Warnings: no use of y/n yearning, crying, bad relationship with father, let me know if I missed any.
Word Count: 1.5k
a/n: (at the end)
(Series masterlist)
James Moriarty's love is something one expects to be explosive. Yet it is anything but. It is subtle and overwhelming but also absurdly intoxicating. It is something you only truly notice when it gets quiet. Because to have his love be known was something that truly terrified James. Nothing good ever came from having your secrets laid out for everyone to see.
And James feels it happen; The switch in his behaviors, the drift of his attention, the second you walked into a room. And of course, because his love is so unsuspecting, it's only fitting that it makes itself known at such a vulnerable moment.
You’ve been irritable all day. That’s how James knew something was going on. Sherlock had made a joke, and you didn’t laugh. That was odd. James made a snide remark, wanting simply to make you smile. But instead, you blow up in his face and storm off to your dormitory.
James hasn’t known you long, but thus far he has never seen you so aggravated for seemingly no observable reason. Of course, you had called him a cock sucker before, but it had been with an eye roll or a smile you attempted to hide, but he still saw. Never had you been so serious or cruel with your intentions when you said it before. If it weren’t for the way you stormed off after you’d said it, James would have taken earnest offense. But as you ran, he thought he saw tears welling up in your eyes, and instantly all hostilities were dropped before they began. Sherlock hadn’t noticed, too busy giving all his attention to some inconsistencies he found in what Mycroft had told him earlier.
James is quick to follow after you, leaving Sherlock with some made-up excuse he'd be too preoccupied to question twice. He trails after you through halls and down corridors, calling out your name. You just keep on until you finally make it to your room, where you shut the door in James' face.
With a huff, he calls your name through the door. "Come on. I did not mean what I said. You know I didn't mean it." James his head against your door, catching his breath.
"Please just go, James." His breath catches as you speak.
"Not until this is settled," James says definitively, trying the doorknob. It's locked.
"I forgive you. There it is settled." You utter through the wood. But James can hear the sniffle you let out, so he presses on.
"If you forgive me, why is it that you still sound upset?" He tries, leaning into the door as if that will somehow get him closer to you. "Was it really me? Or did someone else do something?"
"James—"
"Because, as you know, I am not above getting my hands dirty."
"James, stop." You announce, cutting through his words. There is a stillness where neither of you speaks; all that can be heard is shuffling from your side of the door. The sound of a key sliding into a keyhole pulls James to step away from the door.
The door is pulled open tentatively. When you finally come into view, you look somewhat disheveled. It pulls at James' heartstrings uncomfortably. Your eyes are red and puffy. Clearly, you've been crying more than he initially saw. James' nonchalant persona cracks just slightly under the weight of the sight.
"It has nothing to do with you." Your voice quietly. Like every syllable claws at your throat as it comes out.
"Then what is it?" James dips his head down to meet your gaze. You shift your weight from foot to foot in hesitant contemplation. James holds his gaze steady.
Reluctantly, you step aside to let James in. He steps through the threshold of your room and gazes around. Lying across your desk, which sits near the door, he sees letters scattering the surface. Some are unfinished letters, a couple are crumpled up, but in the center of your desk is a letter clearly not in your distinct penmanship. On this letter are creased wrinkles left in shapes only tears could make.
"Tell me what is wrong." James tears his eyes away before you notice. He faces you now, concealing his anguish behind furrowed brows of curiosity.
It takes you a minute to gather the courage to tell the truth. You trust James, but you also know that behind his facade of charm and quips, he holds so much weight. He doesn't need yours. But his stance is unwavering. He holds his ground as he waits for you, ever the gentleman.
“It’s my father.” You divulge. You say it as though if you say it too loudly, your father himself will hear you from across the Atlantic.
"Ah," James voices solemnly. That's what the letters must have been about. He takes a moment to mull over his words.
“You’ve never mentioned him before,” James decides. No connotations as to not upset you more. He is not sure of your own opinions on him yet.
“I don’t like even thinking about him.” You let out a self deprecating noise that leaves James with a familiar understanding and distaste. One thing he feels often when thinking about his own father.
Your mind runs a million miles a minute, trying to compose itself. The mere thought of him brought feelings that, if you could, you would have killed and buried and never spoken of again.
“Why’s that?” James' eyes don't leave you for even a second. His gentleness is so exposing, so stripped down and bare, it makes you curl in on yourself. You’ve never been one to get much attention unless you explicitly put yourself in the spotlight. No one had ever looked at you without you predetermining it and deciding it would happen. That is, until you met Sherlock and James. They both look at you without you having to grab their attention with some big gesture or loud character trait. They see you even when you don't want them to. And even worse, James can read you even when you wish he couldn't.
James knows you in some impossible way. In the short time he has known you, he has learned almost everything about you. Your tells, the way you cower ever so slightly when someone makes you upset, how you fight tooth and nail to be tolerated even though you are so easily loved. He knows that just about everything you do is calculated to push you higher and get you further. He knows you as if he has known you his whole life, and you see it. And it excites you, it terrifies you.
"He's like an insect," You being. "He crawls into the weakest parts of you and terrorizes and taunts and calls it love." You don't elaborate, but it seems to you that James understands. He always does. As grateful as you are, a part of you aches for him. You would never wish your pain onto him, but he seems to always already possess it.
“I seem to always be doing something wrong. I can never make him happy." You continue. James's presence is a welcome anchor that seems to be calming the waters of your mind.
"The only reason I’m here is that I thought that if I agreed to go to Oxford, he would finally let me be. But I was sorely mistaken." More tears well up in your eyes as you take a seat at the foot of your bed. James takes a step closer.
"Is the letter from him?" James cautiously asks, but it only seems to bring more tears and a grave nod.
"If I do not improve my marks, all familial ties will be cut." A sob leaves your throat as you sink into the mattress. "I will be estranged and left destitute to fend for myself in a country that I do not belong to. I may never see my mother again." James sits with you now, warmth and comfort radiating from him.
"I will not let that happen," James affirms, jaw set tight. You struggle to control your uneven breathing.
"I promise you this," He says, your name as though it is a vow never to be broken, and takes your hand in his. "He will never hurt you again." Your breath hitches at the stubborn crease of his brow.
"Even if you fail out of Oxford, you will see your mother again." His words are resolute. He says them as if they are fact rather than simple hopes. "His threats are empty. You have me, you have Sherlock. You will never be on your own again."
The damn collapses, and you slam into James' sturdy frame. You cry freely now, no longer able to hold back your fears. James is startled only for a moment before he sinks into the feeling of you in his hold. He holds you securely and lets you set the weight of them down. He lets you come apart with the knowledge that he will be there to help build you up again.
And that's when he feels it. Sitting in your bed on an unsuspecting Sunday afternoon, he feels it. That ache deep in his chest, the pulsing in his veins, the confirmation in his heart. He loves you. And because he loves you, he will never let you go.
a/n: All the comments on the first part of this series is seriously motivating so thank you!! Hope you enjoyed I have nothing else to say. Good day.
Warnings: explosion, plot differences, historical inaccuracies probably, mentions of blood, sherlock doesn’t like physical touch, slow burn but not really, not proof read
Word Count: 3.9k
Summary: Sherlock Holmes attempts to be apart of your life again.
a/n: I keep taking forever to write this fic, I’m sorry, I just want it to be good so I overthink everything
Part One, Part Two, Part Three
Classes and studying took up most of your time at Oxford, but the times you found yourself wandering the campus suddenly felt too frequent. Now knowing that Sherlock Holmes was somewhere around the university was a bit startling.
You’d come to realize, during your short conversation with the Holmes boy, that you did not have any interest in speaking with him. A bitterness that had been buried deep within you suddenly reemerged, resentment that you carried for Sherlock after he left you in that countryside years ago. While you understood the circumstances of his departure, it never sat right with you. He never said goodbye to his friend, he had just forsaken you.
Now, his attempts to rekindle whatever friendship you once had would be neglected by you.
You’d spotted Sherlock a few times along the campus streets. Once when he was collecting trash, another as he raked the leaves along a courtyard, and a third time delivering fresh toiletries to a public lavatory. Each time, you failed to evade his gaze. It was like Sherlock had a sixth sense for you. Nevertheless, each time, you would quickly pivot and shift your course away from his. Of course he called out for you, but you knew the campus better than he did and you managed to escape.
A couple days after you first reunited with the youngest Holmes brother, you had been departing from your residence hall when you ran into yet another familiar face. You were surprised to recognize Mycroft Holmes so quickly, but the confident, composed nature of how he presented himself had always been so irresistible when you were younger. You would recognize it anywhere. Mycroft strode along the cobblestone streets, cane in hand, no doubt only to show off the aristocratic man he’d become. His suit had been tailored to perfection, and a hat that further embraced his respectable status. Mycroft Holmes was still, if not even more compelling than last you saw him. Even if you had outgrown your silly infatuation with the eldest Holmes, you found yourself unintentionally moving towards him. You weren’t upset with him like you were with Sherlock, Mycroft had left the countryside to pursue work long before the incident. At least he said goodbye.
“Excuse me, Mr. Holmes?” You approached him, a delighted grin pulling at the corners of your lips. Mycroft turned at the sound of his name, squinting slightly as his eyes landed on you. It had been years since you had last seen each other, and you weren’t the young girl he remembered. While he donned a new mustache above his upper lip, you changed in more ways than one.
It took Mycroft a moment longer than Sherlock before he spoke your name, expression lighting up with surprise. “How remiss of me to forget you attend this University!” A polite smile replaced his previous countenance as he removed his hat before tipping his head respectfully.
You bowed your head in return, “It’s lovely to see you.”
“And you as well.”
“What brings you here?” You inquire, brows furrowing curiously, though a slight smile remained on your face. “I don’t suppose you’re here as a scout too?” You teased, earning a slight chuckle from the older gentleman.
“Business for the foreign office.” Mycroft answered simply, carefully placing his hat back on his head. “I’m on the way to attend Professor Hodge’s gala opening for the new science building.”
“Oh, don’t let me keep you any longer then.” You moved to step back, excusing yourself from the conversation.
Mycroft shook his head, “No, join me, I insist. I could use a friend.” He smiled again, more genuine than the first, indicating he truly meant his offer. He extended his arm out to you.
You took a short moment to think it over. “Sherlock won’t be there?” You asked, framing the question as a casual inquiry, although there was much more intent behind it.
Mycroft sighed like he knew something, shaking his head as if your question was ridiculous. “For both of our sakes, I certainly hope not.” He lifted his arm a little higher, extending the offer to you once more.
You gave in and accepted, nodding your head and looped your arm around his.
The Gala was a polished, yet pretentious event, full of professors and other high society members, all gathered in one place to celebrate Oxford's newest accomplishment. It was the kind of place your parents wanted you to be, and the kind that Sherlock would argue you aren’t made for.
You sat beside Mycroft at a table near the back of the room, seated with Professor Hodge’s assistant you knew as Edie, a few professors you weren’t familiar with, and a couple of men who aided in funding the building.
“Nothing has such power to broaden the mind as the ability to investigate.” Professor Hodge stood upon the stage, arms resting atop a podium as he addressed the crowd. You found yourself giving the professor barely a fraction of your attention, eyes wandering around the room as you inadvertently searched for Sherlock among the sea of faces. Although you knew events like this weren’t exactly his cup of tea, the chance of his arrival was not unlikely.
Hodge continued, “I must now make mention of our brilliant mathematician, Professor Charles Thompson, for his invaluable contribution. Ladies and gentlemen, I invite you to charge your glasses-” A resounding thump interrupted the professor's speech, startling you along with a few other guests. The noise came from the wall behind Professor Hodge, brick and mortar crumbling as the structure collapsed more and more with each thud. You had to crane your neck, sitting taller in your seat as you attempted to get a better look at the commotion.
“Holmes, what the devil are you doing in my chimney?” You overheard the professor before Sherlock came into view, heading poking out of the opening he had created in the wall. Your eyes flew wide and you turned to look at Mycroft, who let out a defeated sigh, now hiding his face behind his hand.
“Sorry to bother you, sir! A rather pressing issue,” Sherlock replied, voice strained with effort as he continued to break the wall down.
“Well, I hope it is for your sake. What is it?”
“A bomb!” Sherlock spoke louder now, a more desperate tone to his voice. “A bomb is an incendiary device-”
“I know what a bloody bomb is, Holmes! What has that got to do with interrupting my speech and destroying my chimney?”
“Proximity, sir. It’s likely to go off within the next thirty seconds, killing anyone within the blast radius, which I would assume is likely to be… pretty likely this whole room, sir.” Sherlock emerged from behind what used to be the chimney.
Professor Hodge responded quietly, something you couldn’t hear from where you were sitting. Your eyes passed over the guests who made no effort to heed Sherlock’s warning. To be fair, it sounded ridiculous.
“Should we be moving?” You whispered to Mycroft, slight panic in your voice.
James Moriarty stepped out from behind Sherlock, much more urgency in his tone. “For God’s sake, would you stop being so English! There’s a bomb!” With that, the room erupted into screams of panic. Mycroft quickly urged you up and out of your seat, trying his best to guide you through the crowd as people began to run. Chairs screeched against the floor as guests shuffled to get out. Everyone made for the door, some tripping over themselves as they pushed past others.
You barely made it out of the room before an explosion went off behind you, bursting with fire and soot. The detonation left a ringing in your ears, the world becoming quieter, the guests frightened screams fading into no more than a fuzzy white noise. You looked around, slightly disoriented. Mycroft was beside you still, already looking down at you and asking if you were okay. You only nodded, bringing a hand up to rub your temple in efforts to soothe a subtle throb that had begun to develop.
Once again, you found yourself searching the crowd for Sherlock. Unlike the last few times, you realized you wanted to find him. Your heart rate began to pick up when he was nowhere to be found. Sherlock’s name slipped from your lips unintentionally. Mycroft noticed and placed his hand on your shoulder in a comforting manner. He said something to you, but you couldn’t focus beyond the loud ringing in your ears. You turned, looking back towards the smoking entrance of the science building, and as if on cue, Sherlock Holmes emerged from inside with James Moriarty by his side.
He was wiping soot from his face when his gaze caught your own. Sherlock stopped in his tracks, afraid that if he moved any closer, you would disappear like all the other times. This time, you didn’t turn away. You felt your concern ease, instead replaced by something else.
Much to Sherlock’s surprise, you approached him in a quick, dire stride. He almost smiled, thrilled that you had come to your senses and decided to speak with him again, but he recognized your expression, and any trace of a grin faded in an instant. “Oh no,” he muttered, horror crossing over his features.
“What?” James questioned, turning to follow his friend’s line of sight, though he wasn’t quite sure what he was looking for.
Before Sherlock had time to answer, you were in front of the two men, hands flying out to hit Sherlock on the chest over and over again. “You absolute fool! What is wrong with you?” You scolded him, releasing your pent up anger through the light blows to his chest.
Sherlock’s shoulders tensed, his eyes shutting as he took the strikes without complaint. Of course it wasn’t an enjoyable sensation for him, but he didn’t have the guts to tell you to stop. “I’m not sure I understand this reaction?” He forced the words, peaking through a squinted eye.
You stopped hitting him, though the angry glare hurt him just as bad. “Really? You think you can show up without warning after six years! And on top of that, barge into this gala, blow it up, and still have the nerve to act like everything is fine and you’re the hero!”
“For your information, I did no such thing. I had no part in this explosion, James and I were attempting to stop it.” Sherlock defended, rolling his shoulders back in efforts to remove the tension. You gave him another sharp look which earned an amused snicker from James. Sherlock quickly swallowed his words, realizing his mistake. He adjusted his coat and cleared his throat as he regained his composure. “James, would you give us a moment?” Sherlock spoke staidly, looking towards his friend, who teased shamelessly,
“Oh, of course, don’t let me keep you two lovebirds.” He bowed his head, feigning politeness before backing away slowly and disappearing into the chaos of the explosion aftermath.
Sherlock let out a huff, nostrils flared with his momentary irritation before his gaze caught yours once more. Something softened, though he looked at you now with uncertainty. “I don’t understand,” Sherlock shook his head. “You have been avoiding me for days. What’s changed?”
“Oh, don’t be a hypocrite. If distance is what is confusing you, then you should not have disappeared six years ago.” The words hit Sherlock hard, realization rushing over him all at once.
He blinked, for once at a loss for words. “No, that…” Sherlock shook his head, regret overwhelming him suddenly. He longed to reach out to you, as if that would be any reconciliation for how you were feeling, for this misunderstanding, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so. Words didn’t feel like enough with you, they never did, but that’s the only way he ever knew. “That’s not what happened,” He began to protest, but was unable to when his name was called somewhere in the distance.
It was a very dishevelled looking Professor Hodge, accompanied by Edie and Mycroft, all whose patience seemed to be a short fuse. Sherlock looked back and forth, torn between his options. He opened his mouth to speak, but was once again interrupted by the sound of his name, this time from Mycroft. Sherlock sighed, knowing he wouldn’t have much time before being rudely interrupted once again. “I can assure you, I never intended for that to happen. Allow me time to explain. I’ll find you later. Just promise you’ll listen?”
You looked at him, eyebrows a tense line as you considered his advance. You didn’t answer, but something in you softened, and of course Sherlock noticed. He always noticed. “Thank you.” He said softly before making his way towards Hodge and the others.
Sherlock didn’t find you in your dorm later that night. He knocked on the door once and waited, but there was no response. He knocked a second time, telling himself you just needed a moment to compose yourself. Still, there was no answer. Then he knocked a third time, and once more after that for good measure. You never answered and he felt his heart falter with defeat. It was simply too late. It seemed Sherlock Holmes had lost you for good.
When he returned to his room later that night with James Moriarty at his side once more, he slumped into a lopsided chair beside his desk and sighed deeply. Guilt and frustration overcame him, a frown pulling at his lips and a deep crease forming between his brows. He discarded his jacket, tossing it lazily onto the foot of his bed before running a hand through his hair as James approached him with a drink.
