Is there any more authentic bisexual experience than thinking that your personal experience of being Bi doesn't count so you have to consult a more authentic Bi person?
[ Can be read as a sequel to “Keeping It” or as a standalone ]
“Mmm…. no.”
“You’re maddening.”
“No argument there.”
“That is also maddening.”
Molly sighed and put down her tablet, the medical journal she’d been trying to read for the last ten minutes a lost cause. “You’re both maddening.”
Her husband smirked behind his cup of tea, an eyebrow cocked over his reading glasses. “It is hereditary, you know.”
“Yeah, Mum. Uncle Mycroft is maddening, and I know Dad thinks Gamma and Papa are--”
Sherlock shot his gaze to their daughter in a mock-glare. “Shush. Gamma can likely hear you, even fifty miles away.”
“Which is what you find maddening,” was her sly response.
Molly reached for a piece of toast, a small grin on her face. Sherlock nudged her calf with his bare foot under the breakfast table.
“Dr. Hooper-Holmes, I’ll have you know you are maddening too. I’ll also remind you that you contributed the other half of the maddening genes we see in the creature at our table.”
“Creature?!” Another bare foot swept and nudged Sherlock’s calf, though harder than he’d nudged Molly’s.
Laughter ensued, as it usually did when Sherlock teased the girl.
“Darling, what prompted the maddening argument?” Molly asked her, nibbling her toast.
“I asked Dad if I could help with the Livingston case. DI Dimmock called this morning and will be here by noon.”
“And,” Sherlock interrupted, “I politely - yet firmly - said no.”
“Why?” both of his girls asked in unison.
Sherlock inwardly groaned. Twin pairs of heart-shaped faces and messy chestnut buns swung to look at him expectantly. The brown eyes were curious, but the eyes that mirrored his own in color and shape were full of challenge. A swell of pride and love rose in his chest but he beat it down so as not to look soft -- those challenging eyes were keener than his own and would see it and manipulate it with ease.
“Because it’s not appropriate--” he began.
“Fibber,” Molly smiled. “You don’t give a fig about being appropriate.”
Sherlock scowled, though without heat because she was right, of course. “Fine. Because she’s too young--”
“You were only nineteen when Uncle Greg first let you onto an NSY case!”
She was also right.
“Sherlock.”
He looked at Molly, her laugh lines a little more prominent, her own reading glasses perched atop her head. Motherhood and wifehood had not diminished her charm or her ability to see him. “Yes?”
She just smiled at him until he gave in and smiled too.
“Alright, is this going to be like when I came home early from the Watsons’ and learned what coitus interruptus meant?”
They both kicked their daughter under the table, who laughed and threw pieces of bacon at them.
“Artemis Charlotte Zephyrine Hooper-Holmes!” Molly chided the young woman. “You’re worse than your father!”
“Well you were getting all sentimental, something had to be done!” Artie (as she preferred because her full name was only for when she was truly in trouble with her parents) chuckled, crinkling her nose up at her mother. “We were in the middle of interrogating Dad about his lame reason why I can’t help with the Livingston case…”
Sherlock chewed the bacon she’d thrown at him, nodding to Molly. She could say what he felt.
“He doesn’t want to share you,” his wife said simply.
“Share me?” Artie stared at her father. “Whattaya mean?”
It was Molly’s turn to nod at him. He swallowed tightly and let himself feel. It was important, after all. “If you solve the Livingston case with me, it’ll be open range for the NSY to come to us both, then ultimately just you, for more cases.”
His daughter cocked her head to the side, a tic she’d developed early on when deducing something. Or someone.
“You’re not worried I’ll overshadow you or take over the ‘family business’, though, Dad,” she said softly and certainly. “Then why--”
“It is a wild, heart-pounding, dangerous, and exhilarating life, being a consulting detective,” he said. Molly’s warm eyes met his. “I have only ever experienced the precisely same rush in the line of work that is husband and father. And I want nothing more than for you to feel it too.”
He looked Artie right in the eye and let himself be open to her. “I don’t want to share my girl and her talents for deduction and compassion just yet. It would mean that you’re ready to not need me. Or your mother,” he added quickly, trying to maintain some semblance of his signature stoicism.
Artie’s eyes narrowed, and she was silent for a moment. As the moment stretched Sherlock was reminded that she was most definitely his child. John had said that his own silences were unnerving. But, right before the moment became awkward, Artie’s face broke into a smile.
“Dad, you’re an idiot.”
Molly cleared her throat with admonishment, but both husband and daughter waved her off with identical dismissive hands.
“Mum, you know what I mean,” Artie smiled, keeping her eyes on her father. “Dad, I don’t want to do this because I don’t need you and Mum. I do and always will. I want to work this case because I think I want to be a writer.”
Molly and Sherlock looked to each other, then to their girl. “A writer?”
Artie sat up a little straighter, pulling the sleeves of her father’s old blue dressing gown down over her hands. Sherlock inwardly grinned. Bravado and nerves in both movements; this was a big moment for his daughter.
“I figured out what I want to major in at Oxford -- creative writing. I know, I know, it’s not exactly lucrative but I could take some cases myself as you said and that could pay a bit. Besides, Uncle John’s blog inspired me, and a-actually I’m rewriting some entries for a publication. Rosie’s doing the illustrations and I found that I loved it but I’m not getting the voice of the stories right because I’ve never seen you and Uncle John on a case. Well, not a murder case -- and we all know those are the juiciest tales!”
She was babbling, outdoing her mother as she motor-mouthed her explanation. She seemed to realize this and slowed to catch her breath. Molly and Sherlock were still locked in on her, their faces a combination of shock and intrigue.
Artie took a breath and smiled at them. “I want to write and publish these stories, Dad. Your stories, with Uncles John and Greg, Mum, Nana Hudders. I want to share you with more than London and the surrounding countryside.”
Sherlock’s throat felt tight, and a strange prickling began behind his eyes. He chanced a glance at Molly, whose eyes were swimming in pride and un-shed tears.
“Oh,” he murmured, blinking rapidly. “Well, um…”
Artie’s hand slipped into his on the table. “Dad?”
Sherlock grasped her fingers in his, her touch grounding. He looked at Molly again, his foot finding her sock-clad one under the small table, and closed his eyes. In his mind palace (which had more windows than walls now, letting sunlight filter in and illuminate the ceilings and doors of the massive building), he found Artie’s room next door to Molly’s. Pushing the door open he saw her, all of eight years old with his deerstalker on her head and her faithful, never-far-from-reach diary open, a silly feathery pen at the ready.
He smiled as he opened his eyes and arched a supercilious brow at his currently eighteen year old daughter. “Best get your arse dressed and prepared for battle, Miss Hooper-Holmes. The game--”
“-- is ON! Hell yeah, Dad!” Artie tugged him forward and planted a loud smacking kiss on his forehead before bolting out of the kitchen and upstairs to her bedroom, dressing gown flapping dramatically.
Molly immediately cracked up laughing, standing to clear the table. “She is so your child, Sherlock.”
He grasped her wrist and pulled her into his lap. “Again, I remind you that she is half you too, wife.” He kissed her languidly, her hands reaching into his curls (which may or may not have had strands of silver through them). They broke apart only when they heard the thump of their daughter losing her balance, no doubt trying to put on her boots without unlacing them (again).
“You better get yourself dressed too,” Molly said, pressing a kiss to his nose. “Artie’s been dead-set on joining you for a murder for ages.”
Sherlock scrunched his nose at her. “Dead-set? Molly, your jokes…”
They shared another soft, sweet kiss, ignoring the thundering footsteps and the subsequent “Ohhh come on, you two!”
[ Can be read as a sequel companion to “Lost It” and “Found It”, or as a standalone ]
“Silent night, holy night….”
Molly sang softly to the curly-haired head of her boyfriend where it was settled over her heart, her fingers sifting through the strands soothingly. The Christmas tree was tall and willowy, sitting in the corner by Sherlock’s favorite window. Its soft twinkling lights cast warmly over the mound of presents (most of which were labeled “To: Rosie”) and spilled over the floor to meet the blazing glow of the fireplace.
A rumbling sigh accompanied Molly’s sotto voce performance as Sherlock’s long legs shifted under the down comforter. Where she was sitting propped up by pillows and John’s old chair, he was sprawled, bare feet poking out from the end of the comforter-pillows-and-quilts nest they’d made on the floor after wrapping all of Rosie’s and their friends’ gifts. He settled against her, arms shifting around her waist as he enjoyed her singing and hair-stroking.
Molly ended the carol with a smooch to Sherlock’s forehead. “I know you just got comfortable, but I need the loo.”
He lifted his head to mock-glare at her. “Inconvenient.”
“My bladder?” she chuckled. “Yes, well, transport and all that.”
With a melodramatic groan, Sherlock rolled away, letting the pathologist escape their cocoon. He watched her in her over-sized tartan pyjama set -- last Christmas gift from her late father -- go to the bathroom and close the door before he scrambled to his own feet. He watched in the mirror and kept an ear out for her as he carefully lifted the Santa hat and reindeer antlers headband off of “Billy” the skull, and plucking the small wrapped box from atop it. Carefully, he replaced everything, settling back down in their Christmas Eve nest where Molly had sat.
Sherlock studied the small present: it was wrapped in an iridescent blue-green paper with silver trim (subconsciously matching the giver’s eyes), the size of the box and the care with which the wrapping was done indicated high-value gift within, likely an engagement ring. With a self-indulgent smirk, Sherlock mapped out his plan.
