In honor of Enola Holmes 3 coming out I’m doing part 2 to my story
WARINGS: smut angst mean!sherlock , reader is Dih crazy highkey
Summary: where she’s inlove with Sherlock but he doesn’t feel the same
The bell above the boutique door chimed once.
You didn’t look up from the back room. Pins in your mouth, measuring tape draped around your neck, you called out the same automatic reply you gave every customer.
“Just a second!”
You finished pinning the last dart on the emerald day dress, wiped your hands on your apron, and stepped out into the shop.
And stopped.
Sherlock Holmes stood just inside the door, tall and severe in a dark coat that somehow made the soft cream walls of your boutique look smaller. Rain still clung to his shoulders. His eyes—those same unreadable blue eyes—moved over the racks of carefully curated gowns, the polished counters, the single orchid on the desk, before finally landing on you.
You felt the old, stupid jolt low in your stomach. The one you had spent the last year trying to starve out of existence.
“Oh,” you said, voice deliberately flat. “It’s just you.”
One dark brow lifted. “Just me.”
You turned away first, walking behind the counter like the distance might protect you. “What do you want, Sherlock? I’m busy.”
“I require a jacket fitted.” He stepped further in, the door clicking shut behind him. “The shoulders are wrong. You’ve always had a precise eye.”
You almost laughed. Of course he would use that as an excuse. Of course he would walk back into your life after vanishing for over a year and pretend this was about tailoring.
“You could have gone to any tailor in London,” you said, pulling a measuring tape free. “There are dozens better than me.”
“None of them know the exact breadth of my shoulders.” His voice was mild. Clinical. “You do.”
You hated that he was right. You hated that your hands already remembered the span of him.
You gestured toward the fitting platform. “Coat off. Shirt stays on.”
He removed the coat slowly, folding it with the same precise care he once used to fold your discarded stockings. The white shirt beneath clung just enough to remind you of the body underneath—lean muscle, long lines, the faint scar along his ribs you had once traced with your tongue.
You stepped up onto the platform behind him and began measuring.
The silence stretched. You worked in it the way you always had with him: efficient, almost wordless, the old rhythm sliding back into place like it had never left.
“You’ve done well for yourself,” he said eventually, eyes on the mirror in front of him. “The boutique. The clientele. Enola mentioned it in one of her letters.”
“Enola talks too much.”
“She said you rarely leave the shop. That you work until your hands cramp.” A pause. “She also said you no longer ask after me.”
Your fingers tightened on the tape. “I stopped asking a long time ago.”
“Good.”
The word landed soft and cruel, but you didn’t let it show. You simply stepped back, checked the notes, and met his eyes in the mirror with the same polite distance you gave every client.
“The jacket will be ready in three days. I’ll send word when you can collect it. Is there anything else?”
He turned then, looking at you properly for the first time since he’d walked in. The silence stretched just long enough to feel deliberate.
“No,” he said at last. “That will be all.”
You nodded once, already moving to put the tape away. “Then I’ll see you in three days, Mr. Holmes.”
You kept your back straight. Your voice calm. Your hands steady.
Even as the old, unwanted heat curled low in your stomach at the sound of his voice saying your name in that quiet, measuring way.
Even as you felt him watching you the entire time he put his coat back on and walked out into the rain
—-
A couple of hours later the knock came at your front door.
You already knew who it was before you opened it. The rain had stopped, but the night air still smelled like wet stone and tobacco. Sherlock stood on your step, coat unbuttoned, hair slightly damp, looking at you the same way he had in the boutique—like he was cataloguing every shift in your expression.
You should have closed the door.
Instead you stepped aside and let him in.
He walked past you into the small sitting room, glanced once around the space you’d made for yourself—simple furniture, a single lamp, the faint scent of the lavender soap you used—then turned.
“So,” he said, voice quiet. “How are you… besides the fact that you’re completely ignoring me?”
You shut the door. Crossed your arms. “Better.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, almost a smile, almost not. “Liar.”
He stepped closer. You didn’t move back.
“I missed you,” he said, and then his mouth was on yours.
The kiss was not gentle. It never had been with him. It was deep and claiming and far too familiar, the same way he’d kissed you the last time—months ago, in your old bed, when he’d fucked you until you couldn’t think and then left before the sky lightened. You remembered the exact weight of him leaving the mattress, the quiet sound of him dressing, the way he never looked back when he walked out the door.
You pulled away, breath uneven.
“Sherlock… I don’t know.”
He didn’t stop. His mouth moved to your neck, open and hot, teeth grazing the place just beneath your ear that always made your knees weak. His hands were already at the front of your blouse, fingers working the buttons open one by one with deliberate patience.
“Just let me,” he murmured against your skin. “Let me make love to you.”
The words were wrong coming from him. He never used them. He always called it something colder—physical, necessary, a lapse. Hearing them now made something twist hard in your chest.
“You don’t make love,” you whispered. “You take what you want and leave.”
He pushed the blouse off your shoulders. It slipped down your arms and pooled on the floor. His hands slid up your bare back, unhooking the fastenings of your corset with the same precise skill he’d once used to strip you in rented rooms.
“Then let me take,” he said against your throat. “The way I did the last time. When I had you under me in that bed and you came so hard you cried. When I stayed inside you afterward and you thought—stupidly—that I might stay the night.”
Your head tipped back against the wall. A soft, broken sound escaped you as his mouth trailed lower, over the tops of your breasts, tongue tracing the edge of the lace still clinging to you.
“I hated watching you walk out of that shop earlier,” he continued, voice rougher now. “Hated how calm you looked. How easily you dismissed me. I’ve thought about nothing else since.”
He lifted you without warning, carried you the short distance to the settee, and laid you down. Your skirt was shoved up. His trousers opened. He settled between your thighs the same way he always had—like he already owned the space.
When he pushed inside you it was slow this time. Deep. Almost careful.
You gasped, fingers digging into his shoulders. He dropped his forehead to yours, eyes half-lidded, the cool mask cracked just enough to show the hunger underneath.
“Still so perfect for me,” he muttered. “Still so wet the second I touch you. You can pretend you’ve moved on all you like. Your body never learned how.”
He moved then—long, deliberate strokes that dragged against every sensitive place inside you. One hand braced beside your head. The other slid down between your bodies, thumb circling your clit in time with his thrusts. The settee creaked beneath you. The lamp cast long shadows across the ceiling.
You tried to stay quiet. You failed.
Every thrust pulled another sound from your throat. He kissed them away, swallowed them, fucked you deeper when you clenched around him. The pleasure built too fast, too sharp, the same helpless spiral he always dragged you into.
