☾ Warnings: emotional distress, arthur experiencing a violent episode, yelling, alcohol use, bloodied knuckles, broken glass, fear of possible violence, y/n briefly fearing arthur, angst, guilt, hurt/comfort, protective john shelby, soft ending
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The knocking came after midnight.
You had already unpinned your hair and changed into your nightdress, the fire in the small grate burned down to a low orange glow when someone struck your door again, hard enough to make the latch tremble.
“Y/n!”
John.
You threw your dressing gown around yourself and hurried downstairs, bare feet cold against the floorboards. The moment you opened the door, your stomach tightened.
John stood on the step with his cap pushed back and his coat open, his breath clouding in the night air. There was blood smeared across one cuff of his shirt, though from the way he held himself, you knew it was not his.
“What happened?”
“It’s Arthur.”
The answer came too quickly. He had rehearsed it on the way over, you realised. Perhaps because he knew you would understand without him saying much more.
You stepped back at once, reaching for the dress you had left folded over the chair. “Where is he?”
“Garrison.” John dragged a hand over his mouth. His usual easy grin was nowhere to be seen. “He’s bad tonight, Y/n. Me and the boys tried getting near him, but he’s having none of it.”
You did not ask why he had come for you.
It had happened before.
Arthur would lose himself to drink, anger, some terrible thing he would not speak about, and every man in the room would eventually turn to the same solution. Go and fetch Y/n. She’ll get him down. He listens to her.
You had hated it at first — hated the idea that anyone believed Arthur was your responsibility to manage. But then you would see him after, shoulders shaking beneath his shirt, knuckles split, eyes full of something far more frightened than violent, and you never found it in yourself to refuse.
“Give me a minute,” you said.
John waited by the door while you dressed quickly, fingers fumbling over the buttons at your throat. When you returned with your coat pulled over your shoulders, he was already stepping back into the street.
The walk to the Garrison was nearly silent. Damp cobblestones gleamed beneath the weak light from the lamps, your shoes clicking too quickly beside John’s.
“Did he hurt someone?” you asked at last.
John’s mouth tightened. “Nearly.”
“John.”
“He came in with blood on him. Wouldn’t tell us whose. Started drinking like he meant to drown in it.” His jaw worked. “One of the lads said something he shouldn’t have, and Arthur put him through a table.”
You shut your eyes briefly.
“He’ll listen,” you murmured.
John looked at you then, all the strain in his face showing plainly.
“That’s what I’m counting on.”
You heard the trouble before he pushed open the pub door.
A crash from inside. A chair scraping hard across the floor. A man shouting, followed by Arthur’s voice, loud enough to make you stop short on the pavement.
John went in first.
The Garrison looked as though a fight had moved through it like weather. Two tables had been shoved aside, one overturned completely. Broken glass scattered across the floor near the bar, catching the lamplight. A bottle had shattered against the wall and left whisky running down the wood in thin brown streaks.
Arthur stood at the centre of it.
His waistcoat was unfastened and crooked, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled past his elbows. Blood marked his knuckles and the heel of his hand. His hair had fallen untidily across his forehead, and his breathing came heavy, his whole body pulled tight as though another blow might fly out of him at the smallest sound.
“Arthur,” John said.
Arthur rounded on him so fiercely that John stopped where he was.
“I told you all to fuck off!” Arthur roared. “Get out, John. Take the lot of them and get out!”
Then he saw you behind him.
For a moment, his anger did not disappear, but it shifted. His clenched hand loosened at his side. His eyes stayed on your face as though trying to make sense of you standing there.
“Y/n,” he said, voice scraped raw.
You moved past John before he could stop you.
“Hello, Arthur.”
His chest lifted with an uneven breath. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I know.”
“Who brought you?”
You glanced briefly at John. “Does it matter?”
Arthur looked away, shame flashing across his face before the anger covered it again. “I don’t need anybody fussing over me.”
“No one’s fussing.” You took another careful step. “I only want you to look at me.”
“I am looking at you.”
“No, love.” Your voice softened. “Not properly.”
The word seemed to pull at something in him. His mouth twitched, but his eyes remained wild and unfocused. Behind you, the other men were quiet now, watching as though the whole room depended upon how you placed your next footstep.
You came within arm’s reach.
“Let me see your hand,” you said. “You’re bleeding.”
Arthur shook his head.
“Arthur.”
When you lifted your fingers toward his wrist, he jerked his arm away so sharply it startled you.
“Don’t touch me.”
You froze, hand still halfway between you. “All right.”
“I said don’t!” he shouted, louder now, and slammed his fist into the table beside you.
A glass tipped from the edge and smashed across the floor at your feet.
You cried out softly and stepped back, the heel of your shoe slipping among the fragments. Arthur turned toward you in the same movement, his face close to yours, his voice filling every bit of air between you.
“Why do you all keep at me?” he shouted. “Why can’t you leave me alone for one bloody minute?”
You had seen Arthur angry before. You had washed another man’s blood from his cheek. You had taken a bottle from his hand while he cursed and shook so badly he could hardly stand.
But his anger had never been pointed at you.
For one breathless, terrible second, you did not see the man who slept with his face pressed against your neck or cupped your cheeks in both hands when he kissed you. You saw the broken glass. The blood on his fists. The rage in his eyes.
Your arm came up instinctively, protecting yourself as you flinched away from him.
Arthur stopped.
His breath left him in a low, wounded sound.
The silence in the pub turned unbearable.
You lowered your hand slowly, but it was too late. He had seen it. Seen the way you moved from him. Seen fear pass over your face before you had any chance to hide it.
“Y/n,” he whispered.
He took one step forward.
You took one back.
His face crumpled.
“No.” His bloody hands opened at his sides. “No, I weren’t going to— love, I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t lay a hand on you.”
John crossed the room before Arthur could come any closer, placing himself between the two of you.
“That’s enough, Arthur.”
Arthur stared at his brother, distraught. “Get out the way.”
“No.”
“She knows I wouldn’t hurt her.”
John turned slightly, looking at you rather than answering him. “Come on, Y/n. I’ll take you home.”
Your throat ached. Your eyes were wet, and you hated that Arthur could see that too.
For a moment, you thought of letting John guide you toward the door. Of going home, locking it behind you, and trying to forget the sound of that glass breaking at your feet.
Then Arthur looked down at his hands.
He seemed smaller than he had a moment before. The anger was gone from him completely, leaving him pale and unsteady in the wrecked room. He looked as though he wanted to disappear before you had to look at him again.
You swallowed hard.
“No,” you said.
John turned. “Y/n—”
“I’m not going home.”
Arthur lifted his head sharply. “You should.”
His voice shook now. That frightened you in a different way.
“Please,” he said. “Go on, love. You don’t have to stay here with me.”
You pulled your coat tighter around yourself, trying to steady your breathing. “I am not leaving you like this.”
The words did not comfort him. If anything, they seemed to hurt worse.
John muttered a curse under his breath. “You sure?”
You nodded, though you did not feel sure of anything.
He looked at Arthur once, hard enough to leave a warning hanging in the air between them. “I’ll be outside.”
Arthur did not answer.
The others followed John out, Harry lingering only long enough to place a cloth on the bar before slipping through the door. Then you were alone with Arthur in the heavy quiet of the pub.
Neither of you moved for several seconds.
Finally, Arthur lowered himself into a chair as though his legs could no longer hold him. He kept his hands on his thighs, palms open, careful not to reach for you.
You crouched slowly and began gathering the larger pieces of glass from the floor.
“Don’t,” he said at once.
You stopped.
“You’ll cut yourself,” he murmured.
A shaky breath escaped you, nearly becoming a laugh, though nothing about it was funny. You looked up at him.
“Then what am I meant to do, Arthur?” Your voice broke despite your effort to keep it level. “Stand here and pretend that did not happen?”
His eyes lowered.
“No.”
“You frightened me.”
His jaw clenched so tightly you saw the muscle move in his cheek.
“I know.”
“You’ve been angry before. You’ve been drunk and bleeding and impossible, and I still came near you.” You pressed your lips together, trying not to cry harder. “But just then, I didn’t know what you might do.”
Arthur scrubbed one shaking hand across his mouth, smearing the blood already drying at his knuckles.
“You’ve never looked at me like that before,” he said, barely above a whisper.
“You’ve never made me feel I had to.”
He bowed his head.
For a long while, the only sound was the faint rattle of rain beginning against the front windows.
When Arthur finally spoke, he sounded exhausted.
“I don’t want you afraid of me.”
You remained where you were, a few feet away from his chair.
“Then you have to give me a reason not to be.”
He nodded, once. His eyes were red when he looked at you again.
“I will.” His throat moved painfully. “I don’t know how yet, but I will.”
You believed that he meant it. You did not yet know whether meaning it would be enough.
Arthur slowly lifted one hand and rested it palm-up on the edge of the table between you. He did not reach for you. He did not ask you to come closer. He simply left it there, trembling faintly, letting the choice belong to you.
You looked at his hand for a long moment.
Then, carefully, you stood and placed your fingers in his.
Arthur closed his hand around yours with such gentleness that your eyes filled again. His shoulders shook once, his head falling forward until his forehead barely touched your knuckles.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
You did not tell him it was all right.
It was not.
But you stayed beside him in the ruined quiet of the Garrison, your hand still held in his, while Arthur faced the terrible understanding that loving him had never made you unbreakable.
Fav sweets are caramel, dark chocolate and those pocky sticks (he always does the lady and tramp thingy with you)
Your whole apartment is tinged in warm oranges, reds and yellows, it gives a comfortable cozy vibes, he also bought one of those sunset lamps for your living room and always scolds you if you ever dared to turn on the big light (he’s right, HOW DARE YOU??)
George has a habit of humming his childhood lullaby to you if you have trouble sleeping or are anxious out of some reason
He smells like wood and sweets
Sometimes he wakes up in sweat and panting after he had another nightmare of the war, he doesn’t wake you but just lifts your arm slightly and crawls into your embrace
After school he stopped drinking and party smocking, eventually he drinks a white wine but that’s it
It definitely took him a little time to get used to phones and all that stuff (you showed him since you’re muggle born) but now he’s an expert and even involves muggle technology in fred and his prank products, making them extra special for their customers since they (mostly) don’t know how it works
LOVES quiet movie nights, eventually you two will watch horror movies just so you can cling to him when it gets scary but he prefers those cliche romance movies
^ he always points at the screen and says “look, it’s us” and then it’s just two cats sleeping on the edge of the screen
^ he does that with mutiple things by the way, you’ll get quite the amount of texts with a photo of two things next to each other with the words “it’s us darling”
His laugh is loud and real and he would NEVER even THINK about making a joke about yours, he loves your laugh and does everything to tickle it out of you
He’s surprisingly good at taking care of plants, that’s why your apartment is filled with them, he says it brings the home into a house
He’s the embodiment of EVERYTHING that reminds you of nostalgia, he’s the sun after it rained in the summer, he’s the smell of you favorite dinner in your childhood home, he’s the smell of earth under your fingernails after playing outside, he’s the one song that feels like orange and tea and he’s the feeling you had while laying in your loved one’s arms, listening to her heart beating while they laughed with their family and friends around you
fav cuddle position is being held by you with one of your hands in his hair
While Fred likes to leave hikeys in more obvious places like neck, collar bone and jaw, george leaves them on your thighs, stomach and hips
You were insecure over your stretch marks once (he hadn’t even noticed them before you told him you didn’t like them) and since then he made it a habit to kiss them and worship them every time they’re exposed
He LOVES autumn (especially mid and late autumn) and he’s a sucker for those aesthetic dates and he goes full out, we’re talking matching outfits, going to a café and spoiling you (and himself) with sweet treats
He loves reading and definitely always buys two copies of a book so you can read it at the same time
When you’re living together he always has to leave early because he’s the one opening the shop while fred (YES HE’S ALIVE!!) always closes it (he just can’t be bothered to get up early), therefore George always leaves little notes around, maybe a note on the mirror telling you not to forget to put on your jewelry (which you tend to forget), or maybe a note on the front door telling you to get something to eat, or another at your hallway mirror saying that you look stunning and he can’t wait to see you
While he’s a very good cook (Molly taught him), he can’t bake to save the life of him so he loves when you bake something
Since he can’t hear as well on his left ear, he always angles himself towards you with his right side so he won’t miss a word you say
DEFINITELY carries you to bed when he finds you passed out on the couch in the evening
Is a hobby photographer so he loves taking pictures of you and your cute outfits and they actually come out quite well (well in the end, the beginning was a little rough but he’s getting better)
He has a little pocket in his work suit and in there he keeps a picture of you two in a photo booth you went to on your second date in hogsmeade
^ he forgot to take it out once when he threw it in the washer and he was devastated that the picture was now gone but luckily you always search the pockets before switching the washer on so it was safe and taken care of -> since then he always kept it in a little protective plastic wrap so if he was to wash it with his suit it won’t be damaged
☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Tommy Shelby x fem!reader x John Shelby
☾ Warnings: love triangle/romantic tension, jealousy, possessive behavior, heated kissing, suggestive tension, smoking, alcohol, knife mention/weapon hidden in stocking, brief physical fight between brothers, blood mention, Y/n being a menace.
☾ Tags: @spn-reader
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The first time you sang at the Garrison, the room quieted like somebody had turned a key in it.
Not all at once. Men were never that obedient, not in Small Heath, not in a pub full of whiskey, smoke, and money changing hands under tables. At first, a few of them kept talking. Someone laughed too loudly near the bar. A chair scraped back. Coins clicked together in a palm.
