Sherlock Holmes is the type of guy to psychoanalyse his crush in every single movement. He's good at psychology, he knows what signals he likes someone and what doesn't so there's hardly a change in his behaviour, but he's observing you when you're near.
Smiling at him? You like him, but your body language doesn't say so. It's the first time he's ever felt unsure about his conclusion that he's not able to reach.
He would usually be able to gain much more with just a single look but now, he's afraid of making the wrong move, afraid of making you not want him back.
As per usual, he acts nonchalant and ignorant of his surroundings, but he watches you through the corner of his eye when you're interacting with John. He tries to ignore it when he hears you laugh at Watson's jokes, however, it doesn't work— he really can't.
It's his own ego that doesn't let him strike first, the one that's hindering him from letting you know how he feels. He does start bringing you to his investigations so you can truly get a feel for how he is. Fortunately, he tones down on being an asshole, so you don't get the wrong impression.
Everything he does is deliberate from the time he met you. He hopes you don't notice but Watson does. In fact, that's actually what he jokes about with you. So, you do know, it's just you want to see him vie for you first.
Warnings: no use of y/n yearning, assault, handsy guy, horrible use of French (ignore me), let me know if I missed any.
Word Count: 3.3k
a/n: (at the end)
(Series masterlist)
Sherlock's love is loud and absurdly obvious to everyone but himself. Unlike James, Sherlock's love creeps up on him; he'd never even know it was there unless something forces him to. It's like watching the sun rise and only realizing the stars were there once they’re gone. Even with deducing skills as practically unmatched as his, he seems to miss all the signs laid out before him. And maybe it's because he loves in a way so uniquely him that it sometimes passes right over his head. He simply doesn't pick up on how he subconsciously memorizes your entire schedule and adapts his life to revolve around you, or how he finds a way to bring you up in every conversation he has. He can't seem to realize that all of his actions point to a man in love.
What makes Sherlock's love so unique is that anybody, everybody could tell him he had fallen in deep, and he would simply call the notion absurd and press on as if nothing had been mentioned. And love, for Sherlock, isn't something that can be forced.His love for his mother and brother was something that came as simple as breathing, even if the love itself was anything but. Yet if he tries to love someone, it never works. In the past, he's tried to form that connection, but he always gets lost in the 'what am I supposed to be feeling?' So every interaction came with mind-boggling exhaustion and confusion. By the end of each of those occurrences, he was ready to give up on the prospect of love altogether.
"Where is James?" Your voice rings like church bells in Sherlock's ears. He turns with an expectant smile on his face. His straight posture somehow gets even sharper as his body comes to face you fully.
"In his dormitory, I assume, or some place similar," Sherlock says easily as though it should be obvious to everyone.
"Why? Was he not meeting us here too?" You glance around, almost trying to will him into existence. There is no sign of him, but still the flicker of hope to just peek a glance at his obnoxious grin is shrinking into a breath of smoke.
"Yes, he was. But his obligations to his academic endeavors took priority today." Sherlock answers, brushing the fabric draped over his shoulder straight. "He has an exam in two days that he's studying for."
"Oh, I see." There is no way to hide the disappointment that befalls your expression. Sherlock picks up on it too, and it sends a flaring pulse of annoyance to his temples. He is quick to change the subject away from James, back towards himself and the day he has planned.
"Well, on another note," Sherlock steers your attention toward the carriage awaiting you both at the end of the cobblestone street. "We have much to do, and no time to spare dwelling on James' whereabouts."
"I suppose you're right." You deflate slightly, letting Sherlock lead you away from Oxford's tall, impressively intimidating buildings.
"I'm most always right," Sherlock states, taking the lead toward the brougham. It is nicer than those he usually frequents. But then Sherlock only travels by horse and carriage when with family.
"Sure you are." You mutter, folding your arms over your chest and trudging after him. The roll of your eyes is not lost on Sherlock, but he pays it no mind as he continues to the end of the street.
Sherlock makes it to the brougham before you do, and he's quick to climb the step to open the door for you. You wonder if his oddly posh manners come from a true place of respect or possibly his upbringing. Though there's no way to tell if both factors have led you to this moment, Sherlock standing above you, hand out to offer help you up, and a warm look passing over his face as you take his hand and he pulls you inside.
You flatten your overskirt while Sherlock climbs in after you. He takes the seat next to you with a soft grunt before leaning out the window and calling to the driver the destination.
"Where are we going? What did you say?" You lean over him as if, when you get closer to the window, someone might say it again so you can hear. Sherlock leans back with a humorous huff as you lean before him.
"Into town. A new book shop has opened, and I think we'd both find it rather interesting to browse."
"Perchance is this bookstore we are headed for the same bookstore that is rumored to be running an underground brothel?"
“What? No.” Sherlock doesn't need to scoff for you to understand that he wants you to think he believes the notion to be ridiculous.
“And what business does Sherlock Holmes have in a brothel?” You push on anyway, slyly smiling at him from your spot next to him.
“None." He rolls back his shoulders and readjusts his cap. "Aside from a rather inciting missing persons case.”
"Ahh, I see." You laugh and roll your eyes.
The store smells of old paper and deep oak with fleeting hints of lavender from the open door at the back of the shop. The bell atop the door rings as Sherlock pushes it open for you. Immediately, your eyes are pulled toward the rolling ladder against the far left wall and the beautifully bound books behind it.
Sherlock nods at you to take a closer look as he goes to speak with the man behind the counter on the right wall. The man can't be bothered to look up as Sherlock approaches, much more interested in something resting in his lap. The man can't be older than forty and no younger than thirty. The first thing that catches Sherlock's attention is the wrinkles in the haggard waistcoat and his mustache, far too showy, it's become ineffectual and lost the power that one like Sherlock's brother Mycroft holds.
"Good morning, Sir." Sherlock greets, one of his hands coming up to rest along the wooden countertop. The man still doesn't look up, and now Sherlock can see why. In his lap sits a book marked up like a married woman the morning after her husband leaves town for the weekend. Sherlock clears his throat. But still no response.
Meanwhile, your fingers trace the spines of the books. Some are clearly old, others vibrantly unheard of. The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Madame Bovary, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, Don Quixote, The Odyssey, Inferno, and an outrageous amount of other selections pull your eyes every which way. But your attention catches as your gaze brushes past a deep green leather binding, horizontal notches along the spine, and gold print reading Hamlet.
Before you can stop yourself, you let out an audible noise of thrill. Sherlock turns abruptly, and with his gaze, the man behind the counters follows. Sherlock feels the shift behind him, and his head whips around. Irritation growing between his eyes, Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, but the man beats him to it.
"Hello, Madame. Do you need any assistance?" His voice is deep and smooth like caramel and chocolate perfectly melted together. His accent was an odd blend of French and English, one that flows past your ear gracefully and sends odd, unwelcome sensations through you.
“Oh, sorry.” Your voice comes out meek, and you unintentionally bump the shelf behind you with surprise at your tone. "I um—" You clear your throat and straighten yourself out in the blink of an eye. "I'm fine, thank you."
The book on his lap is snapped closed as though two seconds ago it wasn't completely captivating him. Sherlock feels a rush of distaste rise up his throat as the man steps out from behind the counter.
"Well then, sir, if you please. I have some questions about—" The man discards Sherlock without even the faintest glance of his eye or attention and approaches you with a practiced air of faux benevolence. The sudden unease Sherlock was no doubt expressing physically, if the troubled glance you shoot his way is any indication, begins to also affect his vocal cords. They seem to be temporarily frozen in sheer bewilderment.
"Are you sure you're alright?" He smiles, and it seems to grace his face as easily as James' smirks do his. But there is something about this man that flares your nervous system. "The book did not bite you, did it?"
"I—no—" You look down at the book before moving to quickly put it back on the shelf where you found it.
"I promise they are not snappy with our usual customers." The man moves to stand just in front of you. Not close enough that the proximity, if you were to call it out, would cause a social scandal, but not far enough that the musk of him isn't invading your senses. Sherlock takes a step forward, even if his voice is failing him, his body knows what it can do; James didn't teach him to fight for nothing.
"But then again, you are not the usual customer. We are rarely graced with ladies quite so magnifique as you, madame." The heat that floods your face startles you. You've never had someone you are so unacquainted with speak to you so plainly.
Before you can think to respond, he steps closer. If you were in your right mind, you would have said something, but the debonair he possesses catches you far too off guard. His hand reaches out to yours, and you can feel the heat of it burning through the fabric of your skirts and brushing against your groin with too much pressure for it to be a mistake. You inhale sharply as it happens, but the moment is over before you can move to speak.
Sherlock catches it and instantly reaches out for the man's wrist. The air stills in the shop as Sherlock's takes a step between you two. Sherlock’s hand makes contact with the man's clothed wrist. In an instant, the man drops his hold on you, and you take a step back.
"Please refrain from touching her again, Sir." Sherlock's tone leaves no room for agreement. The man's eyes flash with both annoyance and unease before he snatches his hand back towards his body.
There is an uncomfortable beat as Sherlock stands defensively in front of you. The meaning behind the croaking sound of you clearing your throat does not go over Sherlock's head. In fact, the sound tied with your anxious posture makes his eyes twitch with anger.
In an instant, the man's demeanor shifts. A smile plasters once again over his face as he takes on his charming disposition as if nothing had happened. But the twitch in his finger as he bows gives away his own uneasiness. He doesn't want to stir up any trouble that might get him into something he can not get himself out of. And he clearly underestimated Sherlock's willingness to defend you.
"Louis de la Rivière, at your pleasure and service." He bows before you, trying to take back an ounce of respectfulness he previously had that he is able to. But it does not ease you or Sherlock at all. "And, your name, Miss?" Your name falls from your lips almost involuntarily, purely out of courtesy.
"Well, if you need any assistance at all, Miss Willborn, I'm more than happy to oblige." Louis is all smiles as he rises from his bent position, but his voice is laced with undertones of annoyance.
"I'm in no need of any help. Thank you, Mr Rivière." You speak in the most definitive tone you can muster. You can tell that it sets Louis' temper off even more. His charm is something that plain as day seldom fails him. He just lowers his head slightly and glances at Sherlock, whose still unmoving gaze is burning holes into the man's skull.
Louis cautiously steps back from the pair of you, attempting to make the retreat behind the safety of the counter as nonchalantly as he possibly can. His footsteps are dull thuds against the carpeted floor, but they seem to be the only sound you can focus on.
It is not a second later after Louis sits in his chair with the same book open behind the counter that Sherlock is guiding you towards the exit of the shop. His touch is like a breath of relief. And without a thought, you let him walk you out of the shop and down the street out of sight from the peering windows of the book shop.