“Sherlock—”
“I know.” His voice was strained now. “Come for me. The way you used to. Let me feel it.”
You broke with a broken cry, body tightening hard around him, vision white at the edges. He followed almost immediately—burying himself to the hilt with a low, guttural sound and spilling inside you in thick pulses, exactly the way he always had.
For a long moment he stayed there, weight heavy over you, breath uneven against your neck.
Then, slowly, he lifted his head.
His eyes searched yours in the low light. Something unreadable moved behind them.
“I shouldn’t have come here,” he said quietly.
You stared up at him, still trembling, still full of him.
“But you did.”
He didn’t deny it.
He only leaned down and kissed you again—softer this time, almost reluctant—before he finally pulled out and began putting himself back together.
You stayed where you were, half-undressed, body marked and aching, watching him the same way you had the last time he left your bed.
Only this time he didn’t walk straight out the door.
He paused with his hand on the latch, back still to you.
“I’ll be back for the jacket,” he said. “And for this.”
Then he left.
The door clicked shut behind him.
You lay there in the quiet of your own house, the taste of him still on your mouth, and realized you had never been “better” at all.
I translated another one of my Japanese Sherlock x Reader stories into English! 🖤
This time it's a quiet, late-night story about cigarettes, a kiss, and Sherlock struggling with feelings he'd rather explain with logic.
Originally written in Japanese and translated into English with AI assistance, then carefully edited by me to preserve the original tone and character voices.
Hope you enjoy it! ☕🚬
AO3📖 :
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Summary: Your husband is barely at home these days, too busy with work. After he fails to show up on time for your date, the evening takes an unexpected turn.
A/N: a little something to offer before i work on chapter 3 🎉🫶🏻
"I hate Sherlock Holmes."
This was the sentence you had been chanting in your head for the past hour, over and over again.
At first, it was just these simple, yet very loaded words, but after a few minutes, it had evolved into the wonderfully eloquent "I fucking hate Sherlock Holmes!" , said while throwing crumpled up papers at the portrait of him that sat on your nightstand. Of course he would not be home tonight, when was he ever at home? Last week, he had some urgent case dragging him to Scotland for five days. A month ago , on the day of your wedding anniversary, he was summoned at once by his brother, on a matter of national security, and came back home at four in the morning, collapsing onto the bed straight away. And today? Nowhere to be seen, again.
You look at yourself in the mirror, feeling ridiculous. You were wearing your favourite evening gown, an elegant, fashionable piece that had been tailored to fit your form perfectly. And your favourite colour, too! It had been quite expensive, but your husband had insisted you buy it, regardless of the price, saying he had more than enough funds to spoil you. A pearl choker, matching earrings, white silk gloves, and some discreet makeup around your eyes completed tonight's outfit. But in spite of all this...You thought you looked like a clown, and felt like one, too. It should have been obvious he wouldn't be able to make it on time for your opera date tonight, but you had foolishly believed him this time. Such a shame to waste a lovely outfit for an event that would never take place.
With a disgruntled huff, you sit down on your bed. The chances of Holmes showing up were slim. Sometimes, you wondered if you were truly his wife in this marriage, or a lover , cast aside whenever the true wife — his career — called for him.
You knew the pattern all too well by now. He'd miss one of your dates, because of a case, show up with some apology and an expensive gift, and then repeat it again in the near future. This was how your relationship worked, ever since you got engaged. Holmes didn't ignore you intentionally, but he tended to see himself more as an agent of justice, who just happened to inhabit a human body, rather than a living being with relationships that must be maintained.
"Bloody case..." , you grumble to yourself. "Oh, I shall not be late tonight, dearest, I know we have an outing." , you say, imitating Holmes' voice and the very same words he had told you this morning, kissing your cheek before exiting 221B. The gloves are thrown on the floor, crumpled up. Poor things, really. They were inanimate objects, suffering the wrath of a woman they had never even wronged in the first place. After a deep breath to calm yourself down, you take off your dress as well. No need to wear it for lounging around in the bedroom, was there?
And so, the evening gown gets neatly placed, back inside your wardrobe, symbolising the end of any sort of opera night for the two of you. The mere thought of its price had made you set aside your rage for a moment and carefully strip, so you would not destroy it.
"Does he even realise how ridiculous this marriage is?" , you ask yourself, as you untie your corset and take it off too. Next, you carefully roll off your stockings, still addressing nobody in particular. "He has a whole wife at home, but is too busy crawling around in mud , looking for footprints like some human bloodhound, instead of spending time with me. His loss, really! And mine, too..." , you continue complaining. You lie down on the bed, clad only in your simple chemise now, and bury your face in a pillow. The pillow gets tossed across the room a few seconds later, when you realise it smells like Holmes. Not what you were not looking for at the moment.
"I fucking hate him." , you tell yourself. A weak and pathetic lie, really, considering that you were saying this while slowly moving one hand down your body, with a clear purpose in mind. An age-old remedy for stress and anger, that now had to be performed alone. You close your eyes, trying to get yourself in the mood. Your mind immediately begins thinking of that night, a month ago, when you straddled your husband's lap , right there in the sitting room, and rode him like you had nothing left to lose. The memory of the detective, underneath you, with his eyes closed, head leaning against the back of the armchair as he whimpered in pleasure was enough to get you wet.
Your fingers finally feel slickness between your thighs. Seemed like the moment of recollection did its trick. A soft noise escapes you as you begin circling your needy clit with one finger. Oh, how lovely this would have felt if it was him doing it to you. Whispering in your ear, his breath right against your skin, lips kissing down your throat as he used those long and thin fingers that Watson waxed poetics about for something else than chemistry. A harder press of your fingers onto the bundle of nerves makes your hips shift against the bed, desperate for more friction.
What a shame your beloved Sherlock wasn't here, to fuck you himself, but that didn't have to mean you would not go a step further, just because you were alone. Two fingers slide down, and push inside you. The sensation is enough to make you moan again. You close your eyes, and add another finger, trying to convince your mind to imagine that it's his cock moving in you, the real deal, not your own fingers. What would he even say if he saw you now, touching yourself like the unsatisfied wife you were? If he was in a playful mood, he'd probably take matters into his own hands. He'd tut in that mockingly disapproving way of his, maybe say some dryly amused line while unbuttoning his trousers and making his way towards your spread out form.