Then your voice carried over it.
Soft at first.
Steady.
Pretty in a way that made men stop pretending they were not listening.
You stood near the piano in a black dress that held close through the waist and fell smooth over your hips, the slit at the side hidden while you stood still. Nothing about you looked desperate for attention. That was the reason you got so much of it. Your hair was pinned neatly, your gloves buttoned at the wrist, your mouth painted dark enough to make a man wonder if you would stain his collar and smile about it after.
By the time you reached the second verse, the Garrison had lowered itself around you.
A glass stopped halfway to a man’s mouth. Harry paused behind the bar with a cloth in his hand. Even Arthur Shelby, who looked like silence offended him on principle, glanced up from his drink with his brows pulled together.
John Shelby noticed with less subtlety.
He had come in laughing, cap pushed back on his head and his coat still carrying the cold from outside. Whatever joke had been sitting on his tongue died there. He leaned back against the bar, one elbow settling on the wood, and watched with a grin that came slow and shameless.
You caught that one easily.
John was the sort of man who wanted to be caught.
Thomas Shelby was not.
He sat in the snug with smoke curling near his face, one hand around a glass he had not lifted in a while. At first glance, he looked no different than he always did in that place: still, half-shadowed, unreadable. But his cigarette burned lower between his fingers without him noticing, and his eyes stayed fixed on you long enough that you felt it from across the room.
You did not look at him right away.
Men like that enjoyed being the first to unsettle someone.
So you finished the song.
Only when the last note faded and the room broke into rough applause did you let your gaze drift toward the snug. Thomas was still looking in your direction. You gave him the smallest lift of your chin, polite enough to be nothing and bold enough to be something.
John clapped louder than anyone.
Of course he did.
You stepped down from the little space by the piano, gathering your dress just enough to keep it from brushing the floor. John was waiting before you reached the bar, wearing a grin that made him look like trouble with good lighting.
“Didn’t know Harry could afford women like you,” he said.
You looked him over, taking your time with it. “He can’t.”
Arthur choked into his drink behind him.
John’s grin widened. “Is that right?”
“I’m only here because I got bored.”
“Bored women usually mean trouble.”
“Only for men who can’t behave.”
John’s eyes brightened as if you had handed him exactly what he wanted. He leaned in a fraction, not enough to crowd you, but enough that you smelled tobacco and cold air on him.
“And do you like men who behave?”
You let your eyes drop briefly to his mouth before coming back to his face. It was quick, but John noticed. He was good at noticing the things that fed him.
“Not particularly,” you said. “But I like knowing they can.”
That made him laugh.
A real laugh, too, not just a sound made to charm you. Arthur looked between you both with the early confusion of a man realizing he might have to watch his brother make a fool of himself.
“You got a name?” John asked.
“Yes.”
He waited.
You reached past him for the drink Harry had set down for you. “Y/n.”
“John Shelby.”
“I know.”
That pleased him far too much.
Before he could answer, you glanced past his shoulder. Thomas had not moved from the snug, though his glass was finally in his hand now. He lifted it slightly when your eyes met his, the gesture small enough that nobody else might have noticed.
You noticed.
John did too.
His head turned, following the line of your attention, and something faintly irritated moved across his face before he covered it with another smile.
“So,” he said, pulling your attention back to him. “You’ll be singing here again?”
You took a sip from your glass and let the whiskey warm your throat before answering.
“If the room deserves it.”
John laughed again.
Tommy did not.
But you saw his mouth shift against the rim of his glass, not quite a smile.
That was enough for the night.
John made himself easy to notice after that.
Not in a subtle way. John Shelby did very few things subtly when he didn’t have to. He found reasons to be near the bar when you came down from singing. He leaned into your path with a cigarette between his fingers and some half-clever remark waiting on his tongue. He bought you drinks you did not ask for and looked entirely too pleased when you drank them anyway.
You let him.
Not because you were fooled by him. John was too obvious for that. You let him because he was amusing, because he made the long nights feel less stale, and because every time he managed to pull a laugh out of you, Tommy Shelby’s silence from the snug grew a little sharper.
John noticed that too.
By the end of your second night, he was waiting near the door with his coat already on, pretending badly that he had not been watching you pin your shawl into place.
“You walking home alone?” he asked.
You glanced at him as you pulled on your gloves. “I walked here alone.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“No,” you said, fastening the last button at your wrist. “It isn’t.”
He smiled at that, but there was something more careful beneath it than usual. The pub was still loud behind you, all shouting and smoke and glasses hitting wood, but by the door the cold had already started slipping in around the frame.
John opened it before you reached for the handle.
You looked at him.
He looked far too pleased with himself.
“See?” he said. “I can behave.”
You stepped past him into the night. “Opening a door is a very low bar, John.”
He followed you out laughing.
The street outside was wet from earlier rain, the lamps reflected in the stones, and the noise of the Garrison dulled as the door swung shut behind you. John fell into step beside you without asking. You let him get away with it for half a street before speaking.
“You always follow women into the cold?”
“Only the ones who leave before I’m finished talking to them.”
“You were finished.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You should learn to be.”
He grinned, hands tucked into his coat pockets as the two of you turned toward the canal. “You always this bossy?”
“Only when men need direction.”
“That often, then?”
“Constantly.”
John laughed, and the sound carried softer out here, without the Garrison around it. He was different away from the noise. Still bold, still smiling, but less like he was performing for the room. The cold put color in his cheeks, and every now and then his shoulder brushed yours as you walked, close enough to be noticed, not close enough to be excused.
By the canal, you stopped.
The fog sat low over the water, turning the lamps pale and blurred. John stopped with you, his smile fading by a fraction as he realized you were no longer walking, no longer teasing just to pass the time.
“You’re very sure of yourself,” you said.
John’s eyes dropped to your mouth before returning to your face.
“With you?” he said. “Not as much as I’d like to be.”
That was better than his jokes.
You hated that it was better.
His hand lifted toward your waist, slow enough to give you time to move away.
You didn’t.
That was all the permission John needed.
He kissed you like he had been trying to be patient for exactly three seconds before deciding patience was a waste of everyone’s time.
His mouth was warm against yours, eager in a way that made the cold around you feel suddenly far away. At first, he kept one hand at your waist and the other near your jaw, thumb brushing just beneath your ear. Then you kissed him back, fingers curling into the front of his coat, and John took that as permission to forget every good intention he might have walked over with.
He deepened the kiss without shame.
His tongue brushed past your lips, confident and greedy, and you nearly laughed into his mouth because of course John Shelby kissed like he was trying to start trouble. He pulled you closer with one hand flat against your back, his body warm through layers of coat and dress, and for a few seconds there was only his mouth, the cold stone at your side, and the faint noise of the Garrison behind you.
Then you pressed your palm to his chest and pushed him back.
Not hard.
Just enough.
John stared at you, breathing a little heavier than before, his grin gone crooked.
“You kiss every woman like you’re trying to win an argument?” you asked.
His laugh came rough. “Only the ones who argue back.”
You smoothed the front of your dress as if he had not just kissed you against the canal in the fog. That made his eyes narrow, amused and frustrated at once.
“Goodnight, John.”
He looked over your face like he was deciding whether chasing you would help or ruin his chances.
“You’re just leaving?”
“I usually do after saying goodnight.”
“That’s cruel.”
“No,” you said, taking a few backward steps before turning away. “That was kind.”
You left him there smiling after you, but there was something else in it now.
Something less playful.
Something that thought it had been promised more.
The next evening, Thomas sent for you.
One of the younger boys from the betting shop found you after your second song, nervously twisting his cap in his hands as he told you Mr. Shelby wanted a word. He looked frightened to be the one delivering it, which nearly made you smile.
You took your time getting there.
Not too long. Just long enough.
Tommy’s office above the betting shop was warmer than the street but not by much. A lamp burned low on his desk, laying gold over paperwork, an ashtray, a glass, and a pen placed too neatly beside a ledger. He stood behind the desk with his coat off and his sleeves neat, cigarette held between two fingers.
He looked busy in the way men looked busy when they wanted to be caught doing something other than waiting.
You stepped inside and shut the door behind you.
“Am I interrupting?”
“No.”
“Shame,” you said, slipping one glove off finger by finger. “I do like being inconvenient.”
That almost got a smile out of him.
Almost.
He motioned toward the chair opposite his desk. You sat before he finished the gesture, crossing your ankles neatly beneath the fall of your dress. Thomas noticed. Not in a way that most men would notice, with eyes that wandered and stayed too long. He noticed like he was building a case.
“You took your time,” he said.
“You don’t like waiting.”
“No.”
“Good. It’ll be healthy for you.”
The cigarette paused on its way to his mouth.
There it was again. That little break in him. Not much, never much, but enough to know something had landed.
Tommy moved around the desk slowly. He did not sit. He leaned against the front of it instead, one leg bent, cigarette hanging low near his knee. The office was quiet around you. Downstairs, the muffled business of the shop carried on in bits and pieces: men speaking, papers shifting, a door closing.
His eyes stayed on your face for a moment longer than necessary, then drifted to the glove in your lap.
“I heard John walked you out last night.”
There it was.
Not interest.
Not desire.
John.
You smoothed the glove over your knee, keeping your expression easy. “He opened a door and took a walk. I wouldn’t build him a monument for it.”
“He’ll build one himself if you give him enough encouragement.”
That pulled a smile out of you before you could stop it.
Thomas saw it.
His jaw shifted slightly, and you realized the smile had bothered him more than the walk.
You liked that.
“John enjoys being liked,” you said.
“John enjoys most things until they cost him something.”
“And you?” you asked, looking around the office with its locked drawers, neat papers, untouched glass, and tired lamp glow. “You look like you turn everything into a price before you know whether you even want it.”
Tommy’s eyes came back to yours.
The room changed after that.
Slowly, but surely.
He pushed away from the desk, and each step toward you felt deliberate, as if he had decided the space between you was something to be dealt with. He did not move with John’s warmth or impatience. He came closer like a man crossing a line he had drawn himself and already blamed you for making him notice.
You stayed seated.
That mattered.
Men like Tommy expected retreat, or invitation. You gave him neither. You only sat there with one glove off, the other still buttoned at your wrist, your posture relaxed enough to irritate him.
He stopped in front of you.
The lamp behind him turned his face half-gold, half-shadow. For a second, you could see the tiredness beneath his eyes, the sort that did not come from one sleepless night but years of refusing rest when it was offered.
“You’re comfortable here,” he said.
“Should I not be?”
“Most people aren’t.”
“I’m not most people.”
“No,” he said quietly. “You’re not.”
His hand came down to the arm of your chair. Not touching you. Not trapping you exactly. But close enough that you felt the shape of him around you, the heat of his body cutting through the room’s chill.
You lifted your chin.
He noticed that too.
Thomas Shelby noticed everything and pretended it was discipline instead of hunger.
His gaze moved to the glove still buttoned at your wrist. Slowly, giving you every chance to stop him, he touched his thumb to the little button there. Just a brush. Barely anything.
It still had your breath catching before you could dress the sound as something else.
His eyes rose to yours.
The corner of his mouth moved.
Not a smile this time.
Something worse.
You stood before he could say whatever he thought he had earned.
He did not move back.
Your dress brushed his leg as you rose, and the office seemed to hold its breath with you. There was no sudden grab, no clever line, no neat little exchange to make it simple. Only his eyes on your face, your hand resting lightly against the edge of his waistcoat, and the memory of John’s mouth against yours beside the canal.
Tommy kissed like he hated fire because he knew exactly what it could take.
At first, his mouth was controlled. Firm, slow, almost careful. His hand came to your jaw, fingers warm beneath your chin, and he kissed you like he wanted to learn the shape of your restraint before testing it. You had thought he would be colder than John. He wasn’t. He was only better at hiding heat.
You made the mistake of touching him back.
Your fingers curled into his waistcoat, and something in him slipped.
Not enough for anyone else to see. There was no rough shove, no loss of all composure, but his hand tightened at your jaw and the kiss deepened, the pressure of his mouth turning hungry for one brief, honest second. He caught himself almost immediately, but that was the best part.
You had felt it happen.
You pulled away first.
Tommy’s hand stayed where it was for a moment longer before he let it fall.
You stepped back and fixed the glove at your wrist, smoothing the button into place.
“I should go.”
His eyes dropped to your hand, then returned to your face.
“You should.”
Neither of you moved.
Downstairs, someone laughed.
You turned toward the door.
“Y/n.”
You paused, hand on the knob.
Thomas’s voice was steady again, but his mouth still looked slightly changed from yours.
“Don’t mistake John’s charm for loyalty.”
You looked back at him.
“And don’t mistake jealousy for wisdom.”
You opened the door before he could answer.
That night, when you returned to the Garrison, John was already there.
He knew.
Not everything. Not the shape of Tommy’s office or the feel of his hand at your jaw. But he knew enough from the way Thomas entered after you, a little too composed, cigarette already lit, eyes avoiding nothing.
John’s smile sharpened.
Tommy removed his cap and sat in the snug without a word.
Arthur, stuck between them at different points and somehow suffering through both, looked like he had begun regretting every choice that led him to being born the eldest.
Later that week the Garrison was fuller than usual. The sort of night where the walls sweated with heat and the tables stayed crowded no matter how many men stumbled out. You had sung twice already. Your throat felt warm from whiskey and use, but the room still hummed with the last song when you joined the Shelby's in the snug.
John poured your drink without being asked.
Thomas noticed.
