Here is part 3 of Too Late a fic that was inspired by this board done by the brilliant @darkficsyouneveraskedfor, please check out her page if you don't already know her and @thezombieprostitute also a brilliant writer that you look in too in case you don't already know her either.
This is a work of Dark Fiction. It WILL contain dark themes. I will post the appropriate tags as they become relevant.
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Please tell me your thoughts, this is my first Reader insert so I'm still a bit unsure if I'm doing a good job. I love constructive criticism.
Will tag you if you ask.
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Part One, Part Two
Mr. Beckwourth was a kind soul. You came across him one early morning on your way to the university, six months into your escape, unconscious by the sidewalk. You didn’t know how long he had been there, but he did have a wicked gush on his forehead. Luckily for you and him, the milk lad was passing by on his way to deliveries when he spotted the two of you and recognised the old man instantly. Telling you to wait with him, the young man sprinted in a direction and came back with the man's neighbours, a foreign middle-aged couple. After telling them where you worked and asking them to send any news, you collected yourself and made your way to work.
You received news about him a week later. The poor man was robbed; yes, he was fine; no, he didn't see who did it. After some visits and friendly banter, you became friends and had a standing agreement that every Saturday morning, you would go out to the docks with Mr. Beckwourth to get his supply of fish and then help him sell it in the market.
You were busily accepting an order of salmon and herring when your stomach lurched. Surely you were mistaken.
Ever since you ran away from your previous life, you have lived in fear of a tall figure with broad shoulders finding you and dragging you back to those horrid people you called family. They would kill you if you ever went back home before you came of age, after what became of Darling Anne.
There was no way that a man like Sherlock Holmes would come to the market to buy his food. Unless he was in one of his cases, why would it bring him here? You had no clue; you just hoped that whatever it was didn't bring him to this point.
Oh, yes, you had followed the news discreetly (no point in letting those around you know you were literate.), but diligently. You knew all about him and his service to the crown and its citizens. Best not to test fate. I’ve come too far. Your thought was desperate as you dove below the stall and rubbed some fish guts on your cheek and head. I’ll have to spend some money in one of the washhouses with warm water then. Mrs. Acker will have a fit if I show up soiled again. You rose again with a cheery smile, despite your fear about whether you may or may not have been seen.
You were hyper-aware of yourself leaving the market. Once, twice, three times you could have sworn you were being followed, but when you stopped in front of a shop or pretended to turn in the wrong street, with a piece of paper in your hand to make it believable, you had either come across a vagrant or no one at all. It took you longer than normal to get to the washhouse, but it was worth the coin and your time. You didn't afford yourself many luxuries, but good ointments and oils for your skin, courtesy of the two nurses, who were just old school mates and the young governess who took care of some lonely boys on the other side of London at night, and a weekly wash—a habit picked up by your mother and father's stay in their respective corners of the east—were a must. It was, in part, also why you decided to help Mr. Beckwourth. Not only did you like the old man, it also gave you a reason to visit the washhouses once a week. The ones with warm and hot water were cheaper than the tepid tub that Mrs. Acker managed. Having one last look around, you quickly dogged into the washhouse.
It was closer to evening when you finally made it to the house. Exsusted, not only from the week of labour you had but from walking up and down the streets of London just in case your follower from last night or that nuisance Sherlock Holmes had seen you or at least suspected it was you and tried to follow you back to your residence.
Thanking Mrs. Acker for allowing you to take your supper in your room, you made your way up to what once had been a small attic workshop with a partial glass roof but was now a small room. You didn't mind it. The glass part of the roof had a hatch you could open in the summer, keeping the room cool. After all, who would climb to the roof to steal steel from a humble boarding house? And since the fireplace chimney ran through your room, it kept the winter chill out, despite part of the roof being made of glass. You liked the roof like this. It saved you on candles and gas for the lantern; it provided you with lots of natural light for you to read when you were in your room. And you always did love the sound of the rain.
All in all, it was a quiet place with its share of whimsy. You had fallen in love with it the moment you saw it. Yes, it was a hassle to go down a flight of stairs every time you needed to go to the washroom, but since it was on the smaller side and was in the attic, it did come in cheaper than the other rooms, which suited you nicely. After eating, you settled down for some well-earned rest.
You didn't know that on the other side of London, in an apartment on Baker Street, a tall man with wide shoulders and dark blue eyes seethed in anger.
