Summary: where she’s inlove with Sherlock but he doesn’t feel the same
Warnings : smut angst mean!sherlock kinda dumb reader , reader is Dih crazy lowkey
The air in Ferndell Hall felt heavier than usual, thick with the absence of Eudoria Holmes. It had been a week since she’d vanished on Enola’s sixteenth birthday, leaving only cryptic flower-etched cards and hidden coins that Enola had already deciphered enough to fund her escape. You—her closest friend from the nearby village, the one who’d spent years sneaking into the woods for archery lessons or late-night talks—had come under the pretense of concern. Enola had written you a hurried note, begging you to visit before her brothers arrived to “sort things out.”
You arrived just as Mycroft’s carriage pulled up, his stern face set like stone. Sherlock followed, taller, broader, his dark coat swirling like smoke. He barely glanced your way as he stepped inside—those piercing blue eyes scanning the room, the clues, everything but you.
Enola threw her arms around you the moment the door closed behind the brothers. “You’re here,” she whispered, voice cracking just a little. “I thought maybe you’d ignore the note. Everyone else seems to think I’m overreacting.”
You hugged her back tightly, breathing in the familiar scent of lavender and gunpowder residue from her mother’s old experiments. “I’d never ignore you, Enola. Not when your mother’s gone.”
She pulled back, eyes bright with determination. “I’m going to find her. Mycroft wants to ship me off to some finishing school like I’m a broken vase that needs mending. Sherlock… well, he’s Sherlock. He thinks it’s a puzzle, not a person missing.”
You nodded, glancing toward the parlor where the brothers argued in low tones. Mycroft’s voice carried—sharp, dismissive. Sherlock’s was quieter, measured, but you caught the edge of frustration.
What Enola didn’t know—what no one knew—was that your loyalty to her had always been tangled with something sharper, more selfish. You’d first met Sherlock years ago, when he’d come home briefly after one of his cases. A stolen conversation in the library, a brush of hands that turned into more. Twice now, in shadowed corners of London when you’d traveled there on errands, you’d ended up tangled in sheets at a discreet inn. Passionate, urgent, wordless almost. Afterward, he’d always pulled away—cold again, distant.
“Don’t call it that,” he’d said the last time, buttoning his shirt without looking at you. “It was a mistake. A momentary lapse.”
You’d laughed it off then, but the words burned. He never looked at you the way he looked at clues, or even at Enola—with curiosity, with reluctant fondness. To him, you were background noise, an inconvenience he indulged once or twice and then discarded.
Enola tugged your sleeve. “Come on. Help me pack what I need. I’m leaving tonight—disguised, of course. You can come with me partway, keep Mycroft from noticing I’m gone too soon.”
You followed her upstairs, heart pounding. Downstairs, Sherlock’s voice rose slightly—Mycroft pressing about propriety, Sherlock countering with observations about the flowers, the cipher. You caught Sherlock’s silhouette in the doorway as you passed, and for a split second his gaze flicked to you. No warmth, no recognition of what had passed between you. Just a brief, assessing look, like you were another piece of furniture out of place.
It stung more than it should have.
In Enola’s room, you helped her stuff a satchel with practical things—her mother’s old corset dagger, coins, a change of boy’s clothes she’d stolen from the stable boy. She chattered the whole time, half-nervous, half-excited.
“I don’t understand why Mother left without a word,” she said, folding a scarf. “She always said we were a team. But Sherlock… he thinks he can solve it from here. Like she’s just another case.”
You swallowed. “Maybe he doesn’t want to admit he cares as much as he does.”
Enola snorted. “He cares in his own way. He’s kinder than Mycroft, at least. He looked at me like I might actually be useful.”
You forced a smile. “You’re more than useful. You’re brilliant.”
She beamed at you, oblivious to the ache in your chest. “You’re the best friend anyone could have. I don’t know what I’d do without you here.”
The words twisted like a knife. Best friend. That’s all you’d ever be to her—because the real reason you’d stayed so close, the real reason you’d tolerated the awkward silences and the excuses, was downstairs. The man who wouldn’t even meet your eyes now.
As night fell, Enola slipped out the back, disguised as a boy, you trailing behind to cover her tracks. You walked her to the edge of the estate, where the London train waited in the distance.
“Be careful,” you whispered, hugging her one last time. “Find her. And write when you can.”
