fisting in the sheets, the other still tangled in his wet hair as he licked you through it, groaning like he was addicted to your taste.
When you finally collapsed back against the bed, limp and shaking, he rose over you. His mouth was slick with your pleasure, his eyes dark with a hunger that hadn’t lessened in the slightest.
“I could die like this,” he murmured, brushing your cheek with the back of his hand. “With you beneath me.”
“Then take me,” you whispered, eyes blown wide with lust, “Make me yours.”
He stood, kicked off the last of his clothes, and your breath hitched again.
He was stunning. Hard and heavy, flushed and leaking, his cock resting thick against his thigh. Your thighs fell open instinctively, aching to feel him inside you. He crawled onto the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight, and hovered over you. Your foreheads touched, Bucky’s hand cradling your cheek.
“Last chance,” he said, voice ragged. “Tell me no.”
You reached down between you and wrapped your hand around him. He hissed through his teeth, hips twitching forward.
“Please,” you whispered, gaze locked on his. “I want you. I want all of you.”
That was all it took.
He surged forward, thrusting into you in one long, brutal stroke that stole the air from your lungs. You cried out, body arching, nails clawing at his back as he filled you completely.
“Fuck—” he groaned into your neck. “So tight. So fucking perfect.”
He set a rhythm, hard and deep, each thrust knocking the breath from your lungs. You met him with every stroke, your bodies crashing together like waves on stone.
His mouth found your throat, your shoulder, your lips, biting, sucking, tasting. His hand slipped between you, fingers circling your clit again, drawing you back to the edge with ruthless precision.
“Say it,” he growled, teeth grazing your ear. “Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” you moaned. “I’ve always been yours.”
He kissed you hard, desperate, groaning against your lips as your second climax ripped through you, tighter and hotter than the first. Your whole body shook as you broke beneath him, crying out, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes.
He didn’t stop.
He chased his own end with ragged, punishing thrusts, hips slamming into yours until he buried himself deep and came with a guttural growl, shuddering as he spilled inside you.
You lay tangled together, your legs still wrapped around him, his face buried in your neck. Both of you shaking. Slick with sweat. Full of something far more dangerous than lust.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” he murmured against your skin. “But gods help me, I don’t regret it.”
“Neither do I,” you whispered.
You stroked his hair, letting the silence wrap around you. The rain kept falling, soft and steady. Your fingers curled around his nape. You might have drifted into sleep, wrapped in the haze of your shared sin.
But then—
Three sharp knocks.
Your blood froze.
Bucky was on his feet in an instant, grabbing for his cloak and belt, his breath still ragged. You hurriedly pulled your nightgown down, smoothing the fabric over your skin as fast as you could, your heart pounding wildly in your chest.
“My lady,” came a voice through the door.
Familiar.
Cold.
Prince Rumlow.
“Open the door.”
Bucky turned toward the window, half-dressed, his jaw clenched.
You steadied your breath, walked to the door, and cracked it just enough to block the view behind you.
“I’m sorry, your highness, I fell asleep,” you said smoothly, masking the panic in your chest.
He scanned you carefully, you were disheveled, flushed, hair damp with sweat and his smile twisted with sharp malice.
“You reek of sin,” he said.
You met his gaze, defiant. “Do not think I am blind, princess,” he sneered. “I’ve seen the way Barnes looks at you. If I find proof, any proof—I will have him burned alive for treason.”
You stared back, expression blank.
But inside, you were enraged.
Let him try.
He had no idea what it meant to threaten what was yours.
a/n: i hope that you enjoyed this chapter, i am partially done with chapter 3 and i am so excited oh my gosh i can't wait for you guys to read it! love ya and stay safe out there my loves!
pairing: knight!bucky barnes x princess!reader (set in medieval times)
warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, forbidden relationship, lots of tension, loads of pining
summary: in a kingdom ruled by duty, you’re a princess promised to a prince you don’t love. sir james buchanan barnes is the knight sworn to protect you. but one touch turns into a secret affair, dangerous, all consuming and impossible to stop. and now, you’d risk everything just to be his.
word count: 2.5k
a/n: yay! chapter 1 is finally here! i genuinely hope it doesn't flop on me! thank you so, so much for reading my loves and please leave a comment and reblog if you enjoyed it, i would really appreciate it! love ya and stay safe darlings!
series masterlist
The castle has never felt so cold. Tall arched ceilings echoed every whisper of conversation and footsteps, the marble floors that royalty generations before you had walked on were polished to a mirror’s shine beneath the flickering chandeliers.
Golden sconces lined the stone walls, casting pale light over the crimson tapestries and ornate banners bearing the crest of your house in silver, bold and unbending. Servants moved quietly through the corridors, heads bowed, eyes averted, as if the walls watched and guards stood stoically at every turn, their armour gleaming in the light like polished bone.
But none of it felt like home, at least not anymore. You sat stiffly in the great hall, hands clenched tightly in your lap, the silk of your gown whispering with every breath you took, you were dressed like a bride already—draped in ivory and gold, dressed to the nines, every day of your life, since you were born.
Your hair, coiled into elegant twists by your handmaidens, your throat encircled by a delicate sapphire necklace, gifted by your grandmother to you, that seemed to feel more like a shackle than a gift.
Though you were the only princess ever born to the king and queen, hailed as the light of the realm on the day you were first presented to the people of your kingdom, you never truly felt that way. You hardly saw beyond the gilded, golden bars of your palace prison, never saw what life truly had to offer besides the one you were born into. Adored, perhaps, but always constrained.
Sometimes, you envied the townspeople in their simple lives, free to choose, to love, to marry whoever they wished, to breathe without permission.
Across the length, your father, the king stood proudly beside the visiting envoy, the herald of the man she would marry. The great prince of House Hydra who had not even bothered to come himself, sending nothing but his regards.
The man who would inherit your hand, your title, your body, the man who would rule over you, the man you were expected to serve. He was chosen not for love or even friendship, but for land, allegiance and gold.
A political transaction.
That was all you had become, raised, fed and taught to become nothing but a bargaining chip, a living seal on a loyal contract. Your heart thuds with rage as you remember how swift the announcement was.
There was no warning or private conversation with your father, none of that, simply a scroll, read aloud by his majesty at the high table, his voice ringing off the walls with pride.
“The princess (y/n) (l/n) shall be wed to Prince Rumlow of House Hydra, a noble union which will ensure peace and prosperity across all kingdoms”.
Peace, prosperity, what of yours?
Completely disregarded.
You blinked slowly, swallowing hard against the tightness in your throat, your mother had said absolutely nothing, shooting you a glance that urged you to accept the decree, to do your duty as princess.
You didn’t blame her, you couldn’t, she too had wed your father under the very same circumstances. She had simply bowed her head as the court erupted in polite applause and some of the duchesses congratulating you as if being offered to some man on a platter was an occasion to be celebrated.
“Are you well, Princess?” The voice came low beside you, gravel-smooth and unmistakably his, you turned your head, already knowing who stood at your shoulder.
Sir James Barnes, Bucky, your sworn knight, your silent shadow stood just behind you, ever watchful. He was a towering figure of black leather and polished silver plate, his broad shoulders framed by the dark cloak clasped at his collar.
The hilt of his sword gleamed with deadly promise at his hip, well-worn from use, the etching of the royal sigil barely disguising the notches of war along its edge. He looked carved from steel and smoke, unyielding, stoic and impossible to ignore.
His hair was slicked back from his face, his features sharp and angular, a soldier’s face, honed by battle and shadowed by the weight of things unsaid.
A strong jaw dusted with the beginnings of a beard, cheekbones carved you suspected were carved by Aphrodite herself, high and severe, and a mouth that almost never smiled, but when it did, gods help you.
But it was Bucky’s eyes that captured you most, steel blue, clear and cold and somehow endlessly deep, they never left your face, not in four years, not since the day he was assigned your guard, plucked from the battlefields of the border wars, his name carried by whispers of brutality and brilliance.
They had said he was ruthless, relentless, a weapon barely unleashed. And yet when he looked at you, there was a softness, fire, a hunger so carefully buried, it almost felt like a secret you were never meant to witness.
Bucky had bowed before you in the great hall that day, kneeling in tarnished armour, blood of the kingdom’s enemies still drying on his gauntlets as he swore his oath before the court. He was to guard the kingdom’s most prized possession, to protect the crown’s only heir.
You remembered how his eyes had narrowed when you snapped at him for following you a tad too closely, the way he hadn’t apologised when you ordered him to leave your chambers when you were dressed in nothing but one of your sheer nightgowns, he only lowered his gaze respectfully, jaw tight and unmoved.
Overtime, however, something shifted, a grudging understanding, then a fragile trust and now, perhaps something else.
“I’m not well” you replied softly, eyes scanning the court for any nosy handmaiden, “but i’m surviving”.
Bucky’s jaw clenched, his gloved hands flexing at his side. “If you gave the word-”
You looked up at him sharply, “what?”
“If you told me to,” he said, voice low, so only you could hear, “I’d help you escape all of this”.
Your breath caught, he had meant it, every word. There was no jest in his tone, no playful smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, Bucky's gaze held yours with unshakable intensity, carved from iron and shadow and in it, something deeper stirred. Not just the rigid armour of loyalty he wore so well, but a burning heat beneath it, a quiet consuming ache.
It pulsed in the space between the both of you, the kind of yearning that cannot be named, only felt, it was ancient, wild and utterly ruinous. It had stretched between the both of you for months, like a bowstring drawn too tight, trembling with restraint, begging to snap. It was the lingering glances across the room, the brush of your fingers against his that should have been accidental but never were.