Molly would come out of the loo, all pink-faced and smiles, and return to be cuddled by her boyfriend. Sherlock would hold her tight, and murmur his deductions of the holiday (the frankly appalling romanticism, the snow outside the window, the silly traditions of what they were doing for this pagan celebration, etc) before sauntering into his best deduction yet -- that Sherlock Holmes wanted to be Molly Hooper’s husband.
He had the plan. He had the ring. He had the nerve. He just needed his pathologist.
Right on cue, there was the sound of water, the squeak of the door as it opened, and the shuffling of small bare feet. Secreting the present away in the pocket of his pyjama pants, Sherlock looked up to find he was off to a good start: Molly’s face was indeed smiley and pink.
“Oooh, switched places?” she giggled, kneeling to join him. “Right, so you’re gonna sing my favorite Christmas song and stroke my hair?”
“You will not hear me sing ‘I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas’, I’m afraid,” he smiled at her. “Hair-stroking is however more than available.”
“Mmm, good,” she scrunched her nose as she leaned in to kiss him. What should have been a swift kiss of affection soon became a clinging, heated, low-laughter affair -- Sherlock pulled away reluctantly when the insistent digging of the gift box into his hip won out. Starry-eyed and well-snogged, Molly shifted to lean back against him, pulling the comforter over their legs.
They were content to just sit for a few moments, Sherlock holding her to him with one arm around her waist.
“Molly,” he murmured, deciding this was it.
“Sherlock.”
“You realize what we are engaging in is horrifically stereotypical of the romanticism that plagues this pagan celebration?”
Molly smiled, nodding. “Oh my, yes.”
“The Christ-child -- if he existed -- wasn’t even born in December. The star the shepherds and wise men followed would have been seen in that particular part of the night sky in spring--”
“Suddenly you know astronomy? It’s a pagan celebration miracle!” Molly giggled, pulling his hand from her waist and kissing its palm.
Sherlock couldn’t even roll his eyes at her jest; they’d come so far since Sherrinford in January, and her ease in taking the mick out of him only made his Yuletide decision more concrete.
“Tell me,” he said, switching gears, “when is the correct time to open Christmas gifts?”
“Christmas morning, at least in my family.”
“Mmm. We always did either stockings or one gift on Christmas Eve,” Sherlock mused, a faint memory distracting him off course. “I vaguely remember receiving my first violin… and Eurus smiling.”
Molly squeezed his arm and hand. “Good memory?”
He thought about it, seeing the small girlish smile as he unwrapped the gift she’d no doubt been a part of procuring for him. The glint in her crystalline blue eyes was so merry. The memory fizzled as he nodded. “Good memory.”
Molly smiled. “Well, we could do a gift each tonight? Revive an old tradition? Make a new memory?”
Not the plan but it works nicely, Sherlock thought. “All right then.”
Molly whirled around in his lap, straightening up, and grinning wildly. “Yay! Um, who should go first?”
Sherlock blinked at the sudden shock of enthusiasm, recovered, and smiled. “I can guarantee I have the more clever gift--”
“Wanna bet?” She smirked, determination and confidence in her dimples. “I hid yours from you for weeks!”
“I hid yours too, Dr. Hooper, so there.”
Molly turned her elfin nose up at him. “Well, Mr. Holmes, I’m not a consulting detective. You may be slipping in your abilities.”
Seeing his opportunity, he leaned in and let his voice growl. “Not at all, going by my most recent and most brilliant deduction, Molly.”
The air was heady between them, and Molly’s pink cheeks flushed darker in the firelight. “Oh!”
Sherlock kissed her briskly. “Enough stalling. I have your Christmas Eve present.”
He pulled it out of his pocket, rearranging the slightly bent silver ribbon. If his hands shook at all, neither mentioned it.
“And I have yours!” She held up a long slim gift, the wrapping paper a cheery gold. They switched parcels.
Sherlock held onto the gift from her, refusing to deduce it, and focused instead on Molly and that little box. She was admiring the wrapping paper, looking up to meet his gaze.
“Clever boy, matching your eyes,” she teased. “It looks too pretty to open.”
“I shan’t open mine until you open yours, so….”
“Oh, all right then.” With the precision found only in the hands of medical examiners and surgeons, Molly peeled back the paper to reveal the small velvet box.
Her breath caught, and Sherlock’s nerves got the best of him, the words tumbling out giddily.
“It-it occured to me recently that I am not exactly who I thought I was. I have been a pirate, a graduate chemist, an a-addict,” he stammered, his hands fidgeting in his lap. “I have been a fugitive, a prisoner, a dead man, a resurrected man, a consulting detective. I'm a newly realized middle child, a pain in the arse, a friend, a godfather, a boyfriend. I’ve been tortured, I’ve told horrible, hurtful lies, and nearly destroyed all that I have been, am, and could be.”
Molly’s eyes, shimmery with emotion, lifted to meet his. “But you didn’t destroy it. At all,” her voice shook.
“But for the grace of a God I am afraid might actually exist,” he smiled, “and the grace of my friends, family, and you, Molly.”
She shared his smile, a tear threatening to fall from her lashes. Sherlock set his own gift nearby, and took her hands and the unopened ring box in his.
“What I have been, I cannot change. What I am, I have realized, is more than I ever thought to be,” his voice grew softer. “Which then begs the question: what do I want to be?”
Together, they opened the box. The simple white-gold ring sparkled with the modest sapphire flanked by two yellow topaz gems. Simple, clean, and ultimately Molly.
Sherlock swallowed thickly. “Molly, I have deduced that I very much want to be your husband. Would you -- may I -- can I be your husband?”
Their eyes met, and Sherlock felt like he was hurtling off the roof of St. Bart's again -- the air was sucked from his lungs and impact was inevitable.
The tear on Molly’s eyelash did the fall for him as she blinked rapidly, head nodding fiercely as she croaked, “Yes. Yes, please.”
They laughed goofily at their nervous bumbling around the proposal and acceptance, hugging and kissing through tearful smiles. Sherlock slid the ring on her finger, happy that she liked it and that it was sized to perfection. He kissed the palm of her left hand, then kissed her lips and held her to him.
After a blissful, affirming moment, Molly pulled away. "Oh! Your gift!"
Sherlock chuckled as she searched the tangled quilts and comforter, finally finding the gold-wrapped present. She situated herself to sit practically in his lap, holding the rectangle in her hands.
"Sherlock."
"Molly."
"You have been many things. And you are many things." Molly's smile grew wobbly but she bit her bottom lip and handed him the gift.
Sherlock lifted a brow in confusion to her face, then proceeded to tear open the wrapping. He pulled a curious white and pink plastic stick out -- his breathing stopped as he turned it over to read the small screen on the stick.
Pregnant.
A numbing silence rang through his brain as he whispered the word. Molly shifted in his lap and he instinctively looked to her.
"I know you've just asked to be my h-husband," she stammered, "but would you also like to be a daddy?"
Sherlock laughed, shouting "Yes! Of course! Oh, can you imagine the brilliance of our progeny? How far along are you? Oh this explains your preference of sparkling cider to wine tonight! And I thought it was just holiday weight, but no! You're carrying our baby!"
Well, he did so in his head. In reality he was staring at Molly, mouth soft and slack, silently weeping. Molly, not a stranger to Sherlock's buffering, cleared her throat and touched her hand to his cheek, swiping a tear with her thumb.
The touch worked and Sherlock blinked back into the tangible universe.
"Baby?" he whispered.
"About eleven weeks now, yeah," she smiled. "I suspected a couple weeks ago. John confirmed it for me."
"John knows?" Sherlock chuckled. "Explains his smug attitude all week."
Molly kissed his cheek. "When I took this test, I panicked at first. Just for a second. Then I thought of you, how much I loved you, and decided that no matter what, I was keeping it."
His smile grew -- Molly was a modern woman and of course would be responsible. But to know that she’d still want his child….
“Forgive the hyperbole but I am the happiest man alive, Molly.”
They shared another smile, Molly falling into his arms. She took his hand in her newly be-ringed one and placed it low on her belly where a small solid bump was growing. Sherlock’s heart pounded, and he sank his free hand into Molly’s hair, stroking softly.
After a few moments, he began to sing softly to his fiancee and their unborn child.
[ Can be read as a sequel/companion to "Lost It", or as a standalone ]
🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵
“Bit busy, mate.”
“Baker Street. Come at once.”
“Sherlock, I’m trying to -- No, Rosie, no biting! -- change Miss Nibs here--”
“Bring her along. I need you both.”
“For what?!”
Click.
John Watson pulled the mobile away from his ear with a resigned glare. Young Rosie babbled and grabbed at it, wriggling herself out of the 18 month frock he’d just wrestled her into. John turned his glare to his daughter, who giggled at him unashamedly.
“Between you and your godfather, nudity is trending at an all time high,” he grumbled, though there was no heat in it.
****
Upon arriving at 221b, the Watsons were met with a perturbed Mrs. Hudson, dashing out the door with her brolly and handbag.
“That boy is a menace, I tell you,” she said in between cooing at Rosie. “Got himself all aflutter and refuses to tell me why.”
John frowned at that. “Aflutter? Is he…?”
“He’s clean, of course, but he’s also cleaning. Sherlock Holmes, cleaning the flat!” She tutted, striding off towards a cab. “Good luck, you two!”
John and Rosie shared a look, making their way in and up to the flat.
