“She came back. She stayed. And now Adora never wants to let go of her.”
A quiet moment between Catra and Adora after the calm settles.
It feels a bit like a fever dream all throughout the day; Horde Prime gone, Etheria free, the people she cares about safe and – and. Catra’s hand in hers. Especially Catra’s hand in hers.
She came back. She stayed. And now Adora never wants to let go of her.
She drags Catra with her as she roams the field, shaking the hands of people who come running up to her, eager to meet She-Ra who saved them all. Adora takes it all in stride and holds on tightly to Catra’s hand.
It takes a while before they’re able to get away again, joining up with Glimmer and Bow; just the four of them, the best friend squad (and Catra’s now part of it too, Adora thinks, her heart skipping a beat, they accepted her, they cared for her). The music from the celebration carries over, but it’s muted in this part of the forest, removed from the serenity of the atmosphere. Adora sits on the ground, slumped against a tree, and when Catra follows, she impulsively kisses her cheek because – because she can. So why not? Will she ever need any other reason than that?
“Awww,” Bow says, hand against his heart. “You guys are so cute.”
Adora looks down, a bit flustered but too deliriously happy to care. Catra, of course, pretends to be offended with an angry hiss towards Bow, but it would feel a lot more sincere if not for the redness in her cheeks which has Adora smothering a smile.
So this is what it feels like? To be happy in love? She could probably get used to it.
“We’re not cute,” Catra insists, huffing, but Bow just grins and Glimmer laughs. Adora watches them with a heady feeling in her chest. It’s so easy. It’s everything she never thought she could hope to have. What do you want, Adora? she remembers Catra asking, and the answer is this.
This, this, this, and more of this. Always.
She loses track of the conversation after that, and it becomes apparent when Catra turns her head towards her, squinting.
“You okay there, princess?” she wonders, just between the two of them, and it almost sounds like, “Are you having second thoughts?”
Of course, Catra’s fear of abandonment is not going to magically disappear overnight, and perhaps Adora has issues she needs to sort through as well. But that’s okay, because she’s absolutely not having second thoughts, and she lets Catra know that with a gentle smile.
“Never better,” she answers, and it almost sounds like, “Not for a second.”
Catra seems to understand what she’s not saying, appeased as she leans back against the tree, her shoulder brushing against Adora’s.
“Well, don’t think so hard, you’ll give yourself a headache.”
“You’re impossible,” Adora replies with an amused roll of her eyes. “I love you, though.”
It slips out so naturally and without thinking, like they’ve had this easy companionship for years and not just a few hours. The words always belonged to her lips, she just had to find the courage to say them and mean it the way she always wanted it to mean.
The look on Catra’s face is entirely worth it, her eyes going wide, her lips parting. Adora finds it makes her look young like she’s supposed to be and not like the hardened soldier the Horde tried to make her be.
For a second, they’re both silent, listening to the quiet chirping of the cicadas all around them. One glance at Glimmer and Bow confirms that they’re also talking amongst themselves, too preoccupied to pay attention to what Catra and Adora are doing, which suits Adora just fine because this moment belongs to the two of them. They’re owed a little privacy after all that they’ve been through.
“Sap,” Catra says at last, but her cheeks are definitely redder than they were before. Adora smirks.
“Oh, you haven’t seen nothing. Just wait and see.”
Summary: Sherlock has been with the reader for a while before she suddenly died. After a few years, he receives a note that could only be from her - the handwriting, the style, the smell even - but he is sure it could never be her, that it could just be a prank. No matter how much he tries to convince himself, and convince John and Greg, everyone is just sure that no one can come back from the dead. Soon enough, these theories are proven wrong. Reader comes to 221B and asks for Sherlock’s forgiveness, in vain.
Author: Niky @waiting-for-orchestra
Words: 3162
Characters/Relationships: Sherlock x reader
Warnings: character death, angst
Request: So there's these two songs I absolutely love, and I was wondering if someone could do a songfic for one of them ("Oh My Love" by Silver Trees or "Dear Doubt" by Michael Schulte) where Sherlock thinks the reader is dead but receives a note that could only be from her except no one believes him, thinking its a prank, but then she shows asking for his forgiveness and he refuses to forgive her, avoiding her at all cost. Maybe sad, or bittersweet, ending??? - anonymous
A/N: Lovely request, anon! I’m the mood for angst lately, so here it is! This is my first songfic, so I hope I’ve nailed it! For the record, I set it before Reichenbach, so in about season 2, when John is still at 221B. I chose the first song you mentioned, as I found the lyrics slightly more suitable; I hope you like it, and sorry for the inactivity lately!
My love, I had to write,
my love, I feel the weight inside me grow,
and hold.
Baker Street was completely empty.
It was past midnight, but Sherlock knew Mrs. Hudson would have been awake to make him some dinner. Strangely enough, he was hungry.
He was never hungry.
Never, except for that day of the year. That day, it was a very important day, or it would have been had she not died.
She, Y/N.
He missed her, the only woman he ever loved. She hadn’t been like the others, no one could have ever said she had been. She had that laugh, those eyes, that mind, that were nothing common.
And on that day, it would have been their anniversary.
They had been together for about three years before she disappeared, and every year he would take her out somewhere she liked, sometimes he even remembered to get her a present. Because it was worth remembering, unlike everything else.
We were young back then when we started out,
we were young back then.