“You look rather down in the dumps for a man who should be celebrating.” James remarked, sitting down on the armchair across from Sherlock, looking rather proud with that signature smirk he always wore.
“And what exactly should we be celebrating?” Sherlock inquired, picking up his drink and swirling the liquid inside the glass as he looked down at it. “We haven’t exactly solved anything. We don’t know who planted the bomb. Or why?”
“And that is not our concern.” James countered, nonchalance radiating from him as he comfortably reclined back in his seat.
“Not our concern?” Sherlock repeated, leaning forward in contrast to James.
“We set out to find the scrolls. We found them. I’m not losing my scholarship, and you’re not going to prison. So I think that’s worth raising a glass to.” James retorted, lifting his glass and taking a sip of his drink with a look of assurity on his face.
Sherlock didn’t argue. He turned, resting his chin on the palm of his hand as his gaze roamed over the window. The room was silent for a moment before James began humming to himself. Sherlock was moments away from slipping away into the safety of his overactive imagination and hyperanalyze every action of his day when a knock sounded at the door.
James and Sherlock shared a look before the Irishman spoke, “Are you expecting company?”
Sherlock stood, shaking his head as he made his way to the door, “I am not.” He eyed the door suspiciously, taking hold of the knob before twisting it open to reveal you. Your name passed from his lips, his tone the most encouraged it had sounded in hours. “You weren’t in your room?” He recalled, brows furrowing with curiosity as he looked at you.
“I was not.” You shook your head. “I wasn’t sure I was ready to face you.”
“And now?”
You held his gaze for a long moment, your expression finally free of any animosity or preconceptions. “May I come in?”
“Of course,” Sherlock stepped to the side, allowing you into the room. He watched as you entered, his gaze burned to you like he was afraid if he blinked you would be gone again. He closed the door behind, flexing his fingers as he released the handle.
“Oh, I was not aware anyone else was here.” You look between James and Sherlock, deciding whether you should stay or come back another time.
“Don’t mind me,” James waved it off, now on his feet and approaching the floor mirror which held his jacket. “I have a previous arrangement to get to."
“Yes,” Sherlock nodded, agreeing though he had no such knowledge of these arrangements James spoke of. “He was just leaving.”
James smiled in the way he always does, first to Sherlock then to you as he shimmed into his jacket. “So, Romeo, Juliet, good night, good night.” He teased, backing towards the door. “Parting is such sweet sorrow that I shall say good night… ‘Cause I am off to the pub.” With that, the door swung close behind him and you and Sherlock were left alone.
The room almost felt smaller now. Filled with a tension so great it was almost palpable. The silence was deafening and your heart threatened to escape from your chest. Sherlock wasn’t exactly sure what to say, where to begin. All he knew was that he was treading on thin ice. “Would you like something to drink?” He finally spoke, the words coming out strained.
You nodded quickly, “Yes, please.” While you would usually say no, the situation at hand felt in dire need of one.
In an instant, Sherlock was moving towards his liquor table to fix you something. You stood awkwardly in the middle of his room, looking around at nothing in particular. The walls were bare and the room itself lacked personality, yet you found it easier to observe rather than the man in front of you.
“How did you know where to find me?” Sherlock asked, pretending to be occupied on pouring a drink, not yet having the courage to look at you just yet.
“Mycroft mentioned something earlier.” You shrugged, fidgeting with your hands idly as you turned to look at Sherlock- or more so his back, which your eyes inadvertently roamed over, his white undershirt not leaving much to imagination. You cleared your throat when you caught yourself, quickly peeling your eyes away when he turned.
“Ah, of course he did.” Sherlock nodded, pressing his lips together in a thin line. “What more did brother dear say about me?” He inquired, handing you your drink.
You looked down at the cup, “To be truthful, there was minimal interest in the topic. Just a few fleeting mentions here and there.” You took a sip of the strong liquid, the drink burning the back of your throat, just delightfully enough to distract you from the tension between you and Sherlock.
“Right then…” Sherlock trailed off awkwardly, picking up his own drink before suddenly becoming aware of the fact that you were both still standing in the middle of his room. “Oh, please sit. Do make yourself comfortable.” He stretched an arm out, pointing towards the armchair James sat on only moments before.
You sighed and made no movement toward the chair, just shaking your head before saying, “Sherlock, we both know I’m not here to catch up.”
“Yes, you’re right,” He exhaled, knowing he couldn’t avoid anything any longer. Sherlock took a step, finding his chair before slumping into it like before. He took a moment, going over the millions of things he could say, thinking back on the speech he’d prepared to say to you earlier, but once again, the words didn’t seem adequate. He began despite, “I never meant to leave you so suddenly, those six years ago.”
“You did not intend to, yet you did.” You spoke defensively, the words leaving your mouth before you could suppress the reaction. “You disappeared Sherlock. You did not have to. You could have written at least.”
“You are right. I should have. I was foolish not to.” Sherlock placed his drink down, looking at you with the most sincerity you had ever seen from him. “After everything that happened that summer. After Beatrice, then my mother, everything became disoriented.” He shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “Father told me he was sending me to finishing school that very same day I left, it was all so sudden. I wanted to say goodbye, I did, but I thought that maybe it would be better if I just disappeared. Your life had a clear path, mine did not. I always knew your parents disliked my interference, in fear that your life would become disorderly like mine. So I decided to step back. Your life would be better without me. I acted in your best interest.”
“You acted in my best interest?” You repeated, almost dropping your glass. “Your disappearance was you being gracious to me?” You took a few steps closer, looking down at him with your brows raised.
“Yes…” Sherlock nodded, confusion spreading across his features, like he wasn’t quite sure what he had said wrong.
You continued looking at Sherlock with absolute disbelief. “You thought you could just decide what is best for me, and I would just accept it? Just move on and forget about you so easily like you never meant anything to me?”
“Well… when you put it like that-”
“Sherlock, you were my best friend! I was never afraid of your mess, I didn’t care! I don’t! So do not try to act in my best interest. The life I wanted was never about order or the things you felt you could not offer me. The life I wanted always involved you!” You spoke firmly now, voice raised the slighted bit, though there was a desperate frailty to it.
Sherlock stood there just looking at you, his eyes wandering over your face, trying to find the right words to respond. Eventually, he managed, “I am so sorry.” The words came out weak and broken. “I’m not sure what I can say now to make things right. I’m not sure anything could ever suffice for what I did to you… All I ask is another chance?”
You didn’t answer instantly, although you knew you wanted the same thing. Him back in your life. Your gaze travelled across his face, eventually lingering on a patch of dried blood over his temple. “You missed some,” You said softly, turning to the wash basin behind you and reaching for the face cloth beside it. Tenderly, you brought your free hand to his chin, tilting his face upwards before bringing the cloth up to his temple to rub at the blood stained there.
Sherlock’s eyes were glued to you. Your touch burned into his skin. Unlike other times, he found himself dreading the moment you would inevitably move away. He leaned into you, wanting to be close, needing to. The six years without you were not without his own displeasures. He missed you dearly throughout it all. Despite his uncertainty as you delicately held him, and the racing of his heart from being so close to you, he savored the feeling and didn’t want you to let go.
To his disappointment, you did eventually pull away, placing the wash cloth down and stepping back before softly speaking, “I should go.”
Sherlock swallowed, “Alright.” It was all he could manage at the moment, looking up at you through half lidded eyes.
You slowly turned, moving towards the door and fidgeting with your fingers as you debated whether or not to speak again. “I suppose I will see you tomorrow.” You finally said, hands on the doorknob, turning over your shoulder to look at him one last time.
Sherlock nodded, a small smile finding its way onto his lips. “I look forward to it.”
Like, soulmate au’s and fantasy things when writing?
Yes, I love these ideas, I am totally opening to writing these! If you have anymore ideas/context for these concepts, pls let me know. The more information the better, and I wanna write something that meets your expectations! My requests are open to anyone, so pls feel free to send some!
I had this idea a while ago for a Cal Kestis fic, but it wasn’t until recently I really decided what I wanted to do with it. This is a quick excerpt from the beginning of it just to test the waters. Please let me know what you think! 🤗
Pairing: Cal Kestis x f!reader
Warnings: Destined lovers/Soulmates, heavily inspired by Hadestown/ Orpheus and Eurydice
Summary: Cal Kestis keeps finding psychometry objects that show him moments of you and he can’t help but feel drawn.
Cal Kestis dropped down onto a stool in Pyloon’s Saloon. His body moved slowly, aching from days of work. All the fighting had been taking a toll on him, though he’d never admit it. Greez did his best to encourage Cal to take a long break, but all the Jedi ever allowed himself was a nap and meal before heading off again. The Empire didn’t rest, and neither would Cal, if that’s what it took. Right now, Cal’s plan was to take a respite on Koboh for a few hours before leaving for Segra Milo. Saw Gerrera had requested his time and everyone knows you don’t keep a man with that much influence waiting for too long.
With ease, M-6NK slid a glass in Cal’s direction. A familiar fizzy liquid bubbled inside, threatening to spill over as the cup travelled down the top of the bar. When Cal caught hold of the glass, an echo in the force rippled through him, a flash of white blinding his vision, a jolt running through his spine. Then a vague vision.
“Anybody got a match?” A voice rang out through the echo from behind Cal. It was an unfamiliar sound, one he didn’t recognize. He turned to look at you, though he didn’t know who you were. Not yet.
“I got one.” The Nautolan Cal knew as Caij Vanda responded, gaining your attention and lifting a box of matches, settled between her fingers. Her head was tilted downwards, hat covering her face in that mysterious way Cal often found her.
“Gimme that.” You stood from your seat, walking only a few steps before snatching the box out of Caij’s hand. Cal observed you, squinting slightly as he tried to make you out through the blurred silhouette the force provided him. You returned to your stool beside him before flicking the lid open and removing a match, scratching it on the side of the box and creating a spark at the tip of the short wooden stick. Then cradling the small flame, you used it to light an oil lamp sitting on the counter. “Thanks.” You said shortly, tossing the box back in Caij’s direction. She catched it without a glance and tipped her hat. You stood grabbing your lantern, with the other hand picking up a glass on the counter -the same one Cal found himself holding- before downing the rest of the liquid within it, placing it back on the counter with finality before walking off.
The echo faded, recentering Cal back into reality. He looked down at the stool beside him, the place he’d seen you in, and wondered why he felt drawn to what he had just seen, why he felt drawn to you. He didn’t even know your name.
“Cal,” M-6NK called, sliding in front of the Jedi on the opposite side of the bar. “Your drink is gathering dust. Something on your mind?”
Cal looked up at the droid, considering for a moment to let him in on the echo he’d just witnessed, maybe ask about you, but the question died on his tongue. What would he ask anyways? Who was the girl who drank from this same cup- who knows how long ago, sat in this seat, and where can I find her? Cal figured his chances were better off on his own. He shook his head instead, “No, Monk. Just tired.” Swiftly, he brought the glass to his lips, quickly downing the drink as you had done in the vision, before getting up and excusing himself from the bar. He needed a nap, some time to reset. Cal Kestis would figure you out another time.
Pairing: James Moriarty x reader, Sherlock Holmes x reader
Summary: How you meet Sherlock and James.
Warnings: no use of y/n, cringe dialogue, violence, explosions, chases, cursing, drinking, yearning, love triangle??, let me know if i missed any
Word Count: 7.7k
a/n: (at the end)
There was a shift in the air when your boat from New York City first docked in England. It was subtle, but one you couldn’t shake. It wasn’t until you stepped out of your carriage at Oxford that you placed the feeling. The feeling was a precognition; an air of anticipation surrounded the institution. Still, with that feeling in place, you were unsure whether the outcome would be in your favor.
Growing up a fifth avenue elite alongside families such as the Vanderbilt family, the Hamiltons, the Rockefellers, and others, you were accustomed to the haughty nature of those with much money and big shiny names. You yourself are a part of the Willborn family. Your family comes from a long line of riches, stretching as far back as King George I. Which attributes to why the name holds such weight in the world of those with power and money. Along with the fact that after a stroke of luck from your father's business days, your family’s wealth prospers due to the growing industrialized world. Your father had insisted that you attend Oxford as he had. And you, the ever-gracious daughter, had agreed, after your father agreed, to keep his hands out of your education while you were there.
That day of your arrival, you must have seemed troubled because that was the day you had met a scout named Sherlock Holmes. He had asked you what was causing you distress as he hauled one of your trunks up into his arms with little exertion. A conversation soon followed and continued all that afternoon as he helped bring your belongings up into your room. That evening, he had quelled your worry and left you feeling at peace with the future Oxford had in store for you.
After that day, you had only seen him in passing with friendly smiles and small exchanges of pleasantries. He was one of the only people at Oxford that you had met who didn’t act like they had a stick up their ass without good reason. He was incredibly smart and somehow also kind. It was a startling change from the arrogance of New York and the cruelty of your lectures. Even still, your interactions remained at a minimum.
All that said, the last thing you had expected to happen was to be accused of stealing the princess's scrolls alongside Sherlock Holmes and his Irish friend. The morning of the accusation, it had been explained that the three of you had been the last seen going into the Library before the scrolls disappeared.
——
The second real conversation you have with Sherlock Holmes happens in the library. Sherlock had summoned you with no particulars, just that you meet him there as quickly as possible. You, curious as ever, were standing outside before he himself got there.
“Sherlock!” You call out as you see him. He nods with a smile. He says your name in greeting and then stations himself next to you. His shoe taps against the ground of the hall. You note the anxious air to him, but don’t speak of it.
“Why am I here?” You ask, turning to face him. He smiles faintly as he takes a breath.
“Ah, yes. I suspected the information wouldn't have reached you yet.” Sherlock's smile turns into a thoughtful look when his brows furrow in thought.
“What information?” You muse, tilting your head at him. He meets your eyes with a serious look that sets you standing straight again.
“You were one of the last people seen in the library before the princesses' scrolls were stolen.” He explains, his hands moving to his hips. Stollen? You had just been in the library trying to get some quiet from Alice, the girl who sleeps in the room next to yours. There was always some commotion or another happening in that room.
“You think I stole the scrolls?” You inquire, a scoff hinting at the tip of your breath. Sherlock shakes his head profusely before answering.
“No, of course not. You hardly have the need for the money that selling them would get you.” Sherlock clarifies. “Besides, I have faith in you.” You smile at that. Somehow, it is reassuring in a way you didn’t think possible. You had only met Sherlock once, and already you felt oddly safe in his presence, like there had been some unspoken vow of protection cast over you by him.
“Well, I am glad I can be trusted,” You smile softly. “But how do you know all this, and I do not?” You question.
“I had a run-in with a constable,” Sherlock explains quickly. “And you were asleep when I got to your room, so it's no wonder you know nothing.” Sherlock shakes his head with a smile, mildly entertained with himself.
Just then, a man rounds the corner. The man is wearing a deep blue waistcoat with matching trousers and a mustache so sharp it looks like he just stepped in from shaving it in another room.
“But why are you here?” You continue, paying little mind to the astute man.
“A question I would also enjoy the answer to, brother dear.” The man says as he stops in front of the two of you. He looks unamused to say the least.
“Mycroft,” Sherlock greets. You remember now, Sherlock mentioning his brother the first time you’d met. He had been reluctant to say more than just that he existed and worked at the school. Now, seeing him in person, you somewhat understand.
“Your brother?” You query to Sherlock, an amused smile tugging at your lips at the clear distaste on both men’s faces.
“Unfortunately,” Mycroft responds for Sherlock, who, in return, ignores him. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mycroft Holmes.” Mycroft Holmes bows just slightly, you do as well, followed by your name and a polite greeting. “Well, shall we make our way inside?” He continues, but Sherlock shakes his head.
”We’re waiting for James.” Sherlock informs, now turning to you before you can ask what he suspects you will. “A friend of mine, James, we were also one of the last people reported to be seen going into the library.”
“So we’re all suspects, and we’re all going back to the place of the crime, for what exactly?” You ask, face riddled with confusion.
“Another answer I would like.” Mycroft scoffs, stepping closer to Sherlock.
“To prove our innocence.” Sherlock smiles, trying to sound reassuring but failing quite amazingly.
“I don’t know if this will help our case. May only hurt it.” You remark. Mycroft hums in agreement. You aren’t sure why you’re still standing here, or if following along with this, practically, strangers' ideas is even safe. But you somehow find yourself intrigued by the idea of solving a crime, of the thrill of a chase. So you say no more.
“Might I point out,” Sherlock starts, his eyes gleaming slightly, “that you don’t seem to be leaving. So maybe you know that it isn’t such a bad idea.” Sherlock states with a sort of smug look on his face. As if he can read your every thought running through your head just by watching your face. You tilt your head at him, quirk a brow, and bite back an amused smile, but say nothing.
“Hmm, as I suspected.” Sherlock bows his head with a smile.
“Enough with the flirting, Sherlock, we don’t have all day.” Mycroft distrusts the moment, stepping in front of Sherlock. “Where’s your friend?”
“I'm here!” A voice calls just as another man rounds the corner. You turn to put a name to a face. Just as you turn to see him, his eyes catch yours. You take him in curiously, the curls adorning his head, his thick dark eyebrows, and deep brown eyes. He’s wearing a brown striped lounge suit, with a matching vest and a brown tie with gold accents. He looks irritable, though of course you understand. The school must not be taking this lightly. Not wanting to be caught staring, you glance at Sherlock.
“You must be James. Sherlock’s told us about you.” You clear your throat and look back at him. His expression shifts as you acknowledge him by name. He pulls his charm out of his back pocket and slabs it onto his expression. Making sure his next few words will swoon the pretty girl he just met.
“I am,” He smiles, “Though Sherlock hasn’t graced me with the pleasure of your name.” James’ head tilts downward as if to draw you in closer with just a look. Yet as attractive and enticing as it is, you know better than to fall for it. No man in the history of the human race has ever been so charming without having alternative motives.