The faint scent of lemon cleaner and fresh sugar biscuits wafted down the stairs as the Watsons entered their home away from home. The flat was clean. No sign of newspapers, weaponry, abandoned teacups, nor assorted baby-care items strewn about the space. Any paraphernalia of Rosie’s was organized in a designated area that John was impressed to find both conveniently out of the way and visible from all angles of the living room.
The yellow chair from the corner was positioned across from his, angled in companionship with Sherlock’s own. There was a soft, cherry red afghan that John had never seen before draped over the back. The mirror above the mantle was clear of any chemical residue or hand-swipes (from clearing off residue to use the mirror for its intended function); even Billy the skull looked especially clean, as though the teeth had been brushed. The bison skull was free of dust, and the headphones had been replaced by a -- “Flower crown?”
“John, Rosamund, hello!”
John turned from the baffling sight of the bison and its floral corona to where Sherlock’s voice had sounded behind him in the kitchen, and his jaw dropped.
The consulting detective stood barefoot in jeans -- jeans -- a button-up white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, purple dish-washing gloves, and a flour-powdered green tartan pinny. John gaped, trying to gather and understand the sight before him.
“Lock!” Rosie squirmed until her confused father set her down.
“Yes, hello, Rosie,” Sherlock grinned down at her, shucking his garish gloves and tucking them in the pinafore pocket before reaching out to assist the toddler in her steps toward him. “Your father’s gone quite fish-faced, hasn’t he?”
“And your godfather has gone domestic,” John shot back, fighting a grin. “What’s all this then? Have you finally had one-too-many nicotine patches? Therapist electro-shock you?”
Sherlock rolled his eyes as he scooped the girl up and brushed a kiss to her chubby cheek. “Shut up, you’re late.”
“Yes well, little Nudist Nancy refused to cooperate with her wardrobe. What’s the urgent business then?”
“I want to have sex with Molly Hooper.”
John sputtered, “Oi! Tiny ears, Sherlock!”
Sherlock rolled his eyes, but his retort was cut off by John’s second sputter of, “Why the hell do you think Rosie -- a toddler, mind you -- and I would be able to help you with that?”
Sherlock maintained his same passive look, but the creeping pink tinge on his ears gave John insight to his friend’s nerves. “Well, seeing as you have experience -- three continents, was it? -- and the proof of said experience is currently chewing my apron strings, who else would I call upon for aid in such a matter?”
John blinked. “Irene Adler. Your mum. Mycro--”
“Please don’t mention my brother in this context lest I subject myself to eternal celibacy,” Sherlock grimaced. “The Woman is not a wise decision, as it would be ‘not good’ to consult a lesbian dominatrix in love with me about intimacy with another woman. Mummy is right out. She explained the whole ordeal when I was twelve and made Father blush so hard I think he still looks sunburnt. No, it has to be you, John Watson.”
He grinned and made his way back to the kitchen, setting Rosie in her high chair with a freshly baked and cooled biscuit that she immediately set her eight new teeth into. John followed, still baffled.
“Does Molly know you want to… y’know?”
Sherlock shot him an annoyed look.
“Fine,” John capitulated. “Does Molly know you wanna get off with her?”
Those ears grew pinker as Sherlock busied himself with washing the baking materials like a normal adult human. “I don’t suppose how she’d know. She hasn’t asked.”
“She hasn’t asked? Christ, Sherlock. You two have been dating though, right? Coffee two weeks ago, dinner at Angelo’s last Friday?”
“Yes.”
“Did you by any chance, oh I dunno, kiss her goodnight?”
Ears were now pink to the bottom of their lobes. “Last date, yes.”
John grinned behind his friend’s back, snagging a cooling biscuit. “Did you snog?”
Huffing, Sherlock turned. “What’s the difference?”
Through his biscuit, John said, “Kissing is just kissing. Snogging is a bit more involved.”
Sherlock made a face and crossed his arms. “Juvenile.”
“Which means it wasn’t a snog, then?”
Sherlock shrugged. “It was satisfactory.”
“Oooh, ‘Dear Penthouse Forum’--”
“Oh shut up, John.” Sherlock dropped into one of the kitchen chairs, in a full pout-soon-to-be-sulk as he face-planted into the tabletop.. “It’s pointless and you are deplorably unhelpful.”
Daughter of deplorably unhelpful friend reached out with her tiny hand and patted her godfather’s curly head. “Lock! Okay?”
John sighed and sat opposite Sherlock. “Look, I’m taking the mick. You’re not the sexual deviant Janine crowed about in the tabloids, and you’re not the unwitting virgin that Mycroft and Moriarty claimed you to be.” He paused. “Are you?”
Sherlock’s answer was spoken low and into the tabletop. “No. The Woman once in Karachi. Janine… sort of.”
John blinked, fought off a triumphant I-knew-it grin, and cleared his throat. “Right, well, sex with Molly is a different beast, though. Molly Hooper is a friend. She’s your pathologist. You did say the L-word to her two months ago.”
Sherlock hummed, Rosie still petting his head.
“She’s not like Janine -- you actually want Molly. She’s not Irene -- you trust Molly.”
Sherlock mumbled something.
“What?”
Sherlock’s head popped up. “With my life, my body, my very soul if such a thing should exist. She matters most. She counts.”
John’s lips quirked up in the corner. “Yeah. And then Sherrinford…”
“I am quite wholly aware that I love Molly Hooper, John. It’s why I want this to go further. It’ll-it’ll mean something. For the first time.”
“Have you told her since then?”
The brief silence was answer enough. John nodded. “Well then that’s it.”
“Hmm?”
“You need to find it.”
“It?”
“Your courage,” John smiled softly. “You admitted you loved her under extreme, traumatic duress. Not ideal. But it is what it is. And what it is is terrifying.”
Sherlock held his gaze, not quite understanding.
“Look mate, Mary…” his voice caught on his wife’s name, his eyes sliding to their daughter who was peering at Sherlock in a very uncanny Mary-like way. “Mary said it first. She knew I loved her by our third month anniversary. She beat me to the punch, and what I never expected was the fear in her eyes right before she said it.”
“Fear?” Sherlock frowned. “Out of the two of you, Mary’s penchant for fear was far less likely than yours, army training notwithstanding.”
“Right. But Mary was like you, and affairs of the heart affect psychopathic geniuses differently than us poor mortals.” John fixed him with a knowing grin. “Mary was afraid of rejection, as anyone would be. But she did it anyway, like she always did.”
At this, Rosie slammed her little hands down on the table, demanding both men’s attention. “Mawee!” she crowed, proud to know her mother’s name.
They chuckled at her, Sherlock kissing her pudgy hand. “So I need to just… to just say it?”
“Well, don’t spring it on her like a booby trap or pop out of a cake with it,” John advised. “But yeah. Boiled down to its bare essentials, she’ll either return the sentiment and snog you silly, or she won’t.”
His friend blanched. “And if it’s the latter?” he whispered.
John smiles sadly. “Then you’ll at least know, and can begin to move on. But Sherlock?”
“Mm?”
He reached over, and in his awkward way, patted Sherlock’s hand. “It won’t be the latter.”
The men shared a look that only brother-in-arms and former flatmates would understand.
The look was was broken by Rosie clapping her hands and giggling madly. John tickled her belly. “Yes, all right, Miss Nibs, let’s treat ‘Lock to some chips.” He looked to Sherlock, who smiled gratefully. “This kind of battle needs a well-fed soldier.”
****
🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵
Sherlock was playing his violin when Molly arrived that night, a soft melody she had yet to hear. Possibly a new piece for his sister? He looked up as she came into the flat and dropped her bag and scarf on the coffee table. Hmm, she thought, the entire flat is spotless. He definitely wants to impress tonight.
“Hullo, Molly.”
She smiled at him. “Hi.”
He nodded to her yellow chair, still playing that light, tender song. She slid out of her flats and curled up into the chair, her oversized jumper pulled over her bent knees. As she settled in, she looked over the detective. He was so casually dressed, jeans and a white button up with sleeves rolled up, feet bare and warmed by the small fire in the hearth. Molly hugged herself, happy to see him so relaxed. He’d been through a lot since Sherrinford and their phone call. She too was still coming back to life from the ordeal and the knowledge of what happened on that horrible island and at Musgrave Hall. A particularly sweet note rang out, and she watched him feel it. Oh but she loved him. Doomed to, it seemed. Well, doomed might’ve been harsh -- destined sounded better.
The song ended as her ruminations did; she clapped quietly, smiling at him. He gave a small bow and set his violin aside, turning and gazing at her intently.
“Did you want me to order a takeaway?” she asked, curling her toes as he held that same searching gaze. “Maybe Chinese? My treat.”
“I love you.”
Molly froze. “Well, er, you got our cheque at Angelo’s, so this one is on me--”
“Molly Hooper.”
She stopped rambling, tears pricking at her eyes. “Sh-Sherlock Holmes.”
He came to kneel before her chair, his eyes still on hers. “I love you. I’m in love with you.”
She didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Sherlock’s hands, warm and sure, gently grasped hers. His pulse beat erratically under his skin, she could feel it match hers. Her heart was screaming, her mind refusing to remember the last time she’d heard him say it. When it’d been torn from him by his sister and her own pride. She simply stared at him, let his confession wash over her and through her like a sea breeze after a storm.
Sherlock slowly let her hands go, and he stood gingerly. John’s voice, so sure that Molly would requite Sherlock’s affection, taunted him in his mind. He cleared his throat, a curious and unfortunately familiar lump forming, and made for the kitchen, scrounging for the takeaway menus.