“I will.” She grinned, fierce and fearless. “And when I do, you’ll be the first to know. Promise you’ll keep an eye on things here? Make sure they don’t burn the house down arguing.”
She disappeared into the shadows, heading for the station.
You turned back toward the hall, the lights still burning in the windows. Sherlock stood on the porch now, alone, staring out into the dark as if he could see her trail already.
He didn’t speak as you approached. Just watched you with that unreadable expression.
“You knew she was leaving,” he said quietly. Not a question.
You lifted your chin. “She’s not a prisoner.”
A faint twitch at the corner of his mouth—almost a smile, but not quite. “No. She’s a Holmes.”
Silence stretched. You waited for something—anything—to acknowledge what had happened between you. An apology. A flicker of regret. Even anger.
He turned away, coat flaring. “Go home. This isn’t your puzzle to solve.”
You watched him walk back inside, the door closing softly behind him.
And just like that, you were alone again—best friend to Enola, mistake to Sherlock, and caught in the middle of a mystery you hadn’t asked for.
But you’d keep your promise. You’d watch, you’d wait, and maybe—just maybe—one day he’d look at you like you mattered.
Either way, Enola was out there, chasing her mother, chasing her own path.
And you’d be here, still hoping for a glance that never came.
He stood by the window, back to you, staring out at the dark gardens as if answers might crawl out of the hedges. His shoulders were rigid under the black coat. You watched the line of his jaw tighten, the way his fingers flexed against the sill.
“You think I’m mad,” you said into the quiet. The words came out softer than you’d intended.
Sherlock didn’t turn. “I think you’re… persistent.”
A bitter laugh escaped you. “Persistent. That’s one word for it.”
He finally faced you then, eyes cool and unreadable in the firelight. Those same eyes that had looked at you in the dark of rented rooms, half-lidded with something you’d foolishly called desire. Something you’d called love.
“How many times has it been now?” you asked, stepping closer. “Five? Seven? I’ve lost count. Every time you came to London, every time you said it was just convenient, just a distraction from the case—”
“Stop.” His voice was low, sharp. A warning.
But you were tired of warnings.
“We made love,” you said, the phrase deliberate, defiant. “That’s what it was. To me.”
His expression didn’t change, but something flickered behind the ice—annoyance, perhaps, or the faintest discomfort. “We did not make love. We had intercourse. Physical release. Nothing more.”
You felt the words like a slap. “Then what were we doing, Sherlock? Tell me. Enlighten me.”
He exhaled through his nose, a short, impatient sound. “We were occupying the same space for a limited duration. Bodies in proximity. That is all.”
You closed the distance until you were barely a foot away. Close enough to smell tobacco and bergamot on his coat, close enough to see the pulse at the base of his throat. “You’re lying to yourself. You think I’m crazy because I feel something real. Because I let myself feel it.”
“I am not in love with you.” The words came out clipped, final, like a door slamming shut.
The room seemed to shrink. Your chest ached so fiercely you almost couldn’t breathe.
“But I am in love with you, Sherlock.” The confession burst out louder than you’d planned, raw and ragged. “I’ve been in love with you since the first time you looked at me like I was more than background. Since you touched me like I mattered. And every time after—every single time—you let me believe it might be more. Then you’d leave. You’d shrug it off. A mistake. A lapse. And I’d still come back. Because I thought—God help me—I thought one day you’d stop pretending.”
He stared at you for a long moment, expression blank in that terrifying way of his. No pity. No anger. Just observation.
“You are confusing attachment with affection,” he said quietly. “Chemical reactions in the brain. Dopamine. Oxytocin. Temporary states. They pass.”
“Then why do you keep letting it happen?” Your voice cracked. “Why do you keep letting me in if it’s nothing?”
“Because—” He stopped. Jaw working. For the first time, he looked almost… human. Vulnerable for half a heartbeat before the mask snapped back. “Because I am weak. And you are persistent.”
You laughed again, but there were tears in it this time. “That’s your excuse? Weakness?”
“It’s the truth.” He took a single step back, putting space between you like it was evidence. “I do not feel what you feel. I cannot. I will not.”
The fire popped, sending sparks up the chimney.
You wiped at your eyes with the back of your hand. “Enola thinks you’re kinder than Mycroft. She doesn’t know this side of you. The part that can look at someone who’s given you everything and still call it nothing.”
His gaze dropped to the floor. Just for a second.