So close...you were so close now. Just a few more movements, and you'd be done. Your breathing was getting shallower, breathy pants kept on escaping your lips. A bit more—
The noise of the front door opening downstairs snaps you out of your pleasure-driven haze. Holmes had finally come back home.
You hesitate for a moment. To reach your apartment upstairs, and then your bedroom, he'd need about a minute or so. Add one more minute for him to take off his hat and coat... Plenty of time for you to wipe your fingers on the bedsheets, pull the blankets over your form and pretend you were asleep. But the chances of fooling a man like him were slim. Even if he somehow believed you really were sleeping, the smell from between your thighs would be a clear giveaway of what you were up to , seconds ago.
No. You would not be a coward. Let him see you on the bed, you boldly think to yourself. Let him see how his absence affects you, how much you crave him. In fact, to make him feel even more guilty, you would continue touching yourself as he walked through this very door.
The steps got closer as Holmes, not suspecting a thing, made his way to your apartment. He was holding a bouquet of lilies in one hand, your favourite flower, as a small way of seeking your forgivance for his tardiness. It was worth a try, maybe the flowers would help.
"Dearest, I'm home!" , he called out, peeking his head into the sitting room. Nobody here, it was empty. Perhaps she went to sleep, the detective tells himself. Slowly, he approaches the bedroom door, and presses on the doorknob.
You had heard the door, and him entering the bedroom, but you kept on going. In fact, you even lazily turn your head towards Holmes, smiling innocently at him.
It takes him a moment for his mind to register what is going on in front of him. But once he does, you can see how his expression changes, from the guilt of a husband who has done wrong, to something much more aroused.
"I see you're entertaining yourself quite... thoroughly." , he says, dryly amused, raising an eyebrow. Obviously, still trying to stay unaffected.
"When one's husband isn't home, you learn to adapt." , you respond slightly out of breath, fingers still moving in a steady in and out rhythm. With a needy whine, you finally come.
"Still, I feel quite disappointed, darling. What if I didn't come home now, hmm? I would have missed out on this delicious sight." , Holmes drawls, as he begins loosening his cravat and shrugging off his coat. The flowers are tossed on the dresser, no need for them now.
"Who knows? Maybe you missed out on plenty such scenes. You're always gone because of work. Perhaps I touch myself every day when you are away."
"My insatiable wife. Must you really take matters into your own hands, and not just wait for me?" , he asks, now unbuttoning his shirt.
"Easy for you to speak. With all those cases, you're never bored. You wouldn't care about a lack of intimacy."
"You think so?" , the detective teases, his shirt now off. You could now properly see his pale torso, that lanky, yet attractive body of his, with all those scars he had as reminders of past cases. Without even realising it, you bite your lower lip, a reaction that Holmes does not miss. He flashes you a smug grin as he quickly takes care of his trousers and underwear as well, noticing how your eyes drift to the dark trail of hair on his stomach, leading down. "Do you truly think I don't have needs of my own, darling?"
"If you did, I'm certain you would spend more time with me. Not go on all those cases!" , you quipped , forcing your gaze back on his face.
"Well, it would be terribly inconvenient to cancel an investigation in the middle of everything and come rushing to you, or in you, rather. I do apologise for my absence, but trust me, I often find myself doing the same things as you now when away for long periods."
"Oh, the same things as me? I won't lie, I'm sure you'd do a better job at fingering than myself, with those long fingers..."
"Acting obtuse on purpose, dearest. How low. No, I don't finger myself, I'm afraid. But what I do end up doing is much better, let me assure you."
Fully bare, he walks over to your bed, and grabs your hand, the one still shiny with the proof of your arousal. Slowly, staring right into your eyes with that piercing grey gaze, he lifts them to his mouth and sucks them clean.
He continues, his voice turning into that low purr that always got you a bit aroused: "You know that photograph of yourself you gifted me for my last birthday? The one of you lying on that settee, completely bare, save for the necklace around your throat? That absolutely decadent piece...I carry it with me all the time when I leave for a case. It's tucked inside my cigarette case, but when I'm alone, in a cold inn room... do you know what I do, dearest? I take that photograph out, and stare at it while my other hand is busy being wrapped around my cock. And I keep on going, until my hand aches from all that up-and-down movement."
Your thighs press together as another wave of heat passes through you at the image of Holmes pleasuring himself because of a photograph of you. And the bastard , he knew his story would affect you, judging by the gleam in his eyes. After dragging his tongue one last time against your digits, he finally releases your hand , only to dive right for your lips, your mouths meeting in a passionate kiss. The previous anger and insults directed at him had long vanished from the forefront of your brain.
You close your eyes as Holmes' mouth trails lower. Your throat, then your collarbones, until he finally reached the edge of your chemise. "May I?" , he asks, his voice coming out oddly tender amidst all this.
After seeing your nod, he quickly unbuttons the garment, revealing your whole body to him. Or rather, the one thing that interested him most: your breasts. Without any further reply, he begins kissing along the softness, before his lips finally reach your nipples. The exposure to the air and your arousal had caused them to already harden. Holmes kisses around the bud, before he finally closes his mouth around them and begins sucking. Feeling your hips jerk up involuntarily , he repeats the gesture , now adding a swirl of his tongue.
"Oh , Sherlock..." , you whine, moving one hand to his head to make sure he would stay there.
The noises coming out of your mouth encouraged him. They always did, hearing those whimpers and gasps spurred him on more than anything. He moved his fingers down to your dripping cunt, immediately pushing three inside you.
"Clenching around my fingers, like this...You truly are desperate, darling girl." , he whispers in your ear, while his fingers start a maddening rhythm.
You whine, hips grinding forward in time with each movement of his fingers. If he kept this up , you'd come soon. Though it was clear Holmes actually wanted that to happen.
"Mmh...I'm..."
"Close?"
The moan that escapes your lips is enough confirmation for the detective. He dives his head back to your breasts, determined to get you over the edge quickly. You feel that familiar tension build up between your legs, until it finally explodes, sending pleasant tingles through your entire body.
You barely have time to catch your breath when you feel Holmes' length dragging itself through your folds to get some more lubrification. Impatient man.
"Mmm...I no longer hate you." , you blurt out, mind a bit of a mess from the orgasm. How could you, after all, when he had done this to you?
"Hate me? I doubt you ever did, my dear girl."
What a smug creature. Feeling words were not enough, and to make sure he would stop being so arrogant, you push his head down for another kiss.