You and Bucky had never crossed the line between knight and princess—not truly that is. But you had danced along its edge, toeing it in the shadows where nobody could see, a breath too close, a touch held too long, words unsaid, heavy with meaning.
All of this taut and forbidden.
“I can’t” you whispered, “you know I can’t”.
“You already do” Bucky replies.
“Not the way I want to”.
The confession crashed over you like a wave, sending your pulse skyrocketing, you turned your face forward again, willing yourself to stay still, to hide the tremble in your hands.
Not the way I want to.
You lost count of the nights you spent, laying awake, staring at your ceiling, thinking of the rough timbre of his voice, of the stolen glances you had both shared across the council chambers, his training yards and moonlit corridors.
The nights you had spent imagining pressing your lips to his, tasting the fire you saw behind those cerulean blues, that barely showed any emotion, except when it comes to you.
Too many.
Bucky was your knight, sworn by blood and steel, bound by an oath beneath the banners of war. You were the crown princess, first of your name, heir to a throne gilded in tradition and chained by countless expectations, rules.
The space between you and him was carved by laws, wide, deep and merciless, it was a chasm filled with duty, danger and the ever-looming spectre of consequence.
To betray that sacred divide meant death, not just for Bucky but for anyone who dared conspire with him, after all, the crown does not forgive disobedience. It punished treason with fire and blade, seen when your father made examples of lesser men for far smaller sins.
And Bucky was no ordinary man, he was a symbol, the battle-worn soldier pulled from blood soaked soil, knighted before a crowd of nobles. He is the kingdom’s quiet weapon.
And yet, your heart raced everytime he looked at you like that.
Not like a knight beholding his charge, but a man staring down temptation. Like he knew exactly how soft your skin would feel under his calloused hands, like he had memorised the shape of your mouth when you whispered his name in the dark.
Like he was always mere seconds away from shattering every vow he had ever sworn.
“Come” you said softly, standing, the heavy chair behind you scraping lightly against the marble, “I wish to walk the gardens”.
Bucky nodded silently, and fell in step behind you as you swept out of the hall, your chin high, posture regal, but you knew, beneath all of that, you were shaking.
The castle gardens were quiet this time of the night, cloaked in moonlight and the hum of crickets. Roses bloomed in wild tangles along the stone pathways, their scent thick in the cool air. Lanterns flickered gently in the breeze, casting golden shadows over the hedges and statues.
You walked until you were far from the windows, far from the eyes of the court. Bucky followed without question, ever the silent sentinel. When you finally stopped, it was beneath the wide, open branches of the weeping willow, the one your mother whom you recall used to read to you under it, now it had become the one place you always came when the walls of the castle felt too tight.
“Do you think I am weak?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper.
“What?”
“For accepting this, for just bowing my head and smiling through my own damnation” you say, a bitter ache swelling in your chest, shame twisting with helpless fury as the words slipped from your lips like a confession. Your voice trembled, not with weakness, but with the weight of a thousand silenced protests, all the defiance you had swallowed in the name of duty.
Bucky stepped closer, like a storm barely held at bay, broad shoulders tense, his cerulean irises burning with a fury reserved only for those he could not protect. “You aren’t, there is no weakness in survival Princess, there is no shame in doing what you must”.
“I feel like I am being sold,” you said, breath catching, “packaged like meat to some man who I have never met”.
Bucky’s jaw tensed. “You’re not his. You’re not anyone’s.”
But mine, he almost said. The words burned on his tongue, scorching with truth, but he swallowed them down. He couldn’t risk it. Not when both your lives hung in the balance.
You stepped closer, voice soft but steady. “No,” you whispered. “But I wish I were yours.”
The words escaped your lips before you could even stop them, your heart pounded like a drum against your ribs, defying reason, downing out duty. Bucky’s chest hitched, chest rising as if he had been struck, the raw hunger in his eyes, sharpening, no longer hidden, no longer restrained.
“You don’t mean that,” Bucky replied tightly, his voice strained, torn between hope and torment, almost as if your words had cracked something open in him that he had fought too long to bury.
“I do” you whispered, “I’ve meant it for months James”. you replied softly, his name lingering on your lips.
Bucky’s hand rose, hesitated in the air, then slow and gentle, he touched your face, callused fingers grazing your cheek. His thumb traces the curve of your cheekbone with aching tenderness, as though you were something sacred he would only ever dare to worship from afar. The fire in his eyes flickered with conflict, a desire that warred with discipline and love for you that was tempered by fear.
“I’ve known it since the night you carried me from the fire in the east wing, since you bled for me, since you stayed by my side”. you said, leaning in, your lips just a breath from Bucky’s.
His breath shook, “if I kiss you, I won’t stop”,
Your eyes searched his, “then don’t”.
His lips crashed against yours, all hunger and desperate, breathless need, it was far from gentle, it wasn’t careful, it was the unraveling of restraint, the collapse of every unspoken word between them.
His hands framed your face, thumbs trembling against your cheeks, you could feel the cold press of his armour against your chest but it did nothing to dull the searing heat radiating from his body—from his mouth, his touch, the way he kissed you, like he had been starved. The raw ache behind every movement sang through your body, full of all the things you and Bucky were never allowed to utter.
But before the kiss could deepen, the sound of footsteps echoed across the path.
“Your Highness?”
You and Bucky broke apart instantly, breath heaving, eyes wide.
Your handmaiden, Yelena, rounded the hedge, “The King requests your presence in the throne room immediately Princess”.
You straightened, your heart thudding, face burning. “Very well, thank you Yelena”.
“I am sorry Princess, I know this alliance is not what you wish for” she replied softly, her gaze moving towards Bucky, she knew, she always knew of your feelings for your knight. You offered her a tight smile, the ache behind your ribs sharpening, “nor is it what I would choose,” you murmured, eyes flickering towards Bucky just once, your voice low but steady, “but I was never offered choices was I?”
Yelena’s expression softened with quiet understanding, but she said nothing more, she didn’t need to.
Bucky’s gaze changed, it was something darker, protective, possessive.
“Whatever it is, you won’t face it alone” he says.
You nod, turn and walk with him at your side, your fingers still tingling from his touch.
The throne room was filled with lords and ladies, their fine jewels glittering under the light, your father stood before them, hands raised for silence.
“The date is set” he announced, voice booming across the chamber, “my precious daughter, the crown princess shall be wed to Prince Rumlow in three weeks time, all preparations shall begin at once”.
A round of applause filled the hall and your stomach dropped like a stone.
You turned just enough to catch Bucky’s expression where he stood in the shadow of a column, his jaw was locked, his cerulean eyes were dark, like storm clouds threatening rain. His hands were clenched into fists at his side, as if he was restraining himself from crossing the space between them. There was a storm brewing behind those eyes, not just fury, but anguish.
He looked like a man ready to go to war.
a/n: and that's chapter 1! gosh i hope you loved it, please leave a comment or reblog this if you did, it would mean the world to me!
This is Chapter 03 of the Faithfully Yours series.
The above image does not indicate the reader’s physical appearance.
Summary: Your journey continues, though multiple unexpected hindrances force you and Sir Barnes to keep changing course. After one of you finds yourself in trouble, an intimate moment is shared.
Word Count: 5800-ish
Warning(s): historical royal AU. forbidden love (princess x knight/royal guard). slowburn. fake marriage. talks of war and occupation. profanities. degrading nicknames. threats of bodily harm. physical assault. violence. blood and injury. possibly an incorrect medical procedure for treating a wound.
Hi lovelies! Here's the third chapter of Faithfully Yours, as promised xx Idk why I'm not feeling this one as I did the first two chapters, but I've done my best and this is exactly where I always intended the story to go, sooo oh well. Please comment, like, and reblog to support, thank youu!
The entire town of Maltea is brimming with shops and street stalls. A vibrant maze of wooden stands and makeshift carts line either side of the town’s main road, where merchants call out their wares in competing voices, their cries mingling with the chatter of townsfolk haggling over dyed linen, fresh produce, and trinkets of silver and brass.
You ride slowly through the mass of people, evading children as they dart between stalls, their hands sticky with honeyed pastries. Behind you, Sir Barnes follows. Although you cannot see him from your position at the lead, the weight of his stare swelters on the back of your neck, his vigilant eyes ensuring your safety at every moment in time. It takes a substantial amount of strength for you to ignore his intimidating presence, especially considering what has transpired between the two of you this morning.
This morning.
After you finished breakfast, you left the room in search of Sir Barnes, telling him to have his meal while you went to explore the vicinity of the inn. When you returned from your morning stroll, Sir Barnes was waiting for you at the inn’s entrance, your belongings all packed and secured to the saddles, ready for the road.
There has not been a single utterance about the incident.
As you now traverse through the streets of Maltea, you figure out that it’s for the best. The journey ahead of you is long, possibly even more demanding than what you have endured thus far. The last thing you need is to tarnish the air with unnecessary tension. Some things are better left unsaid, and you are more than happy to let this particular one fester without ever seeing the light of day.
Tugging on the reins, you slow Sparrow to a stop when you spot a jewelry shop on the side of the road. Sir Barnes dismounts and takes Sparrow from your hand, securing both horses as you tell him, “I will be right back.”
The metallic smell of brass welcomes you as soon as you walk into the shop. An elderly man rises to his feet upon your entrance, smiling in greetings although it ends up looking more like a sneer.
“Welcome, My Lady! How may I help you today? Are you looking for anything in particular? I have a necklace that will suit you just fine. Or do you prefer something for your hair? A brooch, perhaps?”