She would have been twenty-seven years old on the day of her death. And on that day, on her twenty-seventh birthday, he found her body lying on the ground on one side, surrounded by blood, in the living room of her small apartment.
He had hurried to call Molly, who told him, tears welling up in her eyes, that she had already died more than two hours before.
But he didn’t want to remember.
Soon, he arrived in front of the door to his apartment.
He felt the cold metal of the doorknob under his calloused fingers as he pushed the door open, and Mrs. Hudson came his way.
“Sherlock, how are you, dear? Do you want something to eat?” she asked approaching him slowly, noticing his grim expression.
“I would love it, Mrs. Hudson. I’ll be upstairs”.
He was hungry, he didn’t know why.
Maybe he needed something to fill in the emptiness, and he couldn’t think of anything other than food, unless he went back to drugs.
But she would have hated him for that.
He didn’t bother to take his coat off; he just sat on his chair, looking at the experiments left unfinished on the kitchen table, there as always, the experiments she used to help him with.
The smell of dust was strong, but he hadn’t worried about that in a while either.
Mrs. Hudson opened the door a few minutes later with a plate in her hand, and a letter in the other.
“This came in the mail today, I don’t know if you want to read it. I haven’t opened it, maybe give it a look, will you? Who knows, there might be a big murder waiting for you!”
She tried to force a smile out of Sherlock, but he didn’t even look at her as he took the plate and the letter from her hands.
She didn’t say anything else; wisely, she decided to walk away and return to her apartment.
Sherlock ate quickly, as if starving. He wasn’t really hungry, but the emptiness was unbearable. Then, he took the letter, and brought it to his nose: the smell was familiar, and unmistakable: it was her smell.
‘Someone who wears the same perfume… there are way too many women in London’.
He was tempted to toss the letter away and forget he ever saw it. That smell brought too many memories back, he couldn’t just read a letter and feel his heart clench every second with a new flashback.
But he pulled through.
He opened the envelope carefully, and his fingers brushed against a perfectly folded sheet of paper. Another memory flashed in his mind…
“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked, noticing Y/N was handling a lot of paper.
“Oh, nothing” she replied with a slight laugh, “Inviting people for Christmas”.
“Paper invitations?”
“I like tradition”.
Sherlock moved closer to her, noticing how she folded the paper aligning the corners perfectly.
“They have to be original, don’t they?”
He smelled the paper again, letting the memory sink in for a second before trying his best to put it away.
He unfolded the sheet, and his expression tensed.
The handwriting: it was hers.
There could be no doubt about that.
Happy anniversary, my love.
I know I’ve done it all wrong.
I’m sorry.
But I miss you, even if I don’t know if you miss me, even if I don’t know if you still remember our anniversary.
And I love you, even if I don’t know if you still love me, even if I don’t know if you’d still want to see me again.
I’m coming for you, my love.
Will you wait for me?
“No, no, NO!” Sherlock tossed the paper away from his sight, not anymore able to control the pain. He all of a sudden took his gun from a drawer and aimed at himself, hands shaking; then he relaxed. A deep breath, another… then he took the letter again.
He read it out loud, fighting against the tears that threatened to fall as he noticed how much it sounded like her voice was speaking instead of his own.
Then, he hid it under some documents, took his coat off, and locked himself in his bedroom.
Too far to say turn back, too high above to feel the ground below.
“John, John, please wake up. John, please!” Sherlock shook his roommate out of sleep in the early morning; he had not been able to relax for a single moment. He was still shaking, going almost out of his mind.
“Sherlock, it’s not even five in the morning. What do you want?”
“John, it’s about Y/N”.
John’s eyes widened all of a sudden, looking up at Sherlock.
“She’s been dead for two years, and for how it upsets you, how could there be any news?”
“I don’t think she’s dead. She played with me. She played with my mind… again”.
It was difficult to understand whether Sherlock was smiling or frowning as he let his mind wander in the memories.
“What happened?”
“I… I don’t know. My mind isn’t working as usual, John, I feel as if I were going crazy. I got a letter yesterday, it should have been our anniversary. It was written as if she had… It had her smell… It was her handwriting, I’m sure… John, I don’t understand, you are familiar with women instead. Could someone ever do something like this… could she have survived?”
John’s expression saddened as it softened slightly.
“She was losing blood from all over her chest. Both Molly and I inspected her wounds. She was dead, Sherlock, and it was her. I’m sure, unfortunately, as I’ve never been about anything”.
For the whole day, nothing could keep Sherlock away from that letter he had received. He couldn’t deduce any further, and only then he decided to do something he would have never done, in any other occasion: he called Greg Lestrade.
“George, will you please come to the flat? I need your help with something”.
“It’s Greg, and… wait. You need my help? With what?”
“I can’t explain on the phone. Come here, and be quick!”
For Greg Lestrade, it would have been impossible to ever even wish to see Sherlock wanting his help for something. Yet there he was, almost begging in a shaky and anxious voice over the phone, a frustration in his tone that he had never heard before.
Approaching the door to 221B and knocking lightly, he tried to guess what the reason for such a request could have been. Sherlock knew everything, while he, Gregory Lestrade, Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard, was nothing more than a mere human being in comparison to such genius.
Mrs. Hudson opened the door and welcomed him with a smile.
“Hello, Greg. What a pleasure to see you here! Unless you’re here to tell Sherlock off for something of course; he’s not really normal these days. Normal for Sherlock, I mean.”