Sherlock is quick to save you from him and tells James your name. “She is also a suspect. Now, if you please, go into the library; we have no time to waste.” Sherlock gestures to the tall burgundy door.
You don’t protest and follow as the three men walk into the library. Mycroft lingers by the door and lets the three of you walk on. “You got ten minutes. Don’t embarrass me again.” Mycroft calls as you all walk. Sherlock ignores him again, so you and James do too.
You glance around, not even sure what you're looking for. Sherlock and James walk quickly down the rows and shelves of books, only stopping a couple of times to get a better look at something before deciding it was nothing and moving on.
“You know what we’re looking for?” James asks, shifting his glance over the room.
“Not really, no.” Sherlock quickly answers.
“How wonderful.” You think aloud, sarcasm weighing your words down. James huffs out a laugh before looking over at you with amusement.
Sherlock abruptly stops at the edge of the row. You, not looking, nearly bump right into him. Sherlock's mind is clearly elsewhere because he moves down the row. You look up to where he and James have set their attention. A broken window.
“A hole in the window. Wonder what that’s for?” Sherlock says flatly. He is quick to begin climbing the shelf to get a closer look.
“You should be a detective,” James chimes in, just as dry, hand slipping into his pocket as he watches Sherlock from the edge of the aisle. Now, on the stone ledge of the window, Sherlock leans on his knees to analyze it more closely.
“Hard to escape my powers of observation.” Sherlock again replies sarcastically with little emotion, but you know he’s amused by where the conversation is going. So you continue it.
“And what might these powers of observation be telling you now?” You shift your weight to one foot and fold your arms over your chest. James and Sherlock’s heads both whip around to you, surprised that you had said anything at all to play along with them. Sherlock gives you a smile before turning back towards the broken window to formulate a response.
“There has been, wait for it, a break-in.” He glances over his shoulder to consider your reaction. How easy it is to amuse them, you think. They let you speak freely without feeling the need to mediate your words, as many others you meet have. You can’t count on the number of times a man at this institution has told you or another woman to stop speaking because you said something smarter or funnier than them, and they got embarrassed. But these two didn’t seem at all concerned.
“Astounding.” You shake your head.
“How did you develop these skills of penetrating deduction?” James is back to his flat tone, but now his eyes also fall toward you.
“We’ve been gifted a couple of paw prints,” Sherlock notes, standing straight and backing from the window.
“There's a hook there, who’s missing his guest,” James notes, pointing to the hook on the wall where a clock should be but isn’t.
“Think I’ve clocked the guest,” Sherlock jokes with a close-lipped smile, but before you can add anything, Mycroft calls you all back to the entrance of the library. Reluctantly, you all slowly make your way back, but not before making a few more clock jokes.
It’s when you return to Mycroft that you see the source of his anxious posture. Sir Bucephalus Hodge, his assistant, Constable Lestrade, and Princess Shou’an. Hodge looks far from pleased, and you can’t help but get nervous yourself. He glares daggers at all four of you.
“Mycroft, would you mind telling me why your brother, the prime suspect, is standing at the scene of the crime?” Hodge asks, as you predicted would happen.
For the next couple of minutes, both groups go back and forth. The Princess and Sherlock have a conversation in Mandarin, and it seems, with the princess at the very least, to have solved some issues. You stand beside James as the conversation goes on, and you glance over to him as if to ask what’s happening. And he simply shrugs, smiling, but you can feel sadness from him. Dejectedness after Hodges' assistant said she did not know him. Somehow, you knew she did. You could feel it in the way James stood, less tall, less sure of himself. Yet you notice that there is no surprise. He’s not shocked at the blatant cruelty of her words. He’s used to it.
“I can help you find your father’s scrolls,” Sherlock says to the Princess.
“We.” You correct him. Everyone turns to you, as if they are only now realizing you exist. You shift uncomfortably under their gazes. “We can help.”
“There’s a very good reason why you can help find them. One of you stole them.” Hodge seethes, voice flaring with anger.
You regret only for a moment speaking up. Though soon your regret quells when the Princess convinces him. But only after she practically threatens him and his assistant politely suggests they leave. Constable Lestraude, Hodge, and his assistant all take their leave, but the Princess stays behind. Mycroft also leaves, having more pressing business to attend to.
“I’m coming with you.” You state firmly, after Mycroft leaves.
“Now, you don’t have to.” Sherlock clarifies, thoughtful as ever. “I only called you down here to inform you of the situation at hand.”
“I’m coming.” You stand firm in your decision. This time, James steps forward, hands in his pockets.
“Really,” He says your name, and it sounds so nice, so careful.
“I want to.” You say again, annoyance creeping in.
“There’s no shame in staying back.” You assume James only means it to be reassuring, but it simply makes you irritated. He says it like you're breakable.
“What would be a shame is me kicking you in the balls. But I'm not opposed to being shameful.” A silence falls over the four of you as the words leave your mouth. You're unamused. The annoyance of being questioned one too many times is clear on your face and in your posture.
James stands there, somewhat stunned, his eyes frozen wide open and mouth slightly ajar, no witty response in sight. Sherlock, on the other hand, is biting back his laugh; his closed fist presses to his mouth to cover his shit-eating grin. The Princess chuckles and starts for the exit of the library.
Without looking back, she says, “You heard her, off we go.”
——
“According to Lestrade, the thief scaled down the side of the building and into a boat. Lestade told me there’s a river in the woods where the thief towed from Candlin College. Then they disappeared.” The princess informs.
Princess Shou’an has taken the four of you to a riverside, one quite a ways from the school. There is an abandoned boat sitting on the damp sand that looks like it was hastily abandoned by whoever had been there before you. The boat's oars are haphazardly thrown into the boat's keel.
Thoughtfully, you hum as you step around the boat, looking for anything that may help the search. But you hardly feel useful; there’s not much to really look at after all. All you see is a boat, some rocks and sand, ropes, and water. You spin around on your heel to see if Sherlock or James got any farther in their investigations.
“Footprints?” James points towards Sherlock’s shoes. Sherlock turns to get a look.
“There’s only one set of tracks, only one thief.” Sherlock smiles just slightly as his eyes meet yours from his position leaning over the sand.
“Headed off this way,” James adds almost absentmindedly as he quickly darts up a small trail leading away from the riverside. Sherlock is right on his tail, following him up mossy rocks and onto the grassy ground. Such boys, the two of them. You roll your eyes at the thought before following after. The trail from the river leads past a stone wall and wooden gate to a dirt road. The footprints that James was following disappeared at the edge of a pair of carriage tracks. The impressions of the carriage’s wheels continue down the muddy road. One of the prints left by the wheel is askew, having left a crooked mark in the dirt.
“Footprints end here,” James utters as he tilts his head toward the long road ahead. You move to stand next to him and lean to peer around his body.
“So the thief got into a carriage?” Your head tilts while watching the road. Sensing you next to him, James turns to look down at you over his shoulder. James bites back his grin, and Sherlock, seeing it, rushes over to your other side, quickly grabbing your attention.
“Now there’s no need to deprecate. Next time, say it, don't ask.” Sherlock advises with a smile on his face. James sighs out his annoyance and turns back to the road.
“The thief got in a carriage." You try again, this time not questioning it.
“That’s the spirit!” Sherlock smiles now, fixing his eyes on the road as well.
“Aye aye. Looks like one of them wheels was a little drunk.” James notes as he points to the crooked wheel track.
“And a drunk wheel would need to sober up,” Sherlock adds, beginning down the road. The princess follows close behind him.
The trek ahead seems to go on forever. You attribute it to the fact that Sherlock and the Princess are up ahead of you and James chatting away in Mandarin while you and James shuffle after in relative silence, aside from passing comments about the scenery. You wonder now, walking beside him, if his concern before was sincere or if he really thought you incapable. You wonder if the charm he put on before you insulted him was for show. Either way, on both fronts, you haven’t known him for long enough to rule out either.
It doesn’t take long for the quiet to be inevitably broken by him. He clears his throat, and you turn your gaze to him expectantly. When his eyes meet yours, he smiles. But not like all the smiles before. This one is less showy, more real. You think it might be the most of him you’ve seen all day.
“You’re pretty quick,” James says, officially breaking any peace that was previously established.
“Is this going to be another one of your compliment-painted insults?” You question, only sparing him a fleeting glance before securing your vision ahead.
“No, no, nothing like that.” James dismisses with a wave of his hand.
“Oh? Then what is this?”
“It’s a truce.” It takes a second for him to settle on something to say. “I wanna recruit ya’”
“Alright, for what?” You laugh. A smile grows on his face as the sound fills the air. A weird feeling of warmth fills your chest as he smiles at you.
“You're fast, smart, we’d have fun with someone like you.” It catches you off guard how easily he says it. Like it hadn’t been something he thought hard about because it was simply a fact, something he could look at you and notice over and over again.
“We?” You say before you can let that thought go on any longer.
“Sherlock and I. He may be smart, but Sherlock hasn’t even half the wit you’ve got. He could use the teacher, and I could use the accomplice." James’ walk slows to a stop. He shifts to face you, wanting your undivided attention. It startles you, the way he’s looking at you. It's a welcome, and almost its own initiation ritual. You aren’t sure if you should be intimidated or impressed. And you aren’t sure what to say.
“Sherlock's got wit. He has to, otherwise I wouldn’t have spoken to him.” You find a loophole out of this uncomfortable corner James backed you into. And it seems to work.
“Okay, so maybe I’ve exaggerated to sway you,” James smirks playfully, this signature look you are now recognizing as such plastered on his face.
“Oh, alright, I see.” You nod back, your own fondness protruding on your expression.
“Well, have I? Swayed ya?” James eyes trail over your face, waiting for your response. You feel exposed, vulnerable to his prying eyes. Yet sitting at the center of his gaze, you feel a strange security. As though, now that you're in his radius of awareness, you’ll always be there, and he’ll be there always.
“Hurry up, you two! We haven’t got all day.” The princess calls from up ahead, where he and Sherlock have stopped to glare back at you and James. Sherlock's calls after you both before you get the chance to respond. You and James are quick to hurry along after them.
After what feels like an hour of walking, you see a house in the distance. It looks like an Inn just a ways down the dirt road. It’s a bit run-down, but it looks quaint; it’s surely a nice change of pace from Oxford's old money dining halls and lecture rooms. It vaguely reminds you of the houses you’d pass in uptown Manhattan on your way to Connecticut for long weekend vacations.
“Oh, hello. A coaching inn.” Sherlock confirms, slowing his pace to your left.
“Where one might get a wheel fixed,” James adds, moving to stand to your right.
“I wanted to ask.” The Princess begins, her attention moving to Sherlock as she walks beside him. “Were you trying to impress me?” Your interest piques, and you glance at James to see that he has too. You share a smirk of curiosity before pretending you're only half listening.
“Impress you?” The sheer confusion lacing Sherlock's voice is enough to force you to suppress a laugh.
“At the maths lecture.” She continues, “When you corrected Professor Thompson.” You can feel the amusement radiating from James.
“The professor 's calculations were incorrect. That was all.” Sherlock states, as if the mere concept of that interaction being anything more is absurd.
“Disappointing.” Is all she says in response. You aren’t sure if she’s gotten the hint, but you guess she will in due time.
“Well, frankly, I don’t know what you see in him.” James, ever the hero, swoops in and saves the impending awkward silence. “I mean, yes, he is handsome in a sort of obvious, clumsy kind of way.” You laugh, and it spurs him on. Sherlock, on the other hand, his head whips around and glares daggers into James’ head. “But if anyone here were ever looking for something a bit more niche. A bit more bespoke, more mysterious, well—”
“Where might someone find a man like that?” Sherlock interjects, hands moving to adjust his cap, before his pride is completely ripped out from under him.
“As stimulating as this is, chaps, I need to return to my carriage.” The princess stops any further teasing, as she comes to a halt just short of the gate to the inn.
”Why? We were just beginning to have some fun.” You smile, turning to face her. You really didn’t want the only other woman to leave you this far into the journey.
“The gala opening. Hodges new science building. I promised him I would be there.” You meet her eyes and nod in understanding. “Thank you for your help. All of you.”
She turns to walk back the way you all came from before any formal goodbyes can commence. But Sherlock takes that as a sign to keep going. James bows sarcastically in her wake; you don’t catch what he says, just that it’s unserious nonsense, maybe a way to shield the disappointment at the princess's clear lack of interest in him. You move to catch up with Sherlock.
“A welcome oasis in the parched deserts of this rural wasteland,” Sherlock notes to you as you jog to his side.
“I was just thinking the same thing.” You smile.
A plaque of wood above the entrance of the Inn reads The Hare & Hounds. Sherlock walks in first, you’re quick to follow after, James steps in last, and closes the door. As you walk in, you notice a gentleman with a graying beard playing the fiddle at the far end of the room. He’s wearing a black hat and dusty gray coat, one that looks like it has seen a lot of hard days of work. Beside him is an open door to a back room.
To the left of the room is a bar, with stools lining the countertop. Behind the bar stands a lady, a bottle of liquor in hand. “What can I do for you lot?’ She inquires, attention shifting between pouring a drink and you three.
“Three whiskeys, my good lady, and whatever you’d like for your fine self.” James leans against the counter with a charming smile.
“Ever the gentleman.” You roll your eyes. “And only two whiskeys for us.” You smile at her.
“Sure, love.” The lady nods before turning to James and thanking him. Sherlock begins to dig in his pockets for change.
“Aye now, I’m getting this. Your money's no good here.” James is quick to slide his money over to the lady.
“I’ll get the drinks, you get the tip,” Sherlock says, flicking a coin, catching it, and pushing it in front of James’ money with a sly look. “Sure, you don’t want anything?” Sherlock asks over his shoulder, and you nod.
“‘And out of his pocket he pulled the sovereign bright…’” James begins, quoting someone you are sure you’ve never heard of before. As you go to question it, Sherlock steps in and finishes the line.
“‘And the landlady’s eyes open wide with delight.” Sherlock's smile is subtle but there as he leans against the bar top.
“What was all that about needing me earlier? You two seem like you’ve got everything under control all on your own.” You smirk brazenly.
”Oh, I don’t know about that; a couple of quotes don’t mean anything.” James chuckles, his arm resting so casually against the bar. He knows exactly what he’s doing, but you aren’t that easy, and you figure now is as good a time as any for him to learn. Sherlock lifts the glass of whiskey to his nose with a smile as he watches you scoff.
Unfazed, James turns his attention back to the lady. “Excuse me. Our carriage is in need of a bit of repair. You see, we’ve been traveling for a couple of days now. My brother-in-law, my wife—”
“His sister.” You correct, before James can finish his sentence. You take hold of Sherlock's arm without thinking twice and lean against him with a big phony smile. “We’re on the way to our parents' home,”
A flush takes over Sherlock's face as his body is pulled up against yours. He’s not angry, just caught off guard. He wasn’t expecting you to be such a quick and easy liar. He also wasn’t expecting your lies to piss off James this much. James is standing there with his jaw drawn up tight. His lips are pulled into a thin line as he watches you paint this story that was supposed to be his. You think about stopping it there, but you can’t help the amusement you are getting from that look on James’ face, or the feeling of Sherlock beginning to play along as he wraps an arm around your waist.
“My mother’s been wanting to see us ever—well, the baby.” You whisper coyly, drawing out this narrative just to see the irritation in James’ expression grow with each passing second. You put on this persona so easily that it impresses Sherlock.
“She’s been going on and on about it in her letters. So you understand the urgency.” You say. Now completely immersed in the story, Sherlock adds something of his own.
“And my dear brother-in-law has a horrible sickness in rocky carriages, his stomach is so very weak—”
“That’s enough.” James cuts him off before he can say anything more. “It’s the wheelwright around, and might we have a word with him?” The withheld anger in his tone forms a laugh in your lungs, and you have to suppress it by turning your face toward Sherlock and into his side. There, you bite down on your lip to stifle your explosive giggles. Sherlock, also near laughter, clears his throat to stop himself.
“He’s done at the village, but he’ll be back shortly.” The lady, clearly confused at the whole situation, says with a sigh and then turns to get back to whatever work she was previously doing.
“We’ll wait then,” James grumbles out, taking his whiskey and stomping off to a table at the opposite wall.
You pull away from Sherlock with a smile. “Is he mad?” You ask, still biting back a smile.
“Oh, extremely," Sherlock smirks down at you before he begins moving too to the table. He sets his drink down and takes a seat next to a still unimpressed James. You sit to James’ left, across from Sherlock, around the small table.
James finishes his shot of whiskey and leans back in quiet annoyance. You, feeling the tension, lean towards him with a smile as a peaceful gesture.
“You wanted fun.” You say. “Here’s my fun.” There’s a moment of contemplation before James lets out a big sigh,
“Fun.” He shakes his head, a grin growing on his lips. “You’re something else, I’ll tell you that, Ms—”
“Willborn.” Sherlock finishes with lifted brows.
“Ms Willborn.” James nods, testing the name out on his tongue. It sounds illegally good coming out of his mouth. “Here comes the fun.”
Just then, the fiddle-holding man sets down his instrument and scurries away through the back door. You hum in interest, and Sherlock and James share a look. Oh, this will be fun.
“Let the games begin,” Sherlock adds, now downing his own drink.
——
What followed was nothing short of preposterous. Never in your wildest imagination could you have predicted even relatively accurately. Yet, it had thrilled you in a way you couldn’t explain. Not that you would ever want a day like today to ever happen again, you can’t rule out that it wasn’t magnificently eye-opening.
The man with the fiddle had turned out, as suspected, to know about the missing scrolls. He had, in fact, had a scroll holster fastened over his shoulder. Sherlock followed him out of the back of the Inn and was attacked by the fiddle player and left with a blood-dripping nose. On some odd instinct of James’, he’d pulled you out of the establishment and around to the back in search of Sherlock. There, you had found him on the ground with the fiddler over him, ready to strike. Before you could cry out, James was on the fiddler, shoving him away from Sherlock. Once he was off, he fled away from the inn down the road.