It had been by sheer coincidence that he found you at the market. Watson had to do some hours at the hospital, and Mary, being heavily pregnant, asked him to help her with her errands at the market. He stood silent as you helped an older man behind the fishmonger's stand. You couldn't help but notice your still-smooth hands. They had thickened with what he deduced was years of hard work, but they were still fine with smooth skin. On the subject of your skin, that too was fine, smooth, and quite clean. It didn't have any of the telltale muck common among the more impoverished folk. He didn't see how you could afford the cost of regular baths in a boarding house, so it could only be through the use of the washhouses that you could keep so clean. It still didn't explain the softness of your skin and healthy glow. Sherlock only had time to quickly turn around before you raised your eyes in his direction. He was going to take advantage of his luck. It seemed that he would move his plans forward by a whole day and a half. Making sure that Mary was alright and excusing himself, he made his way to the first beggar he found near the steps of the market.
He was going to put his homeless network to good use. He would know where you lived by nightfall.
Nightfall provided him with nothing. Despite no less than fifteen of his best in the Homeless Network having followed you discreetly, you still managed to give them the slip, more or less where he had followed you last night. He grabbed the skull on the fire mantle and threw it angrily at the wall. He then shot the wall for good measure.
That sent Mr. Hudson into hysteria, threatening him about calling the Yard. No doubt Watson would have some choice words come Monday morning if previous fits of rage had taught him anything. He growled and threw more things at the wall opposite him.
Pussycat was in for a right spanking when he finally got his hands on her.
Pussycat was in for a whole lot more when he got his hands on her. A lot more.
Sherlock smiled in the darkness, clutching his violin bow in his hands.
alcohol: whatever is in that glass I’ll drink it and ask for more. (but tequila enjoyer)
warm drink: sniper’s jar jk jk, coffee.
I’m not a picky eater as you can see. anyway, tagging ma bros @scrunckled-idiot @another-delta-lover @tf2addictedmann @thatonesimp-e @aniolleq @zeldot @sewerdraws
Stop reducing native issues to “they had their land taken”.
Our sisters are still murdered and missing.
Our children go hungry and cold.
Our elders can’t afford health care.
Our parents suffer from untreated mental illness and have addictions because they self medicate.
And thats not even on the reservations. Thats just in farming communities of the Lumbee. And we are doing well by comparison to other groups.
Stop reducing us to stolen land and erasing our real struggles.
Natives have the highest suicide rates. Natives have the most unsafe school conditions. 75% of sex trafficking victims in Canada are First Nations. Natives are the most likely to be shot by police according to some studies and just as likely to be shot as black brothers and sisters according to others. Half of the homes on reservations in the US are legally deemed “uninhabitable” despite families and children living in them. Non native people can still commit crimes against us and not even be tried under native law, usually meaning not at all. Reservations flood often, they are stricken with drought. Most urban native kids carry the weight of being the only native their classmates and other townspeople will ever know. There are no college classes for us or about us. We are struggling, y'all. We have had our land, languages, and family ripped from us, it’s more than just history, it’s 500+ years of ongoing genocide.
And often people wonder why a native American family would choose NOT to live on a reservation & do everything in their power to avoid ending up there.
Summary: It's your first week on the job and you find yourself having to deal with a very angry higher up.
Warnings: Power imbalance, Yelling. Please let me know if I missed any.
Tech Tuesdays Masterlist
You'd survived your first week at the job. It was a nerve-wracking to find out you were the only woman working in the IT department outside of Mr. Pine's assistant. Thankfully the majority of your coworkers were friendly without being inappropriate or condescending. So far you were able to just sit at your desk and do you work.
There's a knock on your cubicle wall and you look up to see Johnny standing there.
“Hey, I need you to take a ticket for me,” he tells you. “I'd do it but I just got pinged by the security measures and that takes priority. Ticket is Hansen-4142. Thanks so much!” Before you can argue he's gone.
Shaking your head you check the ticket. Johnny's not wrong that security takes highest priority and it's not unheard of for technicians to trade tickets. Looking through things it's pretty straightforward. This Hansen person likely tried to update some of the office software and the update messed with their current settings. You get his office number, double check the building floor-plans so you don't get lost, and head up.
Getting off the elevator at his floor the atmosphere is incredibly tense. People are keeping their heads down and trying to make themselves as small as possible. As you get closer to Mr. Hansen's office, you start to understand why. His voice carries and he's clearly very, very angry.
By the time you're right outside his office you're visibly shaking. Part of you wants to run back to the safety of your cubicle and beg one of the bosses to choose someone else. But that wouldn't be professional. It's only your first week, you need to do this and prove yourself to be a good hire. Taking a breath to steady yourself, you knock on the door.
“Get in here!” Mr. Hansen barks.
You open the door, “hello, Mr. Hansen. I'm, um, I'm from IT to fix your computer?”
“Yeah, I figured that,” he bites back. “No one else would be dumb enough to knock on the damn door.”
You nod at his reasoning, “may, I...may I see your computer, Sir?”
He chortles, “It's about damn time the IT department hired someone who knows their place.”