“Hello, Mrs. Hudson. Actually, Sherlock called me just now, he says he needs my help. Do you by chance…?”
“I have no idea. He’s upstairs, try to see if he can calm down, he’s been screaming in frustration the whole day”.
Greg walked up the stairs with hurry, and he opened the door silently to find Sherlock lying on the floor, stretched so that he almost walked over his hand as he entered the flat.
“Finally, finally here, Gavin!” Sherlock said with a sigh of relief. He stood up from his unusual position, then hurried over to the kitchen table.
“This. This piece of paper. This is what I need your help with. I’m going crazy over it”.
Greg took the sheet in his hands, accurately analyzing it. The handwriting was awkwardly familiar.
“You see it, Gill? It looks familiar, doesn’t it? Whose is it?” Sherlock pressed him.
“Stop pretending not to remember my name! If it’s important for you, you should for once let me concentrate!”
Sherlock caught the message and seemed to become small all of a sudden, and no matter the pity he felt for his desperation, Greg couldn’t help but be pleased by that.
“Sherlock, you do understand that she’s dead, and that this is almost surely a prank sent by someone who wants to mess with you and make you waste your time, right?”
Just like John’s, Greg’s reaction was obvious and his statements were probably correct - Sherlock knew that, but he was not going to accept it until he had more proof. The DI’s harsh words pierced right through his heart, as another confirmation of his worst fear that had come true two years past, and that was now pushing through his mind to make him feel the same things all over again: panic, sadness, loneliness. All over again.
Oh my love, will you take me home,
when I’m lost, will you keep me close?
“You can check every single detail about her corpse in here, and if you’re really that crazy you can even take it back from the grave and analyze it once again. Sherlock, I’m telling you in the clearest way I can, and I know it hurts, it hurt me too back then, but Y/N is dead. I’m sorry, but that’s how it is and she can’t come back, you know that very well”.
Sherlock had wanted to try talking to Molly Hooper, the only one left in the group, the only one left that could have given him some even faint hope. But she was sure of the facts, she couldn’t consider, for the sake of science, that maybe she had survived. It was impossible.
“But this letter… It is not a prank, Molly, it can’t be. The smell, the handwriting, the way it is folded. Everything leads to her, Molly. You can find someone with the same perfume, or a similar handwriting, or someone with serious OCD that folds sheets perfectly. But what’s the possibility of finding someone else with all these three combined?”
“Sherlock, this is not letting you think logically anymore. Please let it go, it’s not worth it”.
“It is, it is worth it! How can you all just not understand?” he shouted, leaving the morgue with his hands balled into fists, the letter crumpled in his strong grip.
Oh my love, will you give me the faith
to believe in a fight and carry through the flame?
“I’m coming for you. Will you wait for me?”
Sherlock couldn’t stop repeating those two last lines in his mind. He was waiting, but when was she going to come?
Slowly, he’d started to doubt the authenticity of the letter as well.
There was no sign of her, nothing that could even remotely indicate her presence anywhere.
No one was knocking at the door, other than some random boring clients.
No one was climbing in through the window.
No one was sending anything anymore.
No hidden messages were getting in his way.
There was nothing, she was gone forever and she’d been gone for two years. He was finally starting to accept that.
Maybe one day he was also going to learn to forget her completely, not to think of her anymore.
And maybe for once he was going to be able to go through the day of their anniversary without feeling that empty.
Maybe, the pain he was feeling was the pain caused by the pieces of his heart coming back together.
Maybe, the wound was healing.
“Sherlock, are you okay?” John asked one morning, about two weeks after the events.
“Do we have clients today?”
“Not yet, it’s only seven in the morning”.
“Right.”
Sherlock hadn’t been accepting any cases lately, though. John was worried by that. Sometimes, he would have given the world to get one simple case. Now, he was avoiding every request.
“If it is a prank, I have to at least know who decided to prank me. I’m not accepting anything until I’ve solved this, so send them away if they come and say Sherlock Holmes is very busy right now” Sherlock murmured, as if answering John’s questions.
“You’re still thinking about that?” John asked.
“How can I not?”
“I thought you had decided to let it go. Sherlock, it’s not worth it. There might be some great cases among the ones you declined, you’re going to regret this later”.
“Sounds like what Mrs. Hudson would say”.
“It’s what Mrs. Hudson says, Sherlock!”
The detective didn’t answer. He laid back in his chair, looking at the letter sitting on the small table beside him.
My love, I know the way I’ve walked ten thousand miles to make it through, for you.
Hold on to light and rest in my heart, know this is my best for you.
It was almost midnight.
Sherlock hadn’t moved from his chair the whole day, and had barely said a word. John had probably gone to his girlfriend’s, but the detective really couldn’t tell: he hadn’t been paying any attention to that, at all.
The wind was hitting with great force against the locked windows, but it didn’t seem to bother him.
The door to the flat opened all of a sudden, revealing a thin figure in the shadows.
“I’ve been waiting” Sherlock whispered softly, a hint of sorrow in his voice.
“So you have…”
Silence fell as the figure moved towards him, into the flat. He stood and faced it, the soft features of his old lover barely visible in the dark.
“How did you fool everyone? How did you do that? Me, John, Molly, everyone. How did you do it?”
The questions came out all at once; he was barely able to hold himself together.