After some trouble in running after him, you pulled off your healed shoes, had to tell the boys to run ahead, and that you would catch up—the three of you corner him in a barn house just off the main road. Following James's knocking the fiddler unconscious, the holster was found to be empty.
There was, after that, a brief period of reassessment. Sherlock deduced that it had been a decoy to lure you away from the school. He explained to you, after he and James used their so-called overactive imagination, that the scrolls had never left the school. You had then all gone back to the school and into the library, where you had discovered that the break-in was fabricated and that the scrolls were hidden in a pedestal displaying a marble statue of a man's head.
The cabinet that the scrolls had been sitting atop had vanished since you were last in the library, and the three of you were quick to follow the trail of inconsistency. No one could have taken it out of the room since that morning due to the police guarding the entrances. The only way the cabinet could have been moved was through the walls of the old medieval banquet-hall-turned-library. Through a slab of wood paneling on the wall, James was able to remove the paneling to reveal one of the old banquet corridors. Down the corridor halls, you find the cabinet with a bomb ticking inside it.
It had all been because of the gala. Hodges gala for the new science building that was opening. The gala was taking place just on the other side of the chimney, which was in the room where the cabinet sat. With but 90 seconds to spare, the three of you smash through the chimney and successfully warn everyone at the gala about the bomb. Though, of course, not without getting caught on the edges of the bomb’s radius.
Sherlock had gotten the brunt of it. He had pushed you forward, making sure you got out before him, but ended up with a gash on his left temple. And he, along with James and you, had been thrown to the ground by the impact of the blast and enveloped head to toe in ash. James had been quick to help you up off the soot-covered floors as you stumbled in your heels. Sherlock made swift work of getting the three of you out of the building and to a medical professional. The ringing in your head only stopped after the sun had set two hours later.
——
After being held for examination for what felt like days, Sherlock, James, and you are let go. It’s dark by the time you get out, and on autopilot, you follow James and Sherlock back to Sherlock's room. You end up on his bed, sitting against the headboard as the men take off their jackets. You want to take your corset off and finally breathe and relax, but you know better.
By the time you get comfortable against the headboard, Sherlock has hung his coat next to James’ on the rack by the door and is in only his white undershirt. You have to peel your eyes away from him when he first turns in your direction to sit at his desk. In no world would you be caught staring at him. You try to move your attention to James, hoping for some reprieve, but instead you find James in his obnoxiously tight-fitting vest. Now you really wish your corset were off, or at least looser.
“So drinks?” You hear James call out, but keep your eyes on your lap, not wanting to know what seeing him from the back in this state will do to you. The contents of your lap are uninteresting, but you find a few specks of debris to keep yourself occupied. You pick them off the fabric of your skirt and rub the debris between your fingers. You actually do get lost in watching it roll unsymmetrically against your skin. That is, until James calls out your name.
“Do you want any?” James asks. And you have to take a breath before looking up to meet his eyes and shake your head.
“Water’s fine.” Is all you get out. Your eyes flicker to Sherlock, and you have to try to act like this isn’t the first man you’ve seen without full clothing on. But he certainly, one hundred percent, is. A good first thought, you think.
“Well, alright, more for us, eh, Sherlock?” Sherlock just hums in agreement absently as he watches the dim light filter in through the window above his desk. A flicker of something crosses James’ face, but he says nothing and turns to the small wooden table housing the liquor.
James hums a song as he prepares the two drinks. Unable to place it, you want to call out to him and ask. But the tune sounds almost personal, with a folk twang you’ve only truly heard in Irish lullabies mothers in New York sang to their kids when they scraped their knees playing in the streets. You decide to ask about it another time.
“So what exactly are we celebrating? We haven't solved anything. We don’t know who planted the bomb. Or why?” Sherlock voices just as James hands him his glass and makes his way over to you. James smiles as he outstretches the glass to you. Heat invades your senses as your fingers graze him. God, that blast must have done something to your head. You’re not normally this reactive.
“And that is not our concern.” James moves now to take a seat on a cushioned chair by the liquor table; he reclines with a glass in his hand and an easy look on his face.
“That's not our concern?” Sherlock exasperates, sitting up straighter in his chair.
“We set out to find the scrolls. We found them. I'm not losing my scholarship, and you’re not going to prison.” James starts, rubbing his head as if to scrub the annoyance from his mood. Sherlock, in turn, sighs before turning to look out of the window again. “So I think that’s worth raising a glass to.” James raises his glass, you halfheartedly raise yours, your attention still a little stolen by your lap, and reluctantly Sherlock does as well. But he doesn’t take a sip, only sets the glass down at his desk.
“Why aren’t you drinking?” James questions, annoyance too far to settle now. You can hear it in his voice, and your attention is pulled. You begin to speak, attempting to quell his frustration.
“James. Sherlock. It’s been a long day for all of us. Please, both of you, stop arguing. I thought the ringing was gone, but you’ve somehow brought it back.” You complain. Sherlock goes to open his mouth and argue, but James beats him to it.
“She’s right,” James concludes, now standing in his anger. “As much as I would love for you to be wrong.” His eyes meet yours with a dash of sympathy. “All of us are a bit scrambled. I think it would be best if I got going. We could all use a good night's sleep.” James begins to make his way to the door.
“Wait—that is not what I meant—” You try, now sitting up to start towards him.
“No, it’s quite all right,” James takes hold of his coat and slowly begins to dress himself. “I know my limits, I believe I'm in need of some hard alcohol and a full 8 hours.” Jame’s smile is as radiant as ever, even in anger. Your brows furrow as you watch him slip his arms through his sleeves, and Sherlock notices the weariness in your expression. Now realizing the effect James disparate is having on you, Sherlock backtracks.
“James—let’s—” He’s hesitant with the next part, not really wanting to do what he’s offering, but he knows you’ll be happier. “At least finish our drinks,” Sherlock’s tone is unenthusiastic, so much so that it almost makes James laugh at him and call him out.
”That’s alright, Sherlock. Another time, goodnight.” James bows just slightly to you as he backs away towards the door. “Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I should say goodnight.” He nods to Sherlock and then to you before opening the door and stepping out. “Now, fair Romeo, don’t keep our young Juliet up too late.” There’s one sly smile before he shuts the door.
Following the clicking of the door, Sherlock downs his glass. You slump back onto the headboard and let out an exasperated sigh. You could hardly respond to James’ name-calling without embarrassing yourself. Your eyes now land on Sherlock, who's hunched over himself on his desk chair. Consumed by thought, he barely glances over when you shift to set your glass down on his nightstand. By this point, you have pushed past the initial embarrassment of seeing Sherlock in nothing but his undershirt.
“Do you think he’s right?” Sherlock asks suddenly. When you look, his eyes are already on you, his body facing you.
“Right about what?” You ask quietly, making sure your eyes don’t travel from his.
“Would you call this a victory? Even when we are nowhere close to the answers to anything.” The look in Sherlock's eyes melts something in your exterior. The room feels stripped bare of all the playfulness that once disguised the truth. It’s as if Sherlock ripped all the wallpaper off the walls and left you both standing in a barren room.
“Im—.” There is hesitancy in your response, not out of fear but out of your lack of answers. “I don’t think you have it in you to stop searching here. And I don’t think James’ conscience has any reason to keep searching.”
”But what do you think?” Sherlock urges you, his brows furrowed.
“Are you trying to get me to take a side?” You ask carefully, eyes still locked with him.
“I'm trying to get you to say what you think.”
“But you hope what I think aligns with what you think.” You note, stepping closer to where he’s sat.
“Well, of course I do.” Sherlock sighs, eyes breaking from yours and settling on the wood of the desk. “Do they?”
“I don’t think I agree with either of you. All the way at least.” You say, watching his face for his reaction. You aren’t sure what you want to happen. All you know is you don’t want this to be a reason you argue. “I do want to know the truth, but I don't know if I have the ability to fight for it as you can. I wish I did, but I think there is only one you.”
Sherlock says nothing in response, only leaving the cold, naked air between you. You think for a moment that you should go. Maybe this night is not the ideal night to stay for longer than necessary. Slowly, you begin to stand from the bed, you fix your dress as if you moved too quickly or with too much force, it would rip.
When you pass by where he sits, you comfortingly rest your hand on his shoulder. You brush your finger over the fabric of it. You, ten minutes ago, would never have imagined getting this close to an underdressed Sherlock, but now you find the proximity reassuring. And as you move forward, Sherlock’s hand darts up and captures yours on his shoulder.
“Don’t go.” It’s quick and low. So much so, you almost are not sure if you simply imagined it. You stand like a statue, taking in the feeling of his warm hand against yours. You want so badly to stay. Especially if staying means that the warm feeling in your chest would stay even for a moment longer.
“Well, I—“
“However, you are free to return to your dormitory.” Sherlock retracts his hand all too soon.
“Sherlock.” You interject with a scold. “I do enjoy the company.”
“As do I.” Sherlock is quick to add. You sigh at the interruption but continue.
“But are you sure you want me to stay this late? I should be getting back to my rooms.” You say and glance at the clock sitting on his mantel. “It’s already a quarter past eleven.”
“Oh wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?” Sherlock tries halfheartedly to match the enthusiasm James had earlier, but he only succeeds in sounding like a child attempting to reenact his father. A look of fondness passes over your face.
“What satisfaction canst thou have tonight?” You speak the next line of the play and are surprised at how suggestive it comes out. You hold your ground even as the mild embarrassment springs again into your stomach. Sherlocks cocks his head to the side with a grin of amusement.
You see the contemplation in his eyes, whether or not to say Romeo's following line. You aren’t sure if you want him to say it or not. Unsure if it will serve to increase the dizzying tension or break it into something that can not be put back together. ‘The exchange of thy love’s faithful vow for mine.’ It’s not a line that should have any lasting impact, but somehow, as you stand here, it seems a life-or-death decision.
It never comes. Instead, Sherlock's face softens as he gazes up at you from his seat. Your own resolve fades as you look into his mesmerizing green eyes. Eyes that seem as if you look long enough, you will discover all the secrets of the world. Sherlock Holmes is truly a puzzling character. You hardly know him, yet you feel this indescribable force pulling your mind and soul to him in every way possible.
“So will you stay?” It's a quiet plea that makes everything else in the world stop. Your breath hitches.
“Of course”
——
That day had caused a chain reaction of events that unraveled your life completely. Soon, you were being dragged into all and every situation the two idiots found themselves in. Murder accusations, police chases, going undercover, break-ins, mystery solving, and, on occasion, lazing about the public spaces of the institution, laughing about one thing or another. Mycroft quite liked you and was in full support of the good influence you had on them.
Over the course of a couple of weeks, the three of you had become practically inseparable. You’d become very fond of the two dimwits who had slivered their way into your life. Though you weren’t mad at their constant presence. It made you feel that even though you were across the ocean from everything you’d ever known, at least you weren’t alone.
a/n: This took me way to long. Anyways there will be more parts so strap in and enjoy. Comments feed my motivation!
Warnings: childhood friends to lovers, fluff, historical inaccuracies, minor plot detail differences, series of flashbacks, poorly rewritten show scenes, not proof read
Word Count: 3.4k
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has a habit of turning up places unannounced, creating irregularities in your life that had been meticulously crafted. Starting in childhood to the day you meet again at Oxford University.
a/n: I’m sorry this fic took forever. I hope this Young Sherlock fandom is still alive.
Part One, Part Two, Part Three
divider by: @angeliicide
Oxford had always been a part of the finely wrought, mapped out life in which your parents planned from the moment you were born, alongside many other things. Life was laid out on a strict schedule, one you did not stray from. Everything had order, arrived precisely on time, and you were always there to measure up.
Sherlock Holmes was never a part of that plan. But he wriggled his way into it at a young age, somehow managing to inscribe his name onto everyday of your meticulously planned life. He was an unpremeditated arrival, nevertheless a compelling one. The day Sherlock waltzed- or more like barrelled into your life was the first day of four (that ever really mattered) in your whole life you had ever fallen off-course.
It was summer of 1858, the first sunny day after countless rainy ones. You had spent days cooped up inside of your family's new countryside home. Days were played out in the study, reading whatever material your mother laid out for you, solving puzzles with your father, or taking up chores with your nanny. It felt unlikely you’d ever see the sun again. But then the rain stopped, replaced by sunshine, a warm breeze, and a game of pall-mall was set on the lawn.
Mother was sitting beneath a canopy with her afternoon tea, petting a shepherd dog your family called Alfie. Father was standing beside you, mallet in hand as he anticipated your ongoing turn, and you were eyeing the hoop just up ahead, evaluating the swing of your mallet, and where it would send the ball, when you heard it.
“Footprints! Going this way!” A voice called out across the yard, an enthusiastic and unexpected sound followed by quick, clumsy stomping, the sound of boots squelching against the moist mud hidden beneath the grass. A young boy appeared soon after, paying no mind to the game of pall-mall as he trampled through it, his muddy prints littering the yard.
“Brother dear!” Another voice called after, their tone vexed and weary. “Sherlock!” They called again, emerging from behind the treeline of the yard. It was an older boy, mindful of the game at play. “Apologies,” he dipped his head respectfully at your father before cautiously making his way around the pall-mall course. He called for the younger boy once more before finally catching up to him somewhere beyond the yard.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Your mothers exasperated query went unanswered as your father examined the footprints scattered along his yard. You too eyed the tracks curiously, befuddled by the strange occurrence. Alfie was barking wildly, desperate to charge after the agitators, though mother was quick to hush him and his desires.
Now side by side, the two boys found their way back into your yard. Apart from the older boy’s seemingly collected composure, he appeared to be lecturing the younger one. His voice carried just enough for you to register his tone and a few words before they stopped in front of the mess of a pall-mall track.
“Apologies, sir.” The older one spoke again, now looking towards father. “My brother, Sherlock, apparently stumbled across a mysterious path of footmarks and let his curiosity get the best of him. Quite frankly, we aren’t very accustomed to neighbors, and I’m afraid that is why he paid no mind to your game nor privacy unfortunately." He continued on for a little while more, using his words to dig his brother out of the hole they’d found themselves in.
You didn’t pay much mind to the older boy, instead your attention wandering to his brother. You could practically see the gears turning in Sherlock's head as he gazed upon the imprints in the ground, analyzing them so intentionally it’s like he wasn’t looking at them at all. Instead, he was somewhere else, a world of his own, one inside his brain that seemed to hold all the answers. And for some odd reason, you found yourself wishing to go there with him. It wasn’t often you were around kids your age. You didn’t have time for that, or at least that is what your parents made sure of. You were to be a proper, intelligent, accountable young woman, fitting of the family name, and ready to mingle with the higher ups of society as soon as you became of age. You didn’t have time for playing in the dirt.
“Where do the tracks lead?” The words slipped from your mouth, surprising the others around you, most of all your parents. But you couldn’t help it if your curiosity got the better of you, afterall, you were only seven.
Sherlock looked up, his gaze meeting your own, a flicker of confusion crossing over his face as he registered that he was now being spoken to. “A bridge,” He replied, words coming out somewhat uneasy at first, as if he was still trying to decipher something. “It crosses over the river bank, just a little ways ahead.”
This piqued your curiosity. “Can I go see?” You looked up at your father, a newfound excitement in your eyes, not at all comparable to how you were feeling over your previous game of pall-mall.
“Darling, you still have much to attend to today,” Father shook his head, forcing a small chuckle in hopes of letting you down carefully. He looked over at your mother and chuckled again, this time almost nervously, as if this singular moment would alter your future forever. Unfortunately, unbeknownst to both of them, it had. “We haven’t even finished our game.” He looked towards the pall-mall course, a small grimace curling at his lips as he recalled the state of the lawn.
“I can show you!” Sherlock exclaimed, his face lighting up with excitement at the potential of someone new to share his findings with.
“Sherlock, no,” His brother attempted to interject.
“Father, may I please!” You implore, looking up at him with a new, surprising, desperation he’d never quite seen from you before. He opened his mouth to reply, choking on the words before looking towards mother. She gave him a pointed look, her eyes communicating all that he needed before looking back down at his daughter. Your stare had only intensified making the old man’s heart twist with fatherly affection. He sighed, “Don’t wander too far, and get home before the sun begins to set.”
“Thank you, Father!” You wrapped your arms around the older man’s waist gratefully for a quick moment before running after Sherlock as he waved you along, leading you towards the path of footprints.
This was the first day Sherlock Holmes had ever swayed the course of your life.
No day after that was as your parents intended. They did their best to work around this new aberration called Sherlock Holmes, but he was stubborn and refused to disappear from your life. For years, mother and father wrestled Sherlock for the time he stole from your days of preparation and learning, but it became nearly impossible. He became a regular feature within your life, an unstoppable force they could not desist.
The second time Sherlock altered your world was in 1864, at just 13 years old.
Every Christmas Eve, it was tradition for your family to spend the evening with father’s colleagues, as well as their families. Though he had a rather dull place of work, Christmastime always seemed to be an exception. And while Sherlock Holmes usually never graced this particular event with his presence, that night also turned out to be an anomaly.
Festoon curtains of red and green were draped along the walls, while extravagant candelabras and chandleries were brightly lit across a rather large dance hall, sparkling through your peripheral. Some guests swayed around the dancefloor, while others remained refined to the tables, hiding behind a glass of wine, or awkwardly conversing with people they didn’t care for. The ladder had unfortunately been forced upon you. Now that you were getting older, your parents were set on securing a place for you in society.
The Holmes family arrived at the party about an hour after you did. Mr. Holmes and his sons were dressed in their best, sharp black tailcoats and trousers, white cotton shirts, and light blue ties to pull it together. Mrs. Holmes wore a stunning dark green gown, while little Beatrice Holmes wore a simple white gown, sleeves and collar hemmed with red and green.
An older gentleman had captured your parents in a long conversation. You weren’t quite sure what it was he was droning on about, but you wanted very much for the conversation to cease. Needless to say, you were certainly relieved once your eyes caught sight of the Holmes family.