“Chinese, yes?” he called back to the quiet pathologist, his mouth working fast to fill the silence and not panic. "I’ll get it ordered. With rain imminent, it’s best to order now. You’re probably craving that house lo mein you like -- always are when you’ve worked in the lab, can’t figure out why though it isn’t exactly a mystery, probably just a chemical reaction to the, well, chemicals you’re working with that have you ravenous and craving sodium and carbohydrates and various proteins--”
He stopped abruptly at the feel of her small hand on his. He looked up and Molly’s cheeks were damp, tears slowly spilling down, but her eyes were kind, dark, and calm.
“I love you,” she said simply. “I love you, Sherlock.”
She came up on her tiptoes and pressed her mouth to his, taking advantage of his relieved shock to -- as John Watson had predicted -- snog him silly.
****
The takeaway was never ordered, but the fresh-baked biscuits were consumed heartily.
The imminent rain arrived.
The tidy flat remained so, save for the shed clothing upon the bedroom floor of a consulting detective and his pathologist.
Author’s Note: Pirate AU with Loki, an OFC, and various other Pirate-AU-Marvel Characters (MCU). Smut towards the end. Lots of flirting. More plot than expected.
Rating: Mature. Oral sex, unprotected 18th century sex.
Length: 6511 words. Not beta’d, so please forgive my hastened spelling/wording.
“Give up this poisonous dream, brother! Come home!”
A lot had happened since New Yorktown.
It was not as ghastly as his brother would make it out to be. Well, not entirely. All right, it was a rather messy raid that nearly destroyed the colony and gotten him hanged, if not just promptly murdered by that berserker-mad scientist.
He took a swig of rum, washing away the bile that rose in his throat at the memory of his thrashing. No matter, he thought, it’s in the past.
The past was a problem. It was full of pain, jealousy, family, bitterness, and enough angst to sink any man into his cups. “Another!” he called out to to the barmaid nearby, waving his empty glass at her with a flirty smile. The young woman strode over, too quiet and plain to truly be in the large party room of Volstagg’s Tavern where Loki’s crew was merrymaking.
“You sure you can stomach it, my lord?” Sarcasm laced the words, and her bored expression amused the pirate.
“I’ve stomached far worse, lass,” he nodded to the farce in front of him. “Go on, be a good little bit.”
She rolled her eyes, and if he wasn’t less than sober, he’d imagine she’d called him something highly homonymous with “spoiled brat.” He shrugged, and leaned back on the worse-for-wear chaise lounge, popping a few grapes into his mouth from the bowl in his lap. His crew, a smorgasbord of the most wretched and stupidly loyal gits on the seas, was drunkenly performing their rendition of the last time Loki had seen his righteous older brother, Admiral to the Crown, Thor. It had been emotional, with Loki feigning mortal wounds as Thor vowed vengeance on the murderous corsairs they’d battled against nearly a year ago. He sighed, reminiscing in all the times he’d lied to his brother. Piracy was just the icing on the cake of sin that was Loki, as Thor had often told him. He sort of missed the idiot.
“You know, I don’t remember crying that much.”
Shit.
Loki leapt, gracefully, to his feet and swung on heel. “Ah.”
Admiral Thor Odinson, fiercest warrior of the high seas, leveled him with a mighty glare. A mighty, one-eyed glare.
Loki pointed. “Erm, you haven’t got an--”
“Yes, I can see that, thank you.”
Loki winced. “Can you see it? Or--”
Thor held up a hand. “Shut up. We have business.”
Loki’s crew, though stupidly loyal, were cowardly quiet and slinking away from the estranged brothers. Loki spotted the barmaid with his refill, her bored expression fleeing as she looked over the situation. She took in Thor’s eyepatch, his grizzled but smart admiral’s attire, and then her gaze drifted to Loki. The boredom returned, and she gave herself a shrug before marching over, skirt brushing the floorboards, and handing Loki his rum.
To the Admiral, Loki said, “Hard to do business with a dead man, brother.”
He winked at the barmaid. Her brown eyes narrowed into a scoff, and she made to leave. His long arm reached and pulled her gently but authoritatively to his side. Her scoff became a scowl. He grinned at her, though it was more “You’re a potential shield or projectile until I figure out what Thor wants” than a flirt.
Thor chuckled. “Aye, but when haven’t you died, brother?”
Loki sipped his rum, nudging the barmaid with his hip. “Never in bed, I promise you.”
The woman’s retort was interrupted by two newcomers from the entrance of the Tavern. Loki looked up at them, and his jaw nearly fell.
“Professor Banner, Lady Brunnhilde,” he mustered up. “Welcome to Asgard.”
The professor, a doubtfully timid man in spectacles, gave him an uncertain smile. “Odd name for an island.”
The lady, clad in breeches and corset over a sailor’s shirt, grabbed a bottle from Volstagg’s bar, and pulled its cork out with her teeth. “Aye, but a beautiful one.”
Loki blinked, eyeing the three sailors warily. “It’s never a good sign when a raving madman and a drunken ex-warrior join forces with you, Admiral. We agreed, Asgard was neutral ground.”
“Aye, we did, brother. But New Yorktown is not.”
The barmaid, who had relaxed against his side as much as one could when they did not consent to be there, stiffened briefly. It was a sudden movement, gone as soon as it had happened. Hmm.
“I do believe I’m persona non grata in New Yorktown, as Misters Stark, Rogers, and Strange made very clear last time,” Loki drawled.
“Yes, well, if we had our way, you still would be,” Professor Banner murmured.
Thor smiled slightly at that. “We have need of you, and your crew. There is a greater threat on the horizon, fast moving to lay waste to these free lands.”
“So I’m to become privateer?” Loki glanced to the barmaid, who lifted a brow. “Disgusting.”
“Nothing so noble, Loki,” Lady Brunnhilde’s grin faltered a bit. “You’re merely an ally against bigger fish.”
Loki met Thor’s gaze, and in his remaining blue eye, he saw his brother’s worry. Whatever the big fish was… it was definitely more than expected.
“We’ve fought bigger,” Thor murmured, having followed Loki’s thoughts, resignation in his voice and a brotherly grin playing at his lips.
Loki looked to his crew, eager and loyal, then to Lady Brunnhilde and Banner, who were reluctantly hopeful. His eyes landed on the barmaid, who tried to hide her interest behind a cool look of “Don’t ask me, I’m the human shield.”
He looked up, smirking at Thor. “When do you we start?”
If Gloriana Jarvis had been a betting woman (she wasn’t, anymore), she most definitely would not have bet that she’d have been secured on a ship to Asgard Isle with the explicit instruction of Mr. Stark to keep an eye on the quote “Nautical nightmare nuisance, Captain Loki of the Mischief” only to find herself his human shield against his brother, the decorated Admiral Thor. She also would not have bet that, after her use as said human shield was no longer needed and the alliteratively described Loki literally shoved her away to pursue his brother’s wild scheme to take them all to New Yorktown, she’d have packed all her meager belongings and weapons and stowed away on the Mischief.
She wouldn’t have bet this because her plan, the safer bet, would be that she’d have done all the aforementioned and stowed away on the Admiral’s ship Mjolnir. But alas, she had picked an empty gunpowder barrel as her disguise and Loki, ever the brat, had his crew pilfer the barrel from his brother’s stores and place it in his own cargo hold. Glori had been discovered by the big friendly boatswain, a rugged brute with a sweet smile named Korg. He and a short portly bo’sun mate named Miek had brought her to the Captain’s quarters, where she sat on a chair and awaited His Nuisance.
She picked at her skirts, the muslin layers fraying a bit. She missed her improper trousers and boots that Mr. Stark allowed her to wear around the Tower as she trained under Master Wong. So much more freeing, and less chafing of her thighs.
She rummaged in her bag of effects and pulled out her leatherbound journal, flipping open to the last letter she’d received from New Yorktown, tucked between the pages as a bookmark. Looking about the cabin she found an oil lantern and brought it to a glow, re-reading the letter from her cousin.
Dearest Gloriana,
The Avenging Lords are thrilled at the news of your last letter. They thank you for your diligence and sacrifice in keeping up with Captain Laufeyson and his shenanigans. Captain Rogers and Mr. Stark are aware that Admiral Odinson and his crew are on their way to Asgard Isle. Pray you keep safe, and come home aboard the Admiral’s ship.
Master Strange has foreseen that you have choppy seas ahead. Lady Romanoff asked if he was being literal. As always, he was enigmatic in answer, though he has enclosed a sealed letter for you. I did not trust his grin, cousin.
Have care, and the sun shall shine on us again.
Deepest affections,
Edwin
Glori smiled. Her cousin was butler to Mr. Stark in the great Stark Tower in New Yorktown. When her parents had perished due to influenza, Edwin Jarvis had taken her under his wing and brought her to Mr. Anthony Stark. It was Captain Steven Rogers who saw her potential for more than mere scullery maid duties. She was trained under Lady Natasha Romanoff in hand-to-hand combat that would have shocked her mother from her grave had she known her only daughter favored fighting over a debutante season. Master Wong and Master Stephen Strange educated her in worldly and otherworldly literature, opening her mind’s eye to the world’s possibilities. Mr. Stark had taught her maths and science, and with his help she was a fine craftswoman in machinery. She was an Avenging Lady, a moniker from the secret society that monitored the goings on in their world, and protected it from tyrants. A very 1776 kind of idea, but there it was.