"Are you alright?" His voice is gentle, cautious. His hand is propped in mid-air. His fingers are itching to brush your arm, comfort you in the way he knows only touch can, but his mind is willing him to mind your boundaries, mind your sensitivities as you mind his.
After a moment, you nod, reorienting yourself. Sherlock, still unsure of your truthfulness, keeps his focus on you. Your hand, shaking slightly with adrenaline, reaches out toward Sherlock to steady yourself. Your hand meets his forearm, and Sherlock adjusts to your weight without a word. His breath catches slightly as he watches you calm yourself.
"I'm fine." You mutter out, eyes fluttering closed as you take steady inhales. "That was just—uncomfortable." He nods, his eyes now wandering to the street, busy with pedestrians and students alike, bustling with carriages and horse-drawn wagons all rushing off someplace far and important.
"Oh—Sherlock the underground brothel. I'm sorry—"
"No, that doesn't matter. But you do." Sherlock feels an undeniable pit of worry growing in his gut.
"I shouldn't have brought you along with me." Sherlock's voice comes out quiet, but you catch it. You also catch the crease between his brow and the angry tint in his eye.
"Stop. None of that." You huff out, shaking your head profusely.
"If I had just not listened to my own mind—ooh, how it loves to have ideas, ones that are often so very counterintuitive of what I wish to achieve—none of this would have happened," Sherlock begins to rant. It is only then that Sherlock meets your eyes to argue against his favor. "If James were here, he wouldn't have let that happen—"
"Well, James is busy, remember?" You point out, breaking him out of his own head. "In no situation is that your fault."
"No. No—no. You don't understand. I—" He stumbles over his own words. "James is not busy. He could have been here if I hadn't deliberately neglected to tell him I invited you out today." His tone starts off strong, blazing like a wildfire, but by the time he reaches the last word, it's nothing more than a small flame of passion. You lose his eyes as he grits his teeth and turns his head away.
"You—didn't tell him?" Your brain has yet to reach any point past confusion. Your hand releases its hold on his arm as you try to understand. You can't emotionally wrap your head around it until you intellectually wrap your head around it.
"I thought, childishly, that I could get away with spending the day alone with you." He speaks it as if he were in confession. The bowed head of shame and posture that screams regret.
You aren't sure if you should be angry or flattered. The three of you are infrequently away from each other when on outings. It's not typical for two to split off from the group. Rather, you all seem to do everything together with little complaint about it aside from the occasional snide banter. Though it is not so uncommon an occurrence because the number of them can be counted on one pair of hands.
What strikes you as unusual is Sherlock deliberately keeping information from James about both your whereabouts. It is a possibility that if he had told James, James would have intentionally come along anyway. Which that thought too strikes you as slightly odd. Nevertheless, Sherlock withheld knowledge from James for you. The same James who is one of yours and Sherlock's closest friends. And for that, you conclude that you're flattered, even if a little perplexed.
"Sherlock," You sigh, stepping closer to try and catch his eyes again.
"I never intended for this to happen. I only wanted—" He stops himself mid-sentence, eyes wide, staring off into the distance as though something has dawned on him. He takes a shaky breath in before he turns to face you completely.
"I only wished that you might enjoy yourself." It passes from his lips as his face twists into the concrete look of acceptance. Acceptance of what? You had no idea. But then again, how could you? How could you know that the flaring anger that arose in him, which was stamped out by crumbling guilt, had made way for tantalizing consciousness of his own psyche?
The daunting realization of his own feelings for you seemed almost impossible, but somehow, at the same time, unmistakably true. He hadn't noticed them before now, and that was the most astonishing. But now that his brain has latched onto these facts, the signs in front of him couldn't be clearer. He is in love. Deep, all-consuming, faithful, unforgiving, warm, breathtaking, love.
And it isn't the kind of love he recognizes by putting the pieces of his own subconscious actions together, but it's something he feels deep in his chest. A thudding behind his heart, a ripple beneath his skin at just the brush of your hand against his. No longer is his mind pestered by what love is socially expected to be. Instead, there is an overriding feeling of care and need to know you inside and out. A need to dissect your every thought and be able to read your mind before you've even made up your mind. His love is a gut-wrenching promise of devotion and steadfastness.
"I apologize." Sherlock consoles as mortified bile crawls up his throat. "Sincerely."
The brief pause of silence scares him more than anything. His fists clench as he prepares for the worst. Curses against his name, a fist to his face, or perhaps the wish to never see him again. Somehow, the ladder feels the most painful to think about.
"And I forgive you, Sherlock." You speak so softly to him that it sends cracks in his stone disposition of taking full responsibility. "I don't blame you for anything that's happened. I couldn't."
"But it is my fault. You don't have to pretend that it's not for my sake." Sherlock rebuts, almost upset that you are not angrier with him. "I can take it. I can take the blame."
"Sherlock." You take hold of his arm now, instantly grabbing all his attention. "If I don't blame you, then there is no one left to blame you, so logically speaking, it's not your fault. Only his."
Sherlock takes a moment to think about it. He knows that if he were to point out the holes in your argument, you'll only get irritable, but he also can't let himself get away without even a little scolding.
"And you can't blame yourself because I forbid it." You add, now moving to sling your arm through his.
"You can't—"
"I additionally forbid any more debate on the matter." You decide, beginning to trek down the cobblestone street, even further away from the book shop. Still a bit frazzled by the whole encounter, you lean against Sherlock, and he holds steady as you both walk.
You both know that it will have to be discussed later. The slight tremor in your walk was evidence enough for Sherlock to see through your feigned unbothered attitude. He tries to continue talking about it, but you cut in before he can and go on a ramble about the book you had found with green leather binding. The topic change really is more of a distraction for you both. But Sherlock can't find it in himself to linger on the subject any longer.
"As you wish," Sherlock replies, his heart fluttering slightly as his side brushes yours just slightly.
a/n: Thanks for reading! I promise im working on other stuff, this summer is just very busy and stressful so bear with me. And please feel free to send in requests!
This year I'm going to be partaking in Writer's Month again, currently the fandoms set to be included are Jujustu Kaisen, Wistoria: Wand and Sword and BBC Sherlock
If you are not already on my main tag list, you can comment below to be tagged in the fics posted for writer's month, in August. If you only want to be tagged for one/certain fandoms, or particular genres (smut/fluff/angst) please let me know
Summary: After lying about being engaged to escape unwanted attention at a social event, Sherlock Holmes finds himself in a dilemma: he needs someone to play the role of his fiancée in public to avoid getting caught in his lie. The obvious solution soon presents itself to the detective, but what happens when, in time, the line between acting as a couple and genuine feelings start to blur?
Tags: Fake Relationship, Marriage of Convenience, Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Eventual Smut (in the later chapters) , Period Typical Attitudes
TW: There will be some typical Victorian attitudes throughout the story, including sexism.
A/N: was gonna make this a modern au, but then I realised it'd be much more high stakes in the original, Victorian setting 😭
Chapter 1: A Secretly Engaged Bachelor
Today had been a horrible day for Sherlock Holmes. There was no other way to describe it, really.
First, there was that case he had been working on. For the last month, the detective had been obsessing over a series of burglaries occuring in the same neighbourhood, losing sleep and smoking an alarming amount of tobacco in the process of finding the culprit. Every single incident had the same pattern: the house of a wealthy family was targeted, the stolen item was invariably some sort of jewelry piece, and it always occured on a Thursday night, between 2 and 3 in the morning. Now, this very investigation had hit a dead end. It was as if the thief refused to leave behind any sort of incriminating evidence for Holmes to pick up. This wasn't the attention-seeking type of criminal, they left no notes or other mementoes behind at the scene, to make a statement. On the contrary, whoever it was, they were meticulous. Not a single fingerprint, or piece of torn fabric found at the scene. No broken windows , damaged safe, or disturbed furniture, either. They'd go straight for whatever necklace or bracelet caught their eye, take it, and leave, without a trace.
The press called it the work of a ghost, an elusive phantom thief that preyed on the elite and their treasures, but of course, this was all just sensationalist nonsense used to sell more newspapers. Phantoms did not exist, and even if they did, Holmes doubted they'd spend their time stealing from the homes of the wealthy.
To admit defeat was unthinkable. He was the great detective, this was not an option. There had to be some sort of clue he had missed, some witness to whom he hadn't asked the right questions.
And then, to top it all off, as if one professional failure was not enough, when Holmes arrived home from an errand after lunch, the detective found on his desk a telegram from Lestrade, who announced him that, unfortunately, the financial ledgers Holmes had sent to Scotland Yard for another case had been lost by some clumsily incompetent subordinate. The inspector ended his message with a kind request to have Holmes resend all the papers, as quickly as possible , so that the prosecution's case wouldn't collapse. Absolutely lovely, to have to send again dozens of papers that had taken the detective months to get his hands on. Did the Yard even realise how complicated that would be? Probably not.
Of course, over the course of his career, Holmes had his fair share of bad days, as any person would. The usual remedy for such situations was an easy one: staying at home. The violin, his favourite pipe, maybe Watson's company, and he would be alright the next morning. But today, it seemed that Lady Luck was not very fond of private consulting detectives. Instead of being able to relax at 221B, Holmes had found himself obligated to attend a social event, of all things.
What a great way to end a day! To be invited to a ball when he was stressed and overwhelmed by a case. When his nerves were already hanging on by a thin thread since this morning, he would have to spend the night surrounded by people he could not stand, forced by etiquette to keep a polite smile plastered on his face. All those fake pleasantries, and social norms... sure, he could feign an illness, but that would mean missing out on the chance to observe some key players in the burglary case. The guests were a bunch of snobby, entitled rich people, but nonetheless, important for his investigation. Potential leads could arise from talking to the guests or overhearing conversations, and considering how utterly lacking in clues his case was now, the detective could use a nudge in the right direction. As nasty as the upper class was, and no matter how much contempt Holmes had for the rich, he had to hand it to them: they certainly loved their gossip.
Once arrived at the ball, Holmes had to admit it wasn't all that bad. Perhaps he had been too pessimistic, and tonight would not be a disaster. The music was lovely, the orchestra played splendidly. The champagne was of great quality, and the fruit tarts on the side tables were delicious. Holmes was able to move around the ballroom freely, almost like a shadow , and simply listen and observe what was happening. Even if he'd discover nothing relevant for the case, well, the ton was currently offering him a great show regardless. For example, he watched how a woman kept on fidgeting with her gloves and glancing around the room, as if searching for an excuse to leave, when her husband mentioned inviting a friend of his for dinner the next evening (a sign Holmes interpreted as proof that her husband's friend was actually her secret lover).