“It’s difficult to explain…”
“Answer me”.
He heard her softly sigh as she took another step forward.
“I can’t tell you”.
“Then there’s nothing to talk about. You made me wait for no reason. You can go”.
“No, Sherlock, really, I…”
He stared into her eyes that sparkled in the dim light coming from the street.
“I really can’t tell you. But now it’s all over, and maybe one day it will be so far in the past that we’ll be able to talk about it as if it were nothing. Please, just…”
He didn’t answer, but the feeling of his eyes on her made her voice crack.
“I messed it up again, didn’t I?”
No reply.
“Maybe if I’d just really died back then, maybe it would have been different. I know, I know, I know… I’m always wrong. But I missed you, I really did, and I know you did too. Please, Sherlock, answer me for once… Will you ever be able to forgive me?”
Sherlock moved a few steps towards Y/N, lifting her chin up with two fingers and closing the distance between them with a sweet kiss. He had missed her, and he had missed the feeling of her lips against his, but it was better for him and for her to just let it go.
He pulled away, then whispered in her ear: “Now go”.
Y/N threw her arms at his neck, letting some of her tears fall on his shoulder.
“Sherlock…”
“Just go”.
“I messed it up again…”
“You should have thought about it. You either give me a reason, or this is it.”
“I can’t”.
“Then go, and if this had to be the case you should have not sent that letter at all. You sent me on a fool’s errand these days, do you have the slightest idea what that means? I’ve been refusing clients, just because I didn’t seem to understand how that letter had come my way. Please, just go, and don’t show up again unless you have a real reason for it”.
He grabbed her wrists, forcing her to loosen her grip on him, then led her towards the door. It was the final goodbye.
You belong along the road with me, I belong with you.
“Mr. Holmes, it’s weird to explain, but… God, I can’t manage…”
A man had stormed into 221B a couple of weeks after Y/N’s return, claiming that his wife had been killed during the night.
“This morning I woke up and found her in a pool of blood… Mr. Holmes, I…”
It wasn’t the first one of the kind. Since about a week, many young men had been coming to the flat to discuss their wives’ or girlfriends’ sudden death, especially overnight. One of them also claimed that the day in which they’d found the body, was meant to be his and his wife’s anniversary.
As the client walked out the door, John approached Sherlock.
“Why all these sudden deaths? Why just the women? Why overnight?”
“I know why and we’re going to confirm my theory… tonight, I suppose”.
“Am I allowed to be there?”
“No”.
It was rainy outside.
The door to the flat opened again, after midnight, and Y/N’s thin figure stood at the entrance.
“Why did you kill them?”
“I don’t know. But don’t worry, today’s was the last one”.
“Why?”
Y/N approached Sherlock, who immediately stood up from his chair.
“I don’t know that either. Actually, maybe there’s one more left”.
“I knew it was you since the second client, but can you give me the reason for this at the very least?”
“Sherlock, I told you. I don’t know. But I have to complete my last task”.
She walked towards him again, and kissed him sweetly for the last time before aiming a gun at her heart.
“This time’s for real, Sherlock. No more tricks, I swear”.
The loud firing of the gun made him jump, then he found her dead body in his arms, warm blood dripping from the wound.
The gun hit the ground with a thud, and Sherlock fell to his knees, holding Y/N close to his chest as his tears landed on her cold skin.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
So this is a soulmate au where everything your soulmate writers or draws on their own body appears on yours. I wrote this last year for the @blueseyzine but completely forgot to post it until now so... enjoy, I guess?
written for @lirapheus for the Halloween exchange we hosted over at @blueseyzine The prompt was: Bluesey AU set in the 80s or 90s in which Blue has a part-time job at the Henrietta Public Library. As a librarian, she is responsible for answering the phone and helping people with research questions—and Gansey happens to have lots of questions about the supernatural, a subject Blue is obviously familiar with.
I had a lot of fun writing this, I hope you enjoy!
“Blue!” The shout catches her off-guard and Blue jumps, banging her head, hard, against the bookshelf she’s inspecting. She presses her hand against the aching spot with a wince, barely stopping a nasty curse from escaping her mouth – only because it would look bad in front of the customer standing next to her. But when Cialina appears, looking for her, she can’t quite hold back the bite from her tone as she asks, “What?”
“It’s Gansey,” Cialina says, as if that would explain everything. It only makes Blue squint in suspicion.
“And?”
“And he wants you.”
This is not the first time Gansey specifically requests her when she’s not the one to pick up the phone so Blue knows what she means. Having grown up in a house full of psychics, Blue is perhaps the only one who doesn’t treat Gansey with condescension for all the questions he has about otherworldly things. She has her own experiences, which she has occasionally shared with him, and she supposes that makes her fascinating in his eyes. It’s not surprising he would ask for her, rather than be stuck talking to Cialina about topics she doesn’t even believe in.
But the way Cialina says that, waggling her eyebrows knowingly, makes the double meaning to her words painfully obvious. “And he wants you.” As if. Cialina is so sure there’s something going on between them, no matter how much Blue insists on the contrary, and she seizes every opportunity to tease Blue about it.
Blue seethes silently. It’s a ridiculous notion. She’s never even met Gansey. All he is to her is a voice on the telephone – albeit, a nice voice, but just a voice. In fact, it took her a while to even warm up to this voice on the telephone (he had made a horrible first impression, truth be told) and she’s sure she wouldn’t have bothered with him if it wasn’t her job to answer the phone and be pleasant to customers. It’s a work relationship – if it wasn’t, there wouldn’t be a relationship in the first place.
