greghousescane

[greghousescane]

DD TAGLIST ⋆˙⟡ 𝜗ৎ

CH II : CURIOSITY KILLED POSTED

@sighingforalongtime 🌷 @peachcaf3

[greghousescane]

ii | curiosity killed

curiosity killed

“𝓦hat is it now?"

The eminent click of black, shiny heels echoed down the corridor—

click click

click  click

click click

By now, anyone within earshot could tell it was Gigi. A small detail to most. But to her? That sound meant power. Presence. Proof she wasn't invisible anymore.

"Psychiatric patient. Please— ... just don't let him get the hospital sued.. again," Cuddy said, practically pleading, long legs striding to keep pace beside her.

Gigi didn't slow down.

"I'll do my best."

That answer seemed to satisfy Lisa— until she reached out, stopping Gigi mid-stride. Her hand landed on Gigi's forearm, fingers grazing the smooth fabric of her blazer like she was trying to paste it into her memory.

"Thank you," Cuddy murmured.

Walking down the corridor, she nodded absently at a few nurses' greetings— just polite enough to pass, just distant enough to not stop. Her hand grazed the smooth curve of her hip, steadying herself with a breath.

Calm before the storm. Always.

"Okay, what's going on?" she said the second she stepped through the conference room door, shutting it behind her with a sharp click of her heel. Arms crossed.

Chin high. Her own personal show time.

Chase, Cameron, and Foreman stood in silence— eyes locking onto Gigi like she'd just descended from on high in Prada. Honestly, they looked significantly relieved.

"Sending her little spoiled doll to save the day, huh?"

House didn't even look up as he tossed his tennis ball in the air, grinning like the devil in a lab coat.

"At least you're eye candy. Nice change of pace."

"One of you. Now." Her voice was cold silk.

She turned to the team without even acknowledging him.

"Uhm... Patient's twenty-one," Chase began, his Aussie accent crisp. "Showing clear signs of a psychotic break. No known medical history. But— he won't let us run any tests. Won't take medication, either."

Gigi nodded once. Sharp. Calculated while the gears turned in her head.

"Okay. And— "

"Just give him 5 of Haldol and call it a day," House interrupted with a wave, as if she were asking about lunch options instead of legal consent.

"Your plan is to drug a patient without their consent?" she snapped, pure disbelief dripping from every syllable.

"Well, what am I supposed to do? Let them wriggle around like a dry worm?" House fired back, gesturing wildly with the tennis ball like it was a legal defense.

Giselle blinked once. Then clapped— once, sharply— like the slam of a courtroom gavel.

"If you want to medicate a non-consenting patient, you need court approval. Otherwise? Congratulations— you've just bought yourself another lawsuit."

Her voice was like honey spiked with venom. She didn't care how brilliant House was. If this hospital tanked because of his toddler tantrums and God complex, she'd be out of a job.

And she liked this job. A lot.

"Sued, blued— nothing new, nothing interesting," he groaned, tossing his head back theatrically.

"No. You're going to get court approval if you want to— "

"Oh yes! Absolutely! Let's wait for the sluggish American legal system to kill my patient before they even file the paperwork!"

He was on his feet now, waving his cane like a gavel of his own.

The door swung open with a bang, revealing none other than poor James Wilson— wide-eyed, brows raised, lips parted mid-breath. The human embodiment of a soft gasp. His floppy brunette hair looked criminally soft. Like it had never known stress. Or wind.

House didn't miss a beat.

"WILSON! She's a murderer!" he bellowed in a fake British accent, gesturing to Gigi like she was holding a bloody axe instead of a legal pad.

"She's trying to kill my medical freedom!"

"Are you FIVE?" Gigi snapped, arms now fully up in exasperation.

Her cheeks were flushed, ears burning hot. She could practically feel the vein in her neck pulsing like a car alarm.

"I came in here to stop a lawsuit, not babysit a grown man with a cane and a God complex."

"Um... I'll come back later..." Wilson mumbled, backing toward the door like he's tiptoeing out of a minefield.

"NO! She's killing the fruitcake!" House shot back, voice rising like a toddler throwing a tantrum over his favorite toy.

"You can't just let her—"

Wilson held up his hands, clearly trying (and failing) to mediate like a peacemaker about to get stomped.

"Greg, please—just... calm down."

"I'm—"

"Sorry, but who are you?" Gigi's head snapped fully around, eyes sharp and unblinking as a hawk's.

"Doctor Wilson, right?"

He cleared his throat, stumbling over the words like he suddenly got stage fright.

"Uh... James Wilson."

His voice was soft—patient, like he was used to talking to people who were about to lose their minds.

"Well, Dr. Wilson," Gigi said, eyes narrowing, "Gregory here is planning to drug a patient against their will without court approval. And he's refusing to get one."

For a split second, Greg's blue eyes sharpened like a blade. He wasn't used to co-workers— or anyone— calling him Gregory instead of House.

"Well— " Wilson started to intervene.

"Well, just throw him out on the street! Or let him kill himself with a toy hammer for fuck's sake!" House snapped, voice snapping like a whip.