Arthur noticed Thomas noticing.
You sat down before either brother could decide whether the gesture meant anything. Your dress settled neatly over your knees, slit hidden for the moment, one gloved hand curled around the glass John pushed toward you.
“To the singer,” John said.
Arthur lifted his drink. “To her makin’ this place less miserable for three minutes at a time.”
You smiled at that. “Only three?”
“Four if Tom stops scowlin’.”
Tommy looked at Arthur. “I’m not scowling.”
“You’re always bloody scowling.”
John laughed, and for a second, things almost felt easy.
Then you crossed your legs.
The slit in your dress opened with the movement, smooth black fabric sliding away to reveal the line of your thigh beneath sheer stocking. John’s eyes dropped first, because John was still John no matter how many feelings he tried to dress up as charm. Tommy’s followed after, not as obvious, but no less focused.
Then both of them saw the knife.
Small. Clean. Strapped high beneath the stocking.
John’s brows lifted.
Arthur leaned forward, squinting. “Is that—”
“A knife,” you said, taking a sip from your glass.
John stared for another second before his grin spread. “Jesus, love.”
You let the dress fall back into place. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
“You carry that while singing?”
“I carry it while breathing.”
Arthur nodded slowly, as if that made perfect sense to him. “Fair enough.”
John’s grin turned wicked. “That for men who clap too loud or men who don’t clap enough?”
“Depends how close they stand after.”
Tommy’s gaze lingered on the place where the knife had disappeared beneath fabric. When he looked back at your face, his expression had changed in a way you liked too much. Less amused. More careful.
Respect looked good on him.
John pulled his cigarette case from his coat.
“Smoke?”
You looked at the cigarette between his fingers, then at his face.
One small nod.
That was all you gave him.
John leaned in and placed the cigarette between your lips himself. His fingers brushed the corner of your mouth with a softness that made it seem more deliberate, not less. Before he could move for a match, Tommy struck one.
The sound was small.
The room felt smaller.
You turned your eyes toward Thomas as he leaned in, flame steady in his hand. The light warmed his face for a moment, catching the sharp line of his cheek, the pale focus of his eyes. You dipped your head slightly, drawing in as the end of the cigarette caught.
John was close enough that his knee nearly brushed yours.
Tommy was close enough that the flame trembled with your breath.
You leaned back, took the cigarette between your fingers, and exhaled slowly.
Arthur sat back slowly, his brows pulling together.
“Right… so that’s what this is.”
John glanced over. “What’s what?”
Arthur pointed vaguely between the three of you.
“That.”
Tommy’s jaw tightened. “Use your words, Arthur.”
Arthur looked at him, then at John, then at you with the cigarette still between your fingers.
“No,” he said, reaching for his drink. “I don’t think I will.”
You bit back a laugh.
John did not bother hiding his.
Tommy dropped the dead match into the ashtray and looked like he regretted having brothers at all.
By the end of the night, the tension had teeth.
John stood too close when he spoke to you. Tommy interrupted at the most inconvenient times. John made remarks under his breath that sounded like jokes until Thomas answered them seriously. Arthur watched the whole thing with the increasing horror of a man realizing he might have to break up a fight he did not understand.
When John leaned against the bar beside you and murmured something that made you laugh, Tommy called from the snug.
“John.”
John did not look away from you. “What?”
“Need you at the shop.”
“It’s midnight.”
“Yes.”
Arthur set down his glass. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
John turned then, irritation plain across his face. “Send someone else.”
“I’m sending you.”
“No, you’re not.”
The pub noise around them softened. Not because everyone stopped, but because the people close enough to know better began pretending not to hear.
Thomas rose from his seat.
John pushed away from the bar.
You sighed into your drink.
Arthur stood so quickly his chair scraped back. “No. No, we are not doin’ this here.”
John gestured toward Tommy. “Tell him that.”
Tommy’s eyes stayed on John. “You’re making yourself look foolish.”
John laughed once, no humor in it. “Me?”
Arthur looked between them, then at you.
You lifted your glass slightly. “Don’t look at me. I’m just standing here.”
“Yeah,” Arthur muttered. “That’s the problem.”
You decided then that the Garrison had given you enough entertainment for one night.
You finished your drink and set the glass on the bar.
John’s eyes followed the movement.
Tommy’s did too.
Good.
You passed John first, close enough that your shoulder brushed his sleeve. He turned his head toward you immediately, anger softening into attention.
“Canal,” you said quietly. “Ten minutes.”
His expression changed before he could stop it.
Not victory exactly.
Anticipation.
You left him with that.
Thomas stood near the entrance to the snug, still watching John with the cold patience of a man trying not to strike first. You paused beside him, close enough that only he could hear.
“If you’re still interested in proving a point,” you said, “follow me when I leave.”
His eyes moved to yours.
You gave him one small smile and walked out.
The canal looked different without John arriving to make it warmer.
Fog sat thick over the water, dulling the lamps and softening the edges of the street. The night smelled of damp stone, coal smoke, and rain that had not yet decided whether to fall. You did not stand in the open. You waited near the mouth of an alley, half-hidden by shadow, coat pulled close around your shoulders.
John arrived first.
He tried not to look eager.
It did not work.
He came down the street with his hands in his pockets, glancing once toward the canal, then toward the alley, then back down the road. You watched him smile to himself like he thought he had finally been chosen.
Then Thomas appeared through the fog.
John saw him and stopped smiling.
For a second, neither of them spoke.
Tommy stopped a few feet away, cap low, one hand tucked into his coat pocket.
John stared at him. “You’ve got to be joking.”
Tommy’s eyes moved over him once. “I could say the same.”
“She asked me to come.”
“She told me to follow.”
John’s mouth twisted. “Of course she did.”
Thomas looked toward the water. “You sound surprised.”
“I sound pissed off.”
“You often do.”
John stepped closer. “You always have to take everything, don’t you?”
That made Tommy look at him properly.
The fog moved between them, thin and gray, but nothing softened.
“Careful,” Tommy said.
“No, I’m tired of careful.” John’s voice rose, not loud enough to carry far but sharp enough to cut. “You see something I want and suddenly it’s a strategy. Suddenly it’s business. Suddenly you’re standing there with that face like you thought of it first.”
Tommy’s jaw tightened.
“You think she belongs to you because she let you kiss her beside dirty water?”
John’s face changed.
So Tommy knew enough.
John shoved him.
Tommy caught himself with one step back, then returned it hard enough to knock John’s shoulder against the wall. John came forward immediately, grabbing Tommy by the lapels of his coat. For a moment, they were close enough to look more like boys than men, all anger and old rivalry dressed up as pride.
“You don’t get to order me away from every room she’s in,” John snapped.
Thomas caught his wrist and forced it down. “Then stop acting like you need managing.”
John swung.
The punch caught Tommy at the mouth, quick and ugly, the sound cracking through the cold. Tommy’s head turned. He stayed that way for one second, tongue pressing briefly to the blood at his lip.
Then he hit John back.
Not like he would hit an enemy. Worse, maybe, because he knew exactly how much force to use and still call it brotherly.
John stumbled, laughed breathlessly in disbelief, and lunged again. They shoved each other into the wall, hands gripping coats, boots scraping on stone. Tommy cursed low. John said something about him being a miserable bastard. Thomas answered by driving him back a step.
You stepped out of the alley laughing.
Both of them froze.
John turned first, breathing hard, hair slightly mussed, one hand still half-raised like he had forgotten what he meant to do with it.
Tommy looked over more slowly, blood at the corner of his mouth and irritation burning through all that careful stillness.
You smiled.
“Are you two finished?”
John stared at you. “You think this is funny?”
“A little.”
Tommy wiped his mouth with his thumb. “You invited us both.”
“I did.”
John shook his head, anger flashing again. “Why?”
You came closer, your heels clicking softly against damp stone. Neither man moved out of your way. That pleased you, though you kept it to yourself.
“Because this was getting embarrassing.”
John laughed sharply. “For us?”
“For all three of us, if it went on much longer.”
Thomas’s eyes narrowed. “You planned this.”
“Not the punch,” you said, looking at his mouth. “That was your own little contribution.”
John muttered something under his breath.
You looked between them, letting the silence stretch just enough. They were both still breathing too hard, both too proud to admit they had been waiting for you to tell them what it meant.
“You cannot keep fighting over me,” you said.
John’s eyes snapped to yours. “Then stop playing.”
Tommy said nothing, but his attention fixed on you in a way that felt heavier than any question.
John stepped closer, his voice lower now.
“Tell us who you want.”
There it was.
The thing the whole night had been crawling toward.
John stood with his mouth bruised and his pride torn open just enough to show feeling underneath it. Thomas stood quiet, blood at his lip, his face controlled but his eyes giving him away if one knew where to look.
And you did.
You looked at John first.
At the man who had kissed you beside the canal like charm was just another kind of hunger. At the warmth of him, the impatience, the way he made desire feel easy until it wasn’t.
Then you looked at Tommy.
At the man who had waited behind a desk pretending he had not sent for you just to see if you would come. At the restraint that had slipped under your hands for one breath before he caught it and hated that you noticed.
Both of them waited.
For once, neither Shelby brother seemed to know what came next.
You smiled.
Not sweetly.
Not kindly.
Just enough to make John’s eyes narrow and Tommy go very still.
Then you turned and walked away.
Behind you, John swore under his breath.
Tommy said nothing at all.
For once, both Shelby brothers had nothing to say.
A Study of the Heart and Brain Halloween Special 2023
Father Figure! Sherlock x Teen! Reader
“I don’t see why we’re being forced to go to this,” said Sherlock as John pulled on his white doctor jacket.
“Sherlock, Lestrade was trying to be polite and include us,” sighed John. “It’s Halloween.”
“Yes. The perfect time for interesting murders,” said Sherlock. “Why would I waste my time at a silly party?”
“Well, if we’re there, then we know if a murder is called in,” said (Y/N), stepping into the room. “So it could be helpful.”
Sherlock stared. “What are you wearing?”
“A costume. That’s what you’re supposed to wear to a Halloween Party,” said (Y/N).
“That’s nonsense. I refuse to dress up,” said Sherlock. “But that doesn’t answer my question.”
(Y/N) put their hands on their hips. “I thought it was obvious. I’m dressed as you.” They wore a purple button-up, slacks, and a long black coat. The kicker was the deerstalker on their head.
Sherlock stared at the deerstalker, offended. “I don’t wear that hat.”
“The press thinks you do, so it works for the costume,” said (Y/N), shrugging.
Sherlock grumbled, but John just gave him a look.
“You should be wearing a costume,” reiterated John.
“Nonsense,” said Sherlock.
“Fine,” said John. “But if you’re not going to dress up, that’s not going to keep you from going to the party.”
“What?” said Sherlock.
“Come on,” said John, grabbing Sherlock and pulling him out the door.
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“Sherlock, John, (Y/N)!” greeted Lestrade, wearing an American police uniform (with a clown wig). He grinned at (Y/N)’s costume. “Very nice.”
Sherlock grumbled. “I don’t wear a hat.”
“I think it’s perfect,” said Lestrade, grinning widely while Sherlock sighed.
“Oh, god, the Freakling is dressed like the Freak,” said Anderson, making a face.
“We don’t need two Freaks. The Freakling is enough,” muttered Donovan.
(Y/N) stiffened, Sherlock narrowed his eyes, and John glared.
Lestrade turned on his two agents. “Go and get some punch, agents.” Donovan and Anderson started at his clear command and walked away. Lestrade turned back to (Y/N). “Sorry about that.”
(Y/N) shrugged. “I’m used to it.”
“Their words are stupid anyways,” said Sherlock, but his gaze had softened at (Y/N) relaxing once Donovan and Anderson were gone. He didn’t like them hurting (Y/N)’s feelings. They were his kid, and he wouldn’t let their intelligence be relegated to some “freakish” characteristic.
“Right, right, let’s go and get some drinks before you start a fight,” said John, ushering Sherlock forward and giving Lestrade an apologetic smile.
John pushed (Y/N) and Sherlock to the buffet table and put his hands on his hips. “You two stay here, and don’t get into trouble, do you understand?”
“It’s not our fault Donovan and Anderson say stupid things,” said (Y/N).
John gave them an admonishing look. “(Y/N).”
“Fine, fine,” they said.
John just gave Sherlock a warning look before the detective spoke before walking off to catch up with Lestrade.
(Y/N) was silent for just a moment before glancing at Sherlock. “Anderson’s wife isn’t here.”
“No, she is not,” said Sherlock in amusement.
“And dressing as a doctor and nurse is very ‘coincidental,’ ” said (Y/N).
“Very,” agreed Sherlock, smirking.
(Y/N) smiled, trying not to laugh as they watched Donovan and Anderson from across the room. They were so obvious, as were the secrets of everyone else at the party. The deductions were far too easy.
“Thanks for coming,” said (Y/N). “It would have been pretty boring without you.”
“John would have continued to irritate me,” said Sherlock.
“Maybe there’ll be a murder. We’d be first on the scene from here,” said (Y/N). They grinned at Sherlock.
He smiled. “We would be. Let’s hope someone gets bored like we are and kills someone, then.”
(Y/N) put their hat onto his head. “Yeah, and then Sherlock Holmes can be on the case.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed at the hat. “I suppose I will be.” He smiled as (Y/N) grinned at him. If his kid was happy, then he was. He reached out and put the hat back on their head. “But so will you be. We’re a team.”
(Y/N) brightened and straightened at the praise. “Right. A team. The two of us.”