Annoyed by Cialina’s suggestion, Blue tries to weasel her way out of this conversation. “I’m helping this lady find The Great Gatsby. I think it was misplaced again.”
It’s not going to work, of course, but it’s the principle of the matter.
Cialina, as expected, shakes her head. “Doesn’t matter, I’ll find it. Go and talk to him.”
Blue knows why it doesn’t matter. Gansey’s father, Richard Gansey the Second, is a generous donator to Henrietta Public Library, and likely rich enough to buy the whole town if he so wishes, thus whatever Gansey wants, Gansey gets. And Gansey wants a lot.
He wants to know about ghosts and how to communicate with them. He wants to know about ley lines and where to find them. He wants to know about some forest called Cabeswater that Blue can’t find any information on. He wants to know about dreamers and magicians and people who can do extraordinary magical things. Above all, he wants to know where Owen Glendower is buried, but that, she can’t help him with.
She wonders what he wants to know today.
Head hurting from its collision with the bookshelf, pissed at Cialina for her improper suggestion, and a little annoyed with Gansey for being so rich that no one would say no to him, she goes back to the front desk to pick up the phone.
As she answers, she thinks, ‘this is really not what I imagined I’d be doing when I took this job two months ago’, but it’s not necessarily a resentful thought.
“Henrietta Public Library, how may I help you?”
“Jane!” Gansey greets her with the constant enthusiasm she’s used to. “How are you? I trust things are going well.”
“I’m working,” Blue deadpans. That should really tell him everything.
“Oh, I know, that is why I called, after all.”
“Right, right.” Even though she’s grown to enjoy her talks with Gansey sometimes, – it’s refreshing to know someone who doesn’t immediately scoff when she tells them what her mother does for a living – she appreciates him getting straight to business. “What is it you need today?”
“Your company on Saturday and, perhaps, your address.”
Whatever she’s been expecting, it’s not this.
“What?”
“Or not your address but a neutral location where I can pick you up,” he adds in a haste. “It could be the library, if that’s what works for you. I’m not a creep, I swear.”
“Again, what?”
“Allow me to explain.”
Yes, that would be great, Blue thinks but doesn’t say.
“My friends and I are visiting Cabeswater this weekend.” Ah, yes, the infamous Cabeswater. “We’re planning to explore it a bit more, perhaps delve into some of its caves, see what we can find. And we – well, I was thinking you’d might like to come with.”
Blue is at a loss. She likes to think not many things can render her speechless but Richard Gansey the Third inviting her along on one of his many adventures with his friends apparently falls into that category.
“Would you?” Gansey asks when she doesn’t immediately answer.
Blue takes a moment to gather her thoughts and perhaps stop gaping like a fish, then clears her throat. “This is about Glendower, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” she asks, not quite sure why Gansey would want her to come. Should she trust it? Is he pranking her? Is he being genuine? What does he want with her?
“Oh…” It’s his turn to clear his throat, and when he continues, Blue can detect a hint of nervousness in his voice. Nervous Gansey is not a Gansey she’s familiar with and it shocks her. She’s never known him to be anything but utterly, annoyingly self-confident. “You’ve been a huge help, Jane, truly. I’d like to thank you somehow. Preferably in person.”
Still, her suspicions are not entirely quelled. Gansey sounds harmless but it’s not like she’s ever met him.
“I’m only doing my job.”
“Well, I know but I appreciate it nonetheless.” There’s a pause, a clanking sound in the background, then Gansey’s voice, distant and authoritative. “Chainsaw, no, don’t – Damn it.”
He also swears. What a day, Blue thinks.
A few moments pass while Blue waits for Gansey to sort out whatever mess he has to, listening to his voice coming from too far away to be able to make out words, then he speaks into the receiver again. “Sorry, that was my roommate’s raven. A bit of a troublemaker. Where was I? Oh, right. There’s no pressure, Jane. If you don’t want to come… that’s okay.”
But she can tell, by the tone of his voice, that he’s really hoping she wants to go.
And she doesn’t have to. She could say no. This is, in no way, part of her job description. Answering a couple of harmless questions over the phone, yes. Going on some mysterious, possibly dangerous, adventure with a boy (boys) she’s never met, no. And God knows, he could probably use the rejection.
But Blue does like an adventure. That alone almost has her blurting out an affirmative answer – she bites her lip to keep it in.
“Can I think about it?”
“Oh, yes. Yes, sure.” He sounds relieved, like he expected her to outright refuse him. The surprise in his voice almost makes her laugh. “I’ll call tomorrow. Is tomorrow good?”
“Sure.”
“Magnificent. Until tomorrow, Jane.”
“Bye, Gansey.”
She hangs up and blinks a few times, half tempted to pinch herself to make sure that really happened. It feels crazy. She should probably say no. It would be the sensible thing to say no.
But stupidly, she remembers the nerves in Gansey’s voice, and the way he sounded cussing at a pet raven of all things, and thinks she wouldn’t mind seeing more of that Gansey.
xxx
Inevitably, Blue says yes. She’s not successful in making up her mind before the phone call, successively coming to a decision then changing her mind about it throughout the whole day. There are pros and cons, and one minute the pros seem to outweigh the cons, the next it’s the other way around.