“Go home,” he said, softer now. Not cruel. Just tired. “This isn’t a puzzle you can solve. There is no solution here.”
You stood there a moment longer, memorizing him—the sharp line of his cheekbones, the way the firelight caught in his dark hair, the stubborn set of his mouth. Then you turned.
“One day,” you said without looking back, “you’ll realize that love isn’t a deduction. It’s not something you can dismiss with logic. And when that day comes… don’t expect me to still be waiting.”
You walked out into the cold night, the door closing behind you with a soft, final click.
Behind you, in the library, Sherlock Holmes remained exactly where he was—alone, unmoving, staring at the empty space you’d left.
The library door had barely clicked shut behind you that night months ago—some rainy evening in London, another “coincidental” meeting after one of his cases wrapped early. You’d followed him to the small, anonymous boarding house he always used when he didn’t want to be seen at the Diogenes or Baker Street. No words at first. Just the wet slap of your coat hitting the floor, his fingers already working the buttons of your blouse like he’d memorized them.
He never kissed you gently. Never started slow. It was always urgent, almost angry—like he resented how much he wanted it. That night he’d pinned you against the wall just inside the door, mouth on your throat, teeth scraping, one hand fisted in your hair to tilt your head back while the other shoved your skirts up. You’d gasped his name—Sherlock—and he’d growled low in response, “Quiet,” even though the room was empty except for the rain drumming the window.
Clothes came off in pieces. Your corset stayed half-laced—he liked the way it pushed your breasts up, the way the boning dug into your ribs when he pressed you down onto the narrow bed. He didn’t undress fully; shirt open, trousers shoved down just enough. You remembered the scrape of wool against your bare thighs, the cold metal of his belt buckle pressing into your hip as he settled between your legs.
He’d thrust in hard the first time—no preamble, no teasing—just thick, stretching heat that made your back arch off the mattress. You’d cried out, nails raking down his shoulders, and he’d hissed through his teeth, “Still so tight,” like it surprised him every single time. Like he hadn’t already ruined you for anyone else.
He moved like he was solving you—deliberate, relentless, watching your face the whole time. Every hitch in your breath, every flutter of your lashes—he cataloged it. When you clenched around him he’d curse under his breath, hips snapping harder, deeper, the headboard knocking the wall in steady rhythm. You’d wrapped your legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him in until there was no space left between you.
“Say it,” he’d demanded once, voice rough, forehead pressed to yours. “Say my name again.”
“Sherlock—” It came out broken, half-moan, half-plea.
He’d rewarded you with a grind so deep your vision blurred, thumb finding your clit and circling with ruthless precision until you shattered around him, sobbing his name into the crook of his neck. Only then did he let himself go—three, four brutal thrusts before he buried himself to the hilt and came with a low, guttural sound that vibrated through your chest.
Afterward, always the same.
He’d roll off you almost immediately, breathing hard, staring at the cracked ceiling like it owed him answers. You’d turn onto your side, still trembling, skin slick with sweat, and lay your head on his chest without asking. He never pushed you away—not right then. His heartbeat would thunder under your ear, fast at first, then slowing, steadying. You’d trace idle patterns on his stomach with your fingertips—over the faint scars, the line of dark hair that disappeared beneath the sheet he’d half-pulled up.
You’d think, stupidly, This is it. This is real. He lets me stay. He lets me touch him like this. You’d close your eyes and listen to the rain, to the slowing thud-thud-thud beneath your cheek, and convince yourself that the way his arm eventually draped across your back—loose, almost reluctant—was affection. That the quiet sigh he let out when your breathing evened was contentment.
You’d fall asleep like that every time. Curled against him, warm and sated and foolishly hopeful, his heartbeat lulling you under like a metronome.
And every time, you’d wake up alone.
He’d be across the room already—dressed, coat on, pipe in hand—watching you with that cool, detached expression. No morning kisses. No soft words. Just, “You should go before the landlady starts asking questions.”
You’d sit up, sheets pooling around your waist, still marked by his mouth on your throat, his fingers on your hips, and force a smile that didn’t reach your eyes.
“Until next time,” you’d say lightly.
He’d never answer. Just nod once, sharp, and look away.
You’d dress in silence, gather your things, and leave—heart bruised but still beating for him.
Because even then, even knowing he’d call it nothing the next morning, you’d let him take you apart again. And again. And again.