Sherlock and (Y/N) were a father and child team. They would always be there for one another. That’s what it mean to be a family.
A Study of the Heart and Brain (Book 2) Chapter Seventeen
Father Figure! Sherlock Holmes x Teen! Reader
Chapter Seventeen: Desperate Decisions
Summary: Sherlock and Moriarty face one another.
Mouse Note: Do I feel sorry? Maybe a tiny bit because I made myself upset. But not really.
Sherlocks hands were shaking as he typed out the message. He had figured out how Moriarty had gotten into the Tower of London, the bank, and the prison. He had the key, and now he could use it against Moriarty. Sherlock could bring (Y/N) home.
Come and play. Bart’s Hospital rooftop. Got something of yours you might want back.
-SH
Sherlock took a deep breath. He was tired, weighed down by stress and fatigue from all the investigations he’d gone through in the last twenty-four hours. But once (Y/N) was home safe and sound with him and Moriarty was finally behind bars where he deserved, it wouldn’t matter. Sherlock just wanted his kid back.
He’d do anything.
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(Y/N) regained their senses when a bright light was turned onto their face. They flinched at the sudden overwhelming stimulation, but they didn’t close their eyes. Instead, (Y/N) narrowed their eyes and stared forward until their sight adjusted and they saw Moriarty staring at them. They were lying on a small bed in a small, dark room.
Undoubtedly, this “cell” was just another punishment from Moriarty meant to show that he was in control of (Y/N) now. Unfortunately for Moriarty, they weren’t going to break that easily.
“Morning, darling,” said Moriarty, kneeling by (Y/N)’s slumped figure.
They narrowed their eyes and tried to insult him, but the words couldn’t come out. The drug was still abating, and (Y/N) still couldn’t completely control themself.
Moriarty chuckled, amused at their powerlessness.
Of course he is, thought (Y/N). He’s a monster. They shivered. That monster’s blood ran in their veins. It disgusted them.
“I thought you’d want to know I have a meeting with Sherlock today,” said Moriarty.
(Y/N) looked up in alarm. His tone…He was planning something. Sherlock was in danger. “No…” they croaked, forcing the words from their throat. “Leave him…alone.”
Moriarty sighed with faux concern. “I gave Sherlock a chance to back off and leave our family alone.” (Y/N)’s lip curled at the familial tone. “He just can’t seem to give up.”
(Y/N)’s heart leapt for joy. Sherlock was still trying to get them back. He wasn’t abandoning them. Their dad was going to save them.
“So I think the time’s come for me to end our game,” said Moriarty. “I had fun, truly, but now I have to focus on you. It’s a new age, a new game, a family game.” Moriarty smirked. “Don’t worry, darling, Sherlock won’t be a problem after this. It’ll be family time.”
“Fuck…you. Sherlock will win…” growled (Y/N).
Moriarty tutted. “We’ll have to work on your language and respect. What has he been teaching you?” He patted (Y/N)’s head, and they recoiled. “Ciao. This won’t be long. Sherlock will be out of the way soon.” He left the room, and the door slammed shut, plunging (Y/N) into shadows once more.
But they knew where the light was, now, and its configuration.
(Y/N) dragged themself to their feet. They were escaping this shithole. (Y/N) felt around for the light. The switch was outside the room, but the bulb was placed to shine into their face. Taking a deep breath, they braced themselves and broke the bulb with a fist. Luckily, no glass did anything more than scratch them.
They could feel blood on their skin, but (Y/N) continued forward. From the design of the light, they pulled a small pin. (Y/N) could pick the lock with this. Ignoring the slight pain of the cuts on their hands, (Y/N) worked on the lock of their cell. Relief flooded through them as they heard a soft click and pushed the door open.
It only lasted for a moment, though. They needed to go out a window and over a stone wall next to really escape the premises. (Y/N) rolled up their sleeves and pushed open the window, grabbing their phone from the side table where a guard had thrown it. They refused to remain trapped. They’d risk it all to get away from Moriarty.
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Sherlock walked out onto Bart’s roof. Unsurprisingly, Moriarty had beaten him there and was lounging beside the ledge of the roof while Stayin’ Alive by the Bee Gees played from his phone. It frustrated Sherlock to see Moriarty so calm and relaxed. He wanted him to be afraid, to pay for what he’d done to all the people he’d destroyed his way to power, to know (Y/N) would never be his child.
“Ah, here we are at last,” said Moriarty, grinning. He sighed. “I’m a little disappointed this was so easy. I thought you’d be more difficult.” He shrugged. “But, then again, that’s why I liked playing with darling (Y/N) more.” He smirked. “I’m excited to see what they can do.”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes but didn’t lash out as he wanted to. He needed to keep calm and handle the situation. Tense, Sherlock tapped his fingers in a simple little beat.
“Good, you got that,” said Moriarty.
“Beats like digits. Every beat is one; every rest is zero. Binary code. It was hidden on me—a few simple lines of computer code that can break into any system.” Sherlock’s gaze was full of a malevolent cunning he had never had a reason to display until now. “I can use it to alter records. I can bring Moriarty the criminal back and erase Moriarty the ‘father.’ ”
Moriarty was silent before a grin broke out. “Oh, no, no, no! Oh, no! You didn’t catch it?” Sherlock faltered. “This is too easy. There is no key, Doofus!” He began to cackle with glee. “Those digits are meaningless. They’re utterly meaningless. You don’t really think a couple of lines of computer code are gonna crash the world around our ears? I’m disappointed. My dear child wouldn’t have fallen for it.”
“But the rhythm—” began Sherlock.
“Partita No. 1. Thank you, Johann Sebastian Bach,” said Moriarty. He was grinning and laughed again. “God, who would have known that to get Sherlock Holmes on his knees all you need is a wild goose chase to make him feel better and a kid?”
“But then how did you—”
“Then how did I break into the Bank, to the Tower, and to the Prison? Daylight robbery,” said Moriarty. He shrugged. “All it takes is willing participants.”
Sherlock furrowed brow in frustration. He had fallen for it, the idea that everything was clever for Moriarty. But the answer had been obvious: bribery and blackmail. He should have known that would be Moriarty’s plan.
“I knew you’d fall for it,” said Moriarty. “That’s your weakness—you always want everything to be clever.” He smirked and gazed at Sherlock cruelly. “That and you were a tad bit distracted worrying about the stray you took in.” He tutted. “You really must be careful, Sherlock. You’ve gotten soft.” He shrugged. “No matter. It will all be over soon.”
“No, it won’t. You won’t win,” said Sherlock. “I won’t let you keep (Y/N).”
“Yes, you will,” said Moriarty, smiling. “Because I’ll kill them if you keep trying to come after us. Oh, and all the rest of your little friends.”
Sherlock stilled. (Y/N)…dead? The mere idea made him sick. He’d be consumed by guilt and all the emotions he kept at bay if they were gone. They were his child, his family. If anything were to happen to (Y/N), Sherlock would truly break.
“Don’t worry, don’t worry, I know how protective you are, so I’ll give you another option,” said Moriarty cheerfully. “You die. You die and leave me and my dear child alone, then everyone lives. A happy ending for everyone involved!”
“(Y/N) isn’t happy with you,” hissed Sherlock. “You’re trying to turn them into a monster like you. That’s not who they are.”
“Maybe not now, but they’ll learn that I expect certain things from my family,” said Moriarty. He checked his watch casually. “In fact, I should get back soon. They’re still learning a lesson.”
Sherlock’s blood ran cold. “What did you do to them?” he snarled, pulling out the gun he’d taken from Lestrade.
Moriarty held up his hands playfully. “Remember Sherlock, if I’m dead and you’re alive, everyone else dies.”
“What did you do?” repeated Sherlock forcefully.
Moriarty shrugged. “Just a little bit of drugs to keep them quiet and understanding how easy it is to get rid of them. They were being…difficult.”
Sherlock felt a rush of pride in (Y/N)’s willpower flood through him, but it was overwhelmed by the anger at Moriarty drugging them. They had trauma surrounding drugs, and to know they were being put through the effects of them made Sherlock’s blood boil. He knew they would be afraid and anxious, and he wanted to be there to help them.
Instead, he was stuck here with Moriarty, faced with either killing Moriarty like he wanted to and losing (Y/N) to death or killing himself and knowing (Y/N) he lost them to Moriarty.
Moriarty grinned with all the evil in the world resting in his eyes. “I can see your mind working. You think you can find a way to have it all. I’m afraid I’ve proved I’m too clever for you, Sherlock.”
“No, I can’t have it all,” said Sherlock quietly.
Moriarty’s grin widened. “Oh, this is beautiful. Seeing you realizing you lost. It’s better than I could have imagined. I thought seeing you after I took (Y/N) home was great, but this is better.”
“I can’t have it all, but I can still give (Y/N) a chance.”
Bang!
Sherlock savored the split-second surprise on Moriarty’s face before the bullet hit him. He watched Moriarty’s body hit the ground with satisfaction. He took a deep breath and look up at the sky.
He was next. He dropped the gun to the ground distastefully. It felt wrong to die the same way that monster had. Sherlock stepped up onto the hospital roof edge.
And that’s when his phone rang. His heart skipped a beat as he saw (Y/N) calling. He knew he likely only had a few minutes, but he couldn’t resist saying goodbye.
“Dad?” said (Y/N), and Sherlock had never been so happy to hear their voice.
“(Y/N)…” breathed Sherlock.
“Dad! I got out, I got away, I’m near Bart’s hospital, I’m worried Moriarty will—” (Y/N) began talking quickly.
“Moriarty is dead,” said Sherlock.
“He is?” (Y/N) was so relieved they could cry.
“I killed him,” said Sherlock. He gazed down and saw them standing on the street corner. “Look up, (Y/N).” He needed to really see them before he left.
(Y/N) looked up, and their heart stopped as they saw Sherlock standing on the ledge. Their eyes widened as they realized what was happening.
“Dad…please don’t do this. Whatever Moriarty threatened, I’m sure we can stop it,” pleaded (Y/N).
“No, (Y/N). We can’t,” said Sherlock softly. His heart broke at the sob they tried to suppress.
“Dad…” said (Y/N) desperately.
“Listen to me, (Y/N). Listen,” said Sherlock. He swallowed. “We only have a moment, and I need you to listen.” Silence. Sherlock took a deep breath and began.
“You are not Moriarty’s child. He wants you to believe you are and lose yourself in the monstrous life he created,” said Sherlock. “But you’re not. You’re smart, yes, intelligent and clever and cunning and no one stands a chance against you. You’re going to grow into such an amazing detective.
“But you’re also good. You’re such a good person.” Sherlock laughed. “You’re better than me. You try to help people. And I’m so proud of you for it. I’m so glad you’re going to be there to help people.
“But don’t forget people are there for you, too, alright? John, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, even Mycroft—they’re your family. They’re there for you. They all helped me trying to bring you back,” said Sherlock. “So don’t forget that, alright? You don’t have to try to do everything by yourself. You’re so very strong, but you’re a kid. The world doesn’t rest on your shoulders.”
(Y/N) covered their mouth, tears beginning to fall no matter how much they tried to push back the onslaught of overwhelming misery. “Dad, please, don’t do this.”
“I’m so glad you came into my life,” said Sherlock, taking a deep breath. He wouldn’t cry. He had to be strong for them. “I’m so proud to have you as my kid. I love you, (Y/N).”
(Y/N) felt their heart shatter at the words. “I love you, Dad. Please, please, don’t go!”
“I love you,” repeated Sherlock, turning off his phone. He looked out at the sky and took a step.
And (Y/N)’s world came crashing down around them with a scream of pure anguish.
(Y/N) hesitated for a moment as they walked with Sherlock back to 221B. It had been a successful case, quick and easy (and boring, unfortunately), so the pair of detectives walked back to their apartment (to be bored).
Sherlock paused and looked back. “What is it?” he asked.
“Nothing,” said (Y/N), shrugging.
Sherlock furrowed his brow. He glanced at the telephone pole next to them. It had several signs and advertisements taped to it. One that (Y/N) had glanced at read “Join us for London Pride!” Sherlock looked at them. They wanted to go to Pride, but they weren’t willing to tell him. That was fine. He had figured it out, and he would take them if it would make them happy.
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“(Y/N), wake up,” said Sherlock.
(Y/N) rolled over on their couch and opened their eyes. “What?”
Sherlock held up a t-shirt and a flag. The shirt had a nonbinary flag across it, and the flag carried the asexual flag. “We’re going to Pride.”
(Y/N) blinked the sleep away. “We’re what?”
“I saw you looking at the sign for it,” said Sherlock. “So we’re going.”
“Really?” asked (Y/N). “Isn’t it…silly to you?”
“It’s alright for you to be ‘silly’ sometimes. You’re still a child,” said Sherlock casually.
“And you’re going with me?”
“Obviously.”
“I wouldn’t think a party is your scene,” said (Y/N).
“It’s not yours either, but this is about your identity. A little music and stupid people are less important,” said Sherlock. He tossed the flag and t-shirt onto (Y/N). “Let’s go.”
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With the nonbinary shirt on and the flag wrapped around them like a cloak, Sherlock and (Y/N) walked out into the streets of London. Sure enough, the Pride parade was already in full swing. Music played, and people danced and talked and cheered as floats went down the street.
A bit overwhelmed, (Y/N) hung to the side with Sherlock. Observing was their natural state, and they preferred it to the overstimulating crowd. However, the energy was infectious, so they were still smiling as they hung to the side and watched people go by, wearing a variety of flags and outfits, being out and proud about who they were.