"Oh my! Is that truly you?! Good evening, Mr. Holmes!" , a shrill voice suddenly rang out from behind him, followed by the rhythmic noise of heels moving across the marble floor.
Holmes' eyes widened slightly, the closest his expression would ever get to dread. It appears that the ambush had already started, he had been too hasty when concluding tonight wasn't all that bad. There we go again, fending off flirtatious comments from women he had no interest in. The detective gripped his champagne flute tighter, before downing its contents in one gulp. Someone bring him the whole bottle , he would need the comfort of alcohol to survive this ordeal.
"Ah. Lady Wentworth! Such a pleasure to see you tonight. How do you do?" , he replies in a polite, but very cold tone. With that smile not reaching his eyes and the stiff posture, anyone good at reading people would know this meant one thing: Holmes was not enjoying the upcoming conversation, or his interlocutor.
Lady Wentworth smiled back, not noticing the coldness radiating from the detective. She was far too busy fanning herself and throwing coy glances in Holmes' direction. "Oh, but however could I miss you, Mr. Holmes? Your presence is so rare at balls...I would be a fool not to come up and greet you now!"
Holmes nods politely, his eye twitching a bit when he sees two other ladies come his way. A middle aged woman, and her young daughter, to be more precise. No doubt, the mother was hoping to introduce her daughter to the great detective. He actually felt bad for the girl. Her body language betrayed her thoughts. She definitely could not care less about Holmes, because she kept glancing at some other man across the room, as if apologizing for leaving him mid-conversation. But orders from Mother had to be followed for now. She could return to the object of her affections later.
In his experience, there were three kinds of female fans who fought for his attention. The first group, and the most harmless, were what Holmes considered the normal fans. Just someone who wanted to greet him, maybe congratulate him. In the most extreme case, they'd ask for an autograph on their copy of the Strand, and then leave him alone. The detective loved this segment of his fanbase. Reasonable human beings, with manners.
The second ones were the middle ground. Respectful, inoffensive fans, but who would also try to sneak in some flirting. Complimenting his work, while also smiling too much, or sitting too close. Holmes had learned to act oblivious to their flirtatious intentions, in order to avoid embarrassing situations. That usually did the trick, and the ladies would understand he was in no mood to charm them.
And the third category... Holmes shuddered at the mere thought. The overly obsessed ones. These ladies were very versatile in tactics, he'd give them that: some just sent him applications to be his wife. Others wrote very...explicit love letters, bordering on concerning. Sometimes, women came up to him in public, either to shoot their shot at romancing the detective, or to introduce Holmes to a sister, daughter, cousin, any unwed female relative that they thought would impress him. It was both ridiculous and irritating, in his opinion. Did they really think flooding 221B's sitting room with love letters or playing matchmaker was the right way to draw his attention?
"Good evening, ladies!" , he greets the approaching group in the most charming tone he could muster. When three other women join the conversation, eager to get a few crumbs of his attention, Holmes adds: "And...more ladies!"
The admirers then began their usual routine. Asking him all sorts of questions , that could easily be answered by reading Watson's stories ("How did you catch the murderer, Mr. Holmes?!" "Was it hard to find the blackmailer?!") , laughing too loudly at his jokes...the detective was already getting exhausted by having to keep up appearances. Watson was the womanizer of the duo, not him, he would thrive in this environment. The doctor would love impressing the ladies with his adventures, and spend the whole evening surrounded by fans. He, on the other hand, had no desire to regale an audience with tales of his cases or to show off. After all, it wasn't Holmes with an experience spanning three continents, was it?
"It has been lovely to run into fans of Watson's literary work. Now, if you'd please excuse me..." , Holmes began, extracting himself from the group. Too much conversation that was not related to his interests or a case, especially with strangers, tended to drain him. That was why he left most of the fan interactions and interviews to Watson.
Lady Wentworth laughed again, in her usual shrill, annoying manner, and placed her hand on the detective's arm, leaning into him. "Oh, but you barely spent time with us!"
Holmes froze in his spot. She had touched his arm, and invaded his personal space. He despised being touched , especially by people he barely knew. There had been a few clients who had either hugged Holmes after receiving good news, or touched his arm, and each time, the detective had felt incredibly awkward, to say the least. Even with Watson or Mycroft, hugs were a rare occurence. It was just the way he was when it came to physical affection, ever since he was a boy. He remembers how his parents would scold him for squirming away from hugs. "What are you, some sort of freakish creature who was raised away from humans? This isn't normal behaviour, now stop acting oddly and go and apologise to your aunt for refusing to hug her!" , his father would say, the words still echoing in his mind as an adult. "Freakish creature." It wasn't as if Holmes acted this way on purpose, but for some reason, people interpreted his refusal of physical touch as some sort of capital sin.
The detective shook his head, snapped back to the present by the fact that his admirer still was clinging to him. "No, truly, Madam, I must—"
"Have you met the Earl's daughter yet? She's such a charming young thing..." , Lady Wentworth responded, not letting go of Holmes' hand. She had clearly drank too much, this was not proper behaviour for a lady of her standing.
The detective removed her gloved hand gently, taking a step back. "Madam, if you would please refrain yourself. I am an engaged man, and I do not wish to cause any sort of scandal, or ruin my fiancée's reputation."
Holmes really hadn't meant to say that. It had just been the first excuse he came up with, and blurted out in a rush. But now, he had to deal with the consequences, there was no way out.
"I beg your pardon?" , the woman says, her eyes widening in disbelief. She turns to her group, to make sure she heard well. Engaged? Him?
"I said that I am already engaged." , the detective says again, more confident, before adding: "...and I have no desire to entertain your flirtations, as a man who is already committed to someone."
"And how come we have never heard of this mystery fiancée before?" , one of the other ladies chimed in.
Holmes hesitated for a second, before he sighed in a very convincing display of remorse. "My fiancée and I planned to announce it to the papers this Friday, but it seems I ruined the surprise."
"Do we know her?!" , Mrs. Gladstone, another socialite, asked. "What's her name?!"
"You will find out on Friday, I have no intention of breaking that promise as well."
A few ladies quickly excused themselves from the group, and left to whisper the news to the others in the room.
Lady Wentworth's haughty smile faded, her entire expression souring. How could Mr. Holmes refuse her invitation? The Earl's daughter was a catch, and the girl had mentioned she wished to be introduced to the detective! But if Holmes truly had a fiancée... yes, he had a point. It could ruin reputations for them both, if she were to continue any further. With one last scoff, she turns on her heels and leaves, eager to spread the news. First stop? Her brother-in-law, who regularly had lunch with the chief editor of The Illustrated London News, notorious for its gossip column. If she was quick enough, such information would be worth a fortune, both financially and socially.
Holmes doesn't even acknowledge the socialite's departure with a nod of his head or a wave. Instead, he finishes his flute of champagne (the fourth one this evening) , and heads towards the door to leave this blasted place. He was in no mood to continue the investigation, or interact with fans.
The whole carriage ride back to 221B is spent by the detective in a state of panic. Why did he even say that?! To announce he was engaged, in a room full of London's high society...by tomorrow, the papers would have a field day. And the worst part was that the fiancée didn't even exist. He had made up a disastrous lie on the spot. Where on Earth could he find a woman to fill in the vacancy now? Because, obviously, people will want to see him out in public with the mystery fiancée. He can't come forward publicly and claim she passed away , ran off , or some equally outlandish claim. No, he had to find a lady willing to play the role.
Holmes furrowed his brows in thought. Easy. He would find someone for a few months, until the press forgot and moved on to a new sensational story, and then, he would quietly cut off the engagement. He shook his head, after a moment. No, that was not quite right, this was actually even worse. Breaking off an engagement was a social death sentence for the woman, and for the man, an equally severe blow to his reputation. He needed to find someone who would also be interested in a potential marriage. Obviously , a marriage of convenience, an arrangement only on paper.
Post an ad in the newspaper? No, his house would become swarmed with letters from female fans who were obsessed with the great detective, and envisioned themselves as the next Mrs. Holmes. It needed to be someone he trusted and knew enough to ensure there would be no weird behaviour. Holmes' list of female acquiantances was small, and the women he did know and get along with were married, so maybe he'd have to—
A name suddenly flashed through his mind. Now this was an idea that could work. How didn't he think of her first?
First thing in the morning, Holmes would send an invitation for tea, to properly explain the situation. He had found the perfect candidate to play his pretend fiancée. If anyone could succeed, it'd be you.
Your first meeting with Mr. Sherlock Holmes had occured five months ago, when the detective himself came to the office of "The Ladies' Journal", the magazine where you worked, to question the employees after a series of nasty events concerning the publication.
First, someone had vandalised the exterior of the building, after a particularly bold article on women's suffrage had been published. Then, three days later, your chief editor failed to show up for work. It was unusual for her to miss a day without prior warning, so immediately, every staff member suspected foul play, from some higher up who was getting irritated at the political stance of the magazine.
Most other fashion magazines in London stayed as compliant as possible with the norms: only news relating to the latest trends in fashion seen in London or other European capitals, maybe a few theater or book reviews, but only for literature suitable for sensible young ladies. Nothing too controversial. "The Ladies' Journal" had gone too far, by spewing "feminist nonsense" , as some politicians referred to texts that encouraged women to fight for equality of rights.
Your involvement in editing the article on female suffrage had meant that the detective started his questioning with you. While you sadly had no idea who exactly could want to harm the chief editor, your observational skills and wit had impressed Holmes enough to ask for your help with some minor evidence gathering during the case. The two of you remained acquianted after that, but not friends, per se.
So, then, why did he see you as his saviour, if he barely knew you? The answer lied in a conversation Holmes had accidentally overheard, while he was out for a cigarette, in a backalley. You were leaving work, talking to a friend, who had jokingly asked you whether or not you would abandon your writing career one day in order to marry, the way a colleague of yours had done. You had laughed, and told her that you would rather stay a spinster than give up your career. Writing brought too much joy for you to abandon it in order to play housewife for some random gentleman. Ideally, you would find a man who supported your career , or remain unmarried your whole life. After all, marriage in this era was "nothing more than a gilded cage for women who had ambitions outside of being a wife and mother." , to use your own words. Holmes remembers hearing your passionate rant, and thinking about how refreshing it was to find someone who would rather dedicate their lives to their career than sacrifice it for love. After all, hadn't he done the same?
Your views on marriage made you perfect. You valued your independence as much as Holmes did, so a marriage of convenience would be a massive benefit to the both of you. You could continue your work, without risking marriage to a husband who'd make you quit at some point, and Holmes could get rid of unwanted attention and marriage proposals from his many female admirers, by claiming he had a wife.