"Ready for the next act?" , he teases after pulling away. He aligns his leaking cock with your entrance, making it very obvious what sort of act he was preparing. You might have not gone to the opera, but either way, Holmes would still hear some very pleasant, high-pitched noises tonight. When you nod eagerly, he pushes inside, sheating himself in one move. You can hear his heavy breathing against the crook of your neck as he tries to regain control, before you feel his hips slowly moving in and out.
"Oh, yes...! Faster..." , you whine, unsatisfied with the slow rhythm he was setting. You wrap your legs around his waist and splay your arms across his back, needing to feel him even closer than he already was. You close your eyes. Tonight wasn't the time for some sweet lovemaking, you needed to be thoroughly ravaged.
He makes a noise of disapproval, halfway between a scoff and a grunt and slows down. "Open them. I want to see your eyes." A few kisses pressed around your eyelids follow, which you knew was his way of coaxing you to look at him. This was one of Holmes' many oddities. He always wanted to see your face and your eyes while you made love, even when you were on top. You had no idea if it was so he could read your expressions and see if he was doing things the right way, or because he needed to feel connected to you somehow.
So, you open your eyes, and stare up at him, just as he wanted you to. He smiles down at you, pressing a quick kiss to your lips, before going back to the initial pace.
"That's a good girl... Damn it all, you feel amazing...my beautiful wife..." , Holmes groans, pressing sloppy kisses against your face as he keeps up the thrusts. Cheeks, forehead, nose, wherever he could reach. "I'm glad I was late for our date... I'd much rather fuck you senseless than sit through some opera."
You moan again, both from his words and from the feeling of his cock. When his hips begin pistoning faster, stretching your cunt even more, you dig your nails into his back, scratching at the skin there.
He groans loudly at the feeling. "That's it. Ruin my back, darling...let me feel how much you like it...". With every rake of your nails against his back, his thrusts turned deeper, less tender and more frantic.
"Mmmh...Sherlock...f..."
"Yes, darling? What was that?" , Holmes asks, his grey eyes gleaming with mischief. "I didn't quite catch your last word. F...? Speak properly."
What a prick. Making you try to talk normally while he was stuffing you full like this. "Fa...faster..." , you finally moan out.
"Good girl. Your wish is my command." , he responds playfully, picking up the pace even more.
By now, the iron bedframe was banging against the wall loudly. Poor Mrs. Hudson from downstairs, she could definitely tell what her tenants were getting up to , in case the loud moans of "Faster" or you moaning each other's names weren't telling enough. Thank God you replaced the wooden bed months ago, after a particularly enthusiastic night that resulted in the bedframe breaking. You still remembered the embarrassment you felt when you had to explain to your landlady why an otherwise sturdy piece of furniture broke. Holmes, on the other hand, oh, he wasn't ashamed of this feat. In fact, he had barely suppressed a laugh when you had to deliver the news. But Mrs. Hudson had been kind enough to change your bed, and adapt to the situation by offering a brilliant solution. Now, it was almost impossible for you two to break through such solid iron.
"Yes! Yes! Keep it up...mmh...!!" , you all but scream out in pleasure, too lost in the feeling to care about propriety or your loud volume.
The relentless pace of his thrusts is enough to send you over. With a loud moan of his name , your nails clawing at his back again, you come, the pleasure of the orgasm crashing down on you. He feels the way your walls clench around his cock, the sensation getting him close to coming as well. Almost there, just a few more thrusts... he keeps on fucking you through it, determined to reach his own climax as well. Moments later, the detective buries his face in your neck and spills his seed inside of you, his entire body trembling from how intense the feeling was.
For a few minutes, Holmes just lies like that, still inside you, trying to catch his breath. He slowly lifts his head to see your face. The sight of your blissed-out face makes him smile. You really were the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. He leans down to kiss your forehead, before pulling out and standing up.
You whine at the sudden loss of his body on top of you. It was one of your favourite sensations, almost like a weighted blanket.
"I'll be back soon, darling. I just need to clean us up." , he explains, walking over to the washbasin in the corner of the room. After dipping a cloth in the water, he returns to your side and cleans up between your legs. "Couldn't leave you all sticky, now could I?"
You shake your head silently, content just to watch him take care of you, the way he always did after you two made love. Once satisfied with your cleanliness, he puts the cloth aside and joins you in bed, lifting the blankets over the two of you. You slowly move over him, resting your head on his chest , the mattress dipping slightly from your combined weights.
"I might not hate you, but you are still on thin ice." , you finally say, breaking the silence. "Just because we did all this doesn't mean I'm completely alright with your absences."
"In that case, I suppose I'll have to try harder to obtain your complete forgivance."
"And how will you do that?"
"Oh, it's quite simple, really." , Holmes says lazily. Before you can react, he flips the two of you and laughs at your surprised face when your back hits the mattress. "Ready for round two, darling?"
"I thought you'd never ask.", you reply with amusement, as you lean up to kiss him.
out of all your sherlock/reader fics, which couples do you think would have the least healthy & most healthy relationships
hi!
well, this was really something to wake up to but luckily - or unfortunately - you've unlocked my inner english professor, and now i've ranked all of my fics, starting with the ones i think have the 'healthiest' relationship, and i've no idea if this is what you wanted, but here ya go
SPOILERS FOR PRETTY MUCH EVERY SHERLOCK FIC I'VE EVER WRITTEN
(i skipped the first few sherlock fics i ever wrote because i hate them and loathe them and if i reread them i might just delete them entirely)
Find The Missing Piece
OH I LOVE THIS ONE - this is actually a pretty healthy-relationship fic! the reader has amnesia but sherlock is actually...mature? about the whole thing.
Never Be The Same
it's...a sickfic slowburn thing. there's barely even a relationship, but the friendship is healthy - apart from when Sherlock was an arsehole, but like, that's part of his personality description.
See It With The Lights Out
probably a fairly healthy relationship, all in all, and also sherlock sings an ed sheeran song, which is obviously the best part, apart from when he's drunk and leaving wistful voice messages. (writing drunk sherlock is the absolute best, btw).
Cause It's Gravity, Keeping You With Me
very healthy relationship. very fluffy. very idiots in love. i forgot just how hard it was to write doting-sherlock but i think i did a pretty good job…
Remembered I Loved You, Wearing That Same Smile
well this is a nice little fluffy fic and i think the dynamic is pretty...equal and nice? I honestly had forgotten about most of this fic. I like the idea of kid-Sherlock deciding, like a stray cat, that he's found a home (person) and just never letting go.
You And I Would've Found Each Other
a long-distance marriage that works except when it falls apart at the end because Sherlock faked his death. Still. I think season-one Sherlock actually being successfully married is a healthy relationship out of necessity?