Hoping one day he’d let you stay past dawn.
The rain hammered the windows of the small London boarding house like it was trying to break in. It was the night before Sherlock was due to leave for that wretched trip—some case in the north, details he wouldn’t share, as usual. You’d come to say goodbye, or maybe to beg him not to go, or maybe just to see if he’d look at you one last time like you weren’t an inconvenience.
The argument started small. You accused him of running away again. He called it necessity. Voices rose. Words sharpened.
Now you stood by the bed, still half-undressed from earlier—your blouse open, hair tangled from his hands, skin still flushed and marked where his mouth had been. He was already buttoning his coat, movements precise, mechanical, like he could button away the last hour too.
“You’re leaving again,” you said, voice shaking. “Just like always. And you won’t even—”
“I have obligations,” he cut in, not looking up. “You knew that.”
“I could be pregnant, Sherlock.” The lie burst out before you could stop it, desperate and cruel. “And you wouldn’t even know. Or care.”
He froze. One button left undone. Slowly, he lifted his head, eyes narrowing—cold, assessing, the way he looked at a suspect who’d just slipped up.
You stared at him, chest heaving. “You don’t know that.”
“You’re not.” Firmer this time. A statement of fact. Like he’d already deduced it from your pulse, your breathing, the way you hadn’t touched your stomach protectively even once.
The room felt smaller. Hotter. You stepped closer, voice dropping to something raw and trembling.
“Remember the last time? Right here. On this bed. You had me on my back, legs over your shoulders, and you—God, Sherlock, you buried yourself so deep I couldn’t breathe. You groaned my name—my actual name, not some deduction—and then you came inside me. Hard. Deep. I felt every pulse. You didn’t pull out. You never do. You just… stayed there, shuddering, whispering ‘Christ’ against my throat like it hurt you to want me that much.”
His jaw clenched. He didn’t move.
“And the time before that,” you continued, stepping even closer, close enough to see the flicker in his eyes. “In the carriage after the opera. You dragged me onto your lap, shoved my skirts up, and fucked me right there with the curtains half-drawn. You bit my shoulder to keep quiet, but I heard you—those broken moans when you spilled inside me again. ‘Fuck—’ you said. ‘Just—take it.’ Like you couldn’t stop yourself. Like you needed to mark me.”
He exhaled sharply through his nose. “This is beneath you.”
“Is it?” Tears burned your eyes but you refused to let them fall. “Because every single time we’ve done this—every time you’ve come inside me without a thought, without protection—you’ve acted like it means nothing. Like I’m nothing. But your body doesn’t lie, Sherlock. Your moans don’t lie. The way you grip me like you’ll never let go until it’s over—none of that lies.”
He finally met your gaze fully. No warmth. No apology. Just that impenetrable wall.
“It was physical,” he said quietly. “Instinct. Release. I never promised more.”
“You never had to promise.” Your voice cracked. “You just… took. And I let you. Because I thought—stupidly—that feeling you lose control inside me meant something. That those moments when you couldn’t hold back, when you were just a man and not the great Sherlock Holmes… that those were real.”
He finished the last button. Coat closed. Armor on.
“I am going,” he said. Flat. Final.
You laughed once, bitter and broken. “Of course you are. Run to your case. Run from this. From me. From the possibility that one day your precious logic won’t be enough to explain away what you’ve done—what we’ve done.”
He paused at the door, hand on the knob. For half a second, something crossed his face—regret? Pain? It was gone before you could name it.
“Goodbye,” he said. No nickname. No softness.
The door opened. Rain rushed in like a cold slap.
You stood there in the empty room, blouse still gaping, thighs still sticky with the evidence of him, listening to his footsteps fade down the hall.
You sank onto the bed. Curled into the sheets that still smelled like tobacco and sex and him.
Because even now—even after everything—you knew if he came back tomorrow, you’d let him in again.
When Enola ran away you knew exactly where she went and Sherlock knew you’d knew so that’s why he went to you The knock came just after dusk, sharp and impatient, the kind of knock that announced authority rather than asked permission. You were already elbow-deep in flour, rolling out dough for the shepherd’s pie you’d promised yourself after the long day—something warm, something grounding, something that wasn’t Sherlock Holmes or the hollow ache he’d left behind.
You wiped your hands on the apron and opened the door.
