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.
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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.
Well, here is part two of my very first Reader Inert fic. Tell me how I'm doing, please. Thanks again to @darkficsyouneveraskedfor making this wonderful mood board that inspired me to do this.
I have one, Obsessed! Sherlock/Smart! reader, please.
You have no ideas he's been watching until it's too late.
Minors DON NOT INTERACT. I MEAN IT! If you're under 18 come back when you are.
Tags will be added as needed.
I will tag you if you want.
Tagging you based on your likes: @silelda, @thezombieprostitute,@thedragonlab, @leonaax, @chocolatecherryblossomsweets
This is a Dark fic. How dark I don't know, it all depends.
Obsessive!Sherlock Holmes/Smart!Reader
Warnings, none yet.
Part 1 Part 3
You were walking home after a long day of work. It was getting late, and you still had a day's work ahead of you tomorrow. At least it wasn't raining. Some of the students thought it would be funny to spill pigs' innards all over the medical classrooms as a prank. Of course, to the casual observer, it all looked the same, but despite the similarities, there were slight differences that a more knowledgeable or careful observer would catch. You were only slightly embarrassed to admit that it had taken you a bit longer to realise that the organs spilled all over the floors were not, in fact, human. The only thing giving you some comfort was that the professors, those highly intelligent and superior minds, took longer than you.
Sadly, since you were one of three maids who had not fainted at the macabre sight, you and the other ladies were tasked with cleaning everything up. You smelled like clotted blood and spoiled meat. You were wet, you were starving, your back hurt, you were past feeling your feet, your knees were bruising, and your hands were beginning to cramp.
That didn't stop you from realising that someone was following you.
Of all the things I need, whatever this is right now is not it. Taking advantage of the chill, you rubbed your hands roughly and started to work out their kinks harshly, going as far as to bite some of your fingers discreetly while also constraining your breath and steps.
There was no need to warn whoever was following you that you had caught on to their presence.
Having barely managed to gain some fluidity in your hands, you put them in your apron pockets, thanking God that you had opted not to take them off, as was your habit.
You counted your steps to ten as you breathed deeply every two steps. You grabbed the small pistol you found in your mother's jewellery bag.
You reached ten and spun swiftly. Years of training with your mother and dancing, the one thing your aunt let you take with Anna to keep up appearances, kept you from getting dizzy.
There was no one there. Or at least, it seemed that way. You smiled.
"I know you are out theeere" you sang in a taunt. "I felt you following me," you growled. "And I do know how to shoot." And with that final warning breathed into the night, you took off on a run. After all, you had always been a fast runner.
You reached your shabby rooms, just barely missing the curfew. Luckily, Mrs. Acker took one look at you and ushered you in. You thanked her profusely as she helped you take off your clothes. Even your underthings were impregnated with the smell of blood, sweat, and the beginnings of rot. You would have to pay for the bath come next payday. You scrubbed yourself, feeling a bit better despite your tiredness. Looking at the clock, you moaned petulantly. You would only have a few hours of sleep before having to get up early to help old Mr. Beckwourth in the market stall selling fish.
It wasn't by chance that you chose these jobs. Both took time, had a modestly adequate pay, rendered you invisible, and lent you a godawful smell, ensuring that none came near you. Just two more weeks. That's all. Two more weeks. You rambled in your mind as you got out of the old metallic tub and dried yourself as best you could.
As you got ready for bed, you mourned the loss of intelligent conversation. You would do just about anything to have an engaging exchange. You'd give anything for a good game of chess. Two more weeks. You felt as if these last weeks were going to be the hardest yet.
You seemed to have forgotten the age-old adage, Be careful about what you wish for.
You didn't know you had been found. You didn't know that your pursuer had just managed to hide himself before you turned around, surprised by how easily you had found him out. You didn't know what your words did to his pride or how knowing that you could use a weapon made him reconsider his approach. Your father had never said anything about knowing how to handle weaponry. What else did you know? You spun with grace—yes, the grace of a dancer—but there was a precise strength as well. Your stance was that of a fighter. Did you know how to fight Pussycat? Oh yes, he remembered your mother's preferred pet name for you. Pussycat. It had potential. You didn't know that as you sprinted with considerable speed despite being held down by damp wool, a pair of vibrant blue eyes darkened with an unknown feeling as he reshaped his entire opinion about you for a second time.
As you lay in bed in a fitful sleep, you didn't know that somewhere else, a man, a most brilliant man, lay in his bed wondering what you truly looked like. Years prior, the paint you wore on your face concealed your appearance; now grime and exhaustion do the same. He had heard about your grandmother's beauty and how you resembled her, but somehow he wagered that you had suppressed her beauty tenfold.
You didn't know what your defiance had done to your pursuer. A man with vibrant blue eyes who no longer considered you a quarry but instead now saw you as a worthy opponent.
A dangerous thing to be, his opponent.
It was a well-known fact that Sherlock Holmes was a formidable man, infamous for dragging all those who opposed him down to his feet. These next few days were going to be very entertaining. He smiled deviously as he took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
Whether you ended up on your knees at his feet or standing by his side depended entirely on just how smart you truly were. Not that it mattered either way.
I hope you don't mind me asking, what is the draw to Sherlock for you? Specifically the dark/obsessed Sherlock. Is it the actor who plays him or the intelligence of the character or something else?
-Zombie
I have always loved Sherlock. All versions of him. And until I left Mozambique, I had a complete collection of books.
Fast forward to the BBC version of Sherlock (with Benedict Cumberbatch) I fell in love with the character again. And being an adult, I went back to the books, and if you notice there is a certain darkness to him. The reason we don't notice it is that by the time it comes out, it's off-set by Moriarty. In re-reading the book, it is quite apparent that Sherlock becomes obsessed with things very easily Note that the only people he has "cared about" were the people who gave him the most trouble: John Watson, who never gave in to his whims, Iren Adler outsmarted him several times over, Mrs Hudson, never put up with his BS and finally his 2 nemesis, His brother just as brilliant as him and Moriarty.
NOW this Sherlock that I'm writing for, I will confess is 40% exploration of the darkness I found hinted at in the books and other media, 40% his intelligence (hope I can make it translate) and 20% the actor. I'm human the man is gorgeous.