One Kiss Is All It Takes
I mean...it's the fall and when Sherlock comes back, it was never going to be perfect...also this is one of my favourite fics for some reason. i wish it had been a mini half-hour episode.
(the more i read, the more i realise that in almost every fic, there's a 'one bed' trope. ohmygod. what is WRONG with me.)
A Ruthless Game
my most recent, very weird little fic. there isn't MUCH of a relationship, but sherlock initially treats the whole thing like an experiment (or at least that's what he pretends to himself) and OH I LOVE THE ENDING
Is This The End Of All The Endings?
THE FIRST SHERLOCK FIC I WROTE AFTER WATCHING THE SHOW PROPERLY! I think the relationship is fairly healthy-ish - unless you count their first meeting and all the very repressed-idiots-in-love-bedsharing that goes on. I really loved writing this fic because the drama of the episodes was so fresh in my mind (not as much now i've rewatched them so many times)
Like A Million Little Stars
is probably pretty healthy? I dunno, they're both idiots and Sherlock is wafting around like a melodramatic idiot, playing violin songs and being Sherlocky and there's angst in the second chapter, but it's probably not too bad
Been Waiting For You Ever Since (You've Been Gone) (co written with @catastrophic-blues7)
well...most of it, yes? However Sherlock lies and is an arsehole during some parts of the plot. still, that's just Sherlock, and he is suffering from amnesia.
For The Hope Of It All
the fake-marriage fic! they both have repressed feelings and Sherlock is a Bit Not Good because it turns out that he did the whole thing to trial how it would feel to be married to the reader, but - *scrolls through the fic* OHMYGOD THE GOLF BUGGY CHASE I FORGOT HOW MUCH FUN IT WAS TO WRITE THAT
Might Just Get Away With It
well...actually, the unhealthy relationship here is kinda the reader's fault? she's an assassin and really afraid to commit, and sherlock is actually emotionally mature here (except for the fact that he can't help waiting around for her for years and a whole lot of unscheduled surprise kisses happen). OH I FORGOT HOW MUCH I LOVE THE ENDING
You’re The Risk (I’m Gonna Take It) by @catastrophic-blues7
I am not writing this fic, but I’m technically co-writing it, and IT’S VERY GOOD. Right now, I’ve gotta be honest, the relationship is pretty unhealthy (which honestly makes the fic better because Everyone Has MotivesTM), but…. *grins with co-writer insider knowledge and leaves it at that*
Don't Start Shit (But I Can Tell You How It Ends)
well i guess everyone is lying in this one. Jessica is an assassin, Sherlock doesn't know what's going on, Mycroft is pulling strings, they're like idiots in love, and i forgot just how much i liked writing badass Jess Norton until i skim-reread this
Lost The One Real Thing You've Ever Known
Okay i guess we're straying more-ish into unhealthy-relationship territory here? the reader is basically dumped by sherlock the moment she goes to uni in a different country, because he's scared of committing, and after ten years he shows up and she...kind of...forgives him? but on the other hand, he is aware of what he did, and neither of them have much expectations. it's very 'all too well'...
Never Before And Ever Since
oh this one is bad-ish. Sherlock's shooting up, John's being an arse, the reader is having a very tough time of it. sherlock is Really Not Very Good, but i guess you could argue that the reader forgives him too easily at the end? then again, so does John in canon, i suppose.
And All I Did Was Bleed
oh i remember this one - *braces myself* - okay, sherlock cheats in this one, shoots up, and then uses the fact that he was shot to try and win back the reader, a tactic which...eventually?...kinda works...
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?
A/N: Continuing ACD's tradition to have a character named Violet. I do not know why that name fascinated him so much, but you go, girl!
Chapter 2: The Fringe Incident of 1879
You stare at the article draft in front of you, twirling a pencil around your fingers. All you needed now was a catchy title, and you were good to go. Considering your article would be one of the many featured in the Ladies' Journal , a title that would immediately grab the reader's attention was a must. The first seconds are essential, anyone who uses words for a living knows that. The majority of readers rarely bother with going through the full text if the title or the first lines don't immediately draw them in. Even you were guilty of this habit, sometimes. If an article or book you were reading didn't sound promising enough from the beginning, you either wouldn't even bother with finishing it, or you'd quickly skim through it.
Obviously, since you weren't publishing this piece on your own, you couldn't realistically tell how many people would stop to read your article in particular, so your worries were a bit baseless. But it was the intention behind it all that mattered. You had to prove to the magazine readers that your contributions were also worth their time, that the words of a female journalist could be just as witty and interesting as those coming from the pen of a male colleague. And, in a way, these perfectionistic tendencies of yours also soothed your nerves as well. Sending a piece when it was completely, irrevocably finished, when you found no words to replace and no sentences to rephrase, made you feel much more confident in your craft.
A sudden hand on your shoulder startles you out of your creative bubble. You turn around, only to be met with the sight of your colleague, Violet. A bright-eyed, cheerful young woman, one of your closest friends since childhood, and also an expert in scaring you by suddenly popping up behind you.
"You almost gave me a heart attack with that hand." , you joke, moving your chair to properly face her. "But by now, I feel you are actually aiming for that."
Violet shrugged innocently, but didn't apologise. Instead, she just smiled. "I just wanted to check on you and your article. How's it going?"
"Great. As you know, I am working on a piece about spring trends. If my sources in Paris are correct, and they usually are, we are not escaping the bustle. Quite sad news, I know. But! The redingote is all the rage now. And we can already see this shift among Londoners as well, so it shall not be a Continental-only trend."
"Like the Regency redingote? That's coming back now?" , Violet asked.
"Yes, and no." , you reply, reaching for some fashion plates lying on your desk. "Here. Look at this one. I quite like it, if I'm honest with you. With the princess-line dress underneath, you could argue we're getting something closer to men's suits. But unlike their boring suits, we can have colour! Checkers, stripes, floral print. Take this other plate. The interior part of the dress has a vibrant, flower-y pattern, while the exterior, the "redingote" , has a darker shade. A burgundy that compliments the splash of colour in the middle, it's meant to make the center bodice of the dress stand out."
Violet nodded in response. Your enthusiasm on the topic was contagious, and the explanations you offered on the side were always welcome. "Finally, we'll have an aestethically pleasing spring. Thank you, Parisian ladies." She clasped her hands together in a gesture of gratitude and looked up at the magazine ceiling, as though her thanks could be heard by the fashionable ladies across the Channel.
You laugh at her display. "They deserve many thanks, indeed. Imagine if we had a repeat of 1885. The sailor style..." , you shudder dramatically.