Mycroft stood on your narrow stoop, immaculate coat buttoned to the throat despite the mild evening, expression carved from granite. Behind him, Sherlock loomed in shadow—coat open, collar turned up, eyes flicking over your face like he was already cataloguing every micro-expression you tried to hide.
“Miss,” Mycroft began, voice clipped, “we require information regarding my sister. Enola has absconded. You were her closest confidante. Where is she?”
You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, flour dusting your cheek like war paint. “Good evening to you too, Mr. Holmes. And you, Sherlock. Lovely weather we’re having. Rain tomorrow, they say.”
Mycroft’s mouth thinned. “This is no time for levity. Enola is sixteen, untrained, unprotected—”
“Untrained?” You laughed once, short and sharp. “She’s been dodging your governesses and Mycroft’s lectures since she could walk. If anyone’s trained her, it’s your mother. And if she’s gone, maybe she finally got tired of being treated like a problem to be solved instead of a person.”
Sherlock shifted behind his brother—just a subtle weight change from one foot to the other—but you felt it like static. Mycroft stepped forward half a pace. “We have reason to believe she may have confided her intentions to you. Her destination. Her plans. You will tell us.”
You met his stare without blinking. “And if I don’t?”
“Then you are obstructing justice,” Mycroft said coolly. “And I have the means to make that uncomfortable.”
You tilted your head. “Threats already? That’s new. Usually you just lecture people into submission.” You glanced past him to Sherlock, who hadn’t spoken yet, hadn’t looked away. “You gonna arrest me too, or just stand there looking pretty?”
Sherlock’s jaw flexed. Mycroft exhaled through his nose like a bull about to charge.
“We will find her regardless,” Mycroft said. “It would be simpler—and safer for her—if you cooperated.”
You smiled, slow and sweet and utterly insincere. “I have a dinner to make. Shepherd’s pie. Minced lamb, carrots, onions, the works. Smells divine already. So if you don’t mind…” You gestured vaguely behind you, toward the warmth spilling from the open door. “Unless you’d like to stay for a plate. Though I warn you, I don’t do seconds for people who threaten me on my own doorstep.”
Mycroft’s eyes narrowed to slits. “This is not a social call.”
“Clearly.” You stepped back, hand on the door. “Good night, gentlemen.”
Sherlock’s gloved hand caught the edge—gently, but firm enough that you couldn’t budge it without making a scene.
Mycroft glanced at him, surprised. “Sherlock—”
“I’ll handle this,” Sherlock said quietly. Not looking at his brother. Looking at you.
Mycroft hesitated, then gave a curt nod. “Very well. I shall return to the hall. Do not dawdle.” He turned on his heel and strode back toward the waiting carriage, coat flapping like a raven’s wing.
The door stayed half-open. Sherlock didn’t move to come in. Just stood there, rain beginning to speckle the shoulders of his coat.
You sighed. “You’re letting the heat out.”
He stepped inside without being invited. Closed the door behind him. The cottage suddenly felt smaller—too many memories of London boarding houses, too much of him in your space again.
You turned back to the kitchen, picked up the rolling pin like it was a weapon, and attacked the dough with more force than necessary. “Sit if you want. Don’t touch anything.”
He didn’t sit. He leaned against the wall near the hearth, arms crossed, watching you work. The silence stretched until it hurt.
You slammed the pie into the oven, wiped your hands again, and finally looked at him. “Ask.”
You snorted. “You think I’d tell you after what you said to me last time? After you walked out like I was nothing?”
His gaze didn’t waver. “She’s in danger.”
“She’s smarter than both of you combined. She’ll be fine.”
Another beat. Then, quieter: “How have you been?”
The question landed like a stone in still water. You froze, rolling pin still in hand.
You laughed—low, bitter. “Really? That’s what you lead with? Not ‘I’m sorry’? Not ‘I was wrong’? Just… how have you been?”
He didn’t flinch. “I’m asking.”
You set the rolling pin down. Hard. “I’ve been breathing. Working. Trying not to think about how you looked me in the eye and said everything we did meant nothing. How you left me standing in that room still smelling like you. How I cried myself sick after you shut the door. So, fine, Sherlock. I’ve been just fine.”
He swallowed once—barely noticeable, but you saw it.
“I didn’t come here to fight,” he said.
“Because Mycroft would have kept pressing. Because I needed to see—” He stopped. Jaw tight. “Because I needed to know you were all right.”