Quietly excusing yourself from the dreadful conversation your parents were stuck in, you crossed the floor and greeted the first Holmes you stumbled upon.
“Hello, Mycroft.” You smiled sweetly, a slight pink tinting your cheeks as you looked up at the eldest Holmes brother. He turned, somewhat startled by his name being called. “‘Tis unusual seeing you here?” You looked at him curiously as his gaze met yours.
“Ah, well, Happy Christmas to you too.” He teased lightheartedly, the corners of his mouth tilting upward in a polite smile, his head dipping ever so slightly.
A small giggle passed your lips, your gaze turning towards your shoes in an attempt to hide the embarrassment on your face. “My apologies. Happy Christmas, Mycroft.” It wasn’t often you forgot your manners, but that year, Mycroft had an unintentional habit of making your knees feel weak, cheeks turn pink, and heart flutter out of your chest. You twiddled with the fabric of your dress before asking again, “What brings you here?”
Mycroft adjusted the lapels of his tailcoat proudly, “I’m the corporation’s newest hire.”
“You work with my father?” You inquired, wryly amused.
“Is that surprising?” His brows furrowed the slightest bit, though his small smile never wavered, only turning into a more curious expression.
“No, not at all.” You said quickly, shaking your head. “I only mean to say, Father’s job is rather dull and you’re… not.” You bit the inside of your cheek, hoping Mycroft didn’t take notice of your face crimsoning, or at least realize why you’d flushed bright red.
“You’re right. Dull isn’t the word I’d use to describe Mycroft. Perhaps.. tedious or monotonous?” Sherlock appeared, surprising both of you. His voice was laced with playful sarcasm, looking up at his brother with a look of challenge in his eyes.
“Reliable.” Mycroft countered.
Sherlock continued, “Wearisome.”
“Engaging.”
“Humdrum.”
“Consistent, responsible, charming, and astute, to name a few.” The older brother grinned smugly.
Sherlock turned towards you, all of a sudden over he and his brother's little game. “Alright then. Let us leave the drab individuals to mingle amongst themselves, shall we?”
“We shall.” You giggle once more, playing along and following Sherlock to another part of the ballroom you had yet to explore yourself, but not before bidding Mycroft adieu. You had to catch up with Sherlock again before you hit him on the shoulder disapprovingly, “Your brother is not a drab.”
Sherlock rubbed his shoulder. “Eventually,” He shook his head, slightly mumbling as he continued walking.
“Then I suppose we will be the same,” You sighed, your gaze drifting across the sea of adults in the ballroom, those Sherlock considered drab, and seeing your future among them.
“Not if I have anything to do with it.” Sherlock shook his head dismissively. He turned to look at you, taking in your absent minded expression. He didn’t need to ask to understand the fluctuation in your mood. Sherlock followed your stare and asked, “You wouldn't actually try to fit in with these people, would you?”
“Yes, I might.” You shrugged. “How come?”
“This life doesn’t suit you.”
Your eyebrows furrowed, “What do you mean?”
“For one, you’re a dreadful conversationalist. You anticipate every word and wind up asking far too many questions. More than any man would like or could answer. And another thing, your face gives away everything you’re thinking. Like now,” He gestured towards your knitted brows, “You’re so flustered and unsure whether you should be upset with me or listen to what I have to say.” You open and close your mouth a few times, attempting to find a response, but the query dies on your tongue. He continues, “You’re smart. You’re ambitious, and curious. You have far more personality than any woman in this room. You deserve far more than a life like this.”
You stand there for another moment saying nothing, your eyes wandering Sherlock’s face, searching for an answer. You find nothing. Before you have the chance to respond, his mother calls him from across the ballroom, beaconing him over to the rest of their family.
You never get the chance to respond to what he said that night. But it stuck with you for a long time after.
The summer of that same year, you and Sherlock became distant. After his sister was found dead, his mother grew ill and left to a mental institution, it was less and less often that Sherlock found himself out of the house. You were back to focusing on your studies, which your parents were grateful for, and the time you would usually spend exploring with Sherlock ceased, replaced by more lessons and books. Then the remaining Holmes’ moved away, leaving behind a vacant home, and a Sherlock shaped hole in your life.
With six years of your life untouched by the influence of a certain Holmes boy, you fell back into the schedule your parents had created for you. You excelled, motivated by the words Sherlock had said to you that night at the party. Not exactly out of spite, but ambition. You wanted so strongly to prove him wrong, to show him you could thrive in society, in the world he said you couldn’t. Even though you sometimes felt that he was right, though you’d never admit it.
The third day Sherlock shook your foundation was in 1870, during a maths lecture at University. You had been scribbling notes down onto your paper as Professor Thompson jotted down several equations onto the chalkboard. Your brows were furrowed in concentration, shoulders hunched forward ever so slightly as you looked down at your paper, wheels turning in your mind as your brain fought to solve the riddles on your page.
“Y,” A voice echoed suddenly across the classroom, a resonant and unexpected sound.
“Why? Why?” Professor Thompson forced a disbelieving laugh, astonished at the nerve of the student who had interrupted his lecture. “Because that is how it works.” You didn’t bother to look up yet, still lost in thought as you attempted to solve the equation on your own.
They countered, “An open disc of radius centered at Y… Not X.”
The professor hesitated and you looked up, both of you taking the words into consideration before the Professor began speaking again, “My apologies. Y.” He corrected, fixing the answer on the chalkboard before turning around. “Who so generously thought to correct me?” He scanned the room, as did you and the rest of your classmates.
In your peripheral vision, a figure stepped into the classroom. You turned to look out of curiosity, but waved it off when you saw a man in scout uniform. The professor continued, “Ah, Mr. Holmes,” Your head whipped back around. “The scout. I see you’ve read my books.”
He responded, “I did.” Your gaze was glued to him. Sherlock. Of course he managed to worm his way back into your life. He had a habit of doing that. He looked so… different. Six years had certainly done him a few favors.
“Which is more than I can say for some of my students.” The Professor sighed, eyeing his students distastefully. Only a moment later, the familiar chime of a bell rang in the distance, signalling the end of class. “Saved by the bell. Homework: find me all the solutions of this quintic.” He wrote down a puzzling equation on the chalkboard as the students packed their things, placing the chalk down with finality before leaving the classroom himself.
With a light, unintentional nudge from the student beside you, you were pulled away from the swarm of thoughts that had consumed your mind since your gaze first set on Sherlock Holmes. You were dizzy, shaken by the unexpected appearance of your childhood friend. What would you say after all these years, if anything at all?
When you turned to look back, Sherlock had disappeared from the doorway of the classroom and you found yourself releasing a breath you hadn’t even realized you were holding. For the most part, the classroom was clear, aside from a straggler or two- which included you and the classmate you knew as James Moriarty. The two of you shared a look, but it's clear his intentions lie elsewhere when he stood from his seat and exited the classroom soon after.
Sliding your notebook into your school bag, you stood from your seat and headed for the classroom exit, the thought of Sherlock still occupying your mind. You never imagined him in Oxford- though he certainly has the brains for it. But it was strange seeing him in a traditional university, after all his protest against it in your younger years. Sherlock always preferred being anywhere outside the classroom, exploring the world, figuring things out, hands-on for himself. But a life dedicated to the pursuit of learning was not something that fascinated him. And although he stood before you in the classroom only moments before in a scout’s uniform, it was still a peculiar sight.
Wrapped up in your own thoughts, gaze stuck on your shoes as you made your way up the stairs, you failed to take notice of the man walking opposite of you, making his way into the classroom while you went out.
“Pardon me,” He said politely, stepping out of the way so you could pass through the doorway before him.
You blinked a few times, finally taking notice of the gentlemen, “Oh, thank you.” You looked up after stepping through the doorway, your eyes widening ever so slightly. “Sherlock.” His name slipped from your lips unintentionally.
There was a flicker of confusion in his eyes before, just as quickly, recognition crossed over him. He tilted his head slightly, taking you in from a new angle, like he couldn’t believe he was seeing things clearly. You could practically see the jumble of thoughts that passed through his brain all at once before your name passed from his lips. “You’re here.” A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, “Of course you are.”
“What are you doing here?” You countered, still looking at him with an uncertain expression.
“Well, I found myself curious about the equation on the board,” Sherlock pointed into the classroom, referring to the quintics the Professor had written down in chalk only minutes before.
“Not in the classroom, Sherlock. Here. Oxford.” You spoke more firmly now, chiding him for his foolish response. “Why? How? And as a porter?”
“Scout actually.” He corrected, matter of factly. You quickly lifted your hand and hit him across the shoulder, the action occurring through muscle memory. Sherlock winced, smile fading as he reached up to hold his shoulder and then continued, “My dear brother secured this lovely position for me. He thought it would be easier to keep an eye on me here after my… momentary incarceration.”
“Incarceration?” You repeated, astonishment laced in your tone. You resisted the urge to hit him again. “Sherlock, you fool!”
He must have sensed your desire, cause his hands were raised in an instant, prepared to fend off your attack. “I’m not quite sure I understand your hostility. Are you not happy to see me?” Sherlocks brows furrowed, clearly puzzled by your reaction.
You sighed, “I’m afraid I don’t have time for this at the moment, Sherlock.” Though that wasn’t true. It wasn’t time you didn’t have, but rather the energy. “If you’ll excuse me.” You set your gaze on the wall behind him, hoping he’d take it as a sign to move out of your way and let you through, to drop the conversation and just be over with the interaction that had become rather painful. Sherlock did eventually move, but not without hesitation. You moved past him with an urgency, though you really had nowhere to go beside your dorm room. No classes, no meetings, no plans. You just needed to get out.
“When can I see you?” You heard Sherlock call after you, but you left his question unanswered. He didn’t need a response. You knew that, whether you liked it or not, you would be seeing him again.
Because Sherlock Holmes had a habit of finding you. Even in the most unexpected of places.
HIIII since I saw your post about Young Sherlock would you ever write for any of those characters?
ahhh i’m glad you asked!!! yes, i have something in the works right now! it’s a sherlock holmes x fem!reader, but i will be writing for some other characters from the young sherlock series in the future! i am taking requests! 🤗
James Moriarty x Fem!Reader
word count: 3.2k
warnings: alcohol, flirtation with antagonistic undertones, classism, physical altercation, brief violence
a/n: sooooo i really was not trying to start another fic right now lol, but i’m so obsessed with all the donal finn love happening right now. i’ve adored him since hadestown (my beloved irish orpheus 🥹) and as a diehard bbc sherlock fan, even though young sherlock itself isn’t my favorite, i am OBSESSED with what he’s doing with moriarty. i literally wrote this on my lunch break and now i’m pretty sure it’s turning into a multi-chapter fic. oops hehe.
“It is with great delight that I announce this term,” Bucephalus Hodge proclaims from the front of the dining hall, his voice carrying easily over the glitter of silverware and the afternoon light pouring through the tall windows, “the opening of my new science building. A brilliant addition to this already illustrious university.”
Around you, the students practically drink in every word.
Their faces tip toward him with open admiration, eager and shining, exactly as he expects.
Your gaze drifts over the sea of upturned faces before, inevitably, landing on him.
Already, he is fixed on the dais with that razor-edged intensity that never quite leaves his expression—still as a portrait, yet never passive. There is always the suggestion of motion beneath the surface, as though his mind is three steps ahead of the room and quietly inconvenienced by having to wait for the rest of the world to catch up.
At the front of the hall, Hodge raises his glass higher. “Now, scholars… on your feet.”
The room rises in a rush of rustling robes and scraping chairs, and you stand with them, smoothing your palms over the skirts of your gown as applause swells around you.
“I present to you my Hodge Scholars,” he announces grandly to the distinguished men seated beside him. “Take a good look.”
The hall erupts, the sound rolls up into the vaulted ceiling in waves—pride and praise and blind devotion.
And through all of it, your attention catches on him once more.
This time, he is already watching you.
Beneath the brim of his cap, unruly dark curls fall over his forehead, impossible to tame, softening nothing of the keen intelligence in his face. His mouth curves—not quite a smile, something more knowing than that—and his gaze remains with a disquieting sort of amusement, as if you are the far more compelling spectacle than Hodge’s performance at the front of the room.
For one unnerving beat, it feels intentional.
Like he means for you to notice.
You are the one who looks away first, forcing your attention back to the dais just as Hodge’s voice sweeps through the hall again.
“These students,” he continues, sweeping a grand hand toward the assembled tables, “will be generals, prime ministers, leaders who guide our world into the twentieth century. Enjoy learning. Enjoy your youth. Welcome.”
Lunch resumes in a bright clatter of silverware and conversation, plates passed down the table, goblets refilled, voices rising with the easy thrill of the new term.
The girl beside you—Penny, you recall from your first introductions—nudges your arm with poorly concealed excitement.
“Is he not the most intriguing man you’ve ever seen?”
You follow the pointed tilt of her head, though of course you already know exactly who she means.
“James Moriarty. Ugh,” Penny sighs dreamily. “Even his name is spectacular.”
You let out a quiet scoff, reaching for your goblet to hide the tinge of irritation.
“Do not fall for his traps, Penny.” The warning leaves you as you risk one last glance across the table.
As though he has heard it from this distance, his eyes find yours yet again.
This time, his brows lift ever so subtly, almost teasing, almost...provoking.
You tighten your fingers around the stem of your glass.
“He is a rake.”
At last, the students are dismissed, the long tables emptying in an eager tide of robes and chatter as everyone begins funneling toward the doors for their first course of the term.
You rise with the rest, gathering your skirts as you ease into the slow-moving line of scholars winding its way out of the dining hall.
The vaulted room feels narrower now—crowded with bodies, voices, and the restless electricity of new beginnings. Penny remains at your side for another moment, prattling on about professors and schedules, before a cluster of girls sweeps her ahead, their laughter trailing brightly into the corridor beyond.
For the first time all morning, you find yourself briefly alone in the procession.
Or so you think.
“A rake, is it?”
The words arrive in a baritone beside your ear, velvet-smooth and threaded with that rich Irish lilt of his—the blurred consonants, the almost musical cadence, the amused skepticism turning each syllable into something far too intimate.
Your breath catches.
For one mortifying second, you close your eyes, already knowing exactly whose voice has slipped so effortlessly into your space.
Then, despite every better instinct, you glance over your shoulder.
James Moriarty is directly behind you.
Far too close.
Up close he is even more unnerving—the sculpted planes of his face, the clever, watchful eyes that never seem merely to look but to dissect, and that infuriating tilt at one corner of his mouth that suggests he is forever in possession of a joke no one else has yet understood.
“I confess,” he begins, his accent wrapping warmly around the words, “I had imagined a far crueler first judgment.”
The line shifts forward again in a rustle of robes and scraping shoes, forcing you onward, but he keeps perfect pace behind you, matching every step as though this, too, is some private game he has already decided he intends to win.
You face forward, schooling your features into composure even as heat prickles along the back of your neck.
“Rake was me being charitable.”
A quiet sound slips from him, somewhere between a laugh and a hum of approval.
“Was it?” he asks. “Then I should very much like to hear what you call me when you stop being kind.”
The line bottlenecks near the great doors, compressing the space until the warmth of him hovers at your back, close enough that every nerve in your body becomes newly aware of his presence.
“As first impressions go,” he continues, lowering his voice until it brushes the shell of your ear, “being called a rake by the most inscrutable girl in the hall is far more interesting than the usual simpering admiration.”
You lift your chin, refusing to grant him the satisfaction of seeing you flustered.
“And what makes you think I care whether you find me interesting, Mr. Moriarty?”
That crooked smile returns, slower this time, touched with something almost wicked.
“Because,” he replies, as sunlight from the corridor slips across the angles of his face and the line inches forward again, “you kept looking.”
You let out a quiet laugh, turning just enough to meet his gaze fully now.
“You were seated at an entirely different table,” you remind him, letting challenge thread through every word. “How can you be so certain it was you I was looking at?”
For the first time, his smile opens into something openly devious.
There it is. The opening he wanted.
His gaze moves over your face with deliberate patience before returning to your eyes.
“Because,” he murmurs, his accent dropping lower, silk over steel, “every time you looked away, you did it like you’d been caught.”
For one suspended moment, the crowd seems to divide around the two of you, as though the tide of students bends instinctively around whatever current has risen here.
Then, with a calmness that feels almost insolent, James lifts a hand.
Your breath snags.
His fingers brush the tassel of your cap, the touch feather-light as he catches the silken strands between his thumb and forefinger. He lets them slide slowly through his grasp, the smallest ghost of contact grazing your temple in the process.
It is such a harmless gesture in theory.
Yet the intimacy of it lands like a spark thrown too near dry kindling.
“Enjoy class,” he whispers, far too pleased with himself.
The look in his eyes tells a different story.
He means to unsettle you.
He means to linger.
He means to see what you will do with it.
Before you can gather a reply cutting enough to leave its mark, he releases the tassel with a lazy flick of his fingers and slips past you, his shoulder brushing near enough to send another wave of heat down your spine.
Then he is gone.
Swallowed by the tide of dark robes and echoing voices pouring into the corridor beyond, as though he had never been there at all.
Except your pulse refuses the illusion.
And all through the walk to your first lesson, you can still feel the ghost of his touch near your temple—light, maddening, and altogether too easy to remember.
By the time the evening welcome gathering is in full swing, you have spent the better part of an hour artfully avoiding Peregrine’s attention.
Every time his voice drifts too near, every time you catch sight of him weaving through the crowd, you turn in the opposite direction, slipping between clusters of laughing students, ducking beneath raised glasses, letting the crush of bodies swallow you whole.
At last, after no small amount of effort, you manage to wedge yourself through the crowd and reach the bar.
At last.
Or so you think.
The bartender passes in front of you once.
Then again.
And somehow manages to look everywhere but at you.
“Excuse me?” you call, pitching your voice above the din of music and conversation.
He keeps walking.
You lean forward over the bar. “Excuse me?”
Still nothing.
A frustrated breath escapes as you tip your head back with a groan.
“For fuck’s sake.”