A perfect plan. She could move in at 221B after a few months, either in the flat above Holmes' , or share his apartment, and sleep in Watson's room. Nobody would know that they weren't truly living together or sleeping in the same bed, like a normal married couple.
The detective smiled to himself. It seems he was still as sharp when it came to solving problems as ever. He would even dare to say this was one of the best decisions he ever took, maybe second to moving in with Watson. All he needed now was for you to accept.
After the groups close call with Grail and his men in the theater, you take care of a wounded and restless Sherlock, though he insists he does not need it. The gentleness of your care, awakens feelings in Sherlock he has tried very hard to hide.
by @/make-me-imagine
⋆｡°✩ SECRETS AND CONFESSIONS
Enola has had a hunch of her brother having a crush on his assistant, and she just might be right.
⋆｡°✩ prompt: “Be quiet, they’ll hear us!” + “I might be having feelings for you, I’ve had them for a while.” “Yeah right.” “I’m serious.”
by @/swanimagines
⋆｡°✩ SUDDEN HOSTILITY
You can't quite understand Mycroft's newfound hostility toward you.
by @/multifandomdiva
⋆｡°✩ A STRONG OPINION
After a case closed Holmes is forced to attend a gathering hosted by a lady dowager and meets an intersting person
by @/365daywritingchallenge
⋆｡°✩ A STUDY IN CARE
In their early courtship, Y/N exhausts herself helping Sherlock, forcing him to set aside his pride and show unexpected care.
by @/aetherialmuse
⋆｡°✩ TERRIBLY CONFOUNDING
One of the articles that you’d read had claimed that Sherlock could size up a person in a minute. You couldn’t help but wonder what on earth he’d managed to ascertain about you.
by @/youvebeenlivingfictional on ao3
⋆｡°✩ TO MAKE A FOOL OF ONESELF
Sherlock has never been good with social interactions. Especially when it comes to his upstairs neighbor in flat 221C. He tried to interact with you as one would normally but every attempt he makes ends in utter failure.
You And I Would’ve Found Each Other (Sherlock x reader) (chapter three)
“It doesn’t work like that!” If he didn’t have eggs in the shopping bag, John would’ve thrown his hands up to the ceiling. “You’re always married once you’re married! Unless you get divorced!”
“No, I mean, Y/N has just gone to the airport - should be getting on her flight right now, actually, since boarding was delayed by five minutes - so I am simply keeping the ring safe.”
Why was Sherlock looking at him like he was the mad one?
*
Or, Sherlock as a husband throughout seasons one and two, and I don’t really know how it got this long, but anyway.
also on a03. five chapters long; they're all written/posted.
Chapter Three: Can Tell It’s Gonna Be A Long Road
There's glitter on the floor after the party…
You and me from the night before, but
Don't read the last page
But I stay when it's hard, or it's wrong, or we're making mistakes
I want your midnights
Please don't ever become a stranger
Whose laugh I could recognize anywhere
Hold on to the memories
They will hold on to you
And I will hold on to you
New Year’s Day by Taylor Swift
“And then the poor beggar asked why-”
“Even Anderson could have got it,” Sherlock sniffed, brushing past you and grabbing up his violin.
Lestrade rolled his eyes at you and you smiled back. It was the first time you’d talked this much to the detective; he was a good conversationalist, dry and funny in a way that you appreciated. You were sitting at the kitchen table with him, while John and Mrs Hudson and John’s new girlfriend - Jeanette, you thought her name was - sat in the lounge and Sherlock roamed through the flat restlessly, touching you at every opportunity.
“Merry Christmas,” you’d murmured that morning, half-asleep and scrubbing hair out of your crusty eyes. Sherlock had never been one for celebrations. He endured your trashy Christmas music - Where Do Broken Hearts Go and Fairytale of New York and, of course, Last Christmas on repeat throughout Christmas Eves - and he would get gifts for those he deemed worthy. Beyond that, he refused to acknowledge the holiday at all.
But you had never yet got him in the antlers.
“Last Christmas, I gave you my heart,” you’d taken great joy in singing to him, the first Christmas you’d been married; sometimes, on Christmases when it had been only the two of you, you would play guitar of Christmas melodies and Sherlock would join in with his violin.
Now, as he started played Merry Christmas, you resisted the urge to interrupt Greg and go find your guitar and join in.
Which was, as you quickly discovered, the last remaining minute of peace of your Christmas party.
You watched Sherlock talking; watched him hurt Molly so cruelly and attempt a clumsy apology. And then you heard that noise. The text alert you have patiently, silently, pointedly ignored for the past two weeks.
“No, it was me,” Sherlock said wearily.
“Wait, really?” Greg asked, nearly dropping his drink.
“My phone,” Sherlock ground out.
You stood up and rounded the table, going to the back counter. There’s mince pies there; you’d baked them earlier with Mrs Hudson. If ever there was a time for mince pies, it was right this second. Right. Now. To defuse the tension and give Sherlock just enough of a sugar high to stop being such an arsehole-
You picked the tray up. Turned.
“Excuse me.”
Sherlock was walking towards you, into the kitchen, holding a small red box. You didn’t recognise it.
“What - what’s up? Sherlock?”
“I said excuse me.” Sherlock walked past. You paused, holding the tray uncertainly. He didn’t look at you; kept walking; nimbly sidestepped you and into the hall and walked right past.
You froze, still holding the tray uselessly.
You weren’t a jealous person. You’d never had any reason to be. But now, watching Sherlock disappear into his room and close the door, you suddenly feel a bit hard done by. Well, actually, more than a bit.
Irene Adler has consumed almost all of his thoughts ever since he met her. You’re there like the beanbag he collapses onto at the end of a hard day. But you don’t present a challenge, do you? Not like her. You aren’t…sharp, fierce, battling him for the upper hand. You’re simply you.
Up until this very second, you had always believed that would be enough. You’d never offered him anything else apart from yourself. You’d never pretended. In all of your simple, affectionate, guitar-playing ordinariness - right from that very first meeting - you had never once pretended to be anything you weren’t. You were Sherlock’s other half. The half that kept him anchored and pulled him back to wholeness.
Your hands were cramping around the metal tray, icing sugar like snow in your peripheral vision.
“Mince pies.” You looked up as Greg gave you a warm smile, reaching across the table. “I’d love one, if they’re for sharing.”
“Yeah, a mince pie sounds brilliant,” John added.
“Please,” Molly said.
You took a deep breath and turned your back to the hallway. “Well, since you’ve all asked so nicely…”
You pretended you didn’t notice John slipping past you and down to Sherlock’s bedroom.
You pretended you didn’t mind when they returned and when Sherlock went back to his computer.
You pretended that the ghosting touch of his hand across your hip when you brought him a mince pie was enough to make up for the feelings roiling inside you.
*
Jealousy was a funny colour. Not especially green, like they said. Not black and white, either. Maybe there was something a little green in it - green and red and a sickly, vomit-like yellow. It wasn’t a smooth colour. It was pastel.
Your footsteps crunched in the snow as you crossed the frozen grass. The pond wasn’t iced over, surprisingly. You gave the bench by it an appraising glance before deciding your coat was just long enough, and waterproof enough, to deal with it. Sat down, tucking your chin into your black scarf; curling your fingers inside your pockets. They’re cold even though they’re encased in crimson woollen gloves, cheap soft things you picked up in Switzerland a few years ago. An entire world away from Sherlock’s leather ones.
You had eight weeks to spend with Sherlock, right now. Only eight. And they’re ticking away, while Irene Adler absorbed all his thoughts.
But she was interesting.
You clenched your teeth, watching your huff dissipating in the frozen air. There aren’t ducks around. It’s far too cold.
It’s strange. Between the two of you, you’re not the jealous one. Sherlock could be, a little bit. Not blatantly, except for once - when Sebastian Wilkes, Smarmer Extraordinare, had flirted with you - when you’d already been married. Sherlock had really not appreciated it. You gave the pond a twisted smile, watching the smooth surface, cold and distant like glass, silhouetting the grey sky above like shattered shards, remembering that memorable incident.
*
A Long Time Ago
You yawned, rubbing at your eyes. You’re tired. So tired. You want to crawl into bed and never wake up again. Or at least, maybe, for a month or two.
“Tired?”
You looked up just in time to see Seb Wilkes sinking onto the other end of the ancient sofa, leather squeaking under his fancy suit. He gave you a warm smile. You cannot quite return it right now; you don’t have enough watts left in your teeth for that kind of pearly whiteness.
“A bit, yeah.”
“Long night?” He tutted playfully. “You wicked girl, out all night clubbing instead of studying, hmm?”
You’d spent the night in a tree with Sherlock, listening to a family of owls. It was to do with…something. Important. And kind of fun. You picked a stray bit of moss out from under your fingernails. “Hmm, not quite.”
“Are three word sentences all I’m getting out of you today?” Seb asked teasingly. There was something about him - the broad chest, or the genuine warmth in his amused eyes - or his caramelly voice - that made girls swoon when he talked to them. He was fully aware of this. And for some reason, he always found you in a crowd. He’d asked you out four times last year and you’d turned him down each time. By the fourth time, he had realised you had a boyfriend. Since then and now, he had worked out who the boyfriend was.
Pretty much everyone knew you were dating Sherlock Holmes. The undateable prick that everyone hated.
Nobody knew you were married to him. Yet.
The thought is still new enough to be absurd. It made your lips curl up. Seb grinned back widely in response.
“Go on, go on, go on,” he said, orchestrating the movement with his hands. “Keep smiling, keep going-”
You laughed despite yourself. “Why?”
“Your smile gives me the incentive I need to keep on at my frightful load of studying.”
You blinked at him, your smile dropping. “I wonder how many times you practised that one in the mirror.”
“Enough times that I feel like an idiot.” Seb leant closer. You caught a whiff of his cologne. It was too strong. Nothing like Sherlock’s subtler one. You tried, for a second, to imagine being Seb’s girlfriend. Impossible. You would be arm-candy, a girl to exchange banter with, a girl to adore, and be adored by, and shag, and take to fancy restaurants.
You’d much rather spend your nights up a sycamore tree with Sherlock Holmes, his arm around your shoulders and leaves up your nose.
“I wonder…” Seb took a deep breath, looking at you earnestly. “Look. Y/N. You know I’ve been pretty annoying about this-”
You pulled a face at him. “Hmm, maybe a bit.”
“It’s just…” He flapped his hands like he was nervous. Maybe he was. But it was probably for show, to make himself seem endearing.
You heard that observation in Sherlock’s unimpressed voice and shook your head to yourself.