She shuffled the letter back and brought forth the missive from Master Strange. It was short, and the man’s perfunct scrawl held the enigmatic smirk that Edwin had mentioned.
Miss Jarvis,
I advise you to keep a sharp and open eye about. A trickster may have wit, but a woman has her wiles. Also, do mind the hammock. It’s a doozy.
Your friend,
S. Strange
She chuckled at the advice. Mostly because while the first lines read like a proverb, the last was inane chatter. Strange lived up to his surname, but as he was a close friend and mentor, she took his words to heart.
“I do hope that rare, yet enticing smile is for me? Or am I to be jealous of some lovesick landlubber?”
Glori started at the smooth voice coming from the door. Loki, dressed in his forest green shirt, black breeches, and boots, leaned his tall frame against the dark wood. His gently curling black hair was tied off in its usual queue, but a lock or two had been caressed enough by the sea air to be free of their mates and roguishly frame his aristocratic face. A dark amount of stubble limned his wicked grin, and Glori rolled her eyes. Again. At this rate they’ll fall out of my head, she thought.
“You don’t like me much, do you, barmaid?” He sighed and sauntered round his large desk to the plush chair behind it, flopping upon it like Dionysus.
“I don’t care enough to form an opinion,” she lied smoothly. “And you can call me Miss Jarvis, thank you.”
“Captain.”
She frowned at him in question.
“You can call me Captain, Miss Jarvis. Thank you.” His tone was that of authority, but those green-sea eyes had a glint of mischief alight in them.
“You are not my Captain, sirrah.” She knew it was a fruitless point, as her lack of footing in her current predicament demanded she acknowledge his rank, piracy notwithstanding.
“I could be.” The air was thick with his intent.
“Excuse me?”
He grinned and reached for his belt, withdrawing a dagger. The blade was nearly the length of Glori’s forearm, formidable steel that glinted in the lamplight as he twirled and tossed it deftly in one hand.
“You’re a spy, Miss Jarvis, not a simpleton. You heard me.”
Glori wasn’t even surprised. Loki was a master of lies, tricks, and trouble. Of course he’d recognize subterfuge.
“I don’t claim loyalty to pillaging, marauding pirate brats, I’m afraid,” she sneered.
“Oh dear, did you lose your house to the great New Yorktown raid?” He didn’t sound at all sympathetic. “You and nearly the entire city, love.”
Glori glared at him, but said nothing. He continued toying with the dagger.
“Tell me why you stowed away on the Mischief. You aren’t exactly a cloying fan of mine, so I assume you’re either the worst assassin, or the worst stowaway.”
She smiled at that, unable to deny his snark. “It’s the latter, actually. I was meant to sneak aboard the Mjolnir. Alas, the gunpowder you stole from your brother happened to be the stowaway barrel. Bit of an empty hand for pirates.”
Loki looked at her, taking in her wavy reddish hair, her perpetual scowl, and her unnecessarily low bodice. “Not empty, no.”
Glori rolled her eyes, but allowed herself an amused chuckle. “Oh, shut up. You're likely going to throw me overboard, no?”
His eyebrow quirked up. "Depends. What have you been feeding the Avenging Lords about me?”
“Nothing so incriminating. Lud, but you're a dull pirate.”
His jaw dropped at first in offense, but a smile swept over his lips. “I admire your candor. You could have pretended you knew nothing of that blasted society, bought time with your lies. Instead, honesty. Why?”
“I’m not a simpleton. I know when to dissemble, Captain,” she smirked. “I am a woman after all.”
“Of that, I’m very aware. Have we never flirted before? How did I miss such a treat?” His long fingers brushed her cheek, curling around a stray curly lock that escaped her coif. She felt the gentle touch low in her belly, warm and tempting.
“You didn’t notice me until your brother arrived,” she shrugged. “I’ve been trained to not be noticed.”
His fingers traced her cheekbone, down to her jawline. “Trained? No doubt by Lady Romanoff. Tell me, what is it that is on the horizon? Who is it that dares threaten the free seas?”
Glori met his green gaze, and she saw a glint of something fiery. “You looking to be a hero?”
“Gods, no,” he laughed. “I just don’t like to be unprepared. Let Thor be the hero. He always is.”
Those last words were said with a melancholic pride, and Glori felt herself soften towards the pirate. “You could be, too. I heard what you did for Asgard last year.”
The Mischief had turned up in the middle of a hurricane to rescue the Mjolnir and her crew as they battled a formidable pirate of infamy. The dread corsair had invaded and lay waste to the port of Asgard, nearly killing Thor before Loki had shown up and unleashed his own brand of villainy upon Hela and the Ragnarok. A rare spot of bravery that even the Avenging Lords had commended.
Loki shrugged. “I have weak moments.”
“Like this? Following your brother blindly into battle with men and women who would otherwise see you hanged?” Glori leaned forward, looking up into his eyes. “A unique weakness to be sure, heroism.”
His eyes flit from hers to her lips, and Glori could hear Lady Romanoff’s reprimand of Keep focus and don’t be distracted! faintly as she closed the distance between them.
His lips were warm and dry, tasting lightly of rum, pliant and intuitive. She’d expected desire - he was a man and a pirate - but she hadn’t planned for gentleness. It was divine, the way he pulled her to him and deepened the kiss, sweet and slow. It burned through her, urging her to clutch at his black leather waistcoat. A soft moan slipped from one of them as they pulled away just far enough to breathe, followed by her sharp gasp.
She’d forgotten about the dagger.
He grinned at her, the sharp tip of the blade resting harmlessly, but threateningly, against the underside of her ribs. “Lady Romanoff taught you well, barmaid. I almost believed you found me heroic.”
“Would you believe that you aren’t particularly wrong?” she tried with a hopeful smile.
“I may, if it weren’t for them,” he smiled almost sadly, turning her left arm and rucking up the sleeve. A black calligraphic A with an arrow through the middle lay against her flesh, tattooed upon her earning her status as Avenging Lady. His thumb stroked over it, almost reverently.
“I daresay being on the side of the heroes warrants me the ability to recognize heroic potential, Captain.” He looked up at her words, that same fiery glint from before smoldering as he looked for insincerity. She suspected there was none, as she truly felt what she said.
The door to his cabin slammed open, and Korg, with his craggy smile stood, a fist raised. “Christ, I forget my own strength, sorry, Captain!”
His eyes made short work of the rather intimate embrace Glori and Loki were in. “Oh, were you uh, dallying? I say, hang a cap on the door, sir, wouldn’t want to barge in and see you with your knickers down again--”
“Korg. Cease, desist, and state your business,” Loki cut him off, stepping away from Glori. She regretted the sudden cold air that rushed against her skin at his absence.
“Right!” The bo’sun shuffled a bit awkwardly. “Ship on the horizon. Flying pirate colors. Coming in from the north, travelling fast. Orders?”
Loki swore under his breath. “Right. Well, get the crew ready, send Thor one of the ravens and let him know we may be delayed. Oh, and take care of the stowaway.”
Glori’s head whipped towards him as Korg said, “Take care of her? Like this?”
He mimed slicing his throat with a thick, crooked finger. Loki stared at him for a beat.
“Oh!” the giant man chuckled. “Right, like lock her in the brig. Got it. Whew, I thought you were wantin’ me to kill her. Glad I asked, eh?”
Glori glared at Loki. “The brig?”
He took her hand and slung her at Korg. “That’s where we put stowaway spies, Miss Jarvis. No matter how tempting.”
With a smile and a dismissive wave to Korg, he strode out of the cabin and up to the deck. Glori looked at Korg, who brought out an iron pair of manacles.
“Sorry, Miss, but Captain has his orders. And I follow ‘em. Well, not all the time. He told me to go piss up a rope once, but I know a bit more than him about anatomical abilities, I think.” He gently cuffed her wrists, holding out an arm, like a gentleman. “May I escort your pretty self to the brig?”
Glori sighed. “If you must.” You let yourself be distracted, you know, whispered Lady Romanoff in her mind.
The Mischief, while a fast ship, was soon caught up by the Milano, a smaller, sleeker vessel with impressive artillery. Loki barked orders to his crew, knowing full well that the other ship would be upon them regardless.
As though he’d conjured it with a thought, a cannon fired, and the ball went whizzing through one of the lesser sails. The ship rocked violently with the force, wood splintering as the sail hung uselessly from the mast. Loki deftly missed bits of wood and rigging, shouting, “Hard to starboard and run the Admiral’s flag!”
Below decks, Glori sat on a barrel in her measly cell. The force of the cannonball slammed her and the barrel into the iron sides of the cell. Recovering quickly, she cocked an ear near the porthole. “I know those guns!”
She scrambled to the dor of her cell. “Korg! Miek!”
Miek, the silent, rather pink little bo’sun’s mate waddled over to her. “Aye?”
“Let me out, I know how to beat that ship!”
“But Captain said--”
“Oh hang what that snake said! You want to live to see tomorrow?”
Miek nodded.
Glori grinned. “Then get me out of this bloody cage!”
After a second, Miek was fumbling in his pockets for the key. Another cannon was fired, this time from the Mischief. The ship rocked again, and Miek stumbled, dropping the keys a few feet away.
Korg came thundering in, looking even more bewildered than usual. “Miek, mate, what’re you doing?”
“Korg!” Glori waved at him through the bars. “Let me out! I can help!”