Sherlock looked down at them in pleased satisfaction. He had been hoping that they’d be able to relax and enjoy themself. He was aware he pushed (Y/N) to succeed every day, but at the same time, they had little time to act like a teenager. So Sherlock did what little he could to make sure they were taken care of. This was an attempt to let them feel free to act as a carefree teenager.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” asked Sherlock.
(Y/N) looked up at him, their hands holding their flag tightly. “I am. Thank you.”
Sherlock nodded. “Of course.” He cocked his head. “But why didn’t you just tell me you wanted to go?”
(Y/N) looked out at the crowd. “I told you, I thought you’d find it silly to do something like this.”
“(Y/N)…” Sherlock considered his words before speaking. “Your feelings aren’t silly.”
“Sentimentality isn’t helpful,” said (Y/N), shrugging.
“No, not on cases,” agreed Sherlock. “But (Y/N), you’re free to feel things around me. I will never hold that against you.”
(Y/N) glanced at him. “Really?”
Sherlock nodded. “You’re my protégé. Of course I support you.”
“I’m glad,” said (Y/N) softly. “Some families who visited the group home weren’t accepting of me, both personality and…otherwise.”
Sherlock’s gaze softened. “Your gender.”
(Y/N) shrugged. “Some people don’t get it. And then some people think there’s something wrong with me for being ace. But it doesn’t matter.” They smiled up at Sherlock. “The people who matter accept me.”
Sherlock reached out and pulled (Y/N) closer. “We will always accept you.”
“Thank you, Dad,” said (Y/N), the word slipping from them before they could think.
Sherlock felt his heart warm, and he held them tighter. “Of course, (Y/N). You’re my kid.”
“I’m glad I have you,” said (Y/N). “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“I’m glad you’re with me,” said Sherlock. “I’m never losing you, (Y/N). We’re family.”
Fhkgjsl the Holmes fam at Christmas is giving me Ace Attorney vibes (as someone who never played Ace Attorney)
Sherlock: Lestrade your wife is cheating on you
MC: objection!
Sherlock: withdrawn
Sherlock: John your sister is an alcoholic
MC: Sherlock...
Sherlock: withdrawn
Sherlock: she's obviously trying desperately to give a present to someone she has romantic feelings for-
John: objection! MC???
MC: sustained. He has to learn his lesson the hard way
Also the fact that MC doesn't want to eat but once they start they don't want to stop is kind of reminiscent of Autistic/ADHD inertia where you don't want to start something but once you start you can't stop/don't notice how long the thing goes on. Whether or not this was intentional it just reminded me of my own eating habits bc I'm autistic and don't always register when I'm hungry lol.
But it makes me think that MC and Sherlock are two geniuses focused on a government conspiracy but too dumb to notice Mrs Hudson piling pancakes onto their plate
MC, internally: so obviously the baker two doors down has a gambling addiction and Microft is hiding a government conspiracy, possibly because it has to- *cracking missile launch codes*
Also MC, internally: so I had three pancakes... And I ate two... And there's four on my plate now...
She truly is the Alfred to their Batmans lol (aggressively British and Done)
I’ve never played Ace Attorney before but that is a very accurate description of MC and Sherlock.
and yes, this MC is neurodivergent coded. (Partly accidental since I’m neurodivergent so that comes out in my writing and then I just lean into it) They have their special interests and don’t care about other stuff and then have a lack of care/understanding of social cues. So it leans more towards autism.
And they have no idea people are taking care of them. They just go on autopilot lol
Summary: The first case (Y/N) was involved in with Sherlock, and how they become so close.
Mouse Note: Hello, everyone! Welcome back (or Welcome to) A Study of the Heart and Brain! I hope you guys will all enjoy Book 2! This is a brief prologue to again show the development of MC and Sherlock's relationship, but don't worry, Friday the official content begins! Updates will be Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.
Again, a quick reminder for newer readers: This is a Father Figure Sherlock x Teen Reader, so no romance! Everything between adults and teenagers is familial.
Other than that, welcome back everyone! I'm so excited to share this story with you, it's got some amazing moments. As usual, feel free to comment, I am always responding and love chatting with readers. It makes my day to see your guys' interpretations.
One year ago…
(Y/N) rested their hand on their palm as they gazed out of the cab window. It had been a month since Sherlock Holmes had decided to bring them into his home as his foster child. It was a strange experience, to say the least. (Y/N) still felt wary of him. They thought he was intelligent, sure, but they had seen the signs—addiction.
The knowledge weighed heavily on them. (Y/N)’s mother had died of an overdose, and although they pretended it didn’t matter since it happened when they were young, it did have an impact on them. (Y/N) didn’t want to get close to Sherlock if there was a risk of losing him the same way, and they weren’t going to put themself into the situation of getting hurt like that again.
“We’re here,” said Sherlock as the cab stopped. “Lestrade said the body is in that building.”
(Y/N) looked over. The building was a simple office-building but still in the late stages of construction since (Y/N) spied the empty rooms inside. Their mind came up with a few deductions right off the bat: From the outside, it appears normal, so to know the inside is empty would require prior knowledge. Killer is involved with it.
“You sure bringing me is fine?” asked (Y/N). Their voice was even, less of an admission of insecurity (although that was a reality) and more of a question on whether or not Sherlock would be able to get them in. Sherlock could force his way in as an adult; (Y/N) was teenager.
“Who cares?” said Sherlock. “You’re coming with me whether they like it or not.”
(Y/N) blinked at his blasé attitude before leaving the cab and following him towards the cop cars and yellow tape.
“Oh, lovely, Freak’s here,” muttered a dark-skinned woman with a scowl on her face.
“Donovan,” said Sherlock curtly.
“What are you doing here?” asked Donovan.
“You’re out of your depth as usual,” said Sherlock, sounding very pleased with himself.
Donovan scoffed before spying (Y/N). “Oh, god, why is there a kid here?”
“They’re my protégé,” said Sherlock as if it was obvious.
“Did he kidnap you?” questioned Donovan, looking at (Y/N).
They wrinkled their nose. “No. He’s fostering me.”
“No way.” Donovan’s mouth dropped open. “No bloody way anyone in their right mind would let the Freak get near a kid.”
(Y/N) considered. She wasn’t wrong. Sherlock had gotten permission after pressuring his brother (“Mycroft is the British government,” he had explained to them), so they supposed maybe no one in their right mind had given him approval.
“Well, I’m here,” said (Y/N), tucking their hands into their pockets.
“Now, if you’d stop wasting our time, we have a case to solve,” said Sherlock.
“You can’t bring a kid here, Sherlock,” said Donovan. “It’s not regulation.”
“Call Lestrade. He wants me here, and it’s either both of us or neither,” said Sherlock.
Donovan scowled. She didn’t have to call Lestrade. She knew he’d give in to Sherlock’s demands. Still, she hated it. Donovan glared at Sherlock as she pulled out her radio to give a report. “Freak’s here, sending him up.” She looked (Y/N) up and down. “And he’s got a surprise with him.”
What am I, a party trick? thought (Y/N) grumpily.
“Come on,” said Sherlock, lifting the yellow tape.
(Y/N) ducked under with him and walked into the building. They went up a flight of stairs to an open room. The office still needed cubicles and desks and chairs, but (Y/N) could feel the soul-sucking “office building air” around them already.
“Oh my god, is that a teenager?!” hissed another angry voice.
(Y/N) furrowed their brow. Do adults not realize I can hear them?
“Incredible observation,” said Sherlock sarcastically. “You can see the obvious. Why don’t you try focusing on the case, or is that too hard, Anderson?”
Anderson glared at Sherlock. “Oh, shut it. You expect me to just let you waltz in here with a kid? This is a crime scene.”
“Says they’re a package deal or whatever,” said Donovan. She had followed them up.
(Y/N) knew what was happening. She was trying to see if they really had any worth and if Sherlock had a reason to bring them.
“Apparently, he’s fostering them,” said Donovan.
Anderson scoffed. “Somehow, that’s worse than if they were actually his kid. Someone had to sign off on him taking care of a kid, and that’s bloody crazy.”
(Y/N) shifted, and Sherlock glanced down at them. They were still young; their mind was developing. He could, for the most part, ignore Donovan and Anderson’s comments, but it was having an effect on them.
“Yes, well, obviously someone is crazy, so I’d suggest you move on,” said Sherlock. He looked at (Y/N). “Let’s take a look at the body.”
“Right,” said (Y/N).
Sherlock walked over to where Lestrade, who (Y/N) recognized from the case at their orphanage, was kneeling by the body of a man. Lestrade stood and did a double-take upon seeing (Y/N).
“Oh, dear god, you were serious. You actually decided to foster the kid,” said Lestrade.
(Y/N) stood a little straighter. Lestrade wasn’t insulting him or (Y/N). He was just surprised and a little worried. That was much better than Donovan and Anderson. (Y/N) instantly liked him more than them.
“Of course I did,” said Sherlock, kneeling by the body. “Their potential was wasted in that orphanage, I told you.”
Lestrade groaned. “I had hoped you’d get distracted by a case and just leave it alone.”
“Well, they’re here,” said Sherlock.
“Yes, they are,” said Lestrade. He extended a hand to (Y/N). “I’m Lestrade. If Sherlock causes trouble for you, just let me know.”
(Y/N) was unused to an adult being so nice to them. Usually they either ignored them because they were younger or thought they were strange because of their deductive abilities. Evidently, Lestrade was used to Sherlock so didn’t really give a second thought to being civilized with (Y/N).
“I’m (Y/N),” they said, shaking his hand.
“(Y/N), take a look,” said Sherlock, gesturing to the body.
(Y/N) crouched and began to look over the body as Lestrade filled them in. “Alton Morris, pharmacist in London. Construction workers found him this morning when they came in to begin installing cubicles. We can’t work out why he’s in this building. No evidence of connection to it.”
(Y/N)’s eyes passed on Alton’s corpse. They swallowed hard. Someone had injected him with drugs to cause a forced overdose. That much was clear by the empty needle and pale skin. (Y/N) blinked to clear their head. Yes, having their first case be related to drugs, a difficult subject for them, was bad luck, but they couldn’t let it distract them.
Sherlock saw their minute reaction and furrowed his brow. The presence of drugs caused them to recoil. In his minds eye, he remembered the file on them from the orphanage. Ah. Their mother died from drug use. His eyes widened slightly. Ah. So that’s why they’ve been so suspicious in the apartment. He had stashes. They had figured it out.
Sherlock frowned inwardly. He couldn’t really explain it, but he felt his stomach twist uncomfortably as he realized his actions were the reason (Y/N) felt unsafe. Oddly enough, he had gotten a bit attached to them already. They were kind, even though they kept to themself. He had seen it when they were out or with Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock liked them. And it was his fault they were wary of him.
For the first time, Sherlock felt an inward push to make a change. It wouldn’t be easy, but it if meant he could have (Y/N) grow more secure in their surroundings and become the genius he saw they had the potential for, he’d do it. Sherlock would try to quit.
Sherlock cleared his throat and looked at (Y/N). “What have you figure out?”
“Oh, come on, they’re a kid,” said Anderson, rolling his eyes. “Can’t we just get on to you showing off? They’re not going be able to help.”
Sherlock saw (Y/N)’s eyes narrow at Anderson’s insult. “Go ahead, (Y/N),” he said encouragingly. They needed to see that ignoring idiots like Anderson was perfectly fine.
(Y/N)’s eyes didn’t leave Alton’s body as they began. “He’s a pharmacist and was murdered with drugs. That suggests this crime was drug-related in general since he has ready access to them. His murderer was connected to the construction of this building since they’d know when it was empty enough to do a drug deal. Inside knowledge and all that.”
Anderson and Donovan glanced at each other in surprise. Lestrade’s eyes widened slightly as (Y/N) proved once again they were smarter than their age suggested.
“What profile would you suggest for the murderer?” prompted Sherlock, nodding in complete agreement with their findings.
“A construction worker who’s had an injury in the past,” said (Y/N). “Needed drugs for the pain and got—” the word caught in their throat for a moment, and Sherlock furrowed his brow as his chest twisted again “—addicted.”
“If the murderer needs the drugs, why did they kill their supplier?” asked Lestrade, confused.
“Either Alton decided to increase prices since he knew the killer needed them or decided to stop supplying,” said (Y/N). “More likely the first since by the state of Alton’s clothing, he’s low on money, can’t afford newer items and gets these patched up. He needed the money and tried to get more out of the killer. But, uh, the murderer was unstable due to drug use and…killed him with his own product.”
Sherlock smirked at Lestrade, Anderson, and Donovan’s reactions. It was entertaining to see them so surprised. He also made note of how (Y/N) seemed much more self-assured when they were in the moment and focused on their deductions.
“A freak in training,” muttered Donovan.
“A Freakling,” agreed Anderson.
(Y/N) didn’t acknowledge their words and instead looked at Sherlock. “Is that enough?”
“Well, if Lestrade and Scotland Yard can’t handle it from here, we’d be doing all of their job for them,” said Sherlock, standing up.
“Thanks, Sherlock,” said Lestrade sarcastically. “We’re not helpless.”
“Debatable,” said Sherlock. “Come on, (Y/N).”
(Y/N) stood up and followed him. They left the building and went back to the main street to wait for a cab to pass by. As they did, they passed a sweets shop and paused for a moment at the sight of some purple lollipops. (Y/N) remembered how a nicer social worker used to give treats like that out. Sure, it seemed childish, but (Y/N) liked them. But it was stupid to be so attached.