“One dinner. That’s all I’m asking. Just - one chance to convince you I’m worth another conversation. And if I’m disappointing, I’ll disappear forever with whatever dignity I have left.”
You arched an eyebrow. “You do know I have a…” You stopped, uncertain what word to use.
“But it’s Holmes.” Seb arched his eyebrows back. “Has he even told you you’re beautiful today? No? See, that’s my point exactly. He’s not the man you need in your life, Y/N. Not that I’d dare to presume, but-”
“Oh, good,” a voice rung across the empty foyer. You looked around as Sherlock strolled in, lips pressed together. “Sounds a lot like you were presuming. Wilkes.”
You looked back and forth between them as Sherlock stopped by your end of the sofa. His hands were clenched.
“Didn’t realise you’re her bodyguard,” Seb said, his tone changing.
“I protect her from boring dimwits. Rather like…” Sherlock sucked his teeth thoughtfully. “Oh, like you.”
“Okay, that’s enough.” You stood up. Seb followed your lead, straightening his suit meticulously. “Look, Seb, I’m…Just…No.”
Seb gave you a faint smile. “Your choice. All I’m saying is…If you ever wake up one morning and realise you’d rather be adored than analyzed, you’ll know where to find me.”
“Luckily,” Sherlock bit out, his hand bumping against the small of your back as he moved closer, “she will never have any incentive to think that.”
Seb gave you both a final raised-eyebrow look before sauntering out through the french windows; across a terrace and down onto rolling lawns.
You exhaled heavily. “Dear god.”
“I don’t like him,” Sherlock muttered.
You turned to face him. “Funnily enough, I got that impression…”
“He hates me.”
“He’s hated you ever since you deduced that he was shagging two girls at once.” You reached your arms up, wrapping them around his neck. “Hello, by the way. I like your hair today.” You bumped your nose against his in emphasis.
He gave a reluctant grunt. “You are beautiful. Is this something I have to say every day?”
“Nope, absolutely not. I’d get so sick and tired of hearing it every twenty-four hours. Be a bit more inventive.”
“Certainly more inventive than him,” Sherlock muttered balefully, looking past you at, presumably, the distant figure of Seb Wilkes.
“Hey.” You took a small step backward, running your fingers through the soft curls at the back of his head. “I know you’re busy being jealous, but I have a lecture in a few minutes, and…”
“Wasting time, yes, I know. You’re right.” Sherlock retrieved his arms from you and reached up to the back of your neck, fiddling with the clasp of your necklace. You tilted your head, giving him better access; he got the clasp open and pulled the necklace away. You watched as he slid the two rings off from where they had been hidden inside the folds of your plain white blouse. A gold wedding ring and an engagement ring; both new enough, hidden enough, that you felt surprised just to see them, even though they were warm from your skin.
He tipped them into his left hand; re-fastened the necklace one-handed, and then took your left hand in both his, sliding the rings carefully on, one at a time, his attention complete and intense, head bowed down over your entwined hands.
It wasn’t the first time he had done this, in the past few weeks. It never failed to make your heart skip a beat. Or several. One day you can wear the rings openly. You still won’t forget that feeling. Even right now, when, in thirty seconds, you’ll have to remove the rings and hide them away again, it’s still entirely worth it.
He ran his fingers across the back of your hand like he was attempting to memorise it, and then glanced up at you, his lips quirking like he had suddenly recognised his own jealousy and found it amusing. Maybe because you were still standing here in the foyer with him, his rings on your finger, instead of skipping gaily down the golfing-fairway lawns with Sebastian Wilkes.
“I don’t,” he murmured, bringing your hand up and grazing the rings with his lips, “do romantic attachments.”
You fought back a smile. “Oh, yeah?”
“I just do the one.”
“Damn right, Mr Holmes.” You leant forward and kissed the corner of his mouth, entwining your fingers together and squeezing. “And damn romantic, as well.”
Several people walked in; your classmates, heading upstairs for the lecture. “Now, I’ve gotta see you later.”
“Later,” Sherlock said, stepping back. You tucked your hand quickly into the pocket of your jeans, just in case someone noticed the sparkle in the dusty old foyer.
As you turned away to follow the other students, he called after you, just loud enough for you to hear over their chatter. “By the way? You are beautiful today.”
*
Now
You smiled at the memory, rubbing your rings with your finger. It hadn’t been the first - or last - time that Sebastian had attempted his flirtations. But it’d never worked. You would have long sicne forgotten about him, if not for the fact that it still peeved Sherlock so much.
You had never especially lived with your husband. Your marriage wasn’t orthodox or even ordinary, not in any true sense of the words. After university, you shared a flat for eighteen months - and it was nice, so nice, to cohabit with someone you’d already been married to for a long time. But then you travelled around the world and came back. Sherlock lived his life; you lived yours; you existed together whenever you could. That was just how you worked.
It worked.
Sometimes people had been envious that you were married so young. Like it was a step of your life that you had gotten out of the way early. When those people - if those people - saw Sherlock’s picture, they got even more jealous. They didn’t have to know anything about what he was like as a person - and they rarely did, because you had nothing to tell those kinds of people. But the moment they saw his face, they’d reel out the same old statements. He’s so fit. Look at those cheekbones. Ohmygod, those eyes… Like he’d been a prize to snag. As if you had punched above your weight with that one. Got lucky; won the lottery. And you had, you had, but not the way they meant it.
And then came the questions. Once people had gotten over the surprise that you’d been married so young - or that you were married at all - then they asked the same old idiotic questions. Do you like his eyes? Is his hair naturally that gorgeous? Does he have abs? I bet he’s a good kisser.
All kinds of shit.
And it didn’t help that because you got married so young, it didn’t even feel, most times, like you were. Sherlock was not your husband. He was your other half. You vastly preferred his family to yours: the dotty welcoming father; the warm bubbly genius mother; the stoic nasal brother with surprisingly funny dry witticisms. And most importantly, Sherlock. Your husband, Sherlock Holmes.
That was just who he was. Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes. Not yours; not your husband; or partner, or boyfriend, or anything. He was simply Sherlock, and he was a part of you the way you had thought you would always be a part of him.
But where was he now? He hadn’t noticed you leave the flat; too busy skipping breakfast and playing a melancholy bittersweet tune on his violin. He hadn’t deduced that you were quieter than normal. That you hadn’t teased him about not wearing the antlers, like you always did on Christmas evenings. Because he’d left the party. Gone early to see the body of Irene Adler.
Even when she was dead, she was still more important.
You groaned aloud. What’s fucking wrong with you? Your husband of over a decade is just like this, mercurial, fascinated by things he can’t solve, why are you even surprised?
It was just…the problem he couldn’t solve had never before been a woman. A woman who was clearly interested in him.
You thought of Christmas evening, a week before; scouring through 221b along with John and Lestrade and Mrs Watson, searching for any drugs. Mycroft calling John to tell him Sherlock was on his way. You had wanted to console Sherlock when he’d walked through the door, looking frozen, like he’d walked across a midnight London in the snow - which it turned out, he had. But you couldn’t bring yourself to. He had gone to his bedroom. You had followed him after almost an hour of sitting across the room in silence from John Watson.
You hadn’t known what to say to him. Because how could he care? Irene Adler hurt him. Whipped him, attacked him, drugged him, played games with him, harassed him and pestered him and lied to him and-
And she was a fucking gorgeous, sexy, challenging woman. Exactly the kind of person someone enigmatic and difficult and bored like Sherlock needed.
Please, you thought to yourself; pushed the thought until you felt like it was beaming across the space between you and him, like he’d have to hear it, surely he would. Please don’t ever become a stranger. Not one whose laugh I could recognise anywhere. Not you. Anyone else in the whole world but you.
You didn’t realise you were crying until you felt the warm liquid on your frozen cheeks.
You grunted, sniffed. You refused to use these gloves as a hanky. When you had got yourself under control you stood, and trekked back across the empty park, following your lonely path of footprints, wishing there were another pair, bigger, longer, intertwined alongside like fingers entwined.
*
You walked into the kitchen of 221b just in time to watch your husband throwing a man through the window.
“What the f-”
Crash.
Sherlock stuck his head out. “Just managed to miss Mrs Hudson’s bins this time. She’s strangely sentimental about them. Can’t understand why.” He shut the window and looked at you, cocking his head. “Oh, yeah, explanations.”
You had a woolly palm pressed across your mouth, tiny fibres coating your lips. You pulled it away and stared at him in disbelief. “I…just. What happened?”
“Downstairs,” Sherlock said, gesturing to the floor. “Some American thugs. Mrs Hudson was attacked. John’s with her now. Police are on their way. I’m just…” He cast a dark glare back at the window. “Restoring balance to the universe.”
“Are you okay? Were you-”
“I’m fine. Go downstairs.” Sherlock checked his watch. “Just time for one more, I think.”
He followed you through the door and back down the stairs. “One more what?”
“Oh,” he said airily, “one more time through the window.”
You opened your mouth, and then heard the faint sound of Mrs Hudson’s sobs, and shut it again, running down the last few steps and into her flat. She was sitting at her table with John, with an enormous carrot cake in front of her, with the thickest slab of icing you’d ever seen on a cake before.
“Are you okay?” you demanded. John gave you a reassuring nod and Mrs Hudson sniffled and smiled weakly. You hugged her. She was too frail for this sort of shit. You almost wanted to go back up there and help Sherlock lug the man back through the window for the however-many-th time.
“Just got a shock,” Mrs Hudson sniffed as you let go of her. “I’m being so silly, it was-”
“You’re not being silly,” you said fiercely. “Are you sure you’re okay? What happened?”
They explained it to you; you heard sirens outside, and Sherlock’s voice in the hallway, along with Lestrade and someone else you didn’t recognise. Almost an hour later, when it was dark and the three of you had eaten far too many slices of carrot cake, Sherlock let himself into the flat.
Something like relief, overwhelming relief at just the sight of him, coiled through you. Before he could do anything, you stood up and wrapped your arms around him. His coat was cold. He must’ve been standing outside.
“Mmph.” But then he relaxed, letting you pull his head down against your shoulder for a moment.
“Are you okay?” you demanded, letting him go. “Is it okay now?”
“Yup.” Sherlock rooted through Mrs Hudson’s fridge.
John stood up and took you aside while Mrs Hudson scolded Sherlock for being so careless about the phone. “Irene Adler,” he murmured, under the pretence of helping you wash the plates from eating cake.
“Yeah?” Your stomach sunk a bit. You hadn’t even removed your coat yet, from your icy walk and subsequent pond-gazing-in-the-snow activities.
“She’s not actually dead.”
You almost dropped a plate. “What?”