He moves away from his desk and gestures for you to sit. Not wanting to be here any longer than you need, you immediately set about to working. No chit-chat, nothing to give him a reason to yell again. You find yourself getting into the zone, hunting down the needed files, ignoring everything extraneous, and making the changes that are needed.
You think you got everything so you get out of the chair, “please make sure everything is working correctly, Mr. Hansen?”
He gives you a skeptical look as he sits, “that was way too fast to have worked.” You lower your chin to your chest but don't protest. You hear him typing and clicking away for a minute or so. “Huh,” you hear from him. “You're a friggin' maestro.” His tone is more contemplative than anything.
“Do you need anything else, Sir?”
He looks up and seems surprised you're still there. “No. You may go back to the IT caverns.”
Not needing to be told twice you nod and head out. When you're back in the department you see Mr. Syverson and he calls you over.
“Where ya been? Was wantin' to ask you about some of the upcoming projects we got ya assigned to.”
“Oh, Johnny asked me to handle a ticket for him because a security issue came up.”
He freezes at that. “Was it with Hansen?”
“Um, yes, Sir.” You see his face turn red and you're worried you did something wrong.
He takes a breath, “you're not in trouble. You're gonna go finish out that ticket like you're supposed to and I'll talk to you about the projects tomorrow.” You nod and almost run to your cubicle. Behind you, Syverson yells, “Storm! My office! NOW!”
This is such a great glimpse into readers world and we know Johnny didn’t want to have to deal with Lloyd again. Sounds like she just became Lloyd’s preferred IT person for better or worse. And she has a boss that understands that but also glad he is gonna give Johnny shit for sending you up there without a warning about what she was walking into.
Well after some time away from this place, I come not with an update to all my other fics, no. Nor do I come with a master list. No, no. I come to you with a new piece. My very first Reader insert fic.
This all started earlier when @darkficsyouneveraskedfor who is feeling unwell, made a mood bored. A mood board that I had requested, about an Obsessed Sherlock and a Smart reader. https://www.tumblr.com/darkficsyouneveraskedfor/746232236070895616/i-have-one-obsessed-sherlocksmart-reader?source=share
Well, it inspired me. So here I am. I hope you like it. I dedicate this fic to @darkficsyouneveraskedfor and @thezombieprostitute (who has also had a hand inspiring with all her lovely fics) please go to their pages and read their work if you don't know them. And without further preamble,
This is a Dark fic. There will be dark themes spread throughout it.
I do not consent to sharing or posting this fic in any other platform that isn't mine. I do not consent to the Selling of this fic. EVER. You are responsible for your own media experience. Warnings will be tagged accordingly. Don't like it, DON'T READ IT.
I humbly ask that if you do enjoy this fic, please do me the kindness of liking, reposting and commenting.
Constructive criticism is always welcome.
Obsessive!Sherlock/Smart!Reader
Too Late
Part 2 Part 3
You stood quietly in the corner of the room, careful to keep your eyes down. The Holmes brothers were in attendance; why they came was a mystery to you. They were infamous for not keeping their disdain for such events as this one a secret. Their brilliance was unmatched, and that could ruin all your plans.
“There you are (Y/N). Try not to fade into the background tonight. I expect you to be at your best. If all else fails, you’re the one who has to fix it.” Your aunt's obnoxious voice rang in your ears as you quietly curtsied and moved to a more visible place while still trying to remain out of the way. You still managed to hear her quip about how useless you were. Ironic, all things considered. It was her daughter who had been stupid enough to believe the baron's son's pathetic advances and commit an indiscretion that left her now with child. Not to mention her aunt's loose tongue, carrying on about how close the two had become, which meant that any disappearance on Anna's part would fuel the rumour mill. Fuel more than it already was, that is. To be fair, that was your doing. Having found out about what had happened, and how your aunt would throw a ball, this ball, to try and make the Baron force his son to marry Anne, and if that failed in avoiding what would become a scandal, she would pawn you off to the first rich heir she could as to secure Anne's future. You "distractedly" muttered about it all, while one of their more nosey maids with parchment for gossip was within earshot. None of them ever knew just how word got out. As of right now, you have two potential suitors, both quite nauseatingly boring, stupid, and quite frankly unattractive. Very unattractive. You suspected incest. One could not be that obtuse without there being some sort of medical reason. Although your aunt did everything in her power to make you believe that you were horrendous, you knew better. You looked just like your grandmother. And your grandmother was beautiful. You only wished you had her hair, but alas, you inherited your father's colouring.