“Leave this with me.”
That maddening Irish accent brushes your ear once more, smooth as smoke and just as invasive.
Your eyes slide sideways and a slow sigh leaves you. “Just what I needed.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “I’m wounded.”
He mutters something to the gentleman wedged beside you, and the poor boy startles before abruptly shifting away, leaving just enough room for James to slip into the newly opened space at your side.
He moves like he belongs there.
Like he belongs anywhere he pleases.
Before you can ask what exactly he thinks he is doing, he bends over the polished wood of the bar with shameless confidence and reaches for three glasses, a bottle of whiskey, and then—
Your breath catches.
A tiny vial of something suspiciously green.
Your gaze snaps to his hand. “Is that—”
“Shhh.” He cuts in without looking at you, his voice dropping into conspiratorial softness as he tips a measured drop into the glasses.
Then he slides one toward you.
“It’s a Sazerac.”
The amber liquid catches the golden light, deceptively innocent.
You arch a brow, glancing from the drink to him. “And should I trust anything you hand me, Mr. Moriarty?”
His eyes flash with unmistakable mischief.
“Certainly not.”
He lifts his own glass.
Annoyingly, that only makes you want to take yours more.
A reluctant smile ghosts across your mouth as you raise it. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.” The rim of his glass taps against yours.
Then he turns with effortless ease and lifts his drink once more toward a young man standing just beyond your shoulder.
Tall.
Strikingly out of place.
And then, as though summoned by the disturbance itself, Peregrine appears.
He cuts through the crowd with the confidence of someone convinced every room belongs to him, his expression darkening the moment his gaze lands on the unfamiliar face.
“You’re the scout,” he accuses, suspicion clipped into every word.
The young man inclines his head with maddening calm. “Indeed.”
Peregrine’s eyes narrow. “How exactly did you get in here?”
“I invited him,” James supplies smoothly before the tension can gather any further.
His tone is careless, almost bored.
The lie is so elegant it nearly sounds true.
You nearly laugh, because you know perfectly well neither of them had any formal invitation to begin with.
You take a slow, deliberate sip of your drink, letting the whiskey burn pleasantly down your throat as the silence stretches.
James parts his lips. “No one—”
“Oh, don’t be coy. I did.”
The words leave you before he can finish.
You step forward, your shoulder nearly brushing James’s as you place yourself squarely in Peregrine’s line of sight.
The lie comes easily.
Far too easily.
“He’s with me.”
For the first time since you have known him, James Moriarty goes still.
His gaze cuts sideways to you, and for once the usual devious demeanor is gone, replaced by something rarer.
Surprise.
As though he had not anticipated you to step into the game beside him. As though, for one brief and delicious moment, you have managed to wrong-foot him.
Peregrine studies the two of you, displeasure sharpening every line of his face.
“If I wished to socialise with a cleaner,” he drawls, eyeing the young man beside James with open disdain, “I should simply throw a party in the servants’ quarters.”
A laugh slips from you before you can stop it.
“That sounds infinitely more entertaining than this one.”
The scout beside James smirks into his glass, while James’s own mouth tilts with immediate approval.
“He may be a cleaner,” James replies, his accent lending the words an almost lazy elegance, “but he is an exceptionally clever cleaner.”
Peregrine’s jaw tightens.
His gaze swings back to you, irritation now fully soured into offense.
“If you do not mind,” he begins stiffly, “I should like to ask your friends here to leave.”
“I do mind, actually.”
You set your glass down and take another step forward, unable to resist the spark of sly inspiration already gathering shape.
“In fact,” you continue, a smile curving slowly at your mouth, “I have a better idea.”
Peregrine narrows his eyes.
“If you can outsmart my friends here, they will leave without protest.”
The challenge lands between you like a gauntlet thrown at his feet. For a beat, the room seems to hush around the four of you. Then James buys in at once, sliding seamlessly to your side as though the two of you have always played the same games.
“Excellent,” he purrs, eyes brightening with evident delight. “Take a good, long look at our friend here and tell us what you can glean.”
He gestures toward the scout.
“Then,” he adds, that maniacal half-smile returning in full, “he shall return the favor.”
Peregrine squares his shoulders, clearly too proud to refuse now that the trap has been set.
“And who, exactly, decides the winner?”
“Oh, I do.”
The voice cuts in crisp and amused.
Edie—Hodge’s ever-watchful assistant—steps elegantly into the circle, her gaze flicking between each of you with instant interest.
A small crowd has already begun to gather, drawn by the scent of competition.
“I should be delighted to judge.”
You glance at Peregrine, no longer bothering to hide the satisfied glint in your eye.
“On your marks,” you begin, stepping back toward James’s side.
Your shoulder brushes his.
“Get set…”
Peregrine’s attention fixes.
You tilt your head, smiling sweetly.
“Go.”
And as the game begins, you can already feel James beside you nearly humming with pleasure, as though the prospect of watching someone be publicly dismantled is his preferred form of entertainment.
Which, you suspect, it may well be.
He leans closer, just enough for the warmth of him to graze the edge of your sleeve.
“Thank you.”
You keep your eyes fixed ahead on the two young men circling each other in verbal battle, refusing to give him the satisfaction of looking his way.
“I do my best work when I am owed a favor.”
“A dangerous philosophy.”
“Only for the people foolish enough to underestimate me.”
Beside you, you can feel rather than see the way he angles himself closer, his attention dividing between the contest before you and the far more private one unfolding at your side.
“And what sort of favor,” he asks, his voice lowering until every word feels poured rather than spoken, “does a girl like you collect?”
Now, finally, you turn, letting him sit in the silence. Letting him wonder.
“That depends.” Your voice stays calm despite the traitorous beat of your pulse. “How valuable do you imagine yourself to be, Mr. Moriarty?”
“Ah.” His eyes dip briefly to your mouth before returning to your own. “So that is the game.”
Your chin lifts. “Were you under the impression there wasn’t one?”
The contest in front of you continues, voices rising, laughter following each clever observation, but it feels distant now. Secondary to the charged space between your shoulder and his, where another kind of contest has quietly taken hold.
One with no clear rules.
And, more dangerously still, no obvious victor.
“I do hope,” he says, leaning in just enough for only you to hear, “you intend to make it difficult for me.”
A smile traces your lips.
“Oh, James.”
Your gaze darts toward the duel, then returns to him with quiet promise.
“I intend to make it impossible.”
The words have barely left your mouth when the crack of a fist against bone shatters the charged little world the two of you have built at the edge of the room.
Peregrine’s fist collides squarely with James’s friend’s jaw.
The sound snaps through the gathering like a gunshot.
Gasps ripple through the nearby students as the carefully curated civility of the evening dissolves into chaos.
You tilt your head toward the fight.
“I do believe your friend could use some assistance.”
Beside you, James releases the most theatrical sigh.
“Tragic. I was having such a lovely time.”
He presses his glass into your hand for safekeeping with infuriating confidence, as though there were never any doubt you would hold it for him.
Then he turns.
What happens next is almost unfairly quick.
James steps into the fray with the same graceful precision he brings to conversation, all easy balance and startling speed. Peregrine barely has time to register him before James’s fist lands cleanly across his cheek in a strike so neat it feels almost insulting.
The sound of it sends something wicked sparking to life inside you.
To your private shame—and very real bliss—a laugh tumbles free.
Another one of Peregrine’s friends lunges at James.
Misses.
Lunges again.
Misses again.
James ducks both attempts with ease, moving like he had anticipated each blow before the thought had even formed. Then, with a swift, brutal drag of his fist upward, he sends the man sprawling backward into a cluster of horrified scholars.
For good measure, James gives the next overeager fool a careless shove just as the boy works up the courage to join in, sending him stumbling into the crowd before the fight can even begin.
Show-off.
He turns back to you, curls disheveled now, breath just slightly uneven, and somehow the chaos only makes him look more alive.
“Until next time?”
You glance at the glass still in one hand, then toward the abandoned bar.
“For the road.”
You snatch up a bottle of whiskey and toss it toward him.
He catches it one-handed without looking.
That, more than anything else tonight, makes him laugh.
Then, with one last lingering look cast your way, he and his companion disappear into the flood of bodies rushing from the hall, swallowed by laughter, shouts, and the thrill of scandal.
And though the room still hums with the wreckage they leave behind, all you can think about is the certainty that next time cannot come quickly enough.
i’m actually blown away by the extreme lack of young sherlock fics. genuinely where tf are they at? especially ones about sherlock!! there’s the occasional james moriarty x reader, but i’ve only found one sherlock holmes x reader and the fact there isn’t more is driving me insane. pls people we need to get on this, i’m desperate!!
update: i posted the first part of my own fic, go check it out if you’re interested! Part One!
Labels: heist au, getaway driver! kimi antonelli x fem! reader implied, nonchalant george russell, head honcho max verstappen, hacker bianca bustamante, y/n can’t drive
Summary: a day in reserve exploring the unfortunate fall of the criminal crew, led by max verstappen
Warnings: mentions of head injury, vaguely written description of heist
“This is why I never drive,” I muttered to myself, looking down at the handcuffs around my wrists, the door of the cop car slamming shut, locking me in.
Flashes of red and blue illuminated the dark underpass, reflecting across Max’s face as he sat in the backseat of the car across from me. He was fuming, despite the stone cold expression he wore. No one expected the night to go this way. Kimi was in the back of an ambulance, on the way to a hospital. George made a run for it. And Bianca had most likely fled from the rendezvous point once we stopped sending her updates. Max lifted his gaze slowly before meeting mine, looking up underneath his brows, one of which quirked upward slightly. He began to mouth what seemed to be the start of a plan.
He didn’t have time to finish. A cop hurried over, knocking once on Max’s window as a warning. I sighed, shaking my head at Max before turning away from the window. The situation was far out of our control. Our hands were tied. Literally.
People say it's no good dwelling on the past. Yet, that’s all I could think about. Where had we gone wrong? Where was the error in our plan? How did this happen?
Maybe during the chase?
I was driving, which I specifically said would be a bad idea.
“No time to argue!” Max yelled, the car swerving as I gripped the wheel harshly. “Just drive!” So I did, my foot on the accelerator, pushing the car forward and away from the approaching sirens.
“I’m no good under pressure!” Dread filled my voice as I drove half blind down the dark roads, squinting through the night before looking at the passengers through the rearview. Max, George, and Kimi lying between them, fighting to stay awake as he clutched a wound on his head.
George leaned forward quickly, sticking his head between the driver and passenger seats. “Ease up on the wheel, you’re oversteering.” His nonchalance aggravated me, he was way too casual despite the situation we had found ourselves in.
“Shut up!” I groaned and fought back the urge to roll my eyes, too concentrated on the road.
“Just trying to be helpful.” George sat back slowly, putting his hands up in surrender.
Bianca’s voice crackled through the two-way radio, “How’s it looking?”
Max answered, lifting the radio to his mouth, “Kimi’s hurt bad, and we’ve got cops up our ass. Can you find us a new route? We need to lose these guys.”
“On it.” Bianca confirmed before the radio went silent again, as she went back to her technical work or whatever it was that the rest of the team didn’t have the brains to do. “Wait- If Kimi is hurt, who is driving?”
Max held the respond button, but I interrupted before he got the chance to speak. “Take a wild guess.” I raised my voice, enough for Bianca to hear me through the transceiver.
Bianca didn’t respond right away, probably muttering to herself. The radio crackled alive again, “I’ll reroute the GPS.” I didn’t need to hear her sigh to know it was there. “Hang in there.”
“We’ll do our best.” I exhaled, speaking under my breath.
From the backseats, Kimi groaned in pain and it took everything in me not to take my hands off the wheel and tend to him myself. Guilt gnawed at me, twisting my insides and I hadn’t even done anything, I just wished we had gotten to him sooner.
I was with Max when the first message from Kimi came in through the walkie, “I’ve got a cop on my tail. Hasn’t escalated yet, but I think they’re suspicious.” I could faintly hear his getaway mix playing from the car radio, an italian rock band he loved, turned down so we could hear him.
“Can you lose them? Quietly?” Max responded, hovering over my shoulder and watching as I attempted to pick a lock on a safe. “We can't do anything that will blow our cover yet.”
“I’m trying.” Kimi responded, sounding a bit uneasy. “You guys almost done?”
“We’re trying.” Max echoed.
George chimed in over the radio, “I’m all set. I could use a pickup, Kimi.”
Kimi didn’t answer right away, his voice crackling in through the radio a few moments later. “I’ve got good news and bad news.” He groaned painfully. “Cops aren’t behind me anymore but…” He trailed off, breathing heavily through the radio fuzz. “I don’t think I’ll be the best getaway anymore.”
I grabbed the walkie from Max, abandoning what I had previously been doing, my heart suddenly feeling like it might burst from my chest. “Kimi, what happened?” I didn’t get a response. I called again, “Kimi, what happened? Are you alright?”
Max had taken my place now, picking at the lock on the safe we were trying to crack. My heart was racing, I was no longer focused on the mission. After about three minutes of radio silence and Max finally cracking the safe open, George responded through the radio, “Kimi’s hurt. Hit his head on the wheel or dash or something. I’ve got the wheel for now. Just continue with the plan.”
I exhaled, relieved at the response, but my heart ached at the information. “Okay, okay.” I tried to steady my breathing. The plan. Focus on the plan.
I took a moment to recall the information.
“You’ll crack the safe, I’ll make the extraction.” Max explained this morning, leaning forward on the table, both hands steady on the table as he looked back down at the map in front of him. “George is our distraction. We’ll sneak in around him. Bianca is our eyes, she’ll keep a look out through the surveillance cameras.” Max pointed to several different places on the map. “Kimi is our getaway, as usual.”
“Sounds like a plan,” I nodded, my words coming out in a yawn. I had been looking down at the map through half-open eyes, exhaustion still weighing them down.
“Please tell me you actually heard anything I said.” Max looked at me, an unamused expression on his face.
“Of course I did.” I confirmed, though I quickly realized I only digested a few of his words.
“She definitely did not.” Kimi chuckled from beside me. “I woke her up like an hour ago. She could barely keep her eyes open on the way here.”
“That’s not true.” I countered defiantly, shaking my head.
It was.
I had been rudely awoken by Kimi, his hands on my shoulders as he gently shook me awake. “Time to get up,” He spoke softly, though there was a teasing to his voice. “We’ve got work to do.”
I grumbled, rubbing the sleep from my eyes as I blinked to look up at him.
Kimi smirked slightly. “It’s your turn to drive.”
“I never drive.” I sat up, stretching slowly before swinging my legs over the side of the couch, where I had crashed the night before.
“I know. I’m joking.” He chuckled. “I’d never be crazy enough to let you drive.”
“Whatever.” I rolled my eyes, stumbling forward sleepily. “Let’s go.”
a.n: I feel like this isn’t totally in character dialogue for Luke, but I tried my best. I just really needed more Luke fics and took matters into my own hands, enjoy :)
It was hot again. It always was. So it’s funny that it even bothers me anymore. The sun was harsh, beating down on the desolate terrain of the planet I call home. My forehead was damp, beads of sweat collecting along my brow the longer I stood beneath the blazing sun. My mom was expecting me back home with the multitude of supplies she had asked me to retrieve.
Returning from town, the ride back home was relatively easy. Well, at least it should have been. I wasn’t far from home when my vehicle broke down, stalling in front of a small moisture farm. I was familiar with the area, having passed it often on most days, and being friendly with the people who owned it.
I had been outside for a little while, frustratedly tinkering with the machinery underneath the hood of my transport. The midday heat was becoming more unbearable by the second, deteriorating my mood the longer I felt like I was baking beneath the rays.
“Woah! Looks like you need a hand.” A voice came from behind me, pulling me out of the defeated trance I had fallen into. I had been staring down at the engine, which I knew nothing about, hopelessly for about a minute. The familiar face of Luke Skywalker had begun approaching, ascending the steps from the lower floor of his home to meet me by the smoking motor in front of me. In hindsight, I definitely could have knocked on his door and asked for help sooner rather than struggling with my vehicle for the embarrassing amount of time that I did.
I scoffed sarcastically, scratching my head as I looked over at him. “Ya think?”
A short chuckle passed his lips, “Yeah, I do.” Luke leaned forward, “What happened?” He asked, peering down at the motor. He waved smoke from his face, trying to better assess the damage.
“Not too sure,” I shrugged, sighing as I turned to lean back against my incapacitated landspeeder. “It just stalled out of nowhere.” I explained, watching him as he reached down to fiddle with the mechanisms, his other arm resting against the lifted hood of my vehicle. He was braving his usual off-white tunic, a wraparound belt cinching the garment loosely at his waist, weighted with pouches and gear for farm work, while sand clung to his cream colored pants. He wore a wide brimmed hat, goggles strapped across the crown, his blonde hair peeking out from beneath it. I tried not to stare, but my efforts were feeble, I’ve had the most humiliating crush on him longer than I wanted to admit.
“I could take a look at it, if you want?” Luke offered kindly, turning to look at me.
I thought it over for a moment, though I had no intention of declining. He would, no doubt, have the tools, and definitely offer me the cheapest price around, which of course was no price at all. I accepted thankfully, “That’d be great, Luke.”
Together, we worked to push the vehicle closer to his home and into the workshop he spent most of his time in, meddling with machines of his own. It took time, both of us sweatier than before once the speeder was stationed inside. There was a fan powered on by Luke’s desk, which I instantly moved to stand in front of. The breeze was a long awaited relief, the air instantly cooling me down. From behind me, I heard Luke chuckle softly at my behavior.
When I turned around to look at him, Luke was leaning over the hood of my transport again, his hat discarded beside him. He had equipment in hand now, none of the items in which I could name, and a toolbox placed on the ground by his feet. He seemed intensely focused already, and it had only been a few seconds since he started working on the engine. His brows were furrowed slightly, lips parted just enough for the tip of his tongue to peek out.
I was staring again. I tried to force myself to look away, to focus on anything else in the busy workplace, but my gaze was glued onto him.