Then Gansey calls and she has to decide, and in that moment, she listens to her instincts, blurting out the first thing that comes to her mind.
Yes.
Surprisingly, she doesn’t regret it immediately, or after they hang up, or even when Gansey shows up in a shockingly bright orange car on Saturday morning, dead on time.
She may not be psychic but she’s the daughter of one and she knows when to listen to her instincts.
Gansey takes her to Cabeswater and the forest is pretty much what she was expecting from his tales, except better. Magic hangs in the air like a tangible force she could touch, and she holds out her hand, feeling the energy course through her fingers down to her feet. The seasons shift around them at random, the fish change their colors, and the trees talk. Latin, which she doesn’t understand, but they talk all the same.
Gansey’s friends seem used to this, attached to the forest but no longer dazzled by its quirks, but Gansey watches her reactions to the landscape around them and looks as awed as Blue every time she gasps or marvels at some new discovery.
“It’s like exploring Cabeswater all over again,” he admits, scratching his neck, when Blue questions him about it. She smiles at him.
Gansey looks just like she’s pictured him: immaculate in an aquamarine colored polo shirt, khakis, and boat shoes, the poster child of the rich and white and privileged. Handsome and hazel-eyed and dimpled when he smiles (ridiculous, Blue huffs to herself, thinking how unfair it is that he’s both wealthy and looks like a damn Disney prince.)
He seems in his element exploring magical talking forests, like he was born for this, and she feels strangely touched to be accepted among this group of misfits he’s assembled. He says stupid things, like he always does, but she’s more used to that than she’d like to be, and really, she enjoys his company, and Adam’s and Noah’s, too. (Ronan is a different story but Gansey assures her he’s a good guy so Blue rolls her eyes and resorts to mostly ignoring him.)
That’s how the first few hours pass, listening to Gansey’s stories, sharing laughs with Noah, bonding with Adam over not coming from money like the rest of them, and sometimes, when he thinks she’s not looking, she catches Gansey looking at her weirdly out of the corner of her eye, on the verge of saying something before thinking better of it.
She’s unsure what to make of it, and the fifth time it happens, she grows impatient. “What?”
He hesitates, running a hand through his hair while he tries to decide how to answer, then he smiles sheepishly. “I’m glad you decided to come, Jane.”
“Yeah, well… this,” she gestures around, “was worth it.”
“I hope it’s not the only thing that was worth it.”
“Oh, no, driving around in that monstrous deathtrap of yours that you call a car was definitely worth it too,” she says, sarcasm dripping from her voice.
His lips lift into an amused smile. “That’s okay, you’ll get used to the Pig.”
“Will I now?”
“She has her charms, you’ll see.”
“Hmpf,” she says simply, then lifts a stick from the ground and playfully pokes his arm with it. He looks at her, walking side by side, and there it is again, that look. He holds her gaze, and upon closer inspection, it almost seems like he’s admiring her. “What?” she repeats, a bit thrown off by this revelation.
He stares at her for a few seconds before answering. “You will come next time as well, won’t you?”
“Oh, there’s no way you can keep me away from this place.”
“Good.” Though her words were teasing, he’s completely serious as he looks at her. “Because it wouldn’t be the same without you.”
And it’s not the words themselves that give her pause, it’s something in the way he says it. She never thought a boy like him would have any reason to be interested in someone like her but she’s not stupid and it’s impossible to miss – the twinkle of affection in his eyes, the fondness of his voice, the hope on his face.
Oh my god. Was Cialina right? Does he – Blue cringes thinking the words – want her? Is this a date?
She looks around wonderingly. Noah has disappeared off to somewhere, (she questioned it but no one seemed alarmed) but Ronan and Adam are walking a few steps ahead, not paying attention to the two of them but present nonetheless. It can’t be a date. His friends are here.
But if it was a date, would she mind it so much?
Blue lets the question hang in her mind for the rest of the day until it’s just the two of them in the Pig, parked in front of her house, the other boys having left Cabeswater in Ronan’s car earlier. She turns to Gansey, fiddles with her hands, then, before she could chicken out, takes out a pen and paper from her bag and writes something on it. She hands it to Gansey.
“This is my home number,” she says, trying to gauge his reaction as he inspects the paper. “So that you can reach me outside of the library in case you want to know things not related to Glendower. Like how much does a reading from my mother cost or some advice on your terrible fashion choices or,” she pauses, shrugs her shoulders, and gives him a playful look, “when I’m free to hang out.”
Gansey smiles brightly – not that charming but fake smile she’s seen him don multiple times today, but a real one that sort of, maybe, makes her heart stutter – and tucks the slip of paper in his pocket.
“I’ll be sure to call soon, Jane,” he promises and continues to smile as she slips out of his car and gives him a wave. She’s almost at the front door when he calls after her.
“Wait,” he shouts and she turns, finding a confused look on his face as he leans out the window. “What do you mean ‘terrible fashion choices’?”
Title: All This Time
Summary: When Mycroft’s daughter can’t cope with his unbearable behaviour anymore, she decides to make him and everyone believe she’s dead. She goes, after six years, to live with her uncle Sherlock, trying to keep it from Mycroft and to start a new life back in London. But a new case calls for Sherlock’s help, and Mycroft himself is bringing the news to 221B...