Korg grimaced. “Sorry, Miss Jarvis, but Captain will have me flogged for disobeying his orders. Besides, you’re a girl. Those ruffians may hurt you.”
“Misguided chivalry aside, Korg, I know that ship, and I know how to get us out of this without destroying the Mischief. Now,” she commanded, “free me from this blasted cell and let me do my job.”
Miek and Korg shared a look before both nodding and rushing to unlock the cell.
On deck, Loki stood upon the rail, holding a bit of rigging as he swayed with the ship. The Milano was nearly side by side with them, the brightly colored wood of the hull taunting his eyes. Aboard, he caught sight of the first mate, her dark hair wild and free, the ends a sunset hue of pink that whipped like fire in the wind. She caught his eye, waving with a smirk.
“You going to stand there and flirt with her, or are you going to be a bloody Captain?”
Loki turned swiftly to see his determined little barmaid, brown hair loosely coiffed, skirt tied into makeshift trousers, and two pistols at the ready. “I’ll keelhaul Korg for this.”
She grinned. “Oh get your knickers out of your arse about it. I know the Milano well, and I’ll be saving you and your precious ship now.”
She bounded atop the rail, and called over to the offending ship. “Peter Quill, show your thievin’ face!”
The first mate frowned and looked to the tiller. A tall blondish man came into view, a lean and wary raccoon upon his shoulder and a unique pair of fuschia-stained glass spectacles upon his face. He swept them up to catch atop his head and squinted. “It’s Lord of the Stars, thank you. Who the hell calls?”
“Lord of Stars?” Loki snickered. “That’s… well, that’s ambitious.”
“Hey, shut up!” Quill shouted back. “Who’s the girl?”
“Peter, your memory is about as good as your aim,” Glori taunted. “Of course, you were just a farm boy last I saw you!”
Quill’s head tilted to the side for a moment, then he laughed, the sound traveling over the water. “Oh hell! Glori? What are you doing with that idiot?”
Loki straightened, affronted, but Glori cut him off. “We’re headed to New Yorktown!”
The first mate of the Milano piped up. “You’re going to the Avenging Lords?”
Loki sneered. “Helping them, apparently. Make ready for boarding, we’ll discuss this a bit more civilly.”
He nodded to Korg, who brought him a loose rigging rope, and pulled Glori against him. “Hold tight, Avenger.”
They swung out over the water and landed almost too gracefully aboard the Milano. Glori reluctantly released the pirate, catching the eye of the first mate, who gave her a knowing grin. Refusing to blush, she looked to Quill. “Hey, Peter.”
“Oh dear, I thought it was Lord of the Stars?” Loki drawled. He swept off his hat, a proper pirate’s hat with two curious gold braids stitched up like horns on the leather, and gave Quill a deep mock-bow. “I am humbled at Your Grace’s presence.”
The first mate chuckled wryly. “Oh yeah, God of Mischief?”
Loki shrugged, standing back up. “I earned that moniker.” He cut a look to Quill. “Didn’t have to make it up myself.”
Quill pulled his blunderbuss from his hip, aiming at Loki’s chest. “Yeah, all right, enough talk, ass--”
“I am Groot!”
A large, lanky, muscled tree of a man lumbered in between the pirate and Quill. The first mate smiled. “Groot, you and Drax go pull back on the cannons. Captain Loki and his Avenging Lady are no threat to us right now.”
Glori failed in noticing that neither she or Loki denied her phrase “his Avenging Lady.”
She sauntered over, hand outstretched. “Gamorra, first mate of the Milano. We are the Guardians, a nickname given to us after stopping the pillaging of Xandar Peninsula. Groot is the tall fellow with the language barrier, Drax is our gunner and galley chef with no normal sense of humor.”
Loki nodded to the raccoon eyeing them all from his perch on Quill’s shoulder. “Who’s the rabbit?”
The creature bared its teeth, growling at him.
“That’s Rocket. He’s our chief engineer,” Gamorra said with no jest. “And you’ve met our fearless captain.”
She smirked as Glori shook her hand, murmuring, “And not just on the seas, eh?”
Glori smiled in spite of herself. “We were younger and far less mature.”
They both looked to Loki and Quill, who were glaring at each other as the Milano’s crew settled from her battle-readiness. Neither moved even as the raccoon leapt to the deck and scurried towards Groot and Drax, a heavily tattooed man made of muscle.
“And the pirate?” Gamorra asked. “Bit cliche for an Avenging Lady to be swayed by such a villain.”
Glori felt her cheeks warm. “I will not lie and deny being swayed, but in the end, he is a trickster, a pirate, and untouchable.”
“And yet, we are swayed.” Glori looked to Gamorra, catching the first mate’s possessive gaze upon Quill. She smiled to herself. Good. Peter always need someone to lead his dance.
“Miss Jarvis.”
She turned and was caught by Loki’s sudden authoritative demeanor. “Yes, Captain?”
“We are falling behind the Mjolnir, and if what the Admiral says is true, we are to make haste to your Avenging Lords,” he drawled, his eyes never leaving Quill. “It seems as though the Lord of Stars is more inclined to play at pirate than to aid your cause.”
Glori looked at him, then to Quill, then back. Both men glared at her; she glared right back. “Oh my apologies, was there a pissing contest I missed?”
“Pissing contest?” The muscled and tattooed Drax strode over. “Alright, I accept.”
He dropped his trousers and the entire company shouted, “DRAX NO!”
The galleyman grumbled, re-adjusting himself, “I would have won. I am an excellent pisser.”
Quill rolled his eyes and turned to Glori. “Look, we can take you to New Yorktown. You’d have your own bunk, and only have to worry about Rocket stealing from your effects.”
“That is kind of you, Peter,” she smiled warmly at him, taking his hand in hers. “I have a mission to complete.”
“Aye, but with him?” He nodded to Loki, who was watching Gamorra whip the crew into shape. “He’s going to hurt you, physically or otherwise.”
“He’s merely another man I must spar with to get my job done.” She squeezed his hand reassuringly. “In any case, I’m sure your first mate wouldn’t be keen on my presence.”
Quill looked at Gamorra, a small smile hitching up the corner of his mouth. “It’s not… It’s just some unspoken thing, you know?”
Glori nodded. “Make it spoken sooner rather than later.”
“Miss Jarvis.” Loki’s voice was like steel, softened only by a peculiarly possessive gleam in those green eyes as they took in the pair’s clasped hands.. “We’re leaving. Now.”
Glori nodded her goodbyes, coming to Loki’s side. “Please be safe and keep a weather eye out. The horizon is darkening, and trouble may follow you.”
“Be safe, Avenging Lady,” Gamorra smiled.
Glori felt Loki’s hand snake round her waist and he pulled her to him sharply, her arms instinctively wrapping round him. “Fret not. She’s safe as can be.”
He held out his free hand and like magic, a rope from the Mischief landed in his palm. He tightened his hold on Glori, and they were airborne, swinging to their deck. They landed gently, and Loki began to bark orders. His hold on her waist did not loosen.
“Korg!”
“Aye, Captain?”
“Get us on the starboard wind and let loose the full sail. Miek, take Miss Jarvis to my quarters and see that she gets fed.”
Glori looked up at his face, confused.
He rose a sardonic eyebrow. “Unless you enjoyed the brig? I was under the impression that perhaps you wanted your own safe bunk?”
The pettiness in those last words made Glori smile. “Of course, Captain. Thank you, Captain.”
He let her go, his fingers trailing her arm and hand as Miek came to escort her. “My hospitality doesn’t mean I trust you, Avenger, or that I won’t consider you more than a stowaway prisoner.”
She leveled her gaze with his, affecting her bored expression. “Of course not, Captain. I’m sure that the Lord of Stars and his Guardians would have been too trusting.”
Miek led her off, and Lok’s fingers flexed in irritation. Lord of Stars. They were too chummy for them to be mere acquaintances or friends, especially with the tender look they’d shared--
Lokie shook his head, snapping out of the possessive gnawing that had clawed its way to his brain.
Green was his color. Jealousy was not.
An hour passed in which Glori ate the warm stew and bread Korg had brought her, washing it down with some fine rum she’d found on the desk being used as a paperweight for the maps strewn about. She leaned against the large window that made up the stern of the pirate ship, watching as the horizon grew darker and the waters became inky black. She was lost in her thoughts when a hand fell upon her shoulder. Glori sprung up, knocking her assailant’s arm and lashing out with her own fist. Her wrist was caught, twisted behind her back, and her body yanked and immobilized against a solid chest.
“Easy, my dear Avenging Lady,” Loki drawled, his voice low and purring in her ear, “it’s only me.”
“And yet my reaction is still warranted,” she tossed back, a grin playing at her lips.
“I get attacked… I wonder what your precious of Lord of Stars would have garnered?”
The amount of jealousy in his tone startled a laugh out of her. She turned in his arms, smirking up at him. “You have no claim to me, Captain, so why worry about Peter?”
“I believe I claimed you as prisoner, barmaid.”
“Mmm, after I’d stowed away. In fact, I rather think I claimed you as my transport.” Glori’s smile widened, her body relaxing into his. Oh, but he was rather fit, and the primal part of her that delighted in his possessiveness was shoving the strict voice of Lady Romanoff out a proverbial window.
“What of your Guardian?” he sneered, drawing away from her. She caught his hand.
“I had him when he was a farmboy. He ran off with his ravager father and took that summer love with him. I've had a few other romantic entanglements, if you're looking to glare and insult more insignificant men in my history,” she teased.