The man’s eagerness tugs a smile in the corner of your lips. Approaching closer, you drop the pouch of jewelry on the counter where it lands with a soft thud, eliciting a curious arch of the man’s eyebrow.
“Actually, I was looking to sell these.”
Skepticism flickers across the shopkeeper’s face as he pulls the pouch closer. With methodical hands, he loosens the strings and empties its content onto the counter. A cascade of glinting gold and precious stones spills forth, each piece a relic of the life you left behind.
“I will need to inspect everything first,” the man says, already reaching for a magnifying glass.
“You are welcome to.”
You wait in silence as he studies each piece, tilting them towards the light, scrutinizing the cut of every gem and the craftsmanship of every clasp. Eventually, he puts the magnifying glass down, finding your expectant gaze as he informs, “I will give you fifty gold for everything.”
Your stomach folds. “Fifty?”
Your gaze sweeps over the array of jewelry spread across the counter. These pieces are not mere trinkets; they are echoes of your past, tokens that once held whispers of love, legacy, and home. Parting with them is already an ache deep within your ribs, but to have their worth so carelessly reduced to a sum that barely scratches their value makes something inside you twist and splinter.
“Are you certain you cannot offer a higher price?” you ask. “I assure you, these jewels are worth a lot more than what you suggest. Each piece is one of a kind.”
The man shrugs, his expression indifferent. “Take it or leave it.”
“Please, Sir—”
“It’s fifty gold. No more, no less.”
“Sir, if you would only—”
“If you do not like the price, you may take your business elsewhere.” The shopkeeper scoops all of the jewelry back into the pouch and shoves it into your hands. He waves a dismissive palm, his gesture coarse and final. “Out with you, then! Get on, Lady, out!”
“But, Sir—”
“Is everything alright?”
The sudden voice startles you. Turning around, you lock eyes with Sir Barnes, his gaze flicking back and forth between you and the shopkeeper, face darkening as he takes in the situation.
“Who the hell are you?” the shopkeeper snaps.
Sir Barnes steps forward, positioning himself as a shield between you and the angry merchant. “I’m her husband.”
Your heart stumbles. For the briefest of moments, his choice of words have caught you off guard, until you remember that he is only maintaining the charade that you both have promised to uphold for the remainder of this journey.
“Is there a problem here, my love?”
The words roll from his tongue so effortlessly, yet he barely casts you a glance as he utters them. Heat coils within your chest. You wonder how often he gets the chance to use the term of endearment for it to have fallen from his lips as easily as breathing. Your heart craves to hear it again, to have him call you with no other name but my love for as long as time should allow.
Clearing your throat, you summon your composure, willing your voice to steady before answering, “Everything is alright. I was just asking the kind gentleman if he might consider his offer for the jewelry.”
“And I have told you, I shall give you fifty or nothing at all!” the shopkeeper screeches.
Before you can muster a response, Sir Barnes takes the pouch of jewelry from your grasp, and approaches the old man with slow, deliberate strides. The wooden floor creaks beneath the weight of his steps, each footfall measured and resounding. The shopkeeper—older, shorter, and frailer—instinctively shrinks back as your knight looms before him, the broad expanse of his shoulders casting an imposing shadow across the counter.
“Everything in this pouch is worth no less than three-hundred gold,” Sir Barnes says, his voice a quiet rumble through the room. “Offering us a mere fifty is beyond insult. It is theft. Surely, you do not mean to cheat us, do you?”
The shopkeeper swallows hard, his fingers twitching atop the counter. His gaze flickers between the pouch and Sir Barnes’ face, confidence crumbling beneath the weight of your guard’s presence. “I will pay one-hundred for everything.”
“Two-hundred,” Sir Barnes counters.
“One-hundred fifty.”
“Did you fail to hear me? I said two-hundred.”
“One-eighty,” the man sputters. “It’s my final offer. I cannot go higher.”
Sir Barnes turns to you, the faintest hint of amusement curving at the corner of his lips. “Very well. You have a deal.”
The shopkeeper collects the pouch with a tremble in his fingers, storing the jewelry safely inside a worn wooden chest. He refills the pouch with gold coins before returning it to Sir Barnes who proceeds to quietly count the sum.
“Are you folks just passing through?” the old man suddenly asks, his voice still fraying with remnants of fright.
“We are,” you respond. “We plan to journey west towards the Kingdom of Asgard.”
The shopkeeper frowns. “You are heading for Asgard? Are you certain?”
The shopkeeper’s brows knit together, his fingers hovering hesitantly in front of him. Sir Barnes stiffens at his position by the counter, sensing the shift in the air as acutely as you do.
“Yes,” you say carefully, your heart quickening. “Is there a reason we should not be?”
The man exhales sharply, shaking his head as if struggling to find the right words to say. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, edged with something that sounds eerily similar to sorrow.
“My Lady…” His gaze flickers between you and Sir Barnes, hesitant and unsure. “Have you not heard? Asgard has fallen.”
The words hit like a strike of iron against stone.
You blink, convinced that your ears must have played a trick on you somehow.
“What?” The question barely makes it past your lips.
The shopkeeper leans in, dropping his voice into a low murmur. “The Titan Empire has seized it. Emperor Thanos has taken Asgard, just as he did Sokovia. And just last week, he conquered a kingdom in the north.”
The blood in your veins turns to ice. The kingdom in the north—your kingdom.
Sir Barnes is the first to react. “When?” His voice is grave, heavy, but the simmer of tension beneath is not entirely lost on you.
“We received word about Asgard a fortnight past. When our routine shipment of medicines from Sokovia failed to arrive, we knew that the land had suffered the same fate,” the shopkeeper replies. “The Titan banners now hang over the castle in the northern kingdom.”
A chill runs down your spine, cold and merciless. You know your kingdom has fallen. You saw it burn, heard the cries of your people swallowed by the night. But to learn that Asgard has suffered the same fate—your sole chance of salvation now lost to the flames—makes your stomach churn in dread.
You and Sir Barnes leave the jewelry shop in grim silence. For the first time in days, you are unsure of what the next course of action should be. Asgard was the plan, your only hope of survival, and now when that path is no longer available for you to traverse, you do not have the slightest clue on how to move forward.
Sir Barnes helps you mount Sparrow, the quietness stretching as the two of you cruise the length of Maltea’s main road.
“We can continue heading south,” he propounds.
You spare him a glance, exhaustion suddenly wearing down your bones. “Where, Barnes? We need a destination. We cannot possibly spend the rest of our lives on the run.”
Your mind spins under the heat of the sun, the noises of the city scrambling your head into mush. You attempt to rummage your brain for a solution, a place where you and Sir Barnes can seek support and asylum. But in these dire times, uncertainty is your greatest enemy, and without knowing which nations are friend or foe, every potential decision threatens to push your life at stake.
A squealing child runs past, your body staggering as you swerve Sparrow out of the impending crash.
The movement nearly jerks you off your horse, but before you can fall to the ground, Sir Barnes is at your side. His strong hand encircles your waist, offering a formidable support as he repositions you atop the saddle.
“We should take a rest, Your Highness,” Sir Barnes suggests. Your mouth parts in the beginning of a refusal, but he cuts you off with a singular, urgent word, “Please.”
You allow him to lead you towards a more deserted part of the path, making sure that the large tree would provide the two of you with ample shade. He fastens the reins of both horses to a branch once you dismount, handing you a jug of water as you sit down against the tree trunk.
Closing your eyes, you welcome the bustling symphony of Maltea to wash over your being. Somewhere in the distance, a butcher’s cleaver thuds rhythmically against his worn wooden block. A bard strums his lute near the town square, his melody nearly swallowed by the clamor of bartering and the distant clang of a blacksmith’s hammer forging steel into shape. Each thread of sounds dulls the chaos floundering in your head, a brief respite from the trepidation eating at your bones.
Above the low rumble of the town, Sir Barnes’ voice emits, “There is a land across the Southern Sea, people call it La Sarvas City. They claim it is a safe haven for people who have nowhere else to turn to.”
“La Sarvas City?” Your head lifts. “I thought that place was a myth.”
“Most believe it is, but myths are not born without at least a fraction of truth,” Sir Barnes proclaims. “We can travel south, find people who are willing to guide us there. Someone is bound to know the way, ones who have tread the path we have yet to walk.”
“And if we do not find it?” Your voice quivers. “If it is nothing more than a fable whispered to comfort the lost, what happens then?”
“Then we will find another path.”
A wry sigh falls from your lips, and from the low droop of your shoulders, Sir Barnes knows you are not yet assured.
“Your Highness.” His voice is gentle, placating.
Sir Barnes takes several calculated strides forward, stepping over a protruding root on the ground before stooping down on one knee, right next to where you are sitting. His eyes shine with invincible conviction as he declares, “Even if La Sarvas is nothing more than a tale whispered in the wind, I will find a way, no matter where fate leads us. I will see to it that you are safe, that you have what you need.” He exhales, his gaze lingering. “I will take care of you with everything I have. We can build a new life together, you and I.”
Your breath catches.
You and I.
The words settle deep within your bones, threading through the cracks left by loss and grief. Something about the way Sir Barnes made that utterance—the weight of his voice, the quiet determination—compels your blood to simmer through your veins. He speaks as if he has already made the choice for himself, as if no force in the world could sway him otherwise.
The space between you feels impossibly small, every ticking moment a disruption to the fragile balance of your bond, something that does not necessarily fit in the hierarchical relation between a princess and her subject. Sir Barnes swallows, his fingers flexing at his sides as if holding back the urge to reach forward—to reach for you. The proximity alone is enough to sear your skin.