You stared at him. The fire crackled. The pie bubbled in the oven, filling the room with the smell of thyme and comfort.
“I’m not all right,” you said softly. “But I’m not telling you where she is either. She trusted me. That’s more than you ever did.”
He looked away then—first time all night—toward the window where rain streaked the glass. “She left a flower on the train seat. Marigold. Grief. But also a message. She’s not running blind.”
You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. He already knew you knew more than you were saying.
He straightened. “I’ll find her.”
“I know you will.” You turned back to the stove, checked the pie even though it didn’t need checking. “But when you do… don’t drag her back like a criminal. Let her choose.”
Then, quieter than you’d ever heard him: “The pie smells good.”
You almost laughed. Almost. “It’s almost done.”
He didn’t move to leave. Just stood there, watching you, the firelight carving shadows across his face.
You didn’t offer him a plate.
But he stayed until the rain eased, until the pie cooled on the sill, until the silence between you felt less like a wound and more like something that might one day heal
You stood by the stove, back to him, the weight of his question—How have you been?—still hanging in the air like smoke. You didn’t answer. Didn’t turn around.
When you finally did, he was closer than you expected. Not touching. Just… there. Eyes locked on yours, unreadable but burning. The space between you crackled. No words. No warning.
The mattress dipped under your combined weight, clothes scattered across the floor like shed skins. You were on top, knees braced on either side of his hips, hands planted on his chest as you sank down onto him in one hard, deliberate motion. No kisses. No tenderness. Just raw need.
He filled you completely, thick and hot, and you didn’t give either of you time to adjust. You rolled your hips once, twice, then started riding him with fierce, punishing rhythm—fast, aggressive, chasing your own release like it was the only thing that mattered. Your nails dug into his shoulders through the open shirt he hadn’t fully removed. His hands gripped your waist, fingers bruising, but he let you set the pace. Let you use him.
You ground down harder, clit dragging against him with every thrust, breath coming in sharp gasps. The bed creaked under the force of it. Sweat slicked your skin. You didn’t look at his face—couldn’t—kept your eyes squeezed shut, focused only on the building pressure, the friction, the way he stretched you open again and again.
He groaned low in his throat, hips jerking up to meet you once, twice—losing control despite himself. You felt him swell inside you, felt the tell-tale twitch, and you clenched deliberately, riding faster, merciless.
“Christ—” The word tore out of him, rough and broken, as he came—deep, pulsing, flooding you with heat. The sensation pushed you over. You shattered around him, thighs trembling, a sharp cry ripping from your throat as pleasure slammed through you in brutal waves.
You didn’t linger. Didn’t collapse onto his chest like before. The second the aftershocks faded, you rolled off him, swung your legs over the side of the bed, and stood putting a blouse over your head , back to him, breathing hard.
Behind you, the rustle of sheets. His voice, calm again—too calm, like nothing had happened.
“I know you know where Enola is. Let’s make this easy. Tell me where she is.”
You didn’t turn. Just stared at the wall, feeling him still inside you, dripping down your thigh.
He exhaled once—quiet, resigned.
The soft sounds of him dressing: shirt buttons, belt buckle, coat sliding over shoulders. Precise. Methodical. Like always.
You stayed standing long after his footsteps faded into the night
The carriage rattled over the cobblestones toward Miss Harrison’s Finishing School for Young Ladies, a gray stone prison disguised as refinement. Enola sat opposite you, wrists lightly bound (more for show than necessity—Lestrade’s men knew she could slip them if she wanted), her boyish disguise stripped away, replaced by a stiff, borrowed dress that made her look younger, smaller, angrier.
They’d allowed you one brief visit before the gates closed—courtesy of Mycroft’s grudging permission, or perhaps Sherlock’s quiet intervention. You weren’t sure which. Either way, here you were, squeezed into the cramped compartment with a stern matron watching from the corner like a hawk.
Enola’s eyes were bright, defiant, even with the dirt smudged on her cheek and her hair pinned back severely. “You came,” she said, voice low so the matron wouldn’t catch every word.
“Of course I came.” You reached across the small space, squeezing her hand quickly before the matron cleared her throat. “I promised I’d keep an eye on things, didn’t I?”
She gave a short, wry laugh. “And how’s that going? Mycroft still furious?”
“Furious is his natural state. Sherlock…” You hesitated, the name tasting like smoke and regret. “He’s searching. Relentlessly.”