“Not. Dead.” John glanced back over his shoulder. Sherlock was oblivious. “I just saw her this afternoon, actually. So I don’t know it was on that slab, but - it wasn’t her.”
You looked at the back of your husband’s curly head, while Mrs Hudson berated him and shoved the last slice of cake at him simultaneously. “Does Sherlock know?”
“He does.”
You closed your eyes for a moment, letting the warm water run over your hands, soapy suds sliding off the last plate and between your fingers. “Okay.”
*
It was New Year’s Eve. It should have felt more momentous than it did; but maybe you were too old for that. Another year; ticked off. Another year: to be done. The idea was strangely exhausting; an exhaustion in the shape of a woman with the sharpest smile you’d ever seen.
The woman.
Sherlock went to bed shortly after midnight. John stayed up, reading, a glass of whisky by his elbow. You waited until one am and then gave up the pretence, putting your book aside and stretching gingerly as you uncoiled yourself from the sofa. The echoes of Sherlock’s violin rung in your ears, all the way down the hallway and into the bedroom.
He wasn’t asleep. You were able to tell. You kept up the pretence, though; climbed into bed alongside him and pretended you were fooled by his pretence.
You lay on your back, folded your hands over your chest, and closed your eyes.
His voice pierced the almost-dark like a shard of glass through cheese.
“You’re acting strange. What is it?”
You swallowed. It didn’t even feel like it was you saying the words because they came from, and sounded, so faraway. “You know Irene’s not dead.”
“Yes. I’m aware.” Sherlock paused. You listened to his slow exhale. “Your voice is unusually pitched, suggestive of conscious or unconscious distress. You have been unable to look at me properly the entire day, asides from earlier, when you were worried about my wellbeing and forgot, or overrode your feelings of upset, long enough to hug me. You are currently keeping a careful distance, despite the fact you usually prefer physical proximity whenever possible.” He took a deep breath. “What’s wrong?”
You laughed a little bit. “I don’t know.”
“And…now you’re lying.”
You turned away, pulling the duvet roughly up and over your shoulder. “I’m just - tired.”
“It’s the woman, isn’t it.” Sherlock’s voice was entirely flat. “Irene Adler. That is the only thing it could possibly be.”
What a way to start the New Year, you thought glumly. A goddamn argument. Not that it was an argument; yet. Sherlock wasn’t usually one for huge fights. Domestic squabbles, he loved, and sometimes instigated just for the fun of it. But arguing wasn’t something the two of you had ever done much of.
Nor was lying, and yet you just lied to his face, through the dark.
You rolled back over, your eyes wide open. You could just about see the silhouette of his face. “Yes, it’s her,” you said sharply, sharper than you meant to, trying to hide the sudden wobble that you weren’t prepared for. “It’s the fact that she even is the woman.” Sherlock’s head turned on the pillow toward you. “I can’t help it,” you continued. “She’s brilliant and challenging and sexy and able to outsmart you and-”
Sherlock sat up, bedsheets jerking and sliding off you, cutting your words off more effectively than countered words could’ve. He stared down at you.
Oh shit. Tears were burning up in your eyes. He wouldn’t be able to see them, not in this light, but you barrelled on, unable to bring your hands up to wipe them away, letting them run down your cheeks like hot pathetic pinpricks of your inadequacy. Your feelings.
“And - I never felt like I needed to fit into your life, because we - we always did our separate things. But now? Now I’m thinking about how much she’d fit into your life. And - like - who am I to even try to compare to that? Or…compete with it? I’m not even in the fucking league, I’m just…the idiot who ended up somewhere she shouldn’t be.”
Crying was such a horrible, shameful, messy thing to do. Your heart felt uncomfortable, like it was revolting against you and your feelings and this entire thing.
Sherlock stayed sitting up, his hand braced on the mattress near your knee, staring down at you.
More tears ran down your cheeks.
He didn’t move.
You couldn’t see his face, or judge his body language because he was just a dim outline, curly hair and sharp jutting cheekbone, backlit by the light seeping around the curtains behind him.
You gave up the pretence and sniffed, once, loudly, harshly.
He stared at you.
“O-okay,” you mumbled at last. “Sherlock? It’s getting kind of uncomfortable now.” Just say something. Any-fucking-thing. Say you want a divorce, but just say something so I don’t feel like I’m crying in front of a robotic-slash-corpse-slash-brick-wall of a husband.
Sherlock cleared his throat. “You’re…jealous.”
You swallowed. “No! I’m…”
A pause. You both waited.
“Yeah, okay, fine. You’re right.” A bitter laugh pulled itself from behind your teeth, almost like a retch. “I’m fucking jealous.”
“Of what?”
You looked up at him in disbelief. “Didn’t we just-”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” His voice was impatient now. “I have never needed to soothe anyone’s ridiculous or irrational feelings before, and I’m not going to start now. Not even for you. This is utterly-” Sherlock shook his head. “I have no romantic or sexual interest in the woman. She is a case to be solved, someone interesting playing an intriguing game. That’s all. If I had any interest in her, I would not lie to you. I would have already told you, and taken steps to make sure everyone was on the same…page. Tedious, but necessary. When have I ever lied or been unsure of my own mind? Thus - I do not have any interest in her. You don’t need to be jealous. I can understand why you would be, given the situation and her…behaviour. But it’s pointless. And you’re wasting your time being upset about it. Use your common-sense.”
You smiled a little bit. Why did his stupid voice and cutting tone have to be - somehow - reassuring? “I know,” you said quietly. “I just…I miss you.”
Sherlock shifted. “I’m right here.”
You nodded, finally scrubbing at your eyes. “I know. I know. I’m being-”
His hand touched your cheek, delicately, the same spot where you had just knuckled away a tear. You opened your eyes. He was closer, his face inches away, and you couldn’t quite see his face in full detail but you saw the glow of his eyes looking in yours, heard the deepness of his voice through your bones like it was your own.
“No. I’m right here.”
*
You and John met Sherlock just as he was getting out of a taxi, looking tired.
“Lestrade gave you a good ol’ what-for, then?” John asked while you unlocked the door and let them in.
“Pfft,” Sherlock muttered. He gave the two of you a searching look. “Spending an hour in the bookshop really wasn’t necessary.”
“We went to Sainsburys,” John countered.
“But before that you spent an hour in Waterstones.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Never had you down as an avid Mills and Boon reader, John, but each to their own.”
“Shurrup.”
Sherlock swung the door closed and, as John took his jacket off and turned to hang it up, gave you a quick smile. You returned it, which was apparently inspirational enough for your husband, the one and only consulting detective, to take a quick step forward and steal a kiss, his warm pale cheek against your cold flushed one.
“Saw that,” John announced.
“Marital affection, John,” Sherlock proclaimed, throwing his coat flamboyantly over the end of the staircase. “I do hope you got egg custard tart like I asked for.”
“We did, but we weren’t sure if you needed it for an experiment or-” Sherlock took off up the stairs, three at a time, and John rolled his eyes. “…or not.”
You lugged the shopping up the stairs with John, and dumped it all on the kitchen table, or propped against the chair legs. Sherlock was standing in his bedroom doorway, you noticed peripherally; standing stock-still and staring.
“Sherlock?” John asked, noticing as well.
“We have a client.”
“What?” John walked down the little hallway with you hot on his heels. “In the bedroom-?”
He stopped short in the doorway. “Ohhhh.”
You peeked over his shoulder and got an eyeful of Irene Adler, fast asleep in the bed.
*
You made tea while Irene Adler had a shower. John helped, looking like he was trying desperately not to laugh.
She hadn’t been quite what you’d expected; dressed in an enormous green sweater and with a tired expression. She didn’t look like a dominatrix.
You saw John’s lips twitching again as he reached for the sugar and had to suddenly suppress a laugh of your own. This was insane. This was actually insane.
“Biscuits…have we got any biscuits…” John opened a cupboard.
“I’m not giving her the egg custard tart,” you said immediately.
“God, no. She’d make a scene eating it,” John muttered. “Uh, right. So, we forgot biscuits. Mrs Hudson probably has some. I’ll just nip down and check.”
You switched the kettle off and idly surveyed the sink, listening to the patter of water in the bathroom and the clap of John’s shoes, vanishing down the stairs. And then Sherlock’s arm was on your shoulder and he was spinning you around, boxing you in against the counter.
“Sherlock?” you asked, just before he kissed you.
It was not a kiss that should have been happening next to a pile of sugar-cubes. Or in a kitchen. Or while a dominatrix was in the shower. Or while the scent of brewing tea pervaded everything and everyone. It was not, in short, the kind of kiss that should’ve been happening anywhere else but a film-set while dramatic violins clashed and rain poured and lightning flashed and, perhaps, a car was burning in the background on the edge of a stormy cliff.
Sherlock pulled back for air, his forehead resting against yours, hands entangled in your hair. “Stop. Thinking,” he hissed fiercely, before kissing you again.
Smouldering was not a word that normally applied to Sherlock. He was usually either grumpy or off-putting or strange or clingy or just, occasionally, normal.
Not now. Right now, you were having to fight the urge to swoon against him, because nobody should have had the right to be that romantic and swoon-worthy in a kitchen, next to a stack of butter-knives.
“I’m - not,” you whispered. “Thinking.”
He stood back enough to narrow his eyes at you. “You’re not jealous?” he murmured.
“Not right now. I mean - I wasn’t. I’m-” The shower turned off. Sherlock’s hand tightened in the loose material of your shirt. You were finding it hard to gather words and use them properly.
His lips quirked up. John’s steps; hurrying back up. “Don’t be.” Then he let you go.
*
You sat on the sofa and watched as they interacted; Sherlock and John and Irene; the crime-solving duo and the dominatrix. You noticed the way that every so often, Irene would look at you, her eagle-sharp gaze dipping to your left hand. You clocked the way that she tried hard to be physically close to Sherlock, how she used her husky voice like a weapon.
You sat on the sofa with your blanket and your drink and watched like it was the set of a soap opera, unravelling and happening in real time, right in front of you.
Sherlock’s deduction was genuinely incredible. You weren’t the only one who thought so. But at least John didn’t use quite the same words that Irene did.
“I would have you, right here, on this desk, until you begged for mercy. Twice.”
You couldn’t quite see Sherlock’s expression when he looked back at her. “Never begged for mercy in my life.”
“Twice,” she threw back.
You stretched out your legs luxuriously and thought about the fact that Sherlock really needed a haircut.
*
“Double-O-7.”
Everyone watched as he murmured it, again and again, clearly disgruntled. You chewed your lip. It had to be a coincidence. Right?