But then, before you can muster a response, something flutters across Sir Barnes’ face. He straightens back almost imperceptibly, as if rolling away from the edge of a precipice, and murmurs, “After all, I must uphold the vow I made to your brother.”
The moment splinters.
You bite your lip in an attempt to hide the disappointment that is gnawing at your throat. In front of you, Sir Barnes rises to his feet, darting towards the horses as though it burns him to be in your immediate vicinity. His earlier declaration echoes in your mind, stubborn and loud, forcing you to wonder if any of his words held any extent of sincerity.
For the following days, you and Sir Barnes continue to travel south. The coins you earned from selling your jewelry are stowed safely inside the pouch attached to your kirtle. So far, they have been more than enough to sustain you both—securing warm meals, lodging for two at each night’s rest, and new kirtles laced at the front rather than the back.
As you now depart from yet another stop at a small village in the middle of nowhere, you brace yourself for the journey ahead. With each clatter of hooves, the village begins to shrink out of view, giving way to enormous trees and dirt roads that seemingly stretch for miles. If your estimations prove true, the two of you should reach the Southern Coast in no more than two fortnights. There, you will be able to secure passage across the Southern Sea, where the voyage will hopefully carry you to the enigmatic city of La Sarvas.
The surrounding woods grow denser with each perch you travel, the scent of damp earth thickening in the air. As the sun glides further west, the clouds overhead slowly darken in shade, unfurling a sheet of gray over the delicate streaks of sunlight.
“Barnes, wait.” You pull at the reins to slow Sparrow down to a halt, feeling an urgent discomfort pressing at your lower belly. The jug of water you downed earlier seemingly has found its way through your system far too quickly. “I need to excuse myself for a moment.”
Sir Barnes scans your entire surroundings. “You must not stray too far. I’ll be right here.”
You weave through the thick cover of underbush until you are out of sight, the forest humming with distant chirps of unseen creatures. You manage to finish your business in a timely manner, turning around to retrace the path that will reunite you once again with Sir Barnes.
But before you can take another step, something shifts.
A breeze stirs the branches overhead, yet the rustling you hear is different. It is deliberate, too heavy to be mistaken as a wild hare, taking shape in the form of an unknown presence lurking just beyond the trees. Your pulse kicks up, breath hitching as your fingers curl instinctively at your sides. The silence that follows is deafening, an unnatural hush settling over the forest as if the very earth under your feet is withholding its breath.
The realization crashes into you like the first plunge into freezing water—you are not alone.
Before you can react, a rough hand clamps over your mouth.
“Not a sound, whore,” he snarls.
Between the strange man’s obscene choice of words and the stench coming off his body, you cannot decide which one makes you recoil the most. You struggle against the hand across your rib cage, attempting to escape his hold, but the man only presses harder until your lungs constrict around a choked breath.
“I said, quiet,” he hisses. “If you still want to live, hand over your coin and jewels. Now.”
Your pulse thrums in dread. With a tremoring rate, your hand glides downward, reaching for the pouch dangling at your hip. The man’s breath is hot against your cheek, smelling of cheap ale and something acrid. You shut your eyes in repulsion as your fingers finally grab ahold of the pouch, reaching for the bundles of coins inside.
You went through a great sacrifice to acquire these coins.
With such a thought in mind, you release your fingers from the pouch and summon every last bit of strength flowing in your bones, thrashing and twisting your body with frantic desperation. His hold loosens just enough for you to drive an elbow into his ribs. A startled grunt escapes him, and in that fleeting moment of freedom, you throw yourself forward, stumbling out of his reach.
“Help! Help me! Barnes!” you cry, your voice ringing through the trees, raw with fear and urgency. “James, help!”
You do not get a chance to go far, barely dashing two paces forth before the man grabs you back into his arms, this time with a force that gives you no room for escape. Before your eyes, the rustling of trees soon give way to despairing footsteps, and relief instantly falls from your lips once Sir Barnes emerges from the thick cover of trees, his toned chest heaving as his fingers curl around the handle of his sword.
However, your relief proves to be short-lived when you feel it—the press of a blade digging against your side.
“Do not come closer,” the man behind you warns, piercing the dagger deeper until you feel the fabric of your kirtle surrender underneath. “You take a step closer, and I will plunge this blade straight into her.”
The line on Sir Barnes’ forehead tenses, his eyes darkening. “You are making a grave mistake. Let her go, or I’ll—”
“You’ll what? Skewer me?” The man laughs. “Not unless you want her to bleed first.”
Sir Barnes’ entire form trembles with fury, his grip flexing around the hilt of his sword. “If you harm her, I promise you—you won’t leave these woods alive.”
Your guard takes a step forward, but the bandit jerks you tighter against him, forcing the blade deeper until you can feel its prickly edge cutting your skin. You visibly wince, making Sir Barnes halt instantly in place.
Your pulse drums wildly in your ears, drowning out the hum of the other noises in the forest. The air is thick, stifling, every second stretching sickeningly as the steel at your waist presses closer. You catch the flicker of something dark in Sir Barnes' eyes—rage, fear, or something else entirely. The tension in his shoulders coil like a predator ready to strike. But he does not move, his body refusing to leap forth for a reckless attack that could potentially put your life at risk.
And in that moment, you decide that you have had enough.
With a muffled groan, you grapple inside the man’s rough arms, flailing your limbs around and hitting his body wherever you can reach. The bandit refuses to let you go just as easily and retaliate with the same ferocity. You can feel his nails digging into your skin, his arms pressing vigorously as if he will break every inch of bones in your body. Summoning a guttural scream, you channel all of your strength forward, wrenching yourself free at last.
In all of the mayhem and confusion, your pouch of coins drops to the ground.
Your heart is hammering wildly as you stumble forward, sucking in a deep breath. Sir Barnes is at your side in the blink of an eye, catching your frame before your face can plummet against the earth. You watch as the bandit swipes the coin pouch and runs, his figure immediately disappearing into the dense cover of the forest.
“What the hell are you doing?” Sir Barnes asks when you start wriggling in his arms, tightening his hold until you are unable to slip free.
Although his harshness is startling, you brush it off and exclaim, “He has the coins, Barnes! We cannot let him get away. We have to catch him!”
“No, we do not. Princess, listen to me. Hey!” Suddenly, Sir Barnes turns you in his arms, grasping your shoulders and forcing you to look into his eyes. “By the blood of Christ, will you stop?!”
The air halts in your throat. In all of the years you have known him, never—not even once—has Sir Barnes spoken to you in such a way, with such a crass choice of words. Your mind hurls, stunned by the sheer force of his voice, your face contorting in irritation. You are a breath away from demanding an explanation for his behavior when something stops you in your tracks.
His face.
Gone is the stoic, strapping knight you have come to rely on. In his place stands a man with a composure completely shattered, replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated terror. His lips part ever so slightly, as if to speak, to utter something, but no sound ever seems to come through.
When he finally does find his voice, it shudders, raw and helpless.
“You’re bleeding.”
The words barely make sense at first.
Bleeding? No, that cannot be right. The bandit’s dagger barely even touched you. How can you be bleeding?
Then, you feel it.
A slow, creeping warmth that spreads across your ribs, seeping into the fabric of your dress. A dull ache pulses beneath your skin, growing sharper by each inhale of breath, as if your body is only now registering that it has been wounded. When you lower your gaze, your kirtle—once an unremarkable, muted gray—is darkening. The stain spreads outward in uneven tendrils, a deep, menacing red blooming against the cloth like ink spilled upon parchment.
Oh.
The realization looms over your head in an intolerable weight, and the pain—by Gods, the pain—strikes you all at once. It claws on your side like a tiger mauling its prey, heinous and unforgiving, pumping the air right out of your lungs. A fog of haze descends upon your brain, shrouding your vision and clarity, dulling the other senses until the only thing your body is able to feel is agony.
Underneath you, your knees buckle, forcing you to desperately clutch at Sir Barnes’ shirt to remain standing. His arms are around you in an instant, his presence steadying, although his breathing—ragged and trembling—is anything but.
Your vision begins to blur. In front of you, Sir Barnes’ face, taut with panic and helplessness, has started to melt. You try to say something, to tell him that everything is fine, that you are fine and that nothing will happen; but the lie never reaches your lips. Instead, all that escapes is a single, fragile whisper of his name.
“James.”
Before you can inhale another breath, the world dims to dark.
Every single night until you were five, your father never failed to soothe you to sleep.
Despite his duties—the pressing obligations he must bear as the head of your kingdom—your father rarely missed a single moment of bedtime. A few sparse minutes was all he could give, but it was a few sparse minutes that you looked forward to each day of your childhood. He would visit your chambers with his whole entourage, still clad in his formal attire, and he would sit on the bed to recite stories and legends of far-off kingdoms. Meanwhile, his hands would encompass your much smaller one, never letting go until he was sure you had succumbed to the depths of slumber.
As your body stirs, the warmth that is currently surrounding your hand reminds you a tad too much of the times when you were little. You instinctively grip it tighter, letting the warmth sink deeper into your skin.
“Princess?”
Blurry lights dance in your vision once you flutter your eyes open, your neck turning to see Sir Barnes kneeling by your side. His broad frame is tense, his face drawn in exhaustion. His eyes, a raging storm at sea, never stray far from your wandering gaze.