“Minx.” But his grin was acquiescent.
“Besides, God of Mischief,” she drawled, imitating his voice, “I'm an Avenging Lady. A hero for the earth and her people. I don't fraterni--”
His mouth claimed hers, cutting off her snarky retort. Her hands burrowed into his hair, releasing the silky black locks from their queue. He gathered her closer, a hand on her cheek and the other her hip.
The kiss was sweet, hot, soaked in rum and desire. Glori’s head fell back, his lips sliding down her throat.
“Loki…”
He growled, picking her up and tossing her atop the hammock. It swung under her; as she balanced, Loki’s clever fingers were tugging at her corset ties and skirt. He nipped at the skin he exposed, fingers curling over her breasts, sliding over her backside to shove her skirt to the floorboards.
Glori gasped as the cool air kissed at her skin, the air salty and heavy with want. Loki held her gaze, his lips canted in a smug smile as he knelt before her. The hammock swung gently forward and he grasped her ankles in each hand. “Fraternizing with a villain so soon. milady Avenger? Tsk tsk.”
Glori’s reply died in a groan as he threw her legs over his shoulders and buried his mouth in her yearning center. His tongue flicked, laved, teased, and plundered as she writhed, clutching his hair and bucking against him. The hammock swung sharply as he grasped her hips and forced her closer to his hungry mouth.
She was riding a wave of tension and pleasure that blinded her to anything that wasn't his mouth and hands. Which is why when he suckled at the peak of her sex, sending her into delicious paroxysm, she bucked herself out of the hammock, colliding in a heap atop her captain.
Loki chuckled breathlessly from under her as the hammock swung nonchalantly to the sway of the ship. He felt Glori tremble through her pleasure and right into a fit of giggles. “Oi, lass, ‘tis not the time to be laughing at your lover.”
Glori raised herself up, loosely straddling his hips and gazing down at him, a flush glowing on her skin. “I promise, I’m only laughing at myself. That hammock was indeed a doozy.”
She giggled again, and rather than question why she felt so humored, Loki was transfixed by the bounce of her breasts and the ripple of her mirth through her belly. He was not celibate or at all particularly choosy in lovers, but he was finding himself partial to this little hero-in-training. His adoration must have shown on his face because her giggling subsided, and those brown eyes locked with his. There was heat and desire in the air again, and then she was leaning forward and capturing his lips again.
She gave as good as she got, tasting herself on his tongue and lips, hands pulling his shirt and waistcoat from his chest. Scooting back as he divested them completely, Glori’s hands found the placket of his trousers. One swift tug, and then her hands (both because the pirate captain had plenty to be proud of) grasped him tightly. Those clever green eyes glazed over, closing as he hissed through his straight, bared teeth. He arched into her touch, hips pumping, throat bared, his own hands finding her hips. Glori grinned, watching him come alive at her touch.
“My darling captain,” she murmured, “you look ravishing.”
He huffed a chuckle as her thumb swirled over him, and barely made eye contact again before she bent and her tongue replaced her thumb. He cursed, his fingers gripping her thighs where they could reach. She smiled wickedly, swirling her tongue just enough to make him squirm until his damned smart fingers found their way to her aching and once again ready center.
Glori let him pull her hips to hover over his, balancing with her hands on his lean muscled chest. He teased at her entrance, sliding against her to aid his entry, hands at her breasts and hips all at once. She heard herself growl, “Loki…”
With no dramatic flair or preamble, he was pressing inside her, easing her down over his length. Their eyes met again, and she just knew he could read her mind and know that he was better than her farm boy Quill. Hell, he could probably see in the delight upon her face that he was better than most (if not all) of her past lovers.
Loki did see it. He saw her pleasure build as he rocked into her, pressing to the hilt, her quim gripping him and undulating as they composed a rhythm. Her fingers pressed into his chest, one hand for balance as the other drifted to grip in his hair at the base of his neck. She was beautiful, the dimming lantern and encroaching moonlight casting her into shadows and swaths of light that reminded him of the magic in this mortal world they inhabited. His heart skipped a beat, silly thing that it was, as she bit her bottom lip to suppress a small moan.
They caught their own tempo, rolling together headlong into pleasure and absolution. Glori gasped, pulling him to sit up as she rode out her climax, their foreheads touching. He felt her clench and shudder; it was more than enough to send him with her. He commandeered her lips with his, needing her to taste his exhalation of her name as he succumbed to his own peak.
Minutes passed as both pirate and Avenging Lady clung to each other, breaths erratic, the balmy sea air in the cabin now sharpened with their coupling. The ship dipped with the waves, and neither made any attempt to dodge the swinging hammock that swept into their shoulders.
A detangling of limbs, a quick cleaning for each, and they were back in his stationary nailed-to-the-floor-bunk, her head and arms on the pillows, her knees pressing her bum up as he took her from behind, a hand in her hair and the other toying with her breasts. A rougher climax for both, two hours of dozing and soft touches, and the lantern light died when they came together again, hands clasped, mouths fused, side by side in a lover’s embrace.
Loki felt the touch of the sun through the window upon his arm, a warm caress from a friend too timid to to shake him awake. He refused to open his eyes. It was much too early to be awake after his claiming his little barmaid-cum-hero for his own. Speaking of which…
He stretched his arm out to his side, hand reaching for the little minx who was the cause of this morning’s stiffness. He blinked awake when his hand encountered cool bed linens. Sitting up, he glanced about the cabin. No sign of her clothes, but his were folded neatly upon his chair at the desk. He cocked an eyebrow up at that.
“Knock knock!”
Loki sighed and looked to the cabin door, where Korg and his cheery smile greeted him.
“ ‘Allo, there,” the bo’sun beamed. “We’ve docked into New Yorktown! Ye alright this mornin’?”
“Splendid. Right as rain. Where is our stowaway?”
“Ah, well, as luck would have it….”
Loki rolled his eyes. “Korg, answer me.”
He didn’t have to. There was a cry out from the deck above that sounded suspiciously familiar. Loki glared at Korg.
“Korg… where is Miss Jarvis?”
Korg sighed sheepishly. “She’s talking to Their Lordships Stark and Rogers?”
Loki cursed and sprung out of the bunk. Well, mostly. He nearly lost his leg as he stumbled, barely holding the linens over his nudity as his eyes looked down his leg to lock onto the shackles that chained him to the post of the bed. He swung his gaze to Korg, who had moved from the doorway and was replaced by his unashamedly smirking brother, the aloof yet impressed redhead Lady Romanoff, and his lover turned captor.
“Miss Jarvis---” he began, but Lady Romanoff cut him off.
“That’s Captain Jarvis, Laufeyson. You’ve been demoted.” She grinned at him. Thor chuckled.
Loki’s glare swept over them and landed on the little traitor. She pulled his captain’s hat from behind her, setting it rather becomingly upon her head.
Her eyes sparkled, and Loki felt a rush of that mortally damning adoration as she drawled, “Don’t fret, Loki. In times of need like ours, it should be good to know that Mischief has found its goddess.”
"Sherlock, I've got my hand in a y-section right now--" "I need you. I've lost it. I need you, now!" He hung up, and Molly sighed, gently pulling her hand out of Mrs. Dennyson's chest. She had promised herself after that phone call and the subsequent conversation that should he need her, she'd be there. She just hoped that when she got there, he wasn't screaming Shakespeare at hallucinations. Her little Focus didn't have a boot big enough to shove him into. She arrived at 221b in an impressive 5 minutes. As she entered the flat she had to dodge projectiles as they flew past her head. A throw pillow, a heavy textbook, and the deerstalker flurried through the air. "Sherlock! What are y--" "Make yourself useful and look!" "Look for what?" He didn't answer; instead he ran through the flat like a madman, tossing furniture over and muttering under his breath. He stormed back into the sitting room, hair on end and eyes glassy. Not high. Fear. He was legitimately scared, and Molly's heart ached. "Sherlock--" He spun round, his hands in his hair. And she suddenly understood. "Sherlock Holmes, freeze!" He did, uncharacteristically obedient in his panic. "Look at me, Sherlock." He turned and he looked like a child. "What did you lose?" He blinked and looked away, tears threatening. "Sherlock..." In the smallest of voices, he said, "Rosie. I l-lost Rosie." Fighting back a smile, Molly nodded. "How?" "I had clients come in. She was fussy and wouldn't nap. She cried unless I held her but I couldn't hold her and work, I had to use my hands especially when forcing Alec Gilbert out-- he wanted me to follow his stepdaughter and take photos of her the bastard-- and then Mrs Hudson came round with tea and I realised Rosie hadn't made a sound and then I couldn't remember where she was-- wait!" He ceased rambling and glared at Molly. "Kidnapped! Rosie was taken, by a client. There a woman, Libbey Sanders, she was itching to see Rosie. 'Oh I do love babies, can't get enough of them!'" His voice was filled with ire and disgust as he mimicked the woman's voice. "She stole Rosie. Kidnapped her right from this flat!" Sherlock spun on his heel and reached for his coat, determination and righteous anger coursing through him, ready to do battle. "Sherlock, wait! Rosie wasn't kidnapped!" He turned to her and she saw that despicable look of humoring pity he gave normal humans when he was trying to be kind. "Denial is natural, Molly, in times of grief but I promise I will find her and bring her home--" Molly shoved her hand over his mouth. "Shut up, and look in the mirror, you idiot." She shoved him to the mirror hanging over the mantle, and watched as his eyes made quick deductions... and then his face flushed with a curious shade of embarrassed pink. "Please don't tell John." Molly smiled, affectionately ruffling his hair, her hand sliding down the nape of his neck to land gently in the blonde curls of the sleeping toddler, strapped safely in her baby-carrier to her godfather's back. "Only because you said please."