“It’s a little dark, could you grab the light from the desk?” Luke spoke up, eyes never wavering from the engine as he broke his concentrated silence, startling me slightly.
I blinked a few times. “Yeah,” I finally answered after processing his words in my head. Turning, I took a few steps towards the desk, locating the flashlight before bringing it over towards Luke.
“Great. Thanks.” He nodded, finally looking up at me as I clicked it on. “Just hold it up right...” He reached out to take my hand that held the flashlight into his own, guiding it into a specific position. “There.” Luke smiled, “Perfect.”
As he looked back down at the machinery of my landspeeder, I tried not to grin like an idiot from the momentary contact in front of Luke. I looked down, doing my best to focus on keeping the flashlight in position for him. Every now and then my eyes would start to wander, despite my best efforts not to, trailing over the beauty marks littered along his face. I had been so caught up in my own little world, my brain didn’t register the small smirk that pulled at the corner of Luke’s lips.
“Ya know, if you take a bodyscan, it’s supposed to last longer.” Luke teased, speaking softly as he glanced up at me for a quick moment.
My eyes widened slightly as I swiftly pulled my gaze away from him. I did my best to regain my composure, forcing a laugh. “You’re ridiculous,” I rolled my eyes, trying to play it off.
Luke laughed, “I’m only giving a suggestion!” I turned the flashlight off and crossed my arms as I watched him straighten out, pulling his hands from the engine and closing the hood of my speeder. He changed the subject, a playful grin still on his lips, “This should be good. Try it.” He told me, patting the top of the speeder.
I tossed him the flashlight before entering my vehicle, switching on the ignition and starting the engine. The motor whirred to life causing me to sigh out in relief. “Thank you.”
“Of course. Stop by if anything ever goes wrong.” Luke smiled down at me. “Or if you ever want that bodyscan I mentioned.” He continued to poke fun at me, an amused look on his face as he ran a hand through his blonde hair, pushing it back from his face.
“Yeah, yeah.” I shook my head and waved him off, though I was totally considering the offer.
“But really,” Luke smiled genuinely. “If you ever need anything.”
“You’ll be the first stop,” I nodded. “Thanks again, Luke.”
a.n: Sorry, this is kind of short, I wrote this for a free write at school, but I may do more parts and make those longer! Lmk what you think!
Ezra Bridger was a hero, they said. Ezra is this, Ezra is that.
That’s all you ever heard. Lothal practically dropped to their knees in worship at the mention of his name.
To you it was all one big dramatization. That isn’t to say you weren't grateful for Ezra. Of course you were. He’d saved Lothal, saved so many people. He’s a Jedi. A good guy.
It was the way that he was all anyone ever talked about that made you so uninterested.
The day Ezra returned to Lothal, the streets were crowded more than usual. Groups followed him around, others threw flowers as he walked by, leaving an elegant trail of petals behind him.
You were far away from it all, hiding in a field outside of the city, running a hand through the grass as it swayed with the breeze. You were alone, away from the chaos and crowds who kissed the ground where Ezra Bridger walked. It was peaceful.
Then he arrived.
Ezra was hurried, moving with such a haste as he scurried through the tall grass. He often peered over his shoulder, a flustered expression on his face. Eventually he stopped, taking a moment to catch his breath and fix his clothes. That’s when he noticed you.
“Hey,” Ezra greeted softly, taking a few steps closer to you. You startled slightly, turning over your shoulder to look at him. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”
“It’s alright.” You sighed, heart rate steadying.
“I’m Ezra.” He introduced, reaching out a hand for you to shake.
You huffed out a short laugh, “I know.” You looked down at the dirt, unaware of his hand that still hung in the air, waiting for you to return the gesture.
He waited a moment for you to respond with your own name. It never came. “Oh?” His hand dropped back to his side awkwardly.
“You're the talk of the city, Ezra Bridger.” You looked back at him, hands idly picking at the grass. “Didn’t you know?”
He smiled bashfully, “Well yeah, I-”
“I suppose your devotees will find you any moment now.” Uninterested in being there any longer, you reached for your sandals, discarded in the grass beside you before standing up. “I should get going.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Ezra shook his head.
“No, but I probably should.” You insisted, forcing a small, tight-lipped smile. “I’m sure I’ll see you around.” You turned, beginning to walk in the opposite direction.
“Wait,” Ezra called out, stepping forward. “I never got your name?”
You didn’t stop walking and didn't turn around to look at him. “Goodbye, Ezra.” You left him there in the field somewhat dazed and confused.
Ezra was left to wonder why you were so uninterested in him, and why he was now so interested in you.
Warnings: implications of violence, situationship, lowkey pining
Word Count: 1.9k
a/n: Alr bear with me with this one, this is my first time writing any of the Bad Batch.. So it may not be great. I’m excited to see where this goes tho.
Hunter was used to the come and go. Never in the same place for too long. Cid always had a job lined up for his squad. It didn’t matter if they’d returned to Ord Mantell for a night or just a couple hours. There always seemed to be something, even if it was just silly errands at times.
When intel of old Jedi valuables and artifacts being smuggled in the Outer Rim by pirates and anyone else greedy in the galaxy, Cid sent a few of the boys to collect her share of things.
The ramp of the Marauder declined on the planet Raada, wind and sand trailing into the shuttle.
“Sure is dusty!” Wrecker let out a dramatic cough as he waved the dirt away from his face.
“Raada is a sandy, desolate planet, with few suitable crop fields and remote settlements, so yes.” Tech informed, lifting the visor piece on his helmet as he looked out at the outcrops.
Hunter adjusted his helmet over his head, “Let’s get going.” He descended the shuttle's ramp, stepping onto the dry land, the boys following suit, except Echo, who remained on the Marauder.
Tech led the way, tracking the coordinates Cid provided them with.
Omega stayed behind on Ord Manell. Cid promised a low stakes mission and an easy payload. And with the small population on Raada, meant hardly any Imperial control, for now at least. So the odds were with them.
Omega, of course, tried to no avail to work her way into the mission despite this information, claiming her brothers would need her help. Hunter disagreed on this one.
Crossing the sandy landscape, their destination became clear ahead of them.
A settlement came into view, crops surrounding the perimeters and various transports moving in and out.
It looked peaceful, a homely place, untouched by war or the rising Empire. It could be a nice place to settle.
But the sand drove Hunter wild. It was rough and got everywhere. Not only that, it made him feel like quite the lousy tracker. While he was usually able to rely on tracks, or disturbed vegetation, or even blood trails, sand allowed for neither of those things to remain for long. The slightest change in the wind, and the course grain would shift and hide any and all signs of it ever being there.
Of course, these things were only on the surface, and Hunter could easily continue to rely on his heightened senses and still find what he was looking for. But still, it was inconvenient, nonetheless.
“Cid’s coordinates suggest that the payload is among the convoy two klicks north.” Tech informed, quickly looking down at his datapad before pointing towards the small convoy within the settlement.
Hunter gave the area a once over, inspecting for any threat or hindrance as he formulated a plan. Wrecker, beside him, cracked his knuckles at the sight of the pirates loading their freighter across the way.
“We don’t want any trouble, just a simple in and out extraction.” Hunter stepped forward, his voice soft but with the usual stern husk. “We’ll flank ‘em from the right. Get the cargo and move out.”
Hunter, Wrecker, and Tech approached the convoy, slipping past bales of crop, droids, and pirates, focused on the task at hand.
A familiar sound ignited in the distance. Then shouting erupted.
The trio crouched to the ground, confused by the turn of events. The pirates ran past them, their attention captured by something just beyond the procession.
Taking the opportunity, Hunter directed his team forward, “Let’s move.” Though something familiar lingered. A scent carried along the wind, one Hunter hadn’t sensed in a long time. Something Hunter didn’t place instantly.
Tech opened the cargo bay doors of the main freighter before the pirates began to fire their blasters. When they did, the brothers were just thankful the blasts weren’t targeted at them.
Hunter poked his head around the corner of the ship, trying to scope out the threat level, but he couldn’t see past the wings. He recognized the sounds though. The familiar warm hum and snap of a lightsaber, the pulse of the plasma as the energy buzzed through the blade. He heard bodies and blasters drop to the ground, one after another.
“Got it!” Wrecker’s proud voice rang out. He had two rather large chests of cargo slung over his shoulders, while a smaller one lay before Tech.
The three exchanged a few short nods before Hunter moved to grab one side of the chest in front of Tech, the two lifting it together before their group began their quick escape.
Behind them, the blaster fire began to fade, shots ringing out less and less often. However, Hunter still heard the lively whir of a lightsaber. He only hoped the blade glowed any color but red.
On their return, Echo opened the shuttle doors, allowing his brothers back onto the ship to safely secure the cargo. Hunter couldn’t shake the familiar sense from before. It followed him. It never faded, no matter how far they travelled from the settlement.
“Cargo secured.” Hunter approached the front of the ship, taking his helmet off and placing it onto his lap as he sat down beside Tech in the pilot seats.
“Preparing for take off.” Tech nodded, pressing a few buttons to start up the ship.
The engines hummed alive for a moment before sputtering to a nasty stop. The lights flickered and the shuttle shook abruptly, a slash sounding from the outside.
“Something’s hit us.” Echo spoke, concern filling his voice as he moved to grab a blaster.
“I’ll check it out.” Hunter stood, looking around curiously before lowering the ship's entry ramp. He walked down the ramp cautiously, helmet back over his head, vibro-knife in one hand, his other hovering over the blaster on his hip.
Hunter’s boots hit the sand, his senses alert.
To his right, a saber hummed idly.
A Jedi stood at a distance, lightsaber glowing in her hand. She had a scarf tied around her face, the ends of it billowing forward with the wind.
There it was again. That scent. Stronger than ever. Intensely familiar. Almost dizzying. Yet sweet.
“I don’t want any trouble.” Hunter spoke, lowering his weapon slightly.
The Jedi visibly relaxed.
“Hunter?” Her voice shook the slightest bit, ringing softly in his ears, recognition striking him at once.
“Y/n?” He inquired, his tone somewhat unsure.
Clipping her saber back onto her belt, the Jedi reached for her scarf and pulled it away from her face, Hunter’s suspicion confirmed.
“I thought you were a pirate,” She laughed softly, her expression one of disbelief. “I slashed your ship's power system.”
Hunter lifted his helmet off. “I thought you were dead.” He shared a similar expression, his brows furrowed as if he were seeing a ghost.
“Well, I’m supposed to be.” Her demeanor shifted, growing serious, almost guarded again. “Why are you here?”
“I’m not working with the Empire, if that’s what you’re wondering.” Hunter sheathed his knife. “I meant what I said, I’m not here for any trouble.”
“Yet, you have stolen cargo in your ship’s hull.” She tilted her head towards the shuttle, looking at Hunter skeptically.
“It’s a job. I’m only trying to take care of my squad.” Hunter defended, lifting his hands to signify he posed no threat.
She looked askance, debating whether or not she could trust him. “So you defected? Why?”
“I served the Republic, not this new Empire.”
“Why are you different?” Her brows furrowed as she looked at Hunter curiously.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re the first clone I’ve come across that hasn’t tried to kill me. Why?”
“We no longer acquire the inhibitor chips which programmed us to want to do so.” Tech spoke, standing from the top of the entry ramp, Echo behind him.
The Jedi’s demeanor softened once again, though there was still a hint of confusion in her expression.
“You’re safe with us, Y/n.” Echo reassured.
“Can we discuss this more on the ship?” Hunter asked, jaw clenched slightly. The winds were picking up, blowing sand across his face. He could feel the grains against his skin, piling in his hair and between his gear. An unpleasant sensory experience to say the least.
Y/n thought for a moment before nodding, deciding that she could trust them, and made her way towards the ship.
“Sorry about the power system, Tech.” She apologized as she stepped up the ramp.
Tech’s brows furrowed for a short moment before he sighed softly, “I will assess the damage.” He passed Hunter, making his way down the ramp, Echo following to assist him.
Y/n observed the cabin inside the shuttle, familiarity washing over her. It had been a while since the last time she stepped aboard the Marauder. Not much had changed.
“Where’s the rest of your crew?” She inquired, looking around.
As if on cue, Wrecker appeared from the back of the ship, stepping into the main cabin. “Y/n!” He enthused, marching forward before engulfing the Jedi within his larger arms. “What’re you doing here?”
She patted his back as Wrecker placed her down, “Oh, just hiding from the Empire.” She spoke in a lighthearted tone, framing her words as a joke though they were anything but.
Wrecker laughed, “Us too.”
“Where’s Crosshair?” Y/n asked, peaking behind Wrecker to see if she could spot the grey haired clone.
Hunter stood by the jump seats, shaking sand from his hair. “Crosshair stayed with the Empire.” He explained, a small frown set on his face.
“Oh,” A disappointed hum passed her lips. “I’m guessing he still has his chip thing- Whatever Tech was saying?”
“Not exactly,” Hunter shook his head. “He made a choice. So did we.”
A short silence followed, the weight of his words settling in.
Y/n sat down beside Wrecker in the jump seats, Hunter opposite of them.
“How’d you end up here?” Hunter asked, looking at her gently.
She slumped in her seat slightly, “It all happened so fast. I’m not sure I even remember it entirely.” Her gaze shifted to the floor as she recalled the memories. She opened her mouth a few times to speak, but nothing came out.
“A story for another time then.” Hunter nodded in understanding.
“Right, right.” She agreed, before standing up and brushing some sand off her pants. “Actually, I should get going. Sorry again about the power.” She moved, heading for the entry ramp.
Hunter stood, moving after Y/n. “You don’t have to.” His brows were furrowed, almost confused by the thought that she’d even consider going. After all this time apart.
“It’s not safe for me out there.” She shook her head, hitting the button to lower the ramp.
Hunter continued, “Not for us either, but our chances are better together than alone.”
“I can’t.”
“Y/n,” Hunter caught her by the arm. “Stay.”
“We don’t mind another girl.” Wrecker added, shrugging.
“Another?” She questioned. When she met Hunter’s gaze, something surprised her. A look in his eyes, one she had seen before. An unusual softness, something almost pleading.
Biting the inside of her cheek, she looked between him and then Wrecker. She contemplated her choices before reluctantly giving in, “Okay.”
Hunter sighed softly in relief, releasing his gentle hold on her arm. He visibly relaxed.
Warnings: Fluff, friend to lovers, kissing, multiple timeskips, cursing, injury, plane crash, implications of divorce/ parental split, pre-established callsign
Word Count: 4.3k
a/n: This might suck but I love this and lowkey was peer pressured into posting it so. Also let’s pretend the Dagger Squad had more time to train rather than the few weeks in the movie..
Canary pushed the bar doors open. The Hard Deck was already pretty packed, considering the hour.
To the corner of the room, a group of Navy Pilots all conversed happily.
None of their faces struck Canary as familiar, which caused a small pout to pull at her lips. She didn’t like the idea of having to introduce herself to a whole group of people who already seemed to be familiar with each other. It meant she was the odd one out. However, if she was going to work with them, she'd have to introduce herself at some point.
Better now than never.
Canary adjusted her uniform before approaching the group, a few had taken notice of her. One man with a cocky grin on his face, a toothpick sitting between his lips, observed her as she crossed the room, his eyes roaming her body up and down. He turned to his friends, asking if anyone had recognized her, but no one seemed to.
“Well, who've we here?” He asked aloud, a slight southern twang in his voice. His gaze now locked with Canary’s.
“Lieutenant Y/n Jones.” She spoke confidently. “Callsign, Canary.”
“Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin.” He told her, his cocky grin still plastered on his lips. “Lemme introduce ya’ to the team, cause it seems no one here recognizes you.” Hangman continued, filling Canary in on who everyone was and their call sign.
There was Fanboy, Payback, Coyote, Phoenix, a few others that Canary had instantly forgotten, and Bob.
“So Canary, what's the story behind your callsign?” Hangman asked her after a few rounds of pool.
“It’s really nothing interesting.” She shrugged.
“Oh c’mon! That can’t be true.” Hangman shook his head, leaning against his pool cue and looking up at Canary with a smirk.
After making a shot in a game, Phoenix whooped from the opposite side of the table, leaning over to high five Fanboy. “Beat that, Bagman.” She said, paying no attention to the conversation taking place outside of the game.
He ignored Phoenix. “I’ll tell you why they call me Hangman?” He suggested, his cocky attitude remaining as well as his smirk. “Ya’ know, I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
“I have a feeling I’ll figure that out on my own.” Canary mused.
Before the conversation could go any further, someone else had caught the group's attention.
“I’ll be damned.” Hangman swore under his breath, his eyes set on someone behind Canary. He shook his head, “Rooster.”
As the attention was pulled away from Canary, she seized it as an opportunity to get a drink for herself.
She moved away from the group and over to the bar. “Penny, can I get a beer please?” Canary asked politely.
“Course.” Penny nodded, skeptically looking over at a man sitting on the other side of the bar. “Drinks are on Pete, over there.” Penny said, pointing over towards her sign on the counter.
No hats, No touching the Model Airplanes, and No Cell Phones on the bar, the penalty for breaking these rules: to buy the house a round of drinks.
Canary snickered before gazing over to the man, who was cringing behind his sunglasses.
That’s when it clicked.
Pete.
Peter “Maverick” Mitchell.
AKA Canary's father.
Y/n “Canary” Jones-Mitchell.
“Hi, Y/n.” Maverick waved awkwardly. Canarys' heart dropped, her smile disappearing from her face.
Maverick hadn’t been in her life since she was six. She didn’t know him well, but she knew enough to realize she didn’t like the guy, and she certainly didn’t consider him her father.
“Gosh, you’ve grown.” He continued, his gaze softened as he admired his daughter.
“Yeah, I have.” Canary nodded, turning away once Penny placed a beer in front of her. “Thanks for the beer.”
She gripped her drink, praying that she’d never have to face Pete Mitchell ever again.
With that, Canary left her father at the bar, quickly making her way back to the group of Pilots.