Author: Niky (@waiting-for-orchestra)
Words: 2013 (hehe)
Characters/Relationships: Mycroft x daughter!reader, Sherlock x platonic!reader, John x platonic!reader
Warnings: some cursing, ANGST, character (fake) death
Request: Could u do a one shot where the reader is mycrofts daughter and he thinks she died years ago but in reality she faked her death because her and her father hated each other and she couldn’t stand being around him, Sherlock her uncle (who is more of a father figure to her) also thought she was dead up until about a year ago when she came to live with him and they are hiding it from Mycroft but he eventually finds out??????
– anonymous
A/N: I fell in love with this request!! This is how I’m introducing myself as the new writer in the team, and also a suggestion to the readers: listen to Tchaikovsky while reading this! I was listening to his music while writing, sooo... Hope you like it, and special thanks to the anon who requested this!
“Daddy! Daddy, look at this! Look, I made it for you! You received a lot of phone calls today and were always saying thank you, I thought it were a special day. Do you like it?” shouted little Y/N, a messy muffin in her chocolate-stained hands.
“I’m busy for these things, Y/N. If you had paid more attention, you would have noticed I ended every phone call in five seconds.”
“Is it your birthday, Daddy?”
“Get out, please.” Mycroft’s tone was cold but calm.
“At least tell me how it tastes-”
“Get the hell out!” Mycroft shouted, looking only for a second at the little kid running out of his office and going back to his paperwork.
“Uhm... dad?” murmured eleven-year-old Y/N while opening her father’s office door. Her high voice was joyful and she wore a little smile on her face.
“Yes, dear, what do you want?” Mycroft didn’t look up from his work.
“I’m eleven now. Will I get to go to Hogwarts?”
“Y/N please, you’ve grown up and your intelligence is far beyond believing in this sort of things.”
Y/N’s smile faded and she closed the door behind her back, sighing sadly.
“I can’t take this anymore, I can’t live like this!” shouted fourteen-year-old Y/N at her father. She bumped a fist on the table they were sitting at, then stood furiously and walked to the balcony. She nodded slightly, looking at the street.
“I’m done. I never want to see you again.”
Y/N ran away from the hall, leaving Mycroft, who was shouting her name, behind; leaving everything behind.
She climbed to the roof, where Mycroft instantly followed, then reached the edge and looked down, nodding again, her eyes empty, the warm summer sun hitting the back of her neck.
“Y/N, what the hell are you doing? Come here, now!”
She turned to face him.
“You can’t tell me what to do.”
And she disappeared, to be never seen again.
That had been a long time prior, thought Sherlock, the memory of his niece still vivid in his mind palace. Every moment they had spent together, he sort of missed it, no matter how much he claimed not to have feelings.
She had always seen him as a father way more than Mycroft, and he had raised her like he would have raised a daughter of his; and her fate, her end, was another reason for which he hated his brother with all his might. He wished everyday he had just had the possibility to say goodbye; she had decided to jump in a split second, when she couldn’t keep it all inside anymore.
No one knew she ever even existed except for the people in the family: she was born and died in silence, and it hurt Sherlock way more than a punch or a blade. He just wished he could have hugged her one last time. When he was lost thinking in his mind palace, the image of that little girl suddenly appeared. It had scarred him and had broken almost all his connections with Mycroft. And that was another of those times; Y/N Holmes, rest in peace.
But a knock on the door waked him from his thoughts, and he instantly assumed it was John; that is, if John hadn’t been at home already, since morning even.
“Sherlock, aren’t you going to open the door?” The doctor’s voice emerged from the kitchen in fact, slightly annoyed. He sighed, then said: “I’ll go then.”
As the door opened, a puzzled expression made its way on John’s face. In front of him was a – particularly attractive – young woman, with Y/H/L, Y/H/C hair framing her gentle features, and a pair of big Y/E/C eyes. Admiring her, he forgot they were still standing in the doorway.
“I’m sorry,” the woman spoke, “Does Sherlock Holmes live here? I’ve found the door open, I didn’t mean to look like an intruder in any way.”
“Yes, yes, he does.” John said, clearing his throat. “He’s... getting ready.” He added as he looked at Sherlock, who was lying on the sofa, and sent a death glare his way that forced the detective to run to his room to get dressed.
John let the woman in and closed the door, making her sit in the client’s chair as usual. Sherlock reappeared seconds later from the bedroom, and as he saw the young woman sitting in his living room, he couldn’t help but notice her familiar features. “Good... afternoon.” Sherlock murmured, busy trying to deduce her. John tried to refrain from laughing at the detective’s expression.
“No need for formalities, we’re family. Oh, right. You don’t know.” She bit her lip.
“What do you mean you’re family? Am I missing on something?” John asked, his questions ignored.
“Y/N...?” Sherlock was startled. “Y/N, I can’t believe it!”
“Sherlock, who is...?”
The detective looked much more... human, when he hugged the woman named Y/N. But who she was, John still couldn’t understand. “Sorry, you must be John Watson. I’m Y/N Holmes, his niece.” Y/N said, looking towards John and noticing his confusion. She then looked him over, deducing just like Sherlock, "Did you get married?” She then turned to Sherlock, “Did he get married? Last time I checked he had not.”
John’s expression darkened at the thought of Mary.
“Yes, he got married and he has a daughter. Please don’t talk about this ever again.” The detective hurried. Y/N nodded.