Blinking past the haze, your eyes find the wooden ceilings above, its beams weathered with age. Slowly, they begin to roam, taking in the modest space of your surroundings—the rough-hewn stone walls, the two rickety chairs in the center of the room, and the table bearing an assortment of unfamiliar belongings between them. The air is thick with dust, the kind that lingers untouched for years, seemingly forgotten in time.
“Where are we?” you croak out.
“Someone’s cabin. It looks to have been abandoned for months,” Sir Barnes replies.
Then, your gaze lowers.
Sir Barnes moves faster than the shift of your eyes, retracting his hands as if flamed. It is only then that you realize the warmth that has been encircling your hand is him, and now without his own hands on top of yours, your fingers contract in grief.
You move to rise, but a sharp sting immediately attacks your abdomen. Sir Barnes is quick, taking your shoulders and gently maneuvering you down on your back.
“You would do well to keep still,” he advises. “We do not wish for your wound to worsen any further.”
With that, the memories of the incident flood your brain—the memory of how you were stabbed. In the middle of your scuffle, the bandit in the woods had thrusted his knife into you, moments before he disappeared into the forest like a shadow shrouded by the night.
Once the memory is intact, a wretched gasp escapes your lips. “Barnes, the coins—”
“Should be the least of your concerns right now,” Sir Barnes interrupts, his jaw tightening.
You move to protest, but a sharp hissing noise draws your attention away from him. Your gaze ambles towards the hearth, where a pot of water has begun to boil, steam curling toward the rafters of the small cabin. The soft crackle of firewood fills the silence, broken only by the quiet rustle of Sir Barnes rising to his feet.
You shift slightly, attempting to sit up, only for a fierce, searing pain to lance through your side. A strangled breath catches in your throat as you press a trembling hand over your wound. Beneath your fingertips, you feel the damp fabric pressed against your dress, a strip of linen torn from Sir Barnes’ own shirt, its once pristine weave now soaked through with crimson.
It does not take long for Sir Barnes to return, carrying a small bundle of cloth—a clean shirt, by the looks of it—a pot of cold water, along with a needle and a spool of thread, still faintly gleaming from their recent submersion in the boiling water. He frowns in disapproval when he catches you struggling to remain upright.
“I told you to stop moving about,” he mutters, setting his things down onto a makeshift table with an audible thud.
“What are these for?”
Sir Barnes reaches for the needle and thread. “I need to close your wound.”
The needle glints ominously in the dim firelight, the mere sight of it is enough to send a shiver down your spine. Your throat tightens. “You have done this before?”
Sir Barnes’ forehead furrows. He does not look at you when he answers, “Not on a woman.”
There is a weight in his words, one that presses against your ribs like a phantom force. You realize, with a strange clarity, that this is a man who has seen much bloodshed, who has mended the wounds of his fellow soldiers on the battlefield, yet still hesitates now, as though the very thought of causing you pain unsettles him.
“Where did you even manage to find these items?”
“I found the needle on that table over there—” he gestures towards the center of the room, “—and the thread, I pulled from my shirt.”
“This one?” You lift the bundle of fabric Sir Barnes brought, flinching when the movement inevitably tugs at your injury. Your eyes inspect the line where the thread has been pulled, a conspicuous snag nearly fraying the fabric apart. “The shirt is ruined. I do not think you shall be able to wear it from now on.”
“Frankly, Your Highness, I care very little about whether or not I can wear a bloody shirt.”
Sir Barnes finishes threading the needle with a practiced hand, his fingers deft despite their size. The firelight casts long shadows over his face, sharpening the severity of his features as he turns his gaze back to you.
“I need to inspect your wound before I stitch it,” he says, his throat bobbing with the weight of his words. “The dress—” he hesitates for a fleeting moment, “—I have to tear it.”
A shiver bolts down your spine, though whether from anticipation or the chill creeping through the air, you cannot be certain. All you can do is give Sir Barnes a tentative nod, fingers tightening around the bundle of his ruined shirt in your lap.
Your guard moves in silence, evading your eyes completely as he hooks his fingers beneath the torn fabric at your waist. The cabin is deathly silent, save for the faint, slow rip of linen as it gives way beneath his hands. His fingertips brush your side, barely there, but it is enough to send your heart stumbling in its rhythm. He is careful in the most unbearable way, as though you are something fragile and sacred, a rare gemstone in need of the most precious and attentive care.
You know he is merely going out of his way to tend to your unfortunate injury, and yet, a traitorous heat blooms in your cheeks. You wonder if he, too, feels the same pull, the searing intimacy that crackles between you like fire on dry wood.
“This will hurt,” Sir Barnes warns, his voice hesitant and sheer. “I need you to bite down on something.”
Wordlessly, you lift the shirt in your lap and clamp your teeth down on the fabric. The scent of Sir Barnes still lingers there, something akin to leather and steel, the faintest trace of musk that obliges you to briefly shut your eyes in its embrace.
Meanwhile, Sir Barnes takes the pot of cooled, boiled water, his knuckles white and tense around the handle. His jaw locks as he finds your eyes. “I am sorry.”
With a deep breath, he tips the pot, allowing the water to pour over your open wound.
Blinding, searing pain is all you can feel. An agonized whine rips from your throat, your body jolting violently as your hands scramble for support around the sheets beneath you. The pain is unlike anything you have ever felt, cruel and ravenous as it burns through your side, and for a moment, you swear your vision blurs at the edges.
Through the haze of your suffering, you catch a glimpse of Sir Barnes’ face. His expression is stricken, mouth set in a hard line, eyes burning with something raw and wretched as if he feels every bit of your pain himself. His hand trembles as he presses a clean cloth to your wound, staunching the blood from spilling too freely.
“I know,” he says hoarsely, his free hand finding your arm, grounding you to earth. Grounding himself. “I know it hurts. Just a little longer, Princess.”
You squeeze your eyes shut, biting down harder on the shirt until your jaw aches. The pain does not subside. If anything, it only multiplies in magnitude when Sir Barnes finally pierces the needle through your skin, stitching the wound close. You lose perception of how long the torment lasts, your mind already slipping in and out of consciousness by the time Sir Barnes secures the suture with a knot. His eyes storm with pain and concern when he finally lifts his gaze to yours.
“It is done now, Princess. You did so well,” he murmurs, voice rough and fractured as if seeing you in such torment has done irreparable damage to his sanity.
Sir Barnes pries the shirt from your hands, his own impossibly tender as they run along the length of your arm, soothing away what he cannot take from you. His palm lands on your cheek, and for the first time in your agonized haze, you realize that you have been crying. Silent tears slip down your skin, only to be wiped away by the rough pad of his unbearably gentle thumb. He does not speak at first, only whispers quiet reassurances between each swipe, as if willing your pain to lessen by the force of his voice alone.
“You must rest,” he suggests after a while, noticing the way your eyelids flutter, too heavy to keep open for much longer. “Come, lie down. I shall help you.”
You do not resist as he guides you back against the mattress, tucking the blanket securely around your trembling form. His hand lingers at your face, fingers brushing stray hairs from your eyes with a tenderness that threatens to undo you entirely. When he moves to pull away, you stop him, your weakened grip encircling his wrist, the last shred of consciousness ushering a single word past your lips.
“Stay.”
His breath stills.
"Always," he murmurs.
As you let yourself drift further towards the darkness, the last thing you feel is the warmth of Sir Barnes’ presence looming beside you.
pairing: bucky barnes x y/n
summary: Y/N, a witch with no memory of her true nature, lives a seemingly perfect life with her husband, Bucky Barnes, in a quiet, idyllic 1950s town. Everything seems picture-perfect—Y/N and Bucky are a deeply loving couple, content in their everyday routine. They share playful moments, enjoy simple pleasures, and have a deep connection that feels unshakable. Their life is peaceful, with no hint of anything out of the ordinary. However, things aren’t what they seem.
authors note: new series, yay! i'm so happy i finally got to a point where i can be happy writing this, because i have this plot idea for years. i've already written every episode, so i will be posting every day. hope you guys like this as much as i did.
reblogs, likes and comments are always encouraged and highly appreciated! thank you ♡
episode 1: a perfect life
episode 2: just the two of us
episode 3: strange feelings
episode 4: the cracks appear
episode 5: fractures in frame
episode 6: the truth beneath the illusion
episode 7: breaking the hex
episode 8: almost gone
episode 9: a new beginning
This is Chapter 02 of the Faithfully Yours series.
Summary: Following a near escape, you and Sir Barnes must configure a plan of survival, even if it means ignoring the taut tension between the two of you.
Word Count: 6300-ish
Warning(s): historical royal au (knight/royal guard!bucky x princess!reader). slowburn. mutual pining. descriptions of violence and death. fake marriage. jealousy. the one bedroom and one bed trope. SO MUCH TENSION. nothing rlly happens but so much also happens, bcs again, SLOWBURNN.
Hello lovely ppl!! I promised you the second chapter of Faithfully Yours, and a second chapter you shall get. You know the drill: comment, like, and reblog if you're liking this one!!
Birds chirped in the sky, carrying a song lost in the wind and time. Underneath the scorching sun, you sat atop the expanse of grass, eyes trained on the group of older children playing just a few yards ahead. Their laughter rang freely in the air, tugging at something within your chest, although your green vocabulary struggled to identify what it was.
“What are you doing all alone here, my sweet child?”
You looked up to see the Queen, your mother, and her entire entourage walking across the lawn. The hem of her dress swept the ground as she glided towards you, the sunlight falling softly on her smile, making her look ethereal as if she were a deity reincarnated. She extended her hand once she stopped, helping you stand to your feet, her grip gentle yet unwavering.