Author’s Note: This piece is inspired by the incredibly stimulating gifs from the Crimson Peak trailers, as pictured together in the set below. The characters in this piece are only visual inspirations, and unnamed, so there are no real ties to anything pertaining to the Crimson Peak plot. (The gif is not mine, but I give all the credit and respect to the maker of said gif because wowsa.)
Rating: Mature. Typical historical-romance-novel kind of stuff.
Length: One-shot.
Tap, tap, tap.
“Enter,” I said to the door, then added for good manners, “Please.”
The door swung in and my new husband peered round it. He was the epitome of disheveled aristocrat in the light from the fireplace, his dark hair curling over his forehead. The upward reach of a concerned, almost uncertain brow now softened his usually stoic visage.
I was sitting on the end of my bed, one hand gripping the wooden frame, the other nervously clenched in the skirt of my nightgown. I chanced a smile. “Hello, dear husband.”
The eyebrow’s twin joined it and a rare smile ghosted over his mouth. “Hello, my wife.”
“You may enter properly,” I said, swallowing a nervous laugh. He self-consciously came into the room, closing the door. The slight nervousness in his movement emboldened me. Good. I’m not alone in this… exciting terror.
He stood away from me, feet apart in what I’ve come to known as his echelon-of-propriety stance. Feet were shoulder-width apart. Shoulders were broad and rolled back, accentuated by his crisp white shirtsleeves and black satin waistcoat. I fought the shiver that crept upon me when his gaze met mine.
“Are you frightened?” he asked suddenly, nodding to my hands and their clenching.
I did let that laugh out now. “Not frightened, no. Not of you, or this, or anything.”
That eyebrow went up again, and I loved him. I felt panic, just a flash of it, because love was something so definitive and important, and this was the first I’d felt it, truly, towards him. He looked worried. I didn’t want my husband worried.
“I am excited. Nervous, because I’ve never… Though the carriage, and the garden…”
My face burned with the memories. The carriage that had filled with my gasps and his hushed, hot-breathed words as his fingers had played and he’d kissed me senseless on the way home from the opera. The garden where I’d accepted his proposal, and he’d shown me how much a man on bended knee could accomplish under his lady’s skirts.
His eyes darkened to a near indigo and a warm flush had flagged over his cheekbones. He looked boyish. “I see.”
I stood, feeling silly sitting there. My nightgown, though modest, made me feel ethereal and wanton. The neckline was low enough that I could look down and see clear down to my---
He was suddenly right in front of me, tipping my chin up with his hand so I could look him in the eyes rather than down at my own bosom. His eyes dropped down to my mouth, and his lips parted. I wanted them, so I came up onto my toes and pressed my mouth to his.
He was shocked for a moment, his jaw dropping a bit in his surprise. So I pulled his head down to mine, deepening the kiss like he’d shown me after our first dance together, so many months ago. And that was the end of my controlling the situation. His big hands pulled me flush against him, his tongue swirled over mine, and I was lifted off my feet.
He kissed me until I was clinging to his shoulders, sliding my hands in his hair. He broke the kiss to nuzzle and kiss my neck before rising up. I realized then that I was laying upon the bed, my hair a tangled mess upon the pillows, and my husband stripping himself of his waistcoat and shirt. I propped up on my elbows and took in the new situation. He was kneeling on the bed, and off went the waistcoat, then out came the shirttails, and soon the shirt was sailing away from his lithe, muscled body. My husband had a Greek statue-like body to him; little-to-no fleshy bits, but everything was well-shaped and lean and angled…
I must have been staring because he leaned back down with a small smirk and kissed me hard, framing his arms around me like a masculine cage. My hands gripped the muscles of his shoulders and forearms. Experimentally, I nipped at his lip. He groaned low and slid his mouth down my neck, pressed his mouth to my chest. He slid further down and kissed my breasts through the muslin of my nightgown, breathing in roughly and sighing at my belly. My hands still held his shoulders, and as his mouth nuzzled my belly, I felt molten heat bloom just below.
My hips lifted a bit, and my legs felt squirmy, my knees pressing together. He moved swiftly, hands parting my knees and smoothing my skirt up my thighs. I gasped a bit at the brazen movement.
He looked up at me, and he smiled, like the jungle cat we’d seen at the exotic African exhibit in Hyde Park. Feral, predatory, beautiful.
“You’re beautiful,” I blurted out, my voice cracking a bit.
His eyebrow fought not to rise endearingly, and instead he tugged my skirt up to my navel. I had a split second to register how bare I was in the bright firelight before his mouth descended upon me so intimately. I bucked, I writhed, and I grasped at his hair. He licked, he laved, and he growled against me. I thought back to Duchess Rodham’s garden, the cold marble of the bench by the fountain against my back as my newly acquired fiancée kissed me like this. I’d been anything but quiet and demure, and tonight was no exception. I cried out and curled my toes, my fingers, my back.
I fell back to earth, my heart galloping in my chest, my skin hot and cold all at once. I was gasping for breath, panting, and when I finally opened my eyes – no idea that I’d screwed them shut – I saw him prowling back up towards me. There was no doubt that my husband had thoroughly enjoyed his ministrations between his wife’s thighs, if that hungry self-satisfied look in his eyes was anything to go by.
“Hullo,” I said stupidly, and he swooped in, licking into my mouth and luring me into another kiss. I blushed at the taste of myself, my hands sliding from the edge of his trousers up his chest. My fingers glanced over his nipples; he hissed against my lips and I arched up against him, rubbing my muslin-covered chest against his.
My thighs were limp and relaxed apart, and as I arched I felt his arousal, a hard ridge lined up just so against my sex. I felt greedy. I rolled my hips against him, and when he reciprocated, I slid my hands around his back. His skin was hot, like he’d been forged in the fireplace. A fine mist of sweat lay upon his flesh, his errant curls dangling from humidity upon my cheek as he broke from our kiss to breathe.
“I want you,” he whispered, his voice dark and rough in my ear. I moaned, bending my knees up to cradle his hips. He ground against me, gently but insistently, and I felt every throbbing inch of him. My hands skimmed down his spine to his trouser-clad bottom, then quickly back up. It was silly to want to fondle a man’s arse… wasn’t it?
He licked my ear, and ground into me again, panting and cursing softly. He was trying to be gentle. To be patient. He was trying so hard.
I kissed his cheek, his chin, his throat, and my hands unfastened his trousers. He sighed in relief and chagrin, lifting up a bit to look at me properly.
“Darling…” the word was torn from him as he watched me push at his trousers. My fingers grazed against his aroused flesh, and he gasped like a man in pain. I stroked him, curious to this new experience, to this new power I had with a simple touch. He grit his teeth and thrust gently into my hand, the hot flesh scalding the skin of my lower belly under the muslin. I liked that, so I slid my hands back and up over his bottom, pushing his trousers down and caressing the curves.
He groaned and thrust again, his hips bucking out and my hands urging him on. I let out a breathless giggle.
“What?” he bit out.
“You have an adorable arse, husband.”
He paused, stared at me incredulously, and I gave aforementioned anatomy a playful squeeze.
With a low growl, my seemingly un-amused husband thrust inside me. I felt full, stretched, and only a bit uncomfortable before he pulled my nightdress up to my chin and began an onslaught upon my breasts and ribcage. I felt myself relax around his intrusion, and he slipped further into me. I delved my fingers into his hair and arched my back. He suckled my breasts and it sent such a shock through me I tightened muscles I’d never thought of.
“Ah,” he cried softly against me, and his hips thrust. And thrust. I held on to him, trying to meet every undulation.
Soon we were somehow completely nude. I was clinging to him, and he to me, and I clung to his arse, he clung to my hips, and I broke. My voice cried out, my spine twisted and bent, my legs shook, and my heart stopped.
“Yes,” said he, reveling in this cataclysmic event, and he pinned my arms down, as gently and brutishly as he could, his hips working towards the same end. He was there, and he threw his head back like an angel in rapture and I basked in the sight.
We panted, our breath mismatched and frightening in a way, as though we had been drowning and were recovering from the terror. But there was no terror in this room. In this bed.
Reverently, delicately, he slipped from my body. A caring hand took my discarded nightdress and dabbed away at my sex, cleaning up a delightful mess. I should have felt ashamed, should have felt embarrassed. I was enchanted.
I felt boneless, sore, and languid. He took a moment to rise from the bed and douse the lamps. In the now dimmer dying light of the fireplace, my husband cut an ethereal nude figure. Predatory as ever, but safe. He slid back into bed, though not to cuddle me, or lie with me. Instead he hesitantly reached out and held my hand.
I sleepily scoffed and rolled over, clinging to him, burrowing my nose into his underarm, where I breathed in the salt and sweat and lingering essence of soap, the fine hairs there tickling me. Slowly, and ever gently, my husband brought me closer, until we were locked in a wedding bed’s nighttime embrace.
“I love you, my husband.” I murmured, knowing that I’d have to go into more detail on the morrow, since post-bedding isn’t always the most genuine of times to express such affection for the first time.
“And I you, my wife.” He smiled – oh my heart burned alight – and we slumbered on, my stoic, Adonis-arsed husband, and his odd, adoring wife.
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