"Not that thing...With the sailor collars and those awful berets. Ridiculous attire for a lady who is just strolling through Hyde Park, no boat or shore in sight."
You reply after a hum. "I quite like sailor dresses, to be honest with you. They do make for an excellent outfit if you go to the seaside. But I will agree they look ridiculous, here, in the London smog."
"Ridiculous is an overstatement. But I don't think we can comment or mock those who foolishly follow the latest fashions. Not after... 'The Fringe Incident of 1879'..." , Violet said, lowering her voice to whisper the last part.
You wince at the memory. Right. The Fringe Incident of 1879. A rather unassuming year, this 1879. Or at least, so it was for most people. But for yourself and Violet, 1879 had lived on in your memories as a period of time when very short bangs had been popular. A famous courtesan had started a trend in London, by cutting her bangs shorter than what the average ladies wore. And of course, like most trends that went against what society deemed as proper, this move had been a scandalous one. Papers were quick to call it a "lunatic" fringe, a sign of loose morals, of madness... in short, the mark of a woman who must be avoided.
The news had reached you and Violet eventually, and, being the silly nineteen year olds that you were at the time, you had both decided to try and get a lunatic fringe. After all, telling two teenagers about something they clearly should never even think of doing rarely produced the desired effect.
This small rebellion against harsh societal norms had disastrously hilarious effects. Your hand was not steady enough to ensure a straight cut, which resulted in a very choppy set of bangs for Violet. As for Violet, bless her heart, her cutting skills weren't better. Both of you had very short , uneven, ridiculous looking bangs. Truly, the fringe only a lunatic would be seen with.
Your families had each blamed the other for this disaster: your parents saw Violet as the one who came up with the idea, while Violet's parents were sure you had been the bad influence on their daughter. But eventually, as all things that aren't tragedies or life-or-death situations, the anger morphed into exasperation, and then mockery. Your family laughed of you for weeks after the incident, and even to this day, your mother teases you about the bangs.
You touch you forehead, as if to check that the bangs were of a decent length, at least now.
"We were young, that doesn't count. It's been ten years since then, I like to think I developed more common sense in the meantime!" , you protest.
"Well, fair enough." , Violet concedes with a grin. "But I will still continue to tease you about this , until we're old and wrinkly. Your children and grandchildren will know. Auntie Violet will visit and tell them about The Fringe Incident of 1879."
"Well, as funny as it would be, I shall not have children , if you really must know. A child would mean an indefinite pause on my career, and after fighting so hard to earn respect as a female journalist, I would not give it up for some screaming little goblin."
Violet frowned a bit at how vehement you were. "You seem quite certain of your impending spinsterhood."
"You know how most men are. They want a lady who will replace their mother, while also being a mother to their offspring. Cooking, cleaning, taking care of his needs, those are non-negotiable to them."
"Come now, there must be some man out there to match your tastes, and who would respect your career! I can picture you with some brooding writer, or a witty artist. A man more unconventional for our times! Some bespectacled fellow, who probably trips over his own words around you."
You give your friend a side-eyed look, trying not to laugh. "If you mean Mr. Williams by that description, I regret to inform you that he has already found another, he is engaged to be married, or so the gossip columns say."
Violet gasped. "What?! After the way he danced with you the whole night at our Christmas party, I was sure he would call on you! What a cad! I thought he would propose marriage!"
You shrug, trying not to seem too disappointed by this change of events. "Perhaps it was for the best. If we really were meant to be, he'd have chosen me from the very beginning. Or at least that is how I see it, if you care about someone, no other distraction can ever make you stray from your path." Sensing the vulnerable turn the discussion had taken, you quickly change topics: " Now enough about my very lacking love life, we have work to do."
"Spoilsport...fine, fine. Go back to your redingotes. And I will go back to my book review..." , Violet sighs, waving at you after two steps for extra theatrics , even if you were sitting a few desks away from her.
When you arrived home from work , later that afternoon, you found a telegram addressed to you.
"Come to Baker Street. Urgent discussion to take place. S.H."
You stare at the paper in confusion. Who on Earth was this S.H.? Some sort of prank from a person with too much time on their hands? Brows slightly furrowed in confusion, you stand in the hallway, trying to think if you knew any people with the initials. No family members, no friends... Oh, right. There was one, Mr. Holmes, the detective. Probably, he had discovered something about that case you were involved in, months ago, and wished to inform you. If it was that urgent, well, why not pay him a visit now? It wasn't too late yet, and Mr. Holmes wasn't the type who would waste time. He would say whatever he had to say, and then let you leave.
Blissfully ignorant of what expected you at 221B upon your arrival, you knock on the front door twice. The door opens, revealing a kind-looking old woman. You recognised her as the landlady, Mrs. Hudson.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Hudson. How have you been?"
The woman lit up at the sight of you. She definitely recognised you, and was pleased to see you remembered her name. "Oh, my dear! I've been great, thank you! What about yourself? What brings you here?"
"A telegram, from Mr. Holmes. He's home, isn't he?"
Mrs. Hudson nodded. "He's in his sitting room. Come on in!"
You nod, and follow her up the stairs, to the detective's sitting room.
"Mr. Holmes? A young lady is here to see you. She says you sent her a telegram?"
Seconds later, quick as though he had been waiting this whole time on the other side for your arrival, the door swings open, revealing none other than Sherlock Holmes, looking as proper as always. Cravat neatly tied, form-fitting waistcoat, dressing gown over the ensemble. The most striking feature was his face, no surprise about that. But instead of boredom or arrogance, he looked...nervous , in your opinion. A very unusual expression for the detective.
"Right. Come inside, Miss. We have a lot to discuss. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. No need for tea, or anything." , he dismisses the landlady with a wave, before closing the door behind you.
"You said it was urgent." , you begin right after the door closes, trying to study his body language for more clues. Why was he fidgeting so much?
After a few moments of silence, Holmes finally faces you, taking a deep breath before speaking. "I require your help." By the way he had delivered the line, with a slight hint of embarrassment, the detective was clearly not familiar with the concept of explicitly stating to another that he needs assistance in something.
"My help? Whatever for?" , you ask, confused by the vague request.
"I shall explain, but I need you to listen until the very end. No jumping to conclusions, or leaving the room until I am done."
You nod, and take a seat across from him, waiting for him to explain what you had to do.