And yet - there was something. Something about the way that Irene shifted, her hands digging into the back of his borrowed dressing-robe. Something digging into your mind, but you weren’t a genius, and you didn’t have a mind palace, so you couldn’t dig it out…
Then you blinked. 007.
Like a James Bond thing.
Sherlock, standing by the mantel, whirled and looked at you like he heard your thoughts. You stared at each other, past Irene.
He broke the eye-contact; ducked his head; grabbed his violin and sat down.
“...Now what?” Irene said, after a few minutes of absolute silence.
John glanced up from his laptop. “That’s it. He’s gone into his Mind Palace.”
Irene looked around uncomfortably. “And when is he going to come out?”
“Whenever he damn well pleases,” John said, and turned back to his laptop.
You reached for your book, watching from the corner of your eye as Irene dithered before finally sinking down in the opposite armchair, tucking her legs underneath her.
A strange silence reigned for a while, broken only by the occasional plucking of violin strings as Sherlock thought. Then John stood, slamming his computer lid closed. “Right, I’m off. Want the lights on, Y/N?”
It was nearly dark and you were finding it hard to keep reading. “Yeah, please.”
“Right-o.” John switched on a few lamps. “It’s…I’ll put a fire on, as well. It’s cold.” Sherlock didn’t resurface, even as John brushed past and knelt by the fire. “Right, now. I’m heading out. Um.” He looked at Irene. “He might talk. He does that sometimes. Don’t feel flattered, it’s nothing to do with you.”
“I see,” Irene said, with a razor-sharp smile. “I’ll just have to find something that is to do with me, then. Shouldn’t be too hard.”
John gave her a level assessment for a second, then walked over to the door. “You alright, Y/N?”
“I’m fine.” You smiled. “I promise.”
You listened to his footsteps down the stairs; the front door slamming; the fire crackling. Irene got out her phone. You read on. It was the weirdest company you’d kept in a while.
You were on the final page of the final chapter of the final novel in this series when Irene suddenly turned to you with an urgent rustle of too-big dressing-gown.
“Does it bother you?”
You looked up. “Does…what bother me?”
She was unfairly beautiful, dark hair drying unbrushed by the fire, eyes light and piercing, her smile just humorous enough to make you want to smile back. “To always have to chase him. For every little ounce of affection…The woman who married Sherlock Holmes. I can see why he likes you. And that’s…” She grinned, cocking her chin a little. “That’s a compliment.”
“Thanks,” you said flatly, looking back down at your page. Firelight danced across the off-white page, tinting the black words with shadows of orange. “Not that it seems to concern you if you’re trying to tempt him into infidelity.”
“Oh, I don’t want his heart. Whatever would I do with it? It’s quite clear that I couldn’t get it, even if I tried. No, I just want him to have dinner with me, just once. You ought to learn to share your playthings, you know.” You could heard the cloying note in Irene’s voice, before it vanished abruptly. “Back to my earlier question. How do you manage it? A lifetime of marriage to someone like…that.”
You read the final line.
“I couldn’t do it. Imagine. Always chasing him for every little bit of affection. Physicality. Getting close, just for him to…put you aside.”
You closed the book and stood up, letting the blanket spool to the floor. “I don’t know,” you said. “I don’t chase him.” Sherlock’s face was serene, eyes closed, fingers curled lightly over the guitar. Irene watched you intently, raptly. They made a beautiful tableau, in that moment.
“He comes to me,” you said, and gave her a smile. “I’m off to bed. Night. Don’t be scared if he starts sleep-singing.”
*
“Irene Adler,” Sherlock said, and you looked up, your spoonful of yoghurt halfway to your mouth. It’s been a long time since you’ve heard her name. Sherlock bested her, because of course he did. He came home and fell asleep and didn’t wake up until his favourite takeaway place opened for the night. And then life continued, and you had stopped thinking about the lesbian dominatrix who had liked Sherlock so much.
“What about her?” you asked, and stuck the spoon in your mouth.
“She’s going to die.”
You froze, the spoon halfway back to the bowl. “What?”
“Going to be executed,” Sherlock said, not looking up from his laptop. “Faraway place. Very discreet. Beheaded, as a matter of fact.”
You disentangled your legs from his under the table. He looked up then, his eyes light and sharp over the rim of the laptop’s lid.
“What. Why are you looking at me like that.”
“You can’t just…know that.”
“I do,” he said, and looked down again, tiptapping on the keyboard.
You poked his leg hard with your toe, making him glance up again, like his eyes were a pair of beautiful yo-yos. “No, I hadn’t finished speaking. I mean, you can’t just know that and not do anything.”
He blinked at you. “You mean…”
“Yeah.”
“Surely that’s-”
“I’m not jealous. I’ve got nothing to be jealous of. And I know you can do it or you wouldn’t even be telling it to me, like casual chitchat over the breakfast table, because it’s really not.”
His lips quirked up in reluctant amusement at your deductions.
Summary: The daughter of one of the most influential men in the kingdom runs away before she can be forced into an arranged marriage. What will happen when she meets a knight who offers her a way out of this prison?
Chapter 2: First impressions are not set in stone
The imposing towers that guarded the city walls were surely the first thing any traveller would see on their way to the capital. Perhaps that had been the intention of whoever had built them, centuries ago. Impress your allies, intimidate your foes, prove your worth to your inhabitants. Even if you had been to the capital quite a few times over the years , the sheer grandness of the fortifications never failed to amaze you every single time.
"Looking quite awed there, my Lady. I suppose Father Dearest's estate does not have walls as impressive as these?"
You close your eyes and take a deep breath. But of course. Good things never last for too long. Holmes had been so silent until now, and you had wrongly, it seems, assumed he was finally leaving you alone. Turns out he had just been waiting for the next opportunity to strike.
When faced with people such as the knight here, your internal monologue would normally be something along the lines of: "God, lend me strength..." , but you figured out any deity's help , no matter how obscure, would be welcome when dealing with your travelling companion. Anyone who would hear out your plea was encouraged to come and help. Reluctantly, you decide to acknowledge Holmes' presence. Otherwise, he'd continue his jesting until you finally gave him attention. Such a pity his coat of arms had a hawk, honestly. In terms of personality, he was much closer to a cat.
To be more precise, Holmes reminded you of this cat that would always lurk around your castle's kitchens. The furry bastard was not impartial to using every weapon in his arsenal to get the attention of the humans around him. What were the feline's methods, one might ask? Knocking over baskets of fruits when he considered he had been neglected, jumping onto tables while the cooks prepared a meal, even swiping some meat off platters , and then fleeing the scene like a common thief. If Holmes had been born a cat, you definitely could see him do such actions.
You look down at the knight. The best part of being on his horse now, and him walking by your side, was that you could have him look up at you, instead of the other way round.
"No, sir knight. I have not. Not everyone has the privilege of travelling the lands whenever we please, you see. Some of us mere mortals grow up in one area and spend their whole lives there. Oh, I know... Truly, a shame to have such a fate..." , you lament falsely, even adding a sniffle at the end to really sell the act. As your father's falconer used to say, "The Devil is a hard-working one, but I am even more hard-working than he is, milord". This phrase had become your motto for the past few hours you spent in Sherlock Holmes' company. He had made fun of you enough by shamelessly exploiting your gullibility back in the woods. Now was the time to fight back.
The knight acknowledged your reply with a simple hum. This lack of reaction, of course, enraged you even more. "Shame, indeed, my Lady. But who knows? You are still young. Nobody may know what the future has in store for them, can they now? Perhaps you will be able to travel to far lands, some day."
"That would certainly be lovely." , you admit, with a nod. "I am sure it would be quite the experience."
"It is, I can assure you of that. Though...if you ever do end up seeing the world, pray never forget your humble knight. I would appreciate a souvenir from your travels."
"We shall see about that." , you reply, biting your lip, to try not to start laughing. You would not give him the satisfaction. His ego was already absurdly inflated, no need to have one more person add on to that. That was your problem, actually. He was annoying, certainly, he was also arrogant, but he genuinely was funny, as much as you hated to admit it. He had a wit to his words and a comedic timing that was unparalleled in jokes. If his mockery was directed at someone else , and not yourself, you'd be in stitches by now.
"Halt!" , a voice suddenly shouts at the two of you as you reach the city gates. A stern-looking guard stepped forward, glaring at you from under his helmet's visor. When he saw you were accompanied by a knight, he gripped his halberd a bit tighter. "State your names and say why you're here. His Majesty's orders."
"Tut, tut. Come now, Henry. Don't you recognise an old friend?" , Holmes asks calmly, not at all phased by the guard's firm tone. Any normal person would probably freeze on the spot, and actually follow the orders given to them by the soldier. Not him, no. Holmes had actually stepped forward. You give him a desperate look. He could act bold around guards all he wanted when alone, but now, you'd rather have him comply, so you two wouldn't end up in prison.
The guard — Henry, apparently — narrows his eyes at the knight, wondering who on Earth was this man and where did he know his name from. He then sees the shield bearing his coat of arms, hanging off the horse's saddle, and finally seems to realise something about the man's identity. He barks out a loud, surprised laugh. "I'll be damned! That you, Holmes?! Almost didn't recognise you with your helmet on."
"In the flesh. Finally back home."
"Well, at least lift your visor up when you get near the city gates, man! I was this close to dragging you to the bailiff when you stepped forward!" , Henry exclaimed, earning a laugh from the knight.
"Yes, apologies for that, I take full blame for the helmet. You know the woods around here have been getting less safe as of late. Couldn't risk an arrow in the head."
While Holmes was busy chatting about with this Henry fellow, you were giving him a side-eyed glare. An arrow in the head. There were archers in the forest, and he did not bother to offeryou any sort of armour?! Or at least warn you?! What a twat.
Henry chuckled and nodded. "True enough. We've had to increase the number of men on patrol for the night watch. Less time for taverns these days, I fear... say, who's the lass?"
"Oh, her?" , Holmes asks, pointing at you. "Watson's wife got a new maid. Some cousin of hers , whose family died of the plague. I made sure she arrived here unharmed." He delivered the story smoothly, without any hesitation. The details had been practised on the way here, so that even in the unlikely event that you'd be pulled aside for questioning, your stories would match.
"Ahh. I see. Mary's always been a kind one. Going to Watson, then? Send the man my greetings. And tell him I'm still waiting for that wine he promised me!"
"Will do, Henry. Take care." , Holmes confirmed, tipping his visor at Henry as a sort of goodbye. Far more dignified than waving while wearing plate armour. And less noisy, too.
Henry respectfully tipped his visor at you two as you passed by him and entered the city.