“Do you want some?” asked Sherlock. He had noticed their little reaction to the sweets.
“It’s not important,” said (Y/N).
Sherlock furrowed his brow. He saw they clearly weren’t used to having people be nice or notice what they liked. “Let’s buy some,” he said. Sherlock wanted to show he wasn’t going to treat them like the adults of the orphanage. He was going to take care of them. And he had to admit, the tiny smile that appeared on (Y/N)’s face as they unwrapped the lollipops he bought them was also a nice reward.
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When (Y/N) woke up the next morning, they threw on the scratchy sweater they still had from the orphanage before heading to the kitchen. They weren’t really planning on eating, but they did want to see Sherlock’s experiment (He had put tongue’s in the fridge). They didn’t like his drug habits, but they liked his experiments. (Y/N) found them interesting.
They paused in the living room and frowned. Their mind immediately categorized the slight changes in the layout. The hiding places of his drugs were gone.
He…got rid of them? (Y/N) wasn’t sure what to think.
“Are you planning on standing there or do you want to see the results? I haven’t looked yet,” said Sherlock, poking his head out of the kitchen.
He was far from a fool; he knew what they had noticed. They made eye contact with him, and he saw the tiny glimmer of thanks within it. (Y/N)’s body relaxed slightly at the knowledge the drugs were gone. It wasn’t complete trust, but Sherlock could see he had made a step in the right direction.
“Yes,” said (Y/N), following him in.
They opened the fridge, and together, Sherlock and (Y/N) examined and recorded the results of the experiment before sitting down to check the newspapers for any interesting cases and the results of yesterday’s mystery.
“They caught him. Construction worker addicted to drugs,” said (Y/N). “We were spot on this time.”
Sherlock glanced up to where they were lounging on the couch. That was more than they had ever spoken to him at one time unbidden. Another good sign. The orphanage had taught them to be silent, not speak their mind, not share their thoughts and deductions. Sherlock was determined to undo some of the damage that had done to (Y/N).
“Yes. Occasionally there’s a detail we miss, but this one was straightforward,” said Sherlock in agreement.
“It was,” agreed (Y/N).
“Oh. I have something,” said Sherlock, standing and crossing to where a bundled package lay on a messy table.
“What is it?” asked (Y/N).
“Find out,” said Sherlock, giving it to them.
(Y/N) opened it up. It was a soft purple sweater. It would fit much better than the clothes from their group home, and it was in the same deep color as the lollipops they had liked. He noticed that? He paid attention to what I like? (Y/N)’s heart seemed to warm at having someone take care of their feelings slightly.
“Thank you,” said (Y/N) quietly. I think…I think I’m going to like this place and him.
A Study of the Heart and Brain (Book 2) Chapter One
Father Figure! Sherlock Holmes x Teen! Reader
Chapter One: New Sweater
Summary: The confrontation between (Y/N), Sherlock, and Moriarty at the pool comes to an end.
Previously on A Study of the Heart and Brain (Book 1)…
“Dad,” mumbled (Y/N), hugging him back tightly and shaking.
“You’re alright, you’re alright,” said Sherlock soothingly, comforting both them and him. He took his coat off and threw it over their shoulders to defend against the cold.
“I’m sorry I got caught…I didn’t think…I really tried…” they stumbled over their words.
Sherlock just held them. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. You did so well.” I was so scared he’d hurt you. I’m so glad you’re alright and back with me.
The pool door banged open again, and the pair looked up in alarm. Sherlock pushed (Y/N) behind him as Moriarty walked back out.
“Sorry, Holmeses! I’m soooo changeable!” He grinned dramatically. “It is a weakness of mine, but, to be fair, it is my only weakness.” Moriarty sighed in faux-sadness. “You can’t be allowed to continue. You just can’t. I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!” He clapped his hands together. “So I’m going to kill you and continue my game with (Y/N)!”
“Go to hell, you psycho,” snapped (Y/N), all of their fear turning to ferocity by Sherlock’s side. They looked to Sherlock and nodded to him, a silent message to do whatever it took to keep Moriarty from hurting more people.
Sherlock’s eyes softened at the bravery and strength in them before looking decisively at Moriarty. “Probably our answer has crossed yours.” He pulled out and leveled his gun at the abandoned jacket filled with explosives. He disengaged the safety. Sherlock tightened his grip on (Y/N) as he prepared to shoot.
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Currently…
“Well, you can tell by the way I walk,
I’m a woman’s man,
No time to talk,
Music loud and women warm, I’ve been kicked around,
Since I was born.”
(Y/N) was started out of their focus as Stayin’ Alive by the Bee Gees began playing. They glanced up at Sherlock, but he had furrowed his brow in confusion as well. Moriarty closed his eyes and sighed in exasperation.
“D’you mind if I get that?” he asked.
“No, no, please. You’ve got the rest of your life,” said Sherlock, nonchalantly. His tone was belied by the tight grip he kept on (Y/N) in case he needed to protect them.
Moriarty pulled his phone from his pocket and answered. “Hello? Yes, of course it is. What do you want?” He mouthed “sorry” at (Y/N) and Sherlock. Sherlock mouthed “It’s fine” right back. Jim rolled his eyes as he listened to the person on the other end of his phone.
“Say that again!” he screamed, face full of a crazed rage that caused (Y/N) to flinch and Sherlock to tighten his grip on them. “Say that again, and know that if you’re lying to me, I will find you, and I will sssssskin you,” hissed Moriarty venomously. He straightened. “Wait.” He lowered the phone and glanced at the bomb jacket. “Sorry. Wrong day to die.”
“Oh. Did you get a better offer?” remarked Sherlock casually. He did not get a response.
“You’ll be hearing from me, (Y/N),” said Moriarty as he turned away and continued his conversation on the phone as he left. “So if you have what you say you have, I will make you rich. If you don’t, I’ll make you into shoes.” He snapped his fingers as the pool doors closed behind him, and the aiming lasers pointed at Sherlock and (Y/N) disappeared.
(Y/N) let out a sigh of exhausted relief as Sherlock pocketed the gun and spun to tug them into his arms again. He pulled away but looked at them carefully. “Are you alright?”
(Y/N) nodded, trying to swallow their fears and burrow themselves into Sherlock’s coat. “What…what happened?”
“Someone changed his mind,” said Sherlock. “The question is—who?”
(Y/N)’s shoulders sagged. “I can’t handle another mystery tonight.”
Sherlock’s gaze softened. “You won’t have to. We’re heading home.” (Y/N) nodded tiredly, and Sherlock gently guided them out of the pool to freedom.
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(Y/N) lay curled up on Sherlock’s bed, staring blankly at the wall, while Sherlock spoke with John in the main room. Their tired mind deduced by John’s raised voice and aghast tone that Sherlock was explaining what had happened, who Moriarty was, and what he had threatened.
They flinched as they remembered how scared they had felt with Moriarty beside them, holding them from getting to Sherlock. He had the ability to shoot Sherlock, kill him and take them away. It made (Y/N) sick to their stomach to feel so powerless to protect the detective that had become their father.
(Y/N) pulled his coat tighter around themselves comfortingly. Moriarty had stolen their familiar purple sweater; the one that had comforted them through any anxiety or overstimulation from deductions. (Y/N) knew it was silly to feel so attached to a single piece of clothing, but they couldn’t help it. It had been a comfort to have that sweater, and now Moriarty had taken another piece of “safety” from them.
“(Y/N)?” asked Sherlock, stepping into the room.
“Mm,” responded (Y/N).
“I explained to John what happened. You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to,” said Sherlock.
“Alright,” said (Y/N).
Sherlock frowned, easily deducing that (Y/N) felt unsafe, even back at Baker Street. He walked over to his closet (more like a pile of clothes he periodically picked up to wear) and searched for a moment. When he found what he was looking for, Sherlock went to the bed and sat down beside (Y/N).
“Here,” he said. “It might be a bit large, and it isn’t the same as your old one, but you can take it.”
(Y/N) sat up and took the purple sweater Sherlock was holding it out to them. It was clearly older, from when he first moved to London even, but it was purple and big and perfect. They took off Sherlock’s coat and pulled on the sweater. They felt the familiar comfort seep into their bones, relaxing them.
“Thank you, Dad,” said (Y/N), looking up at Sherlock.
Sherlock felt his heart pound. They had called him ‘Dad’ during the confrontation at the pool, but then it had been adrenaline and panic. Sherlock hadn’t expected them to call him that again, but he was pleasantly surprised. He loved (Y/N), they were his child, so hearing that they thought of him as family meant a lot to him.
“Of course, (Y/N),” said Sherlock, smiling at them. “Now, rest. You’ve been through a lot.”
Neither expected the other to continue being so soft the next day because their emotions were a mess from adrenaline and panic, but both were happy that the other thought of them as family. (Y/N) was Sherlock’s child, and Sherlock was (Y/N)’s dad. It didn’t matter what happened the next day or the words they used for it. In the end, they both knew the truth. They were family.
And when John looked into the room later that night, that was exactly the thought that went through his head when he saw them curled up together.
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Over the next few months, Sherlock, (Y/N), and John found themselves involved with case after case. They didn’t mind, though, it kept them busy, John brought in money from happy clients as well as his job at a clinic, and none of them had to deal with Moriarty bothering them. That made Sherlock particularly grateful. Clearly, someone had gotten Moriarty not to try to kill them that night at the pool. No one had come forward for that, though, leaving a growing mystery. But if it meant (Y/N) was safe, he wouldn’t tempt fate. Sherlock would be happy with Moriarty being out of the picture for now.
However, he was not happy with all the attention and boring cases he was being forced into. People would read John’s blog and wander in with stupidly simple cases that John would force Sherlock to take because (Y/N) and him needed to be kept busy (if only for the sake of Mrs. Hudson’s walls and keeping bombs out of the apartment).
“My wife seems to be spending a very long time at the office,” one idiot would say.
“Boring.”
“I think my husband might be having an affair,” said another.
“Yes.”
Even one guy with an urn of ashes came in and claimed that, “She’s not my real aunt. She’s been replaced—I know she has. I know human ash.”
Yeah, Sherlock was quick to throw that one out. Sometimes, there were some cases with an interesting twist. Like the boys who had comic books they were blogging about coming true. He was not satisfied when John turned it into a blog titled The Geek Interpreter. He thought it was silly.
“Do people even read your blog?” asked Sherlock as he leaned over a woman’s body at the hospital.
“Where d’you think our clients come from?” asked John.
“I have a website,” said Sherlock.
“In which you enumerate 240 different types of tobacco ash. Nobody’s reading your website,” pointed out John.
(Y/N) shrugged. “He’s got a point. Most people aren’t smart enough to understand your website.” Sherlock grumbled at that.
Still, at least those cases had some interest and kept him busy. Otherwise, he would get snippy. Once, two girls came in and said, “They wouldn’t let us see Granddad when he was dead. Is that cause he’d gone to heaven?”
Sherlock’s response was, unfortunately, “People don’t really go to heaven when they die. They’re taken to a special room and burned.”
That’ll make them think he went to hell, thought (Y/N).
In other cases, Lestrade brought them in to consult. “There was a plane crash in Dusseldorf yesterday. Everybody dead.”
“Suspected terrorist bombing,” said (Y/N), nodding. “They showed it on the news.”
“For a moment, at least, and then Sherlock said, ‘Boring!’ and changed the channel,” added John.
“Well, according to flight details this man was checked in on board. Inside his coat, he’s got a stub from his boarding pass, napkins from the flight, even one of these special biscuits,” said Lestrade. “Here’s his passport stamped in Berlin Airport. So this man should have died in a plane crash in Germany yesterday, but instead he’s in a car boot in Southwark.”
“Lucky escape,” said John sarcastically. (Y/N) hummed, a lollipop in their mouth.
“Any ideas?” asked Lestrade.
Sherlock was silent as he looked over the boot and the body. “Eight so far. Okay, four ideas.” Taking the passport and looking at the sky above, he frowned. “Maybe two ideas.”
A few days later, Sherlock scowled as he saw what John was writing. “Sherlock Holmes Baffled” read the title of the blog post. “No, no, no, don’t mention the unsolved ones,” he grumbled.
“People want to know you’re human,” said John.
“Why?” asked Sherlock.
(Y/N) shrugged. “It interests common people, I guess.”
John grinned. “Look at that.” He tapped his screen. “1895.”
“Sorry, what?” asked Sherlock.
“I reset the blog counter last night. This blog has had nearly two thousand hits in the last eight hours. This is your living, Sherlock, not 240 different types of tobacco ash,” said John satisfactorily.
“243,” corrected Sherlock sullenly.
Still, it wasn’t just John’s blog making Sherlock a sensation. The paparazzi were following him and his teenage apprentice around often now. They waited outside crime scenes, all clamoring for a picture of the famed detectives.
“There’s a lot of press outside,” warned Lestrade as Sherlock prepared to leave a crime scene.
“Well, they won’t be interested in us,” said Sherlock.
“Yeah, that was before you were an internet phenomenon. A couple of them specifically wanted photos of you three,” said Lestrade.
Sherlock huffed. “For God’s sake.” He stopped by a rack of costume pieces and picked up three hats. He tossed a cap to John, pulled on a deerstalker on himself, and handed a newsboy hat to (Y/N). “Cover your face and walk fast.”
“No problem,” said (Y/N), pulling the hat low over their head. They didn’t want a lot of attention anyways.
“Still, it’s good for public image, a big case like this,” said Lestrade.