You shifted ever so slightly toward the shadows again looking toward the ball in full swing not really paying much attention to what was in front of you. You lost yourself in memories of your mother quietly reading medical journals and other science books in the corner of the estate's library, while your father taught you how to play chess and the wonder of mathematics, engineering and philosophy. How once a week without fail they would play Treasure Hunt with riddles and enigmas and equations to solve to see who could win and find the prize first. Or how your father taught you how to shoot and ride a horse and your mother taught you everything she learned from the housekeeper her family had when she lived in Macau when she was little. “There are plenty of ways a woman can defend herself Pussycat,” told you laughing when you two would sit in your underthings in a room on the top floor. Reserved for such activities. Or how they both allowed you to run the grounds just all the boys delighted that their Pussycat could outrun any boy they knew and that was in a dress. But then they were gone. They had gone to the opera one night and never came back. There had been a fire. There were no survivors. The kingdom was in mourning. They were all very sorry for your loss. The following week your Aunt and uncle arrived with Anna in tow. He was your father's brother. The brother who spent his half of the inheritance with drinking and gambling and whores. There were no more lessons after that. Women must know their place no more nonsense such as reading. What can a pathetic woman hope to accomplish by reading such texts? No more treasure hunts. Wasting one's time with such drivel. My brother never knew how to handle himself. You even lost your room and all your things. Such a plain girl doesn’t need pretty things. After all, you’re only ever going to be the children's Au Pair. And that only if you're good to Anna. You were thirteen then. You said nothing. You just looked down and smiled secretly. Your father was no fool. He knew that if anything were to happen to him, certain precautions would have to be taken in order to protect you. You still remember the screams of fury coming from the study when your aunt and uncle were informed that they would have a monthly allowance until you came of age where you too would receive an allowance until you married who you wished or if you were to be were married before coming of age the fortune your father had amassed would then be given as a dowry to your husband. Either way, they only had a roof and an allowance until you married. You were eighteen now. You hadn’t been presented to court because they had been so fixated on Anna. Darling, pretty, silly Anna. So now they didn’t even have until next season to salvage the situation. And they weren’t going to salvage it tonight either. Not if you had your way.
You came back to yourself when the clock struck eight. Henrich the butler would announce the time for dinner soon.
It was almost time. You took a deep breath centering your nerves. You just hoped you had enough time to move. You hadn’t expected the Holmes. They were going to be a problem. Even if the Yard did come later rather than sooner those two especially the younger one would interfere. You could only hope that the pride and arrogance of whoever the yard sent the political designs the older one had and the fact that thanks to your Aunts’ vitriol no one was the wiser about exactly what you were capable of, would be enough to slow Sherlock Holms’s brilliant mind down.
You looked at the watch and then looked at your only family counting the seconds.
Heinrich appeared, to announce that dinner was about to be served.
One final breath.
All hell broke loose as you fled into the night, in a maid's dress with your mother's jewels your father's letter of reference and a prayer to God that you could survive what was yet to come.
You did not notice a pair of vibrant blue eyes accessing you clinically, remembering how your father gushed about your intellect, finding it hard to find any trace of brilliance, before being completely surprised by an explosion.
You sat quietly in a corner while you ate your humble meal. Working as a surrey maid at the university was as far from your social circle as you could go and still hold on to your virtue. The fact that it was in a university, in full view of everyone, tickled you daily. No one ever looks at the scurry maids. They’re just there to clean. Thats all. It was honest living with the added bonus that no one paid you any mind. No one noticed you hiding in the shadows, paying attention to the scholars. No one noticed the books disappearing or reappearing. No one noticed you. You finished your food, smiled minutely, and went back to work. Just two more weeks. Two more weeks, and you will be twenty-one. Then you would march up to your father's old friend, your godfather's legal practice, and go back home.
You did not notice a pair of vibrant blue eyes staring at you incredulously. You did not notice how those eyes shone in a savage victory and smiled darkly.
What a great start! Sherlock would notice her immediately, and she is so smart for coming up with this plan, a shame he’s probably going to ruin everything for her 🥲
Does this mean I have to become a monster fucker? Because honestly, vampires are the only monster I'm down with. Maaaaaybe werewolves/animal shifters. Tentacles are a hard limit.
In my first year university course there was a class I remember as being mandatory (at least for English majors) about fallacies and biases in writing. And this prof was all about reading the whole article before you formed your argument. That was his whole thing. You know measure twice cut once he was read twice respond once. He stressed this so much that on our final exam (which was two long form essay questions and a few short answer questions) that I decided to read the WHOLE exam booklet before I grabbed my pen.
Turns out that is what he wanted. The final page, the final question, informed the student that if they wrote 1. Their name, 2. Their student number 3. Their favourite fallacy, and wait for 30 minutes so they don't arouse suspicion, you will literally be given 100 percent for the exam WORTH 40 PERCENT OF YOUR GRADE.
I think about it to this day. The prof literally saw the "reading comprehension on this site is piss poor" and said I can fix them