“Do you not want to play with the others, my love?” she asked.
You shook your head, angling your face towards the ground. “A princess is not supposed to run around getting her dress filthy. Especially with boys.”
“Who informed you as such?”
“Miss Temples,” you lamented.
“The governess?” your mother inquired, earning a subtle nod from one of her ladies-in-waiting.
It was unfair, you knew as much. But as a princess, you were taught to swallow your disappointment and keep your chin up high, no matter how much your feet yearned to sprint across the green tapestry of the courtyard alongside the other children. Their laughter resonated throughout the grounds, a drop of salt on your aching wound.
Beside you, your mother stooped to her knees, a gesture that was frowned upon for members of the royal family to do. However, your mother was never one to subject herself a vassal to customs. She grabbed both of your hands in hers, kissing each finger with feather-like touches. The smile she rewarded you could rival the sun even on its brightest day.
“My darling daughter,” she said fondly. “What defines a princess is not how filthy or how pristine her dress is. Do you know what makes one a princess?”
“A crown?”
Your mother laughed. “No, my love. It is this.” She took one of your hands and laid it flat against your chest, her own hand emitting warmth at the top. “It is the heart. One that is full of kindness, courage, but most important of all, joy. A princess is someone who understands where her happiness lies, and knows what she must do to protect the happiness of those around her.”
You looked down at your entwined hands, trying to let her words settle in your juvenile mind.
“Tell me, darling. What would make you happy right at this moment?”
You pointed at the mob of children on the courtyard. “Playing with them.”
“Very well.”
Your mother raised to her feet and cast her eyes towards the group of children. They were playing hide and seek with your brother, the Crown Prince, acting as the seeker. As the other children scrambled for a place to hide, the Queen’s eyes landed on one particular boy who was running towards the direction of her entourage. His ebony hair bright under the sun, his elated laughter a melody in the breeze.
“Come here, Child,” your mother called out. The boy veered towards you under her instruction, out of breath as he clumsily performed his bow of respect. “Pray tell, what is your name, Boy?”
“James, Your Majesty,” he answered. “James Barnes the Third, oldest son of Sir James Barnes the Second and Lady Winnifred Barnes.”
“It is very nice to meet you, James. What a handsome young man you are.” The boy preened at your mother’s compliment. “This is my daughter. Have the two of you met?”
“I believe not, Your Majesty.” James turned to face you, his smile widening as he inclined into another bow. “It is a pleasure, Your Highness.”
You carefully emerged from your hiding place behind the Queen’s legs, returning James’ greeting with a shy wave of your hand.
“The Princess was thinking of joining the game,” your mother informed. “Do you think you can show her how to play, James?”
“It would be an honor.” He smiled. James reached out his hand towards your face, his blue eyes glinting with an unadulterated glee. “Shall we, Your Highness?”
You hesitated for a moment, but the encouraging nod from your mother, and the kindness radiated from your new friend convinced you to take James’ hand. He immediately pulled you into a sprint across the lawn, the thumping in your chest untamed as the two of you raced against your brother’s dwindling countdown. James led you down a ditch in the edge of the courtyard, where the two of you ducked under the cover of a gigantic oak tree. His arm wrapped itself around your shoulders, pulling you close until you could nearly hear the rhythmic beating of his heart.
“We must keep quiet,” he murmured, to which you nodded in response.
Moments passed, and although you did not have a line of sight towards the courtyard, you could hear very clearly every time someone had been found. Your heart drummed as you listened to the sound of footsteps approaching, followed by the familiar voice of your brother calling out into the open air.
“James! Sister! Come out, come out, wherever you are!” your brother bellowed. Behind him, several footsteps followed, and you could guess without seeing that he must have asked the other players to assist in searching for you and James as well. “Come on, now! I know the two of you are hiding together. Mother told me!”
“What do we do?” you whispered.
“I have an idea.” James suddenly rose to his feet, although still crouching to ensure no one could see him. “I will come out and distract them. Lead them away from this place.”
“What? You cannot do that! You will lose!” you protested.
“I know, but it will give you a chance to win,” he responded, smiling so casually as if it was the easiest decision he had ever made. “You shall be safe here, Your Highness. I promise.”
And with that, James disappeared in the direction of the courtyard, leaving you alone with a promise that you stowed safely in the crevice of your heart.
You wake up with a gasp.
Remnants of a scream lodge in your throat, gripping onto the horror your mind has conjured up in your sleep. It was a dream, you know as much now, but the fear is real, and it clings to you like a second skin refusing to shed. Somewhere nearby, the water laps lazily against the shore, the rhythmic sound weaving through the silence like a whisper from another life.
The pounding of your heart lulls as the images from your nightmare start to slip away, though the feeling remains—the unspeakable terror from seeing your brother collapsing right in front of your eyes, trapped under the weight of too many enemies. You tried reaching out for him, but the madness of the battle expelled you further and further until you were forced to watch idly as smoke and dust claimed his body.
And then, just as you thought the atrocity could not get any worse, your mind came up with something even more sinister. Sir Barnes, taken and tortured right before your eyes, your name being the last thing he managed to cry out. Meanwhile, you were bound by your ankles and wrists, made to watch as he succumbed to the ground, lying in a pool of his own blood.
You could not save either of them.
A hand clasps around your shoulder, bringing you back to earth before you have the chance to spiral any further. Sir Barnes appears by your side without the protection of his armor, clad only in his shirt and trousers, though his sword is still drawn and ready at his side.
“Easy,” he murmurs, crouching next to you. The warmth of his palm seeps through the velvet of your dress. “You are safe, Princess. I’m right here.”
He starts accentuating the rise of his chest as he inhales, encouraging you with a nod to mimic his breathing. It does not take long for your lungs to comply, taking in air until your whole body relaxes and the beating drum in your chest assuages to a normal rhythm.
“Nightmares?” Sir Barnes asks, though he looks as if he knows the answer already.
You give him a meek nod, biting your tongue as you recall the scene in your dream. “It was my brother,” you elaborate. “In the dream, he… he did not make it.”
You refrain from telling him the second part, about the bit where he was the one being ripped out of your grasp. He does not need to know about that. It’s too much.
Sir Barnes is quiet for a few moments. When he does speak, his voice is soft, “Your brother is not an easy man to kill.”
You know it is not quite a consolation, but it is the best attempt he can muster to soothe you without resorting to deception. Because as much as you want it to be true, there is no sure way of telling whether your brother did survive the battle or not.
Your gaze meanders into the distance, towards the body of water located just a few paces ahead. The sun is barely peeking from the horizon, painting the lowest portion of the sky as well as the surface of the lake with rays of white and yellow. As you look down, you realize that Sir Barnes’ cloak is wrapped securely around you, possibly done by the man himself while you were still fast asleep earlier. It smells of steel and smoke, but most importantly, it smells of him.
You exhale slowly, bringing the cloak up to your chin. You tell yourself it is due to the coldness of the air, but the little voice inside your head knows it is an excuse to chase more of his scent. It is a distraction to your racing mind. The nightmare may have been a product of your own subconsciousness, but the truth prevails—your family is gone, the kingdom is lost, and the world as you knew it has been completely burned to the ground.
“We need a plan,” you resolve, condemning the fog in your mind to dissipate.
Sir Barnes nods. “I agree.”
“Where exactly are we?”
“A few leagues west of the main road. I led us through the riverbanks to cover our trail.” His eyes suddenly glaze over, replaced with something more dire. “There has been no sign of pursuit, but that could change at any moment.”
“Hence why, we cannot stay here for long.” You rummage your brain for something, anything that can assist you in formulating a course of action. “There is an old trade road west of our southern border. It has been abandoned for decades.”
“The Sanguine Route,” Sir Barnes specifies. His elbows lean against his knees as he briefly loses himself in thought. “It will be a very unpredictable journey. The road weaves through the woods and down a valley. No one has used it in years. We have no way of knowing what kind of obstacles await us there.”
“Do you have a better option?” At your question, Sir Barnes falls silent. “There is a market town just outside the border. It would normally require us two days were we to travel on the main road. How long do you reckon we would need if we went through the Sanguine Route?”
“Perhaps five to six days. Seven at most.” Sir Barnes stares out at the water, dark pupils dancing amidst an ocean of irises. “It will not be an easy journey, especially without provisions.”
“I know.”
“And then?” he inquires. “What does Your Highness intend to do once we reach the town?”
“We rest. Gather resources and nurse our strength,” you reply. “Once we have everything we need, we head west. Towards the Kingdom of Asgard.”
Sir Barnes stiffens. His head snaps towards you so suddenly that you fear he might have given himself a concussion. “Asgard?” His throat bobs, lips pressing into a thin line before he wrenches his gaze back towards the lake. “Right. Of course.”
You narrow your eyes, studying the sharp angles of Sir Barnes’ face. His reaction is strange. For the briefest moment, he seemed to recoil at the mere mention of the kingdom’s name.
“Do you have a problem with us traveling to Asgard?” you ask. “I know it is a significant distance. It would likely take us almost an entire month to get there, but the Kingdom of Asgard is our closest ally. King Thor would not think twice about granting us asylum, nor about sending his troops down to help defend our land.”
“No, of course. Your Highness is completely right. Traveling to Asgard is the most rational course of action.”
Something is amiss. Before you can press further, Sir Barnes rises to his feet, turning to face you but missing your eyes entirely. “You should rest a while longer, Your Highness. We will need our strength.”