“I’m a consulting detective. The last thing I need is public image,” grumbled Sherlock.
l
Still, not everything was exciting, and Sherlock refused to get out of the house sometimes, so when a poor man, Phil, came to the trio with a strange case, John was sent to the countryside while Sherlock, not even dressed, sat with his computer. (Y/N) lounged beside him, bored out of their mind. They had already figured out the case, so this was just Sherlock wasting time until the next actually interesting case.
“You realize this is a tiny bit humiliating?” huffed John as he carried the computer over towards the body of the man Phil was suspected of killing by the river.
Sherlock yawned. “It’s okay, I’m fine. Now, show me to the stream.”
“I meant for myself, Sherlock,” said John.
(Y/N) shrugged. “It’ll be a quick case anyway. Super obvious.”
Sherlock nodded in agreement. “And anyways, it’s a six. There’s no point in my leaving the flat for anything less than a seven. We agreed. Now, go back and show me the grass.”
He really was just wasting time. (Y/N) stretched and reached for a lollipop.
“When did we agree to that?” asked John.
“We agreed to it yesterday,” said Sherlock, ignoring the sound of the doorbell ringing.
“I wasn’t even home yesterday,” said John, frowning. “I was at work.”
“Well, it’s hardly my fault you weren’t listening,” said Sherlock. “Shut up!” he shouted at the doorbell, still ringing insistently.
“D’you just carry on talking when I’m away?” asked John.
“He does,” said (Y/N). “Can you show us the car that backfired?” They had decided they might as well waste some time as well.
“If you’re thinking gunshot, there wasn’t one, he wasn’t shot; he was killed by a single blow to the head from a blunt instrument which then disappeared along with the killer,” said John. “That’s gotta be an eight at least, Sherlock, (Y/N).”
“You’ve got two minutes, then I want to know more about the driver,” said the investigator in charge.
“Oh, forget him. He’s an idiot. Why else would he think himself a suspect?” said Sherlock, waving a hand dismissively.
“I think he’s a suspect!” declared the investigator.
“John, pass me over,” said Sherlock, irritated.
“Alright, but there’s a mute button, and I will use it,” threatened John.
“Having driven to an isolated location and successfully committed a crime without a single witness, why would he then call the police and consult a detective? Fair play?” challenged Sherlock.
“He’s trying to be clever. It’s overconfidence,” scoffed the investigator.
“Did you see him? Morbidly obese, the undiagnosed halitosis of a single man living on his own, the right sleeve of an internet porn addict, and the breathing pattern of an untreated heart condition,” said Sherlock, rolling his eyes.
“Low self-esteem, tiny IQ, limited life expectancy,” listed (Y/N). They glanced at the fuming investigator on the video call. “And you think he’s a brilliant criminal mastermind?”
Sherlock leaned back and glanced at the man in question, who looked stricken. “Don’t worry, this is stupid.”
“Untreated what?” squeaked the man, but he was ignored.
“Go to the stream,” said Sherlock to the investigator.
“What’s in the stream?” he asked.
“Go and see for yourself,” said (Y/N).
Before they could get the confirmation of their theory, Mrs. Hudson opened the door to their apartment. She looked fretful as two official men in suits walked into the room. “Sherlock! You weren’t answering your doorbell!”
“His room’s through the back. Get him some clothes,” ordered one man to the other.
“Who the hell are you?” questioned Sherlock, shifting slightly to get protectively in front of (Y/N) as he deduced who they were. He relaxed once he did, realizing they weren’t a threat to (Y/N), but he didn’t move.
“Sorry, Mr. Holmes, Mx. (L/N), you’re coming with us,” said the man, closing the computer.
(Y/N) and Sherlock exchanged glances. Maybe they would get a little excitement now.
☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: graphic physical assault, blood, injury, bruising, being followed, fear/panic, trauma response, threats, reader is targeted because of Tommy, protective violence, implied revenge, angst, hurt/comfort, soft Tommy Shelby
☾‧₊˚ ⋅ ───────────── ⋅ ˚₊‧☽
The night had started warm.
Not weather-warm, not really. Birmingham rarely gave anyone that kindness. But warm in the way gin made your cheeks glow and laughter loosened the tight parts of your chest. Warm in the way your girls held onto your arms while you crossed the street together, skirts brushing, heels clicking over wet stone, voices rising over the noise spilling out of pubs and back rooms.
For a few hours, you had almost forgotten who you belonged to.
Not because you were ashamed of him.
Never that.
But because being Tommy Shelby’s girl meant carrying a certain weight around with you, even when he wasn’t there. Men looked twice. Women whispered. Doors opened quicker than they used to. Some people smiled at you like they were afraid not to. Others stared like they were waiting for the day your luck finally turned against you.
But tonight, you had only been Y/n.
You had danced until your feet hurt. Laughed until your stomach ached. Let one of your friends fix your lipstick with her thumb, both of you giggling in the mirror like girls who had never known fear. Someone had bought a round too many, and someone else had said something filthy enough to have you nearly choking on your drink.
By the time you all stepped out into the cold, your cheeks were sore from smiling.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to walk with you?” Clara asked, tightening her coat around herself.
You shook your head, still smiling. “I’m nearly home.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I know,” you said, nudging her with your shoulder. “But you live the other way. I’ll be fine.”
Maggie gave you a look. “Tommy would have our heads if he knew we let you walk alone.”
“Tommy doesn’t own the streets.”
The three of them stared at you.
You rolled your eyes. “Alright. He owns most of them.”
That made them laugh, the sound carrying out into the foggy road. Clara kissed your cheek. Maggie squeezed your hand. Ada — not Tommy’s Ada, but your Ada, your friend with the same sharp tongue and no patience for men — pointed at you with a gloved finger.
“Straight home.”
“Yes, mother.”
“I mean it.”
You softened at that. “I know. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
They split from you at the corner, their figures disappearing slowly into the yellow smear of streetlamps. For a little while, you could still hear them laughing, their voices thinning with distance.
Then there was only the sound of your own shoes.
Click.
Click.
Click.
The street felt different once you were alone.
It always did.
The fog seemed lower, curling around the edges of buildings, collecting in the mouths of alleys. The noise from the pub faded behind you until it was just a dull murmur beneath the wind. Somewhere, a dog barked once and then went quiet. A window shutter tapped softly against its frame.
You pulled your coat tighter and kept walking.
You were not far.
That was what you told yourself.
Not far from home. Not far from the door. Not far from warmth and Tommy’s cigarette smoke and the familiar sound of him moving through a room as if every bit of it belonged to him.
Your fingers found the edge of your purse, holding it close against your side.
The first time you heard the footsteps, you did not think much of it.
Birmingham was never truly empty. Men came home late. Men left home later. Drunks wandered. Workers dragged themselves back after long shifts. Boys lingered in alleys with cigarettes and too much nerve.
You kept walking.
The footsteps kept pace.
Not close.
Not far.
Just there.
Your smile faded before you even noticed it was gone.
You turned your head slightly, not enough to look afraid, only enough to glance over your shoulder. Behind you, the street stretched dim and damp, smoke and fog blurring the far end of it. A man crossed in the distance, but he went the other way, collar up, hands tucked beneath his arms.
No one else.
You breathed out a small laugh at yourself.
“Stupid,” you whispered.
Still, you walked faster.
So did the footsteps.
Your stomach tightened.
You told yourself it was nothing. That you were tired. That the gin had made your head too light. That Tommy’s world had crawled too far under your skin, making shadows look like threats and silence sound like warning.
But then the footsteps stopped when you stopped.
You froze beneath a streetlamp.
The light above you buzzed, weak and yellow, flickering once over the wet cobbles. Your pulse began to thud hard enough that you felt it in your throat.
You turned.
Slowly.
There was a shape near the mouth of an alley.
A man.
You could not make out his face at first, only the dark coat, the flat cap, the way he stood half-hidden where the light did not touch him. He was not walking now. He was watching.
Your mouth went dry.
For one second, neither of you moved.
Then he stepped forward.
You turned and hurried.
Not running yet. Running felt like admitting something terrible was happening, and some frightened, stubborn part of you was still trying to deny it. You could see your road now. The corner. The turn. Home was close enough that you almost wanted to cry from it.
Almost home.
Almost home.
Your breath quickened. Your shoes scraped harder over stone. Your hand shook as you dug for the small key in your purse, fingers fumbling through lipstick, coins, a folded handkerchief.
Behind you, the pace changed.
Faster now.
You looked back just as he reached you.
A hand caught your arm so hard pain shot up into your shoulder.
You opened your mouth to scream, but he slammed you sideways into the brick wall before the sound could properly leave you. The back of your head struck first, then your shoulder, then your cheek scraped rough against the brick.
The world flashed white.
Your purse slipped from your hand and hit the ground, spilling open. Coins scattered across the cobbles. Your lipstick rolled into the gutter. The little compact Polly had once given you cracked beneath someone’s boot.
You sucked in air, dizzy, trying to twist away.
The man grabbed the front of your coat and shoved you back again.
“Quiet.”
His voice was low and rough, soaked in cheap gin.
You tried to hit him. Your hand caught his jaw, nails scraping skin, and for half a second there was satisfaction in the way he hissed.
Then his fist struck your mouth.
Pain burst hot across your face.
You stumbled, tasting blood immediately, thick and metallic on your tongue. Your knees nearly gave, but he held you up only to throw you down. Your body hit the street hard, hip first, then palms, skin tearing against grit and stone.
You tried to crawl.
You didn’t think about dignity. Didn’t think about your torn stocking, your missing shoe, your hair falling loose from its pins. You only thought of the corner. The door. Tommy.
Your fingers slipped against the wet ground.
The man caught your ankle and dragged you back.
A sound tore out of you then, broken and panicked, but the street swallowed it. Or maybe you were not loud enough. Maybe fear had closed too tightly around your throat.
He kicked you in the ribs.
Once.
Hard.
The air vanished from your lungs.
Your body curled around the pain before you could stop it. You pressed one hand to your side, mouth open, unable to breathe. For a moment, you were certain something inside you had cracked.
The man crouched beside you, grabbing your hair near the roots and forcing your face up.
You saw pieces of him.
A pale scar near his chin. A dark ring on his right hand. Blood on his cheek where you had scratched him. Mud caked along the edge of his boot. His breath smelled sour, gin and smoke and rot.
“Pretty thing like you,” he muttered, “should’ve known better than to belong to a Shelby.”
Your eyes burned.
He knew.
The fear changed shape inside you. It became colder. Deeper.
This was not bad luck. This was not some drunk man seeing a woman alone.
This was a message.
He shoved your face away, and your temple struck the street. You heard yourself cry out, but it sounded far away, like it belonged to someone else.
“Tell Thomas Shelby,” he said, leaning close enough that you could feel his breath against your ear, “men remember what he takes.”
You tried to look at him. Tried to remember him. Tried to keep your eyes open through the blur of tears and blood.
Ring. Scar. Torn cuff.
You gripped his sleeve and pulled with everything left in you. Fabric ripped under your fingers.
He cursed and raised his hand again.
Then a voice cut through the street.
“Oi!”
The man froze.
Another voice followed, louder, rougher.
“Get the fuck away from her!”
Arthur.
Even through the blood rushing in your ears, you knew that voice.
The weight above you disappeared. The man shoved himself up and ran, boots striking hard against the cobbles as he vanished into the alley.
You tried to move, but your body would not obey.
Your cheek rested against the cold street. One eye would not open properly. Blood slipped warm from your split lip down to your chin. Your ribs screamed with every shallow breath.
Footsteps thundered toward you.
“Jesus Christ,” Arthur breathed. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
John dropped to his knees beside you first, his face white beneath his cap. “Y/n? Y/n, love, can you hear me?”
You blinked at him, but his face swam in and out of focus.
Arthur was pacing one step, then back again, like he did not know where to put his rage. “That’s Tommy’s girl. John. That’s Tommy’s fucking girl.”
“I know who she is!” John snapped, though his voice broke at the edges. He leaned closer, careful now, one hand hovering near your shoulder. “Y/n, look at me. Can you look at me?”
You tried.
Your mouth moved before sound came.
“Tommy.”
Arthur’s face changed.
All the fury in it cracked open into something almost afraid.
“Right,” he said, dropping down beside you. “Alright, sweetheart. We’re takin’ you home. You hear me? We’re takin’ you to Tom.”
John gathered your purse with shaking hands, shoving the spilled things back inside, while Arthur slid his arms beneath you as gently as a man like him could manage. Still, pain tore through you when he lifted you, and you cried out against his coat.
“I know, I know,” Arthur muttered, jaw tight. “Sorry, love. I’m sorry.”
You pressed your face weakly against him, blood staining the lapel.
John walked fast beside you, one hand at your back as if he could keep you from breaking apart. He kept looking behind him, teeth clenched, eyes sharp and wild.
“Did you see him?” Arthur asked.
“Only the back of him.”
“Fuck.”
“She scratched him,” John said, glancing down at your bloody fingers. “Look.”
Arthur’s hold tightened a fraction.
You barely heard them after that.
The streets blurred.
Light, fog, brick, footsteps.
Somewhere between the corner and Tommy’s door, you slipped in and out of yourself. One moment you were in Arthur’s arms. The next you were back on the ground, tasting blood, hearing that voice.
Tell Thomas Shelby.
Then a door opened.
Warmth hit your face.
Voices stopped.
For one terrible second, there was only silence.
Tommy stood in the doorway.
He had not been expecting this. You knew that at once, even through the haze. Tommy expected many things. Betrayal. Blood. Guns. Men coming to him with bad news and worse intentions.