The first thing your mind registered once inside the capital's walls was the the sheer dynamism of everything surrounding you. It was a true ambush on all of your sensory faculties, from every direction. It was nothing like life in a country manor, that much was obvious, and you could not help but take in everything going on around.
Nobles glancing in disdain at the common folk, from their high horses , as they passed through the crowds, their hired swords not far behind. Children running around, playing a game of tag, while dodging carts and horses, ignoring the exasperated yells of adults. The noise of a commotion at the tavern round the corner, where someone had clearly lost too much at dice. A woman passing by the tavern with her son quickly covered the little one's ears and picked up the pace, hoping to shield the boy from the very crude words the gamblers were throwing at each other. He'd have time to learn the wonderful intricacies of curses when he was older. Let him live in blissful innocence for a few more years.
It was no wonder the city had come to life. At this hour, the market was still ongoing. The bustling main square had stalls everywhere. Merchants were selling their wares , their shouts echoing from every direction.
"Bread and pies, come get them, right out of the oven!"
"Fresh vegetables, people!"
"Fish, caught this morning!"
"Need your blade sharpened? Let the apprentice of the best swordsmith in the kingdom help with that!"
"You won't find better ale anywhere else!"
"Pots for sale, twice fired! Sturdy pots, for sale!"
You passed by a stand selling some particularly appealing pastries. Apple pies, cheesecakes, breadrolls, all lined up on the table. They looked delicious, and reminded you of the snacks you used to steal before supper , back at your father's castle... but you had no coins on you, and you doubted Holmes would actually get you something. He had the air of a pinch-purse. The kind of man who would ask: "Why waste money on food from the market when we can wait until we reach Watson's home, and eat for free?".
As it would turn out, appearances deceived. Because after you two passed by the stall, the knight stopped for a moment, before steering the horse to the edge of the square, away from the crowds. He said nothing about why he was suddenly stopping, he just gave you the reins of his horse.
"Keep an eye on her for a bit, will you?" , Holmes asks.
Before you can open your mouth to protest, and remind him that you were a lady , not a stable boy (even if you were currently pretending to be a commoner, you still had your dignity!) , he had left you. Absolutely rude. Such a scoundrel of a man. He probably thought that if he flashed you his arrogant smile when he returned, you'd forgive him. Oh, no, you would not. Damn him. Damn his constant bantering. And damn his stupid , cocky smile. And those shrewd grey eyes , damn that glint they sometimes got as well when he spoke, if we're at it. Who did he think he was? Perhaps other ladies were not immune to his charms, and he had gotten used to this power. Well, his luck will be running out on this lady, you had decided!
Holmes returns to your side a few minutes later, holding what appeared to be two pastries. Why did he get two? You raise an eyebrow at him.
"What is the meaning of this?" , you ask him, not trying to get your hopes up. He seemed like the type of man who was petty enough to get two portions, only to then eat them both in front of you.
"Well, what does it look like? Two cheesecakes. Fresh from the ovens, too, the baker assured me! Don't they look delicious, my Lady?" , he replies cheerfully. "We passed by that stall a few minutes ago. And I considered that the fairest lady in this market, no, the fairest lady in this whole city, would deserve the finest dessert there is." With a theatrical bow, he offers you one of the cakes, holding it on his palm as if he was handing you some precious scroll.
You take the cheesecake from him. "Thank you, sir knight. You are most kind."
"No need to thank me, my Lady. What sort of sorry knight would I be if I didn't feed thee after such a long journey?"
You raise an eyebrow, too busy eating the dessert to give him a response. He was being very nice, all of a sudden. Was he planning something, and this was just a way of letting your guard down?
"Are you attempting to butter me up for something, sir knight?" , you ask, narrowing your eyes at him.
"Yes and no."
"That is not a very concrete answer."
"You're a bright woman, you'll figure out what I mean. Eventually, I suppose." , Holmes responded with an ominous smile. He then gave you a knowing look. "Are you still hungry , my Lady?"
"What makes you think that?" , you say, as if you hadn't been eyeing the cake in his hand ever since you finished yours.
"I really don't know , my Lady... you do seem awfully entranced by my cheesecake. In fact, you have been staring at it for so long that I feel envious."
"You feel envious of a cake? Why?"
"It almost feels as if you're too busy paying attention to it, instead of your humble knight. And here I was, thinking my fair lady enjoyed my company, when it was my cheesecake she was actually after!" , Holmes complains in a tone that was half-joking.
"Do not be ridiculous." , you protest quickly. Who did he think he was, to tease about your sweet tooth? "You have a lot of nerve, speaking to a lady like this."
"Ah, I see you are furrowing your brows again, your usual sign of annoyance. Have I struck a nerve, my Lady? You truly were staring at that cake with a look of intense longing..."
"Oh, you'd want me to look at you as though you were a tasty dessert? Not at the cake? Is that it, sir knight?" , you ask , amused. It takes you exactly one second after you've said the words to realise how flirty your comment had sounded. No. No, that had not been your intention. Oh, great. Now he shall think you fancy him and were just playing hard to get, when the truth was the opposite.
The knight smiled, his grey eyes crinkling at the corners. "I wouldn't mind that one bit, to be truthful with you, my Lady." He then offered you his portion , as if to spare you from further embarrassment by continuing the flirting. He had a bit of decency left in him , after all.
You take it from his outstretched palm, your fingers brushing against his gloved hands once more. You feel yourself warm up at the contact, that same odd feeling you got in the forest when he helped you on his horse. Even through his gloves, you still got the flutter, as if you were touching his bare hand. Whatever it was that caused the reaction, you would not dwell on it now.
A part of you had a small suspicion as to what you were feeling, and you were not willing to address the obvious now. It did feel awfully similar to what those maidens experienced in the tales you read as a young girl. Those stories of grand romances, dashing knights and swooning ladies. Love. Could you even call it that, in your case? You met Holmes earlier today. Was that even enough time for love to take root? Probably not, real life rarely worked like fiction, you told yourself.
You take another bite of the cake, frowning a bit at the mere idea of feeling that way for Sherlock Holmes, the wandering knight who had gotten on your nerves more times than you could count. No, it couldn't be love. You were probably just starved for physical contact. Yes, that was it. Holmes was the first man outside of your family you had met, and your lonely mind was latching on to this little human connection you two had developed. When you'd reach Watson's house , you would probably feel the exact same way for him. It was nothing to worry yourself over. Besides...Holmes? Really? He was far too annoying for you to fall in love with. You would not stand for such a turn of events to happen. After you spent hours glaring daggers at him, falling in love now would be a deliciously ironic twist of fate.
You wipe some crumbs off your lips, still lost in thought. Love dilemmas aside, you had far bigger worries now than the flutters in your stomach when Holmes touched your arm, such as the fact that your father and that lord he planned to marry you to were probably searching for you at this very moment. And if they found you, well, it was all over. Your father would never let you out of his sight until the wedding. It had happened to other noblewomen too, you knew from the gossip you'd hear from servants. They'd have guards by their door and windows, could only leave their rooms escorted... and then, after the wedding, you'd trade one gilded cage for the other. You had never met Lord Roylott, so perhaps he wasn't a brute who'd treat you cruelly. But even a kind man would keep a careful eye on his wife, if she had a history of running away.
"Finished your cake already, my Lady?" , Holmes asks, when he notices you had indeed eaten it all.
You nod quietly. "Yes. All done."
The quiet , thoughtful tone immediately made the knight realise you had been deep in thought until now. And by the looks of it, they were not the pleasant kind of thoughts. "Is anything the matter, your Ladyship?" , he asks , his tone much softer than before.
"Nothing, really." , you brush him off with a wave of your hand. "I was simply thinking of what might happen if my father finds me."
Holmes nodded, understanding where the sudden serious tone came from. "It is unlikely he'll find you here in the capital. Too many people to properly hunt you down. But even if he does find you somehow, I am willing to try and fight for your freedom."
You look at his face. He didn't seem to be sarcastic in this moment. No, he had meant the whole fighting part. "Fight for me? Why?" , you ask, puzzled by the gesture. He barely knew you, after all. Who in their right mind would do such a thing? You, for example, would not risk your life for a stranger you stumbled upon in the woods earlier that day.
"Aside from the obvious answer, with the whole "It is a knight's duty to help the vulnerable" speech, I genuinely believe you, my Lady, deserve to choose the course of your life on your own, without anyone nudging you towards one path or the other. And if you ran away on the eve of your engagement, I doubt you truly wanted to spend the rest of your life in an arranged marriage."
You shake your head. "No, indeed, that is not the life I want. I do want to find love, eventually, like any person would, but not a love forced upon me by my father." You pause and look up at him. "Perhaps, if I had met Lord Roylott in other circumstances, we could have been happy. But the idea of having no choice in who to love scares me. I do not want to follow in my poor mother's footsteps."
Holmes hummed, not interrupting to ask for more details, even if it was obvious he was dying to find out more about your background, now that you mentioned your mother. He had a vague idea what you were implying by that statement, though. Your mother had probably been one of the many ladies forced by their families into marriages they never wanted. A very common sight in your world, but nonetheless, a tragic one.
"You shall not end up like your mother. That much I can tell you, my Lady. You're actively resisting against your predetermined fate, through the mere fact that you're here with me now, and not in your castle chapel." , he assures you, his tone as soothing as he could manage.
As a response, you simply nod at his words. His reassurances had calmed you down a bit. He was correct, in a way. Unlike your mother, you had actually chosen to run away, that was already a huge difference in itself.
Holmes watched your face for a few more moments, until he was certain you were actually calm now. Once satisfied, he cleared his throat, and gestured towards an alley on the left. "Right then. We're almost at Watson's house." The moment of vulnerability between you was over.
Sure enough, not long after, you arrive at a townhouse, at the far end of one of the many alleys that snaked around the capital's square. It was a well-kept, clean building, the white paint on its walls clearly new. Some strong-smelling herbs were hanging from the windowsills in pots. All in all, the house of a person who clearly did not like living in squalor.
Holmes stepped forward, and knocked three times. The massive door opened a bit later, revealing a broad-shouldered , robust man, wearing a clean brown tunic. He had fair hair, an impressive moustache, and kind, blue eyes. This had to be Watson, the friend he told you about on the way here.
"Holmes! You're back!" , the man exclaimed, pulling the knight into a tight hug, ignoring the armour his friend was wearing that made embraces a bit uncomfortable. He then turned to you, realising Holmes had come here with someone. Being too well-mannered to outright ask "And who is she?" , Watson waits patiently for Holmes to elaborate.
"I had a very interesting development on my way back home. May we come in?" , is all he says in response.
Watson steps aside, letting you two enter, even if he was aching with curiosity to hear everything on the spot.