With a sharp bow, he strides away, disappearing into the trees just off the coast of the lake. You watch him go with a strange unease settling over you, like a garment too heavy for your body to don. The peculiar shift in his demeanor lingers in your mind, but at last, you decide to push the thoughts away. With a prolonged sigh, you lower yourself onto the grass, letting the exhaustion pull you further into the depths of slumber.
As sleep beckons, you pray to the Gods that there will be no bouts of nightmare this time around.
For the following five days, you and Sir Barnes journey through one of the most treacherous paths you have ever traversed in your life. You live on scavenged wild fruits and hunted squirrels, scour water from rivers or springs, and take cover under ancient trees and natural alcoves. During those five days, Sir Barnes barely sleeps. No matter how much you try to convince him to guard the camp in shifts, he is adamant to let you rest, only willing to shut his eyes for the briefest moment when the sun is already high up in the sky.
On the sixth day, you finally arrive at the market town just outside the border of your kingdom.
Welcome to Maltea, read the gigantic sign at the edge of the road.
The town of Maltea sprawls before you in a haze of dust and movement. The scent of roasted meat and baked breads mesh odiously with the smell of horse dung and rotting fruits. Stalls line the winding paths, their canopies a patchwork of faded blues and sun-bleached greens. Vendors vie to promote their merchandise, calling out towards potential buyers on the streets—silks from the east, glass trinkets from the Milden Isles, and fresh barrels of mead courtesy of the local brewers.
You pull the hood of Sir Barnes’ cloak lower over your face, suddenly aware of how many people are bustling past, the events of the last few days magnifying your desire for anonymity. Your companion trudges along behind you, never more than a breadth away in case his sword is needed before you even have the chance to call his name.
“We should try to secure lodging, Your Highness. The sun will be setting soon. We can seek provisions first thing tomorrow morning,” Sir Barnes suggests.
“Very well,” you reply. “We should also look for some new garments. We have been traveling in the same ones for days now.”
The two of you proceed to journey a moment longer before stopping by a tailor’s workshop. Sir Barnes takes Sparrow’s reins from your hand and fastens both horses to a post. As you head towards the establishment, a thought suddenly stops you in place.
“I do not carry any money with me,” you say.
“I do.” Sir Barnes steps forward, holding the door open so you can pass through. “Guards always carry some with them.”
The workshop is littered with fabrics in every shade known to mankind. Half-finished dresses are strewn about the room, embellished with laces and ribbons in various cuts and colors. A man emerges through the backdoor upon your entrance, carrying a roll of fabric in his hands.
“Can I help ye?” the man asks.
“Greetings, Sir. I was wondering if you had any second-hand garment to sell? Or if you had any unclaimed order, we would gladly take them off your hands.”
The man’s eyes slide past you towards Sir Barnes, who is dutifully standing guard a few paces behind, and then back to you. “Ye’ve come to the right place, Mistress. Are ye looking for anything in particular?”
“Oh, just a couple of dresses is fine. Anything you have at hand would do.”
The man nods, walking towards one corner of the room where he starts foraging through a specific cupboard. “And for yer husband?”
“My husband?” Your head whips around, seeing Sir Barnes’ surprised expression that undoubtedly mirrors yours. “Oh, no. He is not—”
“Just two shirts and two trousers for me,” Sir Barnes interjects.
Your eyebrows knit.
Sir Barnes moves to stand next to you, so close that you can feel his body heat radiating through your dress. You want to press him about his lie, but the tailor returns to the center of the room before you can, dropping a heap of dresses on top of his work desk.
“These look to be yer size, but we’ll have to take yer measurements to be certain,” the man informs.
You allow the tailor to pull you towards the desk, following every instruction to spread or drop your arms as he takes a parchment strip to measure your figure. Meanwhile, your mind spins, more specifically around the man who is currently watching the tailor’s movement like a lion, ready to pounce should he make one fatally wrong move. A tiny gasp escapes your lips as you turn your face away, evading Sir Barnes’ eyes that seem to have caught you blatantly staring at him.
“Two of ye aren’t from here, are ye?” the tailor asks once he finishes measuring your shoulders.
You and Sir Barnes share a look.
“Why do you ask?” your guard responds.
The tailor laughs as he grabs a chalk to write something down on his slate tablet. “Most people in Maltea aren’t locals. They all came from somewhere—the Milden Isles, North Coves, even as far as the Lespanian.” He puts down the chalk and starts inspecting the dresses from the pile. “So, where are ye folks coming in from?”
Sir Barnes crosses his arm. “North,” he says, offering no further explanation.
The tailor casts him a fleeting glance. “Yeah? Are ye staying or just passing through?”
“Just passing through. Though we were thinking of staying for the night,” you reply, earning a disapproving glare from Sir Barnes. “Do you happen to know of any good lodging around here, Sir?”
“There’s a tavern down the road. The Marble Oak. They have rooms for rent. Dinner and breakfast are complimentary.”
The tailor inspects the dresses one by one before dividing them into different piles. Once he has gone through every single one of them, he turns to you, gesturing at one of the piles on his desk. “These ones ye can take, Mistress.”
“That is wonderful. Thank you, Sir.”
A few moments later, you and Sir Barnes find yourselves back on the road again. The rhythmic clatter of hooves against cobblestone fills the evening air as the two of you weave through the streets of Maltea. The setting sun casts the town in golden hues, stretching your shadows long against the ground. All around you, merchants are closing up their stalls, calling out the final bargains of the day as people seek out warm meals and shelter for the night.
Your fingers tighten around the reins, the bundle of garments from the tailor’s shop secured carefully to your saddle. You steal a glance at Sir Barnes, your thoughts snagged on a particular moment from earlier, the one that has your mind veering and your heart faltering in its cage. The man in question is ever so oblivious, continuing to ride steadily beside you in silence, his face as unreadable as ever.
“Why did you let him believe such a thing?” you ask, breaking the quiet that has settled between the two of you.
Sir Barnes barely spares you a glance. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.” You swallow the bile in your throat. “Earlier, when the tailor called you my husband, you did not deny it. Why?”
His grip on the reins flexes. “It was necessary.”
Your forehead furrows.
Sir Barnes looks at you and inhales a long breath. “We are strangers in this town, and we do not know the sort of eyes that may be watching us. A woman traveling alone with a man would raise questions. A married couple, on the other hand...”
His explanation dithers in the air. You do not get a chance to mull over it as your destination, The Marble Oak, comes into view. Its timbered structure stands proud amidst the other shops lining up the street. A carved sign, painted with the likeness of an oak tree, sways gently in the evening breeze. Sir Barnes helps you dismount Sparrow, grabbing all of your belongings with him, while a stable boy rushes forward to take your horses.
The inside of the tavern is warm, illuminated by the flickering glow of lanterns and enriched by the scent of spiced ale. Low murmurs of conversation rumble through the floor, interrupted occasionally by the sudden bursts of raucous laughter. Sir Barnes leads you through the maze of tables as he approaches the bar, where a burly man is wiping down the counter with a rug.
“We require lodging for the night. Two rooms,” says Sir Barnes.
The man barely lifts his head. “Aye, that’ll be eight silver.”
Sir Barnes reaches into the pouch at his belt, a brief frown flaring across his face as he counts the remaining coins.
You press your lips together. “How many remains?”
“Ten,” Sir Barnes answers, cursing under his breath.
Your stomach churns, gaze fleeting towards the bundle of dresses and garments in Sir Barnes’ hand, regretting the oversight of not putting much thought into what you spent at the tailor’s shop.
Before Sir Barnes can speak, you step forward. “One room will suffice.”
His head snaps towards you. “What—”
“We cannot afford to be careless,” you interject, lowering your voice as you add, “besides, we have already set the charade in motion. It would be strange if a husband and wife requested separate quarters.”
Sir Barnes exhales sharply, looking like he wants to object but opting to hand the pouch towards you instead. The innkeeper does not tear his eyes from the rug as he accepts your coins, exchanging it with a key that he slides across the counter.
“Up the stairs, last door to the left. Dinner and breakfast will be delivered to yer room.”
You ascend the stairs and follow the innkeeper’s direction. The room you receive is modest but clean, bathed in gold under the two gleaming lanterns on the wall. A hearth rests unlit against the far wall, its ashes cold from disuse. The scent of aged wood frolics in the air, fusing with the faint traces of lavender, likely originating from the dried sprigs hung in the corners to ward off pests.
In the center of the room, a single bed stands.
Your eyes settle on the large furniture, enough to tightly fit three adults, adorned with clean white sheets and thick woolen blankets on top. Its presence alone sends a fresh wave of awareness throughout your body. You become progressively aware of the fact that you are standing alone in this bedroom with Sir Barnes, your royal guard, the one who has seen you through the narrow escape from your fallen kingdom. For the first time since your journey began, it is not the outside world that unsettles you, but the quiet intimacy of the space you now share.
Sir Barnes exhales, dropping all of your belongings on the floor before rubbing a hand over his face. “I will sleep on the floor.”
“Absolutely not,” you oppose.
He levels you with a look. “Your Highness—”
“You have barely slept since we left the castle, Barnes. You deserve a proper rest, and the floor is hardly suitable.” You cross your arms, tilting your chin defiantly. “You will take the bed.”
An exhausted sigh escapes his lips. “I will not be taking the bed, Princess.”
“Yes, you will.”
“No,” he repeats, adamant. “You will take the bed.”
“Barnes—”
“I am not letting you sleep on the floor.” His voice is final. “And we certainly shall not be sharing the bed.”
Silence.