But he had not expected his brothers to bring you home like this.
His cigarette burned forgotten between his fingers.
Arthur shifted you in his arms. “Tom.”
Tommy did not move.
His eyes moved first.
Over your face. Your split lip. The blood at your temple. Your torn sleeve. The dirt on your knees. The way your hand hung weakly against Arthur’s coat.
Something went out of his expression.
Or maybe something came in.
Something cold enough to freeze the room.
“What happened?” he asked.
His voice was quiet.
Too quiet.
John swallowed. “Someone got to her on the way home.”
Tommy’s eyes lifted from you to him.
“Who?”
“Don’t know.”
Arthur shook his head. “He ran before we could catch the bastard.”
Tommy stepped forward then, slowly, like if he moved too fast the violence inside him might come loose before he meant it to. His hand came near your face, then stopped just short of touching you.
You wanted to say his name.
You tried.
It came out broken.
His eyes snapped back to yours, and for the first time, his face shifted.
Only a little.
Enough.
“Y/n.”
Your name in his mouth made your eyes fill again.
Tommy turned his head, his voice still controlled but sharper now. “Polly!”
She appeared almost instantly, tying her robe around herself, irritation already on her face until she saw you.
Then she went still too.
“Bring her in,” Polly said.
Arthur carried you to the sitting room, laying you carefully on the sofa while John hovered uselessly nearby, still holding your ruined purse. Tommy stood over you, one hand flexing at his side.
Polly moved faster than any of them. She snapped orders before anyone else could breathe.
“John, water. Clean cloths. Arthur, stop standing there looking like death and get the whiskey. Thomas—”
“I’m staying.”
Polly looked at him once.
“You’ll frighten her looking like that.”
Tommy’s jaw tightened.
“She’s not frightened of me.”
“No,” Polly said, softer but no less firm. “She’s frightened because of you.”
The room changed.
Arthur looked away.
John stopped moving.
Tommy’s eyes did not leave Polly’s face, but something in him absorbed the hit. You saw it. The way his throat moved once. The way his mouth pressed into a hard line.
Polly stepped closer to him.
“You go out there with murder written all over you, and she’ll think this is her fault. Stand there if you can be gentle. Leave if you can’t.”
For a moment, you thought he would argue.
Then your fingers twitched against the sofa.
Tommy saw.
He crouched beside you, all that cold fury forced down behind his eyes. Carefully, slowly, he took your hand. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, avoiding the torn skin.
“Who was it?” he asked quietly.
Your lips trembled.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s alright.”
“He…” You swallowed, wincing at the blood in your mouth. “He knew me.”
Tommy went very still.
Polly paused with the cloth in her hand.
You forced yourself to keep going because you knew it mattered. Because Tommy needed pieces. Tommy could build a whole death sentence out of pieces.
“Said…” Your breath caught when your ribs pulled. “Said I should’ve known better than to belong to a Shelby.”
Arthur swore under his breath.
Tommy’s hand closed more tightly around yours, then loosened at once as if he remembered you were hurt.
“Anything else?” he asked.
You blinked hard. “Ring. On his right hand. Dark stone, I think. Scar here.” You lifted your fingers weakly toward your chin. “I scratched his face. Tore his sleeve.”
Tommy nodded once.
That was all.
One nod.
Then he leaned forward and pressed his lips to your hand, so gently it hurt worse than if he had shouted.
“You did well,” he said.
“I was nearly home.”
His face changed again, and this time he could not hide it fast enough.
“I know.”
“I was nearly—”
“I know, love.”
Polly touched your shoulder. “Let me clean you up now.”
Tommy stood.
Your hand tightened around his before he could fully pull away.
Panic rose fast, sudden and humiliating. “Don’t go.”
The words were small.
Tommy looked down at your hand gripping his sleeve.
For a second, the whole room waited.
Then he bent close, his mouth near your ear.
“I’m not leaving you,” he said. “Polly will sit with you. I’ll be back before morning.”
You knew what that meant.
You knew where he was going.
Part of you wanted to beg him not to. Another part of you remembered the man’s hand in your hair and his voice in your ear and could not speak at all.
Tommy kissed your forehead, just above the bruise beginning to rise.
Then he looked at Polly.
“Look after her.”
Polly’s face hardened. “Always.”
Tommy turned to his brothers.
The softness vanished from him completely.
“Arthur. John.”
Arthur was already reaching for his cap.
John set your purse down with shaking care and followed.
At the door, Tommy stopped without turning around.
“Lock this house.”
Then they were gone.
☾ ⋆｡𖦹 °✩
Polly cleaned you with hands that were firm but kind.
She wiped blood from your mouth, your cheek, your brow. She checked your ribs with careful fingers and muttered curses under her breath when you flinched. She helped you out of your ruined coat and torn dress, wrapped you in something warm, and made you drink a little water even when your lip stung.
You cried only once.
Not loudly.
Not in a way that made the house shake.
It happened when Polly tried to wash the blood from your hands and you saw the red beneath your nails.
His blood.
Yours.
You didn’t know.
Polly saw your face crumple and sat beside you at once.
“Here now,” she said, pulling your hands away from the basin. “Look at me.”
“I couldn’t stop him.”
“You’re alive.”
“He knew who I was.”
Her expression tightened with something old and tired.
“I know.”
“He knew Tommy.”
“Most men in this city know Tommy.”
“That’s why he did it.”
Polly did not lie to you.
Maybe that was why you trusted her.
She held your hands in the towel and lowered her voice.
“Men like that don’t need much reason to be cruel. If it wasn’t Tommy, it would’ve been something else. Your dress. Your smile. The fact you were alone. Don’t hand him more power than he already took.”
You stared at her through watery eyes.
“He said I belonged to a Shelby.”
Polly’s mouth twitched, not with humor.
“You belong to yourself first.”
The words settled somewhere deep, though not deep enough to fix anything.
Nothing fixed it that night.
Not the fire. Not the whiskey Polly made you sip. Not the blanket tucked around your shoulders. Not even the knowledge that Tommy was out there with Arthur and John, turning Birmingham over stone by stone.
You sat awake until dawn.
Every noise made you flinch.
Every footstep outside pulled your breath short.
And when Tommy finally returned, the sky outside was grey and thin, and his coat smelled of smoke and cold.
There was blood on his cuff.
Not yours.
You saw it before he could hide it.
He paused in the doorway when he noticed you were awake.
Polly stood from the chair beside you. Her eyes moved over him once, reading everything.
“Done?” she asked.
Tommy took off his cap.
“Yes.”
That was all he said.
No details.
No names.
No grand promise that the man had suffered. He did not need to say it. It was there in the quiet. In Arthur’s absence. In John’s pale face behind him. In the way Tommy’s eyes looked almost black when they came back to you.
Polly left the room without another word.
Tommy crossed to you slowly.
You were curled beneath a blanket on the sofa, too sore to move properly. Your lip was swollen. One side of your face had bloomed purple near the cheekbone. Your ribs ached when you breathed too deeply.
Tommy lowered himself onto the table in front of you, close enough that his knees nearly touched yours.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
Then he said, “He won’t come near you again.”
Your eyes burned.
“Is he dead?”
Tommy looked at you.
The answer sat between you.
You nodded once, though you did not know if you felt relief or horror or both.
Tommy reached for your hand.
This time, his hands were clean.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
You looked up, startled.
Tommy Shelby did not say those words often. Not because he never meant them, but because meaning them cost him too much.
His gaze held yours.
“I should’ve had someone walk you home.”
“I told the girls I’d be fine.”
“I should’ve had someone there.”
“You can’t have men follow me everywhere.”
“I can.”
“Tommy.”
“I can,” he repeated, and there was steel beneath it now. Fear dressed as command. “And I will.”
You looked away.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed.
“What?”
Your throat tightened. “That’s not living.”
His jaw shifted.
You hated the hurt that crossed his face, brief as a match strike.
“I just want you safe.”
“I know.”
“That man touched you because of me.”
The words were blunt, almost cruel in their honesty.
You looked back at him.
Tommy stared at your bruised face like it was evidence against himself.
You reached for him despite the pain in your side. Your fingers brushed his wrist.
“He touched me because he was a coward.”
Tommy’s eyes flicked to yours.
“And because he wanted to hurt you,” you whispered. “But that doesn’t make it your hand that did it.”
Something in Tommy’s face pulled tight.
He leaned forward slowly, resting his forehead against your hand. For a moment, he did not look like the man Birmingham feared. He looked tired. Young in a way he never allowed himself to be. Haunted in the way only you ever seemed to catch.
“I’ll kill every man who thinks your name is a way to reach mine,” he said.
You believed him.
That was the problem.
☾ ⋆｡𖦹 °✩
For the next few days, the house became your whole world.
Polly came and went. Ada sat with you when she could. John brought flowers and acted offended when you asked if he’d stolen them. Arthur lingered in doorways, guilty and quiet, until you finally told him to stop looking at you like that and come sit down.
Tommy stayed closer than anyone.
He worked from home, held meetings behind closed doors, and slept lightly beside you at night. Every time you woke from pain, dreams, or footsteps that weren’t really there, he woke too. He never told you it was over. Never told you to be brave. He only reached for you slowly and waited for you to come closer.
The bruises faded.
The fear did not.
You still flinched when someone knocked. You still hated standing with your back to the door. And every time you thought about stepping onto that street again, your body remembered brick, blood, and a hand in your hair.
On the fourth evening, Tommy came into the bedroom while you were sitting at the vanity.
“Come out with me tonight,” he said.
Your fingers stilled on the pin in your hair. “Out?”
“Dinner. Somewhere quiet.”
You looked at him through the mirror. “I don’t know.”
“I’ll be with you.”
“I know.”
“And no one will bother you.”
You stared down at your hands. Part of you wanted to say yes just to prove you could. To put on a pretty dress, let him hold your coat, and pretend the world had not changed.
So you nodded.
“Alright.”
Tommy’s shoulders eased slightly. He kissed the top of your head.
“We’ll go slow.”
You dressed carefully, choosing a blue dress because you knew he liked you in blue, even if he rarely said it. When you came downstairs, Tommy looked at you for a moment too long, his cigarette forgotten between his fingers.
“You look beautiful,” he said quietly.
The words warmed you.
You smiled. “Thank you.”
He helped with your coat, his fingers gentle near your throat.
“Ready?”
You nodded.
You made it to the door.
That was all.
Your hand touched the handle, and your body stopped.
Your mind knew Tommy was beside you. Your mind knew the man was gone. Your mind knew you were safe.
But your body remembered the footsteps.
The brick.
The blood in your mouth.
Tommy noticed immediately.
“Y/n.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I said I’m fine,” you snapped, but your voice shook.
He stepped closer, careful not to crowd you. “Look at me.”
You shook your head. “I can go. Just give me a second.”
“We don’t have to go.”
Your eyes burned. “I said I can.”
“I know you can,” Tommy said softly. “You don’t have to prove it to me.”
That broke you.
Your hand slipped from the door, and you turned away as the first sob came out small and angry.
“I’m sorry.”
“No.”
“I don’t know why I’m—”
“No.” His voice was firm now. “You don’t apologize to me for being frightened.”
You looked at him through tears. “I hate this.”
“I know.”
“I hate that I can’t even open a door.”
Tommy reached for your hands slowly, giving you time to pull away. You didn’t.
“You opened it before,” he said. “You’ll open it again. Doesn’t have to be tonight.”
“What if I can’t?”
“Then we wait.”
“What if I’m like this forever?”
His thumb brushed over your glove.
“Then I’ll love you indoors.”
You stared at him.
“And by the fire,” he continued quietly. “And in the kitchen. And when you make it to the door. And when you make it past it. However far you get.”
A tear slipped down your cheek, and he wiped it away carefully.
“You don’t have to be brave every minute.”
“I’m with you,” you whispered. “I should feel safe.”
“You can feel safe and still be scared.”
Tommy leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead.
“No one touches you again,” he murmured. “Not in the street. Not in this house. Not while I’m alive.”
Then he reached past you, opened the door just enough for the cold air to touch your face.
You stiffened.
He saw.
Without a word, he shut it again.
“Right,” he said, taking off his coat.
You blinked. “Right?”
“We’re staying in.”
“But dinner—”
“Can come here.”
“Tommy.”
His mouth twitched faintly. “You wanted a date. I didn’t say it had to be outside.”
A weak laugh escaped you.
Within minutes, the house shifted around you. Food was brought in, candles were lit, and the fire was built higher. Tommy moved your chair close to his, not making a fuss, not making you feel fragile, just keeping you near.
You ate slowly. He talked quietly. Nothing about blood or business. Just small things. John being stupid. Arthur being worse. Polly threatening a man who deserved it.
By the end, you smiled for real.
Later, you sat beside him on the sofa, legs tucked beneath you. Tommy didn’t pull you in. He waited.
Eventually, you leaned against him.
His arm came around you, warm and steady.
Outside, hooves struck stone. A door slammed somewhere down the street.
You tensed.
Tommy’s hand moved gently over your arm.
“I’ve got you.”
You breathed in.
Smoke. Whiskey. Soap. Him.
The fear was still there, tucked somewhere behind your ribs. Maybe it would be there tomorrow too. Maybe for longer.
But Tommy’s hand stayed steady.
His mouth brushed your hair.
And for the first time in days, the room felt bigger than what had happened to you.
prguitarman
annaxmalina
germansingergirl
kianamaiart
titsay
baratheonpilled
2087