Back at the pool table, Phoenix was talking with some man that Canary had never seen before. He had been doubled over, hands on his crotch as Phoenix smirked in amusement, pool cue in hand. She shrugged before turning away from the man.
Phoenix's expression dropped once she noticed Canary and sensed her change in mood. “Are you alright?”
“Fine.” Canary shook her head, forcing a smile. “I’m fine.” She said, unconvincingly. “Who’s this?” She asked, looking towards the man beside Phoenix as she tried to change the subject.
“Bradshaw. ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw.” The man introduced himself, putting out a hand for Canary to shake.
“‘Canary’ Jones.” She smiled, taking his hand to shake. “Good to meet you.”
Rooster Bradshaw was handsome. Something Canary Jones couldn’t deny. He had brown, sunkissed curls and chocolate brown eyes, a mustache that lined his upper lip. He was fit, something Canary could tell through his unbuttoned palm tree, Hawaiian shirt and white tee, with sunglasses hanging from the neckline.
“You too, Jones.” He winked.
“Lookin’ good, Rooster!” Another voice suddenly broke up the twos moment.
Bradshaw turned. “You too, Hangman.” He replied, almost sarcastically.
“That’s because I am good, Rooster. Very good.” Hangman grinned, taking a pool cue from Bob's hands and taking a shot in the game, his eyes never leaving Rooster's gaze.
“Okay, I’m either sensing competitive tension or… sexual tension?” Canary joked, still trying to calm the uneasy feeling she had after seeing Maverick.
“Definitely not.” Rooster scoffed, “Trust me, I’d much rather crash a plane before ever having sexual tension with Hagman Seresin.” Rooster sat down as he explained.
“I heard my name?” Hangman looked back in the twos direction.
“Fuck off, Bagman.” Rooster flipped him off.
Hangman put his hands up in surrender and turned back to his conversation.
“What’s the deal between you two?” Canary asked, sitting down beside Rooster. She took a sip of her beer as she looked at him curiously.
“To sum it up, he’s just an asshole.” Rooster shrugged.
Before the conversation could continue on further, the bell at the bar rang and cheers erupted across the room. Canary could only assume Maverick had screwed up once again. Something he was good at.
A group of Aviators, Hangman and his friends, went over towards Maverick before grabbing him by the arms and legs and carrying him out of the bar. A weight seemed to be lifted off Canary’s shoulders, feeling more comfortable now that her ‘father’ was gone.
Rooster had gotten up from his seat at some point, when Canary was no longer looking. He unplugged the stereo, the music instantly stopping.
Canary watched curiously as Rooster made his way towards the piano in the middle of the room. He played a few notes before gaining the room's attention as he broke into song.
It only took short moments before everyone, including Canary, instantly joined in, shouting the lyrics in unison.
On top of Rooster being incredibly handsome, he could sing and play piano, well at that, and he was a pilot. He certainly was something.
He pulled away from the piano with one last clang of keys and the room erupted in applause. Everyone in the room began chanting his name and Rooster got up, doing a quick little dance to the beat before returning back to his seat beside Canary.
Somewhere else in the room, the stereo had turned back on, classic 80’s rock resuming from the speakers.
“Lemme guess, you’re called ‘Rooster’ because you’re loud and can sing?” Canary mused light- heartedly, a playful smirk upon her lips.
A deep chuckle erupted from Rooster's lips, his right hand flying up to his chest. “Never heard that one before.” He shook his head. “No, not quite it.”
“Damn it.” Canary cursed to herself, a playful look still on her face. “Well, I think that’s what I’ll keep telling myself.”
“Be my guest.” Rooster smirked.
“So what’s the reason then?” Canary asked, sipping her beer.
“My dad, he was a pilot too. They called him Goose. So it’s like a recurring theme.” Rooster shrugged slightly. Canary noticed how his gaze never met hers as he explained, so she decided not to ask any further questions.
“So if you ever have a son, you’re gonna call him Chicken?” Canary asked jokingly.
“No,” Another hearty laugh left Rooster's lips. “It would have to be something like…” He paused for a moment, thinking to himself.
There was a moment of silence as the two thought seriously about the silly thing.
“Woodpecker?” Canary suggested before breaking out into a fit of laughter with Rooster.
“It’s not bad actually.” He shrugged, still laughing slightly. “But I don’t think my future son's callsign is up to me.”
“I suppose it isn’t, yeah.” Canary nodded. Her gaze switching to look over at the group of Aviators still playing pool. She took a sip of beer as the two sat in silence once again, a sense of calm washing over after the rush of laughter.
“So how‘d you earn the callsign Canary?” Rooster suddenly spoke up again, after a few moments.
She shrugged, “During my first few flight tests, back at TOP GUN, I was always anxious and the only thing I could do to distract myself from the nerves was to sing on impulse.”
“Huh,” Rooster smiled softly.
She looked away, feeling a bit embarrassed. "Yeah. I was always nervous about failing those tests, but I also just loved singing, so somehow, that helped. I mean, it's kind of a dorky nickname for a pilot. Well, I guess it's not as dorky as a callsign like Rooster. No offense.”
Rooster laughed, “Hey!”
“I’m sorry but you're not exactly a crow.” She smirked.
“Fine, I'll give you that. But Canary isn’t all that intimidating either."
“Hey, alright!” She replied back, sounding more like a playful protest than an actual denial. “Truce?” Canary asked, putting her hand out, waiting for him to shake it.
Rooster looked down at her hand for a moment before giving in. “Alright, truce.” He shook her hand, sealing the deal.
“Good.” Canary smiled. “Us birds have to stick together.”
———
Canary Jones wasn’t typically one to act on impulse.
However, if someone was getting to her- someone like Maverick Mitchell- she’d do anything to get her point across.
“Eject! Eject! Eject!” Mav yelled through coms as Canary’s plane was moments away from hitting the ground.
She didn’t plan on having to eject from her plane during mission practice.
Still, that’s the position she found herself in.
The engine of her plane had blown and the control had gone out. She was headed down quickly. There was no finessing her way out of the situation.
She pressed the ejection button but all that came from it was an empty metallic click noise.
“It’s not working!” She panicked, yelling back at Maverick through the coms.
“Eject, Canary! Eject!” It was Rooster’s voice now that yelled at her to evade the dangerous situation she’d put herself in.
“I can’t!” She screamed back, frantically pressing the button.
“Canary!” Rooster yelled in a panic once again.
The button finally decided to work, the top of Canary’s plane opening quickly and her seat shooting up and out.
Beneath her the plane blew, fire exploding upwards as soon as the craft hit the ground.
Canary’s parachute came out quickly after, though a bit too late, causing her to hit the ground hard.
Then it went black.
——
Canary’s eyes fluttered open, her eyelids had felt heavy with exhaustion though she had no doubt been sleeping for hours.
Whatever injuries she’d gotten from her fall weren’t serious, which she could tell from the fact that she wasn’t in the ER and just the infirmary on the base.
Beside her, Rooster lay sleeping in an uncomfortable looking chair, his hand wrapped around hers.
“Bradley,” She said softly, squeezing his hand a bit as she tried to wake him. “Bradley Bradshaw?”
He woke up easily, quickly sitting up in his seat as he blinked the sleep away.
“Y/n, are you okay?” Rooster asked, leaning forward and looking at her with a worried expression.
“I’m fine, Bradshaw.” She chuckled. “I’ve obviously been better.”
“God, you scared us all bad.” Rooster sighed, leaning back in his seat slightly. He ran a hand over his face.
“Clearly. You seem pretty nervous to let go of me now.” Canary mused, looking down at hers and Rooster’s still connected hands.
Rooster eyes followed her gaze. As if he remembered or realized that he’d been holding her hand, Rooster let out a small, “Oh,” before loosening his grip slightly. He soon after looked as if he regretted the action and looked up at Canary sheepishly. Did she want him to let go?
Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw was embarrassed?
He was practically blushing!
How hard did she hit her head?
“I don’t mind.” Canary shrugged, smiling softly at him.
He smiled back at her, the two sharing a sweet moment before he suddenly seemed to snap back to reality.
“Jesus, Y/n! What were you thinking? You could’ve killed yourself!”
Canary’s jaw dropped at the unexpected scolding.
She pulled her hand away.
“Are you kidding me?” She let out a humorless laugh.
“Y/n! You scared the hell out of me! Why would you put yourself in that situation?” Rooster asked angrily again, standing up from his seat and beginning to pace the side of the bed.
“Rooster, I really don’t need this right now.” Canary shook her head, avoiding Bradshaw’s gaze.
He continued, despite her asking. “I’m sorry for worrying, okay, Y/n, but seriously? How could you think like that?” His voice was still raised, it ticked her off.
“Stop, Rooster! Seriously! If I wanted a parental scolding, I would’ve asked Mav!”
“Why the hell would Mav-“
“-He’s my dad.”
Rooster paused. “He’s.. your dad?”
“Yeah, Rooster, that’s what I just said.”
“But you don’t act like.. You never ...” Rooster trailed off as he moved to sit back down. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
“He’s never exactly been ‘Worlds #1 Dad’. He left my mom and I a long time ago and has remained far away, till now. I don’t know the man and I don’t intend to.” Canary explained. “So I acted the way I did during mission practice to prove a point, I just never planned for it to end the way it did.”
Rooster didn’t answer right away. He wasn’t exactly sure how to respond.
Canary continued, “Besides, you hate Maverick just as much as I do, for whatever reason. I didn’t think you would’ve cared for my shitty childhood backstory.”
“My dad was Maverick’s wingman.” Rooster suddenly began to explain. “Mav was there when he died.” His expression hardened, his gaze set sharply on the floor. “He also pulled my papers a few years ago, set me back another four years.”
“Oh, Rooster.” Canary looked down at him, her gaze empathetic. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.” He shook his head, his eyes still on the floor. “We can’t change what happened with an apology.”
“You’re right, but what we do with our actions in the future is how we justify the past.” Canary reaches out to take Rooster's hand in her own. “So now, with each other’s help, we can continue to give Maverick hell. Sounds good?”
Rooster chuckled, “Yeah, sounds good.” He nodded, looking up at his and Canary’s intertwined fingers.
———
Pete Mitchell’s efforts to reconnect with his daughter had slowly become successful.
Pete gave Y/n Jones-Mitchell the space she needed all while still trying to become closer with his daughter.
At first, he would tend to live vicariously through the Dagger Squadron, overhearing the conversations they’d share with his Y/n. As time went on, tensions between the father and daughter faded and the two were able to have their own (even if they were short) conversations.
Canary started to enjoy her fathers company, though she’d never admit it.
The day Mav requested the Squadron meet up at the Hard Deck with their swimwear, Canary had never been more grateful that he was her Captain.
Mav claimed that they were still training, as they played a game of DogFight Football but no one was really convinced. To the Dagger Squad, their time at the beach was just a well deserved day off.
All Maverick had hoped for was for the game to create a strong Squadron, and that’s exactly what had happened. The Daggers were playing as a team, right according to plan.
To the rest of them, all that mattered was that they were having fun.
No arguments or rivalries, except for the friendly competition kind.
Even Hangman and Rooster were able to get along, which wasn’t common for the two.
In fact, Rooster seemed extremely happy. Like he thrived in the environment, just as he did in the sky.
To Canary, Rooster was practically glowing. His energy was contagious and he looked incredibly handsome. His curls were wet with salt water, his chest bare, tan and beautifully sunkissed. If Canary Jones could replay the moment Bradley Bradshaw did a shimmy of excitement after scoring a point, she’d play it a thousand times.
After many, many rounds, Canary Jones pulled out of the game, claiming she’d had enough for the day. Her body already ached after being tackled multiple times by the Squadron.
She made her way to the front porch of the Hard Deck where she’d left her stuff, unaware of the person jogging closely behind her.
“Lieutenant Jones,” Rooster shouted just as he beat her to the Hard Deck. He quickly placed himself down on the steps, in front of Canary. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Uh, leaving the game and getting water.” She responded, confusion laced in the tone of her answer.
“I’m afraid, I can’t let that happen.” Rooster shook his head, a fake expression of disappointment on his face. “Captain Mitchell told us this was still training, you can’t just leave whenever you feel like it.” He shrugged before continuing blatantly. “So I’m gonna have to ask you to report back to your team so I can continue to win.”
“No, I don’t think I’ll do that, Lieutenant Bradshaw.” Canary placed her hands on her hips, looking down at Rooster and playing along. “Under these circumstances, I’ve got special privileges, due to my relation to the Captain. I don’t think he’ll mind if I step away from this extensive training.”
Rooster opened his mouth to respond, but no sound escaped before he sighed, “I’ve got nothing.” He leaned back onto the Hard Deck floor. “I can’t argue with Nepotism.”
Canary laughed lightly as she moved up the short flight of stairs and retrieved a couple water bottles.
“Here.” She lightly tossed one of the bottles to Rooster as she sat down beside him on the floor. The plastic bounced off his chest, causing Rooster to let out a grunt at the impact. Canary just laughed once more.
“Thanks.” He said sarcastically and sat up.
Canary nodded at Rooster coolly, “Anytime.”
The two sat in silence, taking small sips of their water and just enjoying each other’s company, as they watched the rest of the group.
The moment reminded Canary of two little kids on a hot summer day, sipping away at their juice boxes, the sun beating down on them, but neither of them cared because they were happy.
Rooster was like the lovesick little boy, who couldn’t help but admire his crush as she sat beside him. His eyes glued to the girl, he thought to be the prettiest he’d ever seen, as she was unaware of his gaze that stuck to her like velcro.
Canary, on the other hand, was like the little girl who never got the hint. Letting all the boy’s lovey-dovey stares and gestures fly over her head, because there was zero possibility that he reciprocated feelings for her.
Both, nervous to take the next step.
A moment passed and Canary readied herself to speak again, her head quickly turning to look at Rooster.
Much to her surprise, Rooster was already looking at her intently. Like Canary’d been telling him something intriguing, his palm was pressed against his cheek, holding his head up as he listened.
Quickly, as if blinking himself out of a daydream, Rooster shot up in alert, “Sorry.”
Canary felt her face heat up, and it wasn’t because of the sun. “It’s okay.” She shrugged, looking down at the sand and beginning to bite her nails sheepishly.
“I didn’t mean to stare,” Rooster began to ramble, looking down at his hands and twiddling his thumbs anxiously. “I really wasn’t trying to be creepy or anything.”
They both seemed like nervous teens.
“It’s okay, really.” Canary repeated, still nervously refusing to meet his gaze. "I didn't mind." Canary continued softly, glancing back up at Rooster for a short moment, a small smile played on her lips. "I...thought it was kind of cute."
That took Rooster by surprise.
Canary laughed lightly, "You looked so lost in thought. I can’t help but wonder what was going through your mind."
He didn’t know what it was. Maybe Rooster had just come to the realization how silly they were acting over such a thing, but he was suddenly met with a wave of confidence.
Strange to think he ever lost it, but I suppose being as head over heels as Bradley Bradshaw was for Y/n Jones-Mitchell could do that to a person.
No more beating around the bush. "I was just admiring you." Bradley admitted, "I was thinking how lucky I was to be sitting next to you and how you look so beautiful. I guess I got sucked into a bit of a trance.” He chuckled lightly.
Y/n’s heart fluttered as Bradley spoke. "Beautiful, you say?" she teased, trying to distract herself from the butterflies in her stomach. "I bet you say that to all the girls."
"Actually, no," Bradley shook his head, "I think I'm pretty much just in love with you, Y/n."
She paused for a good moment after he said those words. She couldn't believe he'd just said that.
"Really?" she asked softly, smiling as he reached out to hold her hand in his.
As the sun dipped low on the horizon, it cast an orange glow over the beach, creating a romantic setting for the two. "Really." Rooster said. Bringing Y/n’s hand up to his lips and kissing her knuckles softly. "I'm so in love with you that I think it's driving me crazy sometimes."
"You know, for an elite fighter pilot, you're incredibly cheesy sometimes," Y/n teased, unable to wipe the smile off her face. "But I think..." She paused, becoming serious as she locked eyes with Bradley. “I’m pretty much just in love with you too.”
Bradley sighed, letting out a breath that he hadn’t even realized he was holding. He found himself lost in Y/n’s eyes. His gaze drifted down to her lips, wondering if he should make the first move. She looked so perfect sitting next to him, in the sun's warm embrace.
Without thinking, which was usually a problem for Bradley, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to Y/n’s, in an impulsive gesture. The sound of the waves crashing in the distance made it feel even more like a moment of a love-sick teenager's day dream. It was pure, unbridled emotion and Bradley was willing to drown in it.
After a few moments, Bradley pulled away, not wanting to be overbearing in the moment. One sweet kiss was enough to take him over the moon. Y/n’s face was flushed pink and he could only guess he was a similar shade.
The two were brought back to reality when Fanboy called out, “Rooster! Come back! We’re getting our asses kicked!”
Bradley’s eyes were still glued on Y/n when he answered back, “Alright!” Though her gaze was set on the group down the beach, where (unbeknownst to the couple) Maverick had been staring daggers up at Rooster.
“You’re wanted, Lieutenant.” Y/n said softly, looking back up at Bradley.
“Not just down there, I hope.” Bradley smirked.
“No,” Y/n shook her head, a sweet smile still stuck on her lips. “Not just down there. Right here too.” She paused for a moment, squinting down at the group. “But I also really want you to wipe that smug smirk off of Hangman’s face right now.”
Bradley followed her gaze, looking for Hangman amongst the group of pilots playing football. “That- That I can do.”
“I know you can. Now, don’t let me keep you, go beat his ass!” Y/n encouraged Bradley, giving him a few light pushes forward.
Bradley laughed at her playfulness, shaking his head as he got up from his spot and began to run down the beach, towards the group.
When the game took off again, the football was caught by Rooster, who only remained standing for a few moments before getting tackled to the ground by Maverick, the rest of his team followed suit.
They didn’t know then, but Rooster and Canary would later find out that Mav’s tackle was very much personal.