"I made a grave social blunder last night, and I must find a way to fix it now. I know very few women, and I do not trust most of them to have the discretion needed for this task. I do however trust you, Miss, because you have proven yourself during the brief collaboration we had. Which is why I now offer you an arrangement that would benefit both of us: I need a fiancée, and possibly, a future wife. No, no, let me finish." , Holmes quickly interjects , when he sees the expression of horror on your face. "I am not proposing marriage because of some unspoken feelings I have realised I harbor for you. I simply need a woman to play the role of my fiancée, in public. Outside of a few outings together, you are free to do whatever you want, I will not interfere in your professional or private life. I shall be your fiancé, but I shall never demand you do anything for me."
You stare at the detective in silence. He was serious, frighteningly so. "Mr. Holmes, let me see if I understood you correctly. You are suggesting we pretend to be engaged in public? Just that, me pretending to be your fiancée?"
"Precisely so. I would need a woman by my side to avoid unwanted attention from my fans, and as for yourself, I assume you would also benefit from being together with a man who will let you continue your work, while also offering stability."
"Hmm." , is all you say. You had to admit, he made a very good point, no way to argue with that. "But still, this sounds too good to be true." , you add.
"You have my word that I have no hidden intentions. We will simply act the part of a couple in public, while behind closed doors, you are free to do whatever you wish."
"This isn't some inheritance swindle, is it?" , you ask, still not fully convinced. "You're not simply proposing marriage to me in order to get your hands on some fortune, are you? Because if that's the case, I demand at least twenty percent from the sum you'll get. No moral lecture from me, whatsoever. Go get your money, Mr. Holmes."
Holmes stared at you with a puzzled face, before laughing loudly, surprised by the conclusion you arrived at. If he was honest, he had never even thought of the possibility of a marriage solely for inheritance matters. "Oh, no, no, no, Miss. I am not asking you to enter this arrangement so I can get some sort of money or estate from my family. My reason is as simple as I said before: I want to live a peaceful life. The fame I got as the detective in the Strand's stories isn't something I enjoy. I don't like having strangers come up to me , to chat with me, when I am out for lunch alone. Nor do I like having everyone fawn over me. Honestly, I am a rather solitary creature. I only wish to have a few people I care about around me, an entire legion of fans does not bring me any sort of joy."
"That is understandable, really. But, you do know that if we claim to be engaged , we might have to actually go through with a marriage, too. Do you want to be bound in a marriage-less marriage?"
The detective furrowed his brows in confusion. "Marriage-less marriage...? How come? We'd have what a marriage needs. A groom, a bride..."
"I meant a marriage without any...marital duties."
Oh. That aspect. Holmes finally realised what you meant, and felt quite embarrassed he didn't pick up on it. "Right. Well, I can live. Spent the last 35 years without... that, and as you can see, I am still alive."
You laugh. "What a peculiar man you are, Mr. Holmes. And here I was, expecting that one of my duties will be to pick you up every week, at dawn, drunk beyond imagination, from some house of ill repute."
He shook his head violently, muttering a "no, no" under his breath. Holmes' ears were now furiously red. It was clear that the subject was a very awkward one for him. Everyone assumed he, like most gentlemen of his social standing, had been intimate with women in the past, in spite of being a bachelor. Hell, many men had mistresses even after marriage, so it wasn't all that scandalous. The truth was that the detective had never engaged in any sort of intimacy, something he was sure you could figure out yourself, based on how hard he was blushing.
You had noticed that, of course you did, anyone could, but today, you chose mercy. The teasing will come once you are more comfortable with one another.
"So!" , you start, wanting to spare him any further embarrassment. "I assume we need to come up with rules? What we can do, what not, the likes."
"Rules. Right, rules! Yes, I do have a few. First of all..." , Holmes replies, holding up a finger, "I have a slight aversion , so to say, when it comes to physical affection, especially when said affection is from someone I do not know that well. Walking on my arm is acceptable, but I would like for you to keep any kisses or embraces to a minimum."
You hum in agreement. So far, so good. If you were being honest, this was a huge relief for you. Kissing some man you barely knew , on the lips, from your first day as a "couple" would have been absolutely insane and awkward for you. "We have struck a deal, then." , you respond with a firm nod. "We shall kiss only if absolutely necessary."
"Mm. Lovely. Another thing: I am a man of habits. Habits that might seem odd to most people. Have you read , by any chance, Watson's stories?"
"Those works from the Strand? Yes, I have, but I cannot claim I am a massive fan, who can recite by heart entire passages. Why do you ask?"
"Well, I believe in the first ever account of our partnership...what did Watson call it again? "A Study in Scarlet" , I think? Yes, that's the one. The good doctor made a list of my limits, and some of my habits. That list he made is no longer accurate. As a small sidenote, I have since attempted to educate myself in various fields, not just crime and chemistry. But anyways, I digress. My second rule, in a nutshell, is that I have certain moods that sometimes take hold of me. Days when I cannot bring myself to do anything, or speak. It is then that I would kindly ask you to give me the silence and rest that I need. If that is alright with you?"
"I am quite fine with that as well, Mr. Holmes. You shall not be bothered, I'll be writing my articles , don't worry about me." , you reassure him calmly.
The detective stared at your face for a moment, surprised you were accepting all of this so well. He was not entirely sure you meant this. There had to be some small twitch of the eyebrows, or your gaze wandering, a subtle sign of disapproval...but so far, there was nothing but honesty. Holmes had been a bit worried you'd be too complicated to deal with, if he was truthful, though this conversation was slowly making him reconsider his opinion on you. Perhaps you two could even become friends over time, you were alike enough.
"There must be another rule, right? You said "a few" earlier. From my experience, that's usually the wording people use when they have more than two things to say."
Holmes smiled. "You are quite a sharp one, Miss. Indeed, I have one last rule." He paused for a few seconds, to create a bit of dramatic suspense, before finally continuing: "Third rule: you must like violin music." An attempt at being playful, from Sherlock Holmes.
You stare at him in silence for a while, wondering if this was some sort of euphemism for something less pleasant than listening to concertos. Though, judging by Holmes' smile, he seemed genuine. Oh. You had been overthinking , an old habit of yours. Searching for hidden meanings in people's words, when there was none. He played violin, then? You had forgotten that detail from Watson's stories, to be fair. Looking around the sitting room, you do spot a violin case on a table near the window. "Is that yours? The violin, I mean." , you ask.
The simple question makes Holmes' face light up in excitement. He nods , and stands up to properly show his violin. "It is mine, indeed. A Stradivarius, to be more precise." , the detective explains with a proud smile.
Your eyes widen. "A Stradivarius? Aren't those violins awfully rare and expensive? How on Earth did you get your hands on one of them?!"