The words sink in the center of the room, sedimenting until it becomes something tangible, something suffocating. In front of you, Sir Barnes shifts on his feet, his expression fraught as if he is just now realizing the weight of what he said. You open your mouth, wanting to say something, anything, but the words are lost on you before your voice can hasten past your lips.
Then, a loud knock resonates against the door.
As if shaken out of a trance, Sir Barnes hurries towards the door, giving way for the staff to deliver your dinner and set the tray of food on the table. After he leaves, the room is once again heavy with unvoiced declarations, forcing you to break the tension with a sharp clearing of your throat.
“Shall we eat first?” you ask.
Sir Barnes follows you to the table, gingerly taking a seat as he watches you slather butter on a piece of bread. The two of you proceed to eat in silence, both still wary of initiating another conversation in fear of saying more things you might regret.
In the end, it is Sir Barnes who finally decides to slice through the silence. “You should take the bed, Your Highness.” You open your mouth to protest, but he speaks again, leaving no room for argument, “I have been forged for a life of hardship. I was trained to endure nights without sleep, to press on with neither food nor comfort, to rest where no man ought to. A floor is no trial for me. Take the bed.”
Your shoulders deflate. “Very well.” You take the last bite of your dinner, setting the plate aside as you steer the conversation elsewhere, “About our finances…”
“I will think of something. You must not fret,” Sir Barnes intervenes.
“And what exactly will you do?”
The man falls quiet. “I could seek work at the market, or sell my armor at the blacksmith’s forge. It is not much, but it may be enough to support us for a while.”
“You are not selling your armor.”
A wry smile tugs at his lips. “I have little use of it now. It draws too many eyes.”
“No, Barnes. If we must sell something—” you pause, reaching your hand back to unclasp the pendant around your neck, “—then we can sell this.”
You take off the rest of your jewelry—your earrings, bangles, and several rings—and pile them on the table. Some of these pieces are heirlooms that have been passed down in your family for generations. In a way, these are the only tokens you have left to remember the life you have relinquished, and although a part of you detests the thought of separating with them, you know this is a sacrifice you must do.
“Princess, you do not have to do this.”
“I know. I want to,” you reply. “They are worth a substantial amount. We will have more than enough to keep us sustained for our journey to Asgard.”
At last, Sir Barnes relents. “We will go to the market first thing in the morning.”
Later that night, Sir Barnes excuses himself, opting to visit a public bath to give you seclusion to use the one in the room and prepare for bed. When he returns, you are safely tucked under the blanket, feigning slumber as he moves about the room with careful precision—removing his boots, unbuckling his belt, placing his sword within reach. The floorboards creak beneath his weight as he settles near the hearth, and though the room is engulfed in silence, you feel the steady pull of his presence, impossibly near yet still a breadth out of reach.
Tonight, no matter how still you lie or how deeply you breathe, sleep remains elusive, chased away by the quiet awareness of the man resting mere steps away.
When you awaken in the morning, Sir Barnes is nowhere to be found.
The morning light spills through the small, dust-lined window, falling in humble rays on the wooden floor below. You see traces of Sir Barnes’ presence all over the room—from the faint imprint where he lay on the floor, the neatly stacked armor resting against the chair, to the sword propped against the wall—all a visual promise of his return. With that reassurance, you rise from the bed and stretch out your weary limbs, wanting to take advantage of the privacy as you step towards the wooden partition where a small bath awaits.
After cleansing yourself, you reach for the new garments you bought from the tailor’s shop yesterday. It has been ages since you last dressed up without any assistance, and that knowledge frays with your nerves as you stare at the heap of garments laid on the table.
“Surely, it will not be as challenging as it looks,” you mutter to yourself.
Putting on the first layer of your attire turns out to be effortless enough, gaining you a newfound faith as you eagerly reach for the green kirtle from the pile. However, as you pull the dress over your white shift, you realize that the confidence has been too precipitous for your own good. This kirtle is laced at the back instead of the front, and no matter how hard you try, you cannot seem to figure out a way to secure the bodice by yourself.
Suddenly, the door creaks open.
You yelp as Sir Barnes walks in, briskly turning on your feet so that your back is concealed from his line of view. He stumbles back a step at your surprise, his cheeks reddening when he realizes that you are not fully dressed yet.
Clearing his throat, Sir Barnes veers his eyes away. “Forgive me, Princess. I will come back later.”
Before he can close the door behind him, you call out, “Wait!”
Sir Barnes pauses in the doorway, uncertainty etching on his forehead as his gaze wavers around, directed at you but not quite landing on your eyes. You cast your own gaze downward, an erratic thumping in your chest as you ask, “Will you inquire with the innkeeper whether they have a female on the staff? I am in need of some assistance with my dress.”
Giving you a curt nod, Sir Barnes responds, “I will be right back, Your Highness.”
A moment passes, and eventually, your guard returns. You watch in confusion as he opens the door, expecting someone to accompany him only to find no one at his side.
“There are no females on the staff at the moment, Your Highness,” Sir Barnes apprises, his head angled towards the floor.
You sigh in frustration, tugging at the ribbon on your back as if they can magically lace themselves in a matter of moments. Across the way, Sir Barnes cautiously lifts his head, studying the downward turn of your lips and the distress shining out of your eyes.
“I could—”
He stops.
Sir Barnes’ voice is rough, thinly as a thread that barely extends the distance between where the two of you stand. You catch the slight furrow of his eyebrows, the way his jaw tenses, and the way his fingers curl into fists as if he is punishing himself for having nearly said something he should never have. And when you finally realize what precisely he almost said—what he almost offered—you swear you can nearly hear your heart crash inside of its cage.
Air lodges in your throat.
Against your back, your grip has loosened, freeing the stubborn ribbons as they fall through your fingertips. For longer than necessary now, you have tried, again and again, but the laces on your dress remain undone. You try telling yourself to wait for the innkeeper to find someone, anyone, to assist you. But as you stand in the middle of that room, merely several paces apart from the man who has led you out of the clutches of death itself, an undeniable truth sinks in the bottom of your stomach.
You want him to.
It is a revelation that sends you reeling. An admission destined to never see the light of day. Your lips tremble around a choked breath, your voice a mere whisper when you finally discover the courage to say it out loud, “Will you help me?”
Sir Barnes does not answer, nor does he move.
You wonder if you have made a mistake.
And yet, after what feels like an eternity, his boots scrape softly against the wooden floor, each step bringing him closer towards you. Your feet turn before he can reach you, granting him access to your back, the very first man you have ever allowed to see you in such a state of vulnerability.
He is close. Even closer than you have anticipated, close enough for you to feel the warmth radiating from his large frame. You hold your breath as you wait for the first touch of his hand, a silent prayer on your lips as you hope he does not hear how loudly your heart is pounding.
“Forgive me,” he mutters.
The moment his fingers take hold of the ribbons, a fire inside you erupts.
He works in complete silence, his movements slow yet refined, pulling the laces taut with profound ease. Even through the barrier of your shift, each graze of his knuckles still prompts a shiver down your spine. Sir Barnes is careful, so achingly careful in every breadth of his motion, as if terrified to overstep a boundary neither of you have ever ventured to define.
Deft fingers traverse a path up your back, pulling the ribbon just enough but never too much. The surrounding air is intoxicating, tarnished by the improper thoughts you keep having to pester out of your head. Thoughts that revolve around the man whose hands have known exertion beyond anything you can ever imagine, whose same hands now work on your dress with a tenderness that feels unbelievably reverent.
Then, his fingers brush your neck.
It is the softest touch, fleeting and unintentional, a murmur of skin against skin as he finishes tying the last knot of your bodice. Though the moment is short-lived, the way it sets your senses into flames, or the way it sinks into the depth of your bones, makes you wonder if there is more to find beneath the accidental graze of his hand.
And before you can stop yourself, your body does something that goes against every rational fiber in your being.
You lean back.
The movement is subtle and instinctive, a slight shift of your weight as you chase the gentle warmth he emits. The second you realize what you have done, your breath stutters.
Behind you, Sir Barnes stills.
Neither of you dare to move. All around the room, the air thickens, fragile like glass that could fracture at even the smallest intake of breath. Everything your body feels is him—his touch, his breath, his body heat—and it makes your blood alight with something you struggle to name.
“Breakfast!”
The sharp rap against the door makes you jump out of your skin. Just like that, the moment is shattered, blown into tiny little pieces all over the floor.
“Yer breakfast, M’lady!”
You lurch forward, stepping away as if burned, as if the distance alone could extinguish the fire between the two of you. Sir Barnes moves in the opposite direction, reaching for the door and allowing the man to enter with two plates of breakfast in hand.
“Enjoy yer breakfast, Good Sire,” the man says before leaving.
The two of you are alone once more, trapped again in an endless dance that seems to pull and push you towards one another. You do not dare lift your eyes, afraid of what you might find should your gaze find him from across the room. The weight of his presence is still palpable, still maddening, and as you hear the way his breathing strains, you know that he, too, is grappling with the burden of what has transpired.
“I should—” Sir Barnes begins, voice gruff and cracking around the edges, “—I need to tend to the horses.”
A flimsy excuse. You both know it.
Without another word, he turns on his heel and strides toward the door. His hand lingers on the handle for the briefest of moments before he pulls it open and steps out, leaving behind the scent of leather and steel.
At last, you are alone.
Your shoulders slump as your lungs take in a much needed breath. The food before you sits untouched, but you force yourself to reach for a piece of bread—to go through the motions of normalcy even if each bite is a futile attempt to swallow down the memory of his hands on your back, his breath against your skin, and the unbearable truth that no distance will be enough to erase the fire still burning beneath your ribs.