“Anyway, how are you alive? And why didn’t you tell me? It’s been six years, six years, for God’s sake! Why couldn’t I hear a word from you? And you were complaining about my two years, John. She faked her death for three times that; in our family we can always do worst than we actually do.”
“It’s a long story... I couldn’t bear the thought of living with that asshole of father I have and I couldn’t think of a better solution. I studied the place anyway, from afar of course. I lived in Switzerland until now, no one ever checks Switzerland.”
John continued looking from Y/N to Sherlock, and from Sherlock to Y/N. Sherlock noticed immediately and rolled his eyes. “John, is it more surprising that my niece is alive or that Mycroft actually has a daughter? Why are you looking at us like that?”
“I didn’t think...” he started, then stopped in his tracks. “Never mind. I’m going out, I’ll ring Mrs. Hudson.” As John closed the door, Sherlock sighed in relief.
“Now, explain.”
“It was me and a guy I knew, we’d been friends for as long as I can remember but of course Mycroft never knew. I told him everything about how my father was being annoying and all and when I told him I wanted to fake my death he stepped right in to help. Good guy, really, with a passion for criminals and crimes, like you. He set it all up, I just had to jump.
“He assured me it would have been alright, Mycroft never saw the body because he never dared to look down, and in fact, it wasn’t even there. We didn’t bother because I knew he wouldn’t have had the courage to look, even from up there. This guy stayed by my side in Switzerland, I knew Mycroft would have been drowning in sentiments and he wouldn’t have deduced anything, no matter his wit. I kept an eye on him, and on you, and John Watson too, but I lost track after some time because I was planning my return to London. I thought living with you would have been the best option, but my friend is staying nearby of course, just in case things turn bad.”
Sherlock listened with a certain sparkle of pride in his eyes. He knew she had done something terrible but couldn’t help but feel so proud of her, being able to do this much with only one person by her side. She had fooled Mycroft Holmes. “So basically this is it. Do you have an extra room?” Y/N added with a smile.
“You can stay in mine. The other is John’s.” Y/N nodded, then glanced to the door.
“I’ll bring my things in then.”
Living with uncle Sherlock wasn’t easy for Y/N. He could stay up until unholy hours at night, or wake at unholy hours in the morning. He always brought in clients, and she had to lock herself in the bedroom during those times. She kept care of the dusty flat, did the shopping, and spent her free time playing her uncle’s violin.
She remembered clearly the days when she was six, when he used to teach her. She had learned pretty well too, and had continued to practice during the years in Switzerland. The violin smelled a lot like happiness and so little like Mycroft, it made her feel calm and it was the only real way she could relax.
All in all, life in 221B had been going on quite well for Y/N, until one rainy day in November in which she heard loud knocks on the door. Sherlock and John were both out investigating a crime scene and she couldn’t receive clients, so she let Mrs. Hudson open the door. But after hearing her voice saying that Sherlock wasn’t home, she heard loud footsteps coming towards the flat anyway.
“Maybe it’s Lestrade”, she thought, but it couldn’t be: he was with the boys at the crime scene. Who else could have...
Then it hit her, finally, and she cursed herself for not realising earlier. She tried to hurry to the bedroom and hide, but it was already too late. Mycroft stormed inside when she was just crossing the kitchen, and she froze there, her back towards the living room.
“Who’s... Who are you?” Mycroft asked, noticing her presence.
“Oh, I am... Sherlock’s... girlfriend.” she answered without turning around.
“Oh, he’s always been the sentimental one.”
“And you’ve always been the annoying one.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” Mycroft moved closer to her and grabbed her arm, to turn her around. When he finally saw her face, he recognised those familiar features. It was unbelievable, but it couldn’t be anyone but her, his daughter. His dead daughter.
“Y/N...”
“You started it. You could have just not cared. Like you always did. You could have just ended it there, left those papers on the desk and left.”
“Six years... all this time... you were alive, you were fucking alive and you didn’t tell me? For God’s sake Y/N, I am your father!”
“My father and the reason I faked my death. I couldn’t just die. Hell, I was fourteen, I had a life ahead of me, I wouldn’t have thrown it all away for you. Sherlock’s the sentimental one, huh? But look at you, couldn’t stand to look down at my dead body, couldn’t come to my funeral, all because sentiments were blocking you, scaring you, because you’re a coward.” Y/N’s voice became a threatening whisper at the end, and Mycroft was frozen by the truth held in her words.
“I know I’ve been a terrible father but my work...”
“You’ve been an ass.”
“Y/N, if you don’t stop this right now I...”
“You what? I’m not a little girl anymore.” Mycroft’s expression softened, but the tension could be cut with a knife. Y/N’s gentle face was contorted into a disgusted expression, and Mycroft’s fingers around her arm were only making her more annoyed. She felt his hold loosen, and shook her arm away. Her father’s eyes, sweeter, met hers, full of rage.
“Y/N, you know, no matter how I acted, I always loved you. Your suicide – fake, as it turns out – was a main thought of mine during these years. It killed me too. I always, always regretted not being a better father to you, really.”
“No. Sorry. I’m really, really sorry. It doesn’t work with me. You are not my father and you never were.” And with those words, she stormed to the bedroom, locking the door behind her – forever.
fic authors self rec! when you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you’ve written, then pass on to at least five other writers.
tagged by @bleulily thanks! <3
i know we're lost but soon we'll be found
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