He laughs quietly and nods. "The very ones, yes. How I got it...well, quite a long and elaborate story, but let's just say I was lucky enough to spot one in a pawn shop, a few years back, for an insignificant sum."
"Well, my next question would have been: "Are you sure it's even genuine?" , but I assume if any man would find a way to test its authenticity, it would be you. So, I have no worries about you holding a forgery."
The detective smiled at your reasoning. You seemed to be, so far, a very pragmatic woman, and you had another quality that Holmes appreciated: you looked beyond the obvious. Perhaps it was because of your background in journalism, or the fact that you worked for a fashion magazine (a more creative field) , but you were definitely not as narrow-minded as some of the inspectors he had worked with so far. Instead of "Ooh"-ing and "Ahh"-ing at his violin, your first thought was whether or not it's real. Shame Scotland Yard doesn't allow women to join their ranks. Holmes had a feeling that if they did that, more than half of the buffoons they had in office now would be replaced by much more competent ladies.
"I have tested it using some chemical methods, the age of the wood would match the timeline of an authentic Stradivarius, and I also took the violin to an expert in France to have him verify it, as an extra safety net. And he confirmed it is genuine." , the detective explained, proud of how cautious he had been.
"In that case, I advise you to keep it well-hidden. I don't care that much about your instrument, but if the wrong people hear about this, well, I'm sure they'd kill to have such a priceless object."
Holmes smiled and shrugged. "Perhaps they would. But I don't think many criminals would dare to burgle Sherlock Holmes' house. Unless they have some sort of death wish."
"Fair point." , you concede with a laugh. He was quite funny, surprisingly enough.
Dr. John Watson arrived back home shortly before dinner, long after you had left 221B. And after a long day of work at his medical practice, Watson had one thing on his mind: a nice, hearty meal.
He took off his coat and hat, and entered the sitting room. Holmes was in his armchair, twirling a pen around his fingers. Without looking up, he spoke:
"Ah, Watson. How have you been? Good, I hope. I have news." , Holmes said, rather ominously.
"News...?" , the doctor asked, unsure what to expect. When it came to his friend, the news could range from "I had a great sandwich today!" to "Someone left a bomb on our doorstep.". You never knew with him.
"Mmhmm. News. I am an engaged man, Watson." , the detective declared, a smug grin on his face.
Watson nodded, unphased by his friend's antics. This was probably some joke, or another undercover thing, like that Milverton case. "Mmhmm, that sounds lovely." is the only response he gave, similar to the way a parent might react when their child tells them they went to the Moon with their friends during lunch break. Living with the great detective had made Watson quite desensitized.
Holmes blinked. He had been expecting more shock, some drama, not this...indifference. "No, no, Watson. I said that I'm engaged."
"I heard it the first time, yes."
"But you didn't react!" , Holmes exclaimed, annoyed he didn't get the reaction he wished for.
"What am I supposed to say, my dear fellow? 'Oh, congratulations on the false engagement!' ?" , Watson asked , amused.
The detective's smugness faltered for a moment. "Pah. Why are you so sure it's a false engagment? Perhaps I have fallen in love suddenly!"
The doctor stared at his friend with a look that seemed to say he doubted that was true. "Impossible. If you did fall in love, I'd know."
"And how is that? You read minds now?"
"Hmm. For starters, you wouldn't be this...calm if you truly had just proposed to the love of your life."
Holmes' lips pursed into a thin line. He hated how accurate Watson was with his assumption. Damn it all , the doctor had learnt some tricks of his trade.
Watson grinned at his friend's silence. "Knew it." , he said smugly, before turning around to pour himself some whiskey. "But at least promise me one thing, Holmes."
"What would that be?"
"I disagreed with your treatment of that housemaid you got engaged to for information. After the case was over, you simply cast her aside without thinking twice. Don't make the same mistake with this lady."
"Oh, my dear fellow..." , Holmes sighed dramatically, his eyes gleaming with mischief. He was about to deliver the full explanation of his grand plan. "I have even better news for you. I might actually marry her this time. A proper wedding and all."
Watson choked on his whiskey, spitting it out from sheer surprise. He began coughing violently , the sting of the alcohol he had just drank not doing much to help his state. When he finally calmed down, the doctor stared at Holmes with wide eyes. "Marriage?!"
"Yes. Marriage. A union we would both benefit from."
Watson snorted in amusement. "Only you would see marriage as some sort of alliance to get into for benefits."
The detective shook his head. "Oh, no, trust me. She feels the same way about us becoming husband and wife. We discussed it this afternoon."
"I see. Does the missus need those tax advantages for married couples, perhaps?"
"Not that I am aware of, but you raise an excellent point, Doctor. I should mention this to her the next time we meet."
Watson barely held back a laugh at his friend's response, and how serious he had taken the joke. "Well, I wish you two all the best, lots of luck in the future. Even if I disagree with you on the idea of marrying someone without any love involved."
"My dear Watson, you are far too much of a romantic. But alas, it is how it is. You have my word, I will try my best to be a good companion for my future wife."
"You'd better. Otherwise, you might get an uppercut right in that long, angular face."
All Watson replied with was a loud growl coming from his stomach.
"A true defender of my fiancée's reputation. Now, shall we eat? I heard Mrs. Hudson made a fine roast today."
Humiliation comes in the form of blood rushing to his cheeks when he finds out you know. In all his eccentricities, blushing did not ever come as tell from the one-and-only Sherlock Holmes.
The wish he makes at night, begging for you to notice him, was already granted far before he even made the first one.
He didn't mean to eavesdrop on you and Watson talking, but he just can't help it when it comes to you. It doesn't exactly strike you as a surprise as soon as you're met with an absolutely dumbfounded Sherlock once you come out the room.
"Sherlock..." you say softly, attempting to bring him back to reality. "Don't tell me you've just heard all of that, I was just starting to have fun."
"Well, no more," he replies. "I actually needed you for a case."
During the whole investigation, he's not once mentioned what he was just stumped about before, much to your surprise. In fact, he seems to avoid the idea completely.
He's devastated that for the first time, he feels like the fool.
Then he brings up the question subtly, or not really, it's quicker enough for you to not be able to react appropriately.
"By the way, are you willing to be my girlfriend?" he asks, not bothering to dance around the query. "I'm taking your reaction as a yes, now, let's move on to the next piece of evidence."
And it's just like that. Your relationship blossoms quite fruitfully, continuing on until marriage and a legacy that he never thought about before.
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!