Enola studied your face, sharp as ever. “He came to your cottage, didn’t he? After I left.”
You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. She saw it anyway—the faint shadows under your eyes, the way your mouth tightened.
“Be careful,” she said softly. “He breaks things he doesn’t mean to.”
The carriage slowed. Iron gates creaked open ahead.
You leaned in, voice barely a whisper. “Find a way to write. I’ll get the messages out. And when you escape this place—and you will—I’ll be waiting.”
She squeezed your fingers back, fierce. “I know.”
The matron stood. “Time’s up.”
You rose, heart heavy, as the guards moved to escort Enola out. At the door, you paused, looked back at her one last time.
The knock came late—too late for politeness, too early for regret. Rain lashed the windows of your cottage, turning the world outside into a gray blur. You opened the door with a towel still in hand from drying dishes, heart stuttering at the sight of him: coat soaked, hair curling damp against his forehead, eyes shadowed in that way that meant a case had gnawed at him all day.
Or maybe it was something else.
“What do you want, Sherlock?” You leaned against the frame, arms crossed, voice steady even as your pulse betrayed you.
He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, water dripping from his coat onto your floorboards. He shrugged it off, hung it by the door like he belonged there. Like he hadn’t walked out weeks ago without a backward glance.
“I was in the area,” he said, voice low, avoiding your eyes as he scanned the room—the half-eaten pie on the table, the fire dying in the grate, the single teacup by the chair.
You arched a brow. “In the area. Right. Try again.”
He paced two steps, hands clasped behind his back. Stopped. Glanced at you, then away. “There’s been… developments. With Enola. She’s safe, for now. Escaped the school. Again.”
“That’s not why you’re here.”
His jaw tightened. He cleared his throat once. Twice. “The weather is inclement.”
You just looked at him. Unblinking. Waiting.
He exhaled sharply through his nose, a rare crack in the composure. “You’re really going to make me say it.”
“Mhmm.” You didn’t move. Didn’t make it easy.
He closed the distance in three strides, hands cupping your face—gentler than you expected, thumbs brushing your cheeks like he was memorizing the feel of your skin. His eyes searched yours, stormy and conflicted.
“Because I miss you,” he said, voice rough, almost angry at himself for admitting it.
Not tentative. Not asking. Claiming—like the weeks apart had starved him. His mouth slanted over yours, hot and demanding, tongue sliding in to taste you like he’d been dreaming of it. You gasped into him, hands fisting his shirt, pulling him closer even as part of you screamed to push him away.
He backed you toward the bedroom, hands already working your dress buttons, mouth never leaving yours. Clothes fell in a trail—your apron, his waistcoat, your chemise shoved down your shoulders. By the time the bed hit the back of your knees, you were bare, skin prickling in the cool air, and he was shedding the last of his restraint.
He laid you down slowly this time—not the frantic rush of before. Eyes locked on yours as he settled between your thighs, one hand sliding up your leg, tracing the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist. You arched when his fingers found you already wet, circling your clit with that maddening precision until you were writhing, begging without words.
“Sherlock—” It came out breathless.
He groaned low, positioning himself, and pushed in—slow, deliberate, letting you feel every inch. Your back bowed off the bed, nails scraping down his back as he filled you completely. He stilled for a moment, forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged.
Deep, rolling thrusts that hit every spot inside you, building slow and relentless. You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels digging into his ass to pull him deeper. His mouth found your neck, sucking marks into your brown skin, teeth grazing your collarbone. One hand pinned your wrist above your head; the other slipped between you, thumb working your clit in tight circles.
You came first—hard, clenching around him, crying out his name as pleasure crashed over you in waves. He followed seconds later, burying himself deep with a guttural moan, spilling inside you in hot pulses that left you both trembling.
After, he didn’t roll away.
He stayed inside you a moment longer, then shifted to his back, pulling you with him so you lay draped across his chest—your head over his heartbeat, one leg tangled with his. His fingers traced lazy patterns on your bare back, almost tender.
The fire popped in the other room. Rain softened against the roof.
You pressed a kiss to his skin, just above his heart.
“I love you,” you whispered. The words you’d screamed before, the ones he’d dismissed. But softer now. Real.
His hand stilled on your back.
“I know,” he said quietly.
Not a confession. Not yet.
And for tonight, that was enough.
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