"You can't do it without his consent, you oaf!" Her voice cracked on the last word, high-pitched and sharp, patience hanging by a thread.

"Oh, so we're at the pet names stage now? Alright, sweetheart— "

"You're unbelievable!" She groaned, jabbed a finger at him like it was a dagger.

"This is not over."

She turned on her heel, leaving nothing but the sharp staccato of her footsteps echoing down the hall— each one a final period on the argument.

The room sat in stunned silence for half a second.

"You look like a starving puppy," House muttered, barely glancing at his best friend.

James stood outside the office, lifting his hand to knock—twice. Not once. Twice. Like it mattered.

The golden plaque gleamed under the hallway light:

𝐆𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐄 𝐏𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐄 , 𝐉.𝐃.

He stared at it for half a second longer than he should've, caught in a daze he didn't entirely understand.

"Come in!"

Her voice rang out confidently through the door.

He blinked, startled out of his little daydream, and pushed it open with his elbow— hands full.

"Yes?.." she asked, brow slightly arched— already bracing for some new legal disaster.

"Oh— just..." he lifted the paper cup and bag like an awkward peace treaty.

"Thought— yeah. Welcome to the hospital. And... sorry that House is... House."

His smile was thin and apologetic, his ears dusted pink.

"I'm James. Wilson." He reminded.

She blinked.

"Oat?"

"H-huh?" James blinked right back, utterly lost.

She nodded toward the cup with a hint of a smirk.

"Oat milk?"

His brain short-circuited for a moment.

"It's— yeah. Yeah. Oat.." And wasn't he glad that there was only oat milk available.

"Thank you. That's very kind," Giselle replied with a soft shake of her head and the smallest smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

"I hope you're not allergic... uh— blueberry muffin?"

He gently placed the crinkling paper bag on her desk, the sound awkwardly loud in the otherwise composed quiet.

Her hand darted out immediately, sliding the bag an inch to the side— casual, but deliberate perhaps.

"My favorite," she said sweetly, meeting his eyes with a raised brow and a knowing smile.

"Yup— great! Good choice," he nodded too many times, backing toward the door like it might eat him alive.

"I'll— uh, my office's in Oncology. Head of Oncology. If you need me. Or, um. Anything."

The second the door shut behind him, he exhaled a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. It left his chest in a soft whoosh— defeated, dazed, and a little dizzy.

[greghousescane]

HELLO MY TWINS

ch ii of dirty cash coming tmrw and the next ch of father figure!!

i’ll get to the rest asap! getting into uni is taking a lot of my time 💔

[greghousescane]

i | legal issue

legal issue

"𝓘f you want, we can go together?"

The click of heels behind hers echoed through the corridor like a metronome made for power plays.

Giselle didn't turn right away.

She knew the effect of a delayed response— always let the silence do the heavy lifting. When she did glance over her shoulder, she flashed a smile so pristine it could cut marble. Her mascara-laced lashes fluttered with innocent precision.

"I'll check my schedule," she replied, light as silk, but with an undertone of you will wait until I decide you're worth it.

Cuddy didn't catch it —or maybe she did and chose not to respond. She beamed anyway, adjusting her grip on the folder tucked against her blazer.

"Check— yep— yes! That's great, alright..." The words tumbled from her mouth in that classic Cuddy-on-a-deadline way. She gestured widely, ushering Gigi toward the freshly minted office door with just enough enthusiasm to sell the illusion that she was the one in control.

It only took one glance from Giselle —one sweeping, assessing look at the space— to feel it click into place. The room was small, efficient, bland in that very Princeton-Plainsboro way, but she didn't care. The power was never in the office.

It was forever in the woman walking into it.

Cuddy left with a final smile and a polite excuse, practically tripping over her own feet to get back to the real chaos down the hall.

And then it was just Gigi.

Alone. With the faint buzz of fluorescent lights and the lingering scent of new furniture polish.

She placed her bag on the desk. Not tossed— placed. Every movement considered, even when no one was watching.

Lisa Cuddy stood with her hands planted firmly on her hips, her lips pressed into that thin, 'I'm surrounded by morons' line she'd perfected over the years by working with Dr. House.

Across from her, House was halfway slouched over the conference table, flipping through labs like he was looking for a punchline in a magazine.

"Proof that my brilliant idea of giving him amphotericin is killing it," she said dryly, nodding to herself like she was writing her own eulogy.

House glanced up, unfazed. "Ehh— it wasn't a complete waste of time—" he squinted at the paperwork, nose wrinkling like the print personally offended him,

"—his reaction shows that you don't need to clean under your sink. Wasn't aspergillus."

Foreman pinched the bridge of his nose. "And blood cultures came back negative for rat-bite fever." His voice was flat, tired, and vaguely filled with existential dread— as it always was.

"Still plenty of other cool pneumonias," House replied, with that trademark sarcastic punch that never failed to make at least one person in the room scoff. This time it was Chase, of course it was.

"Since when did you hire a new lawyer?" House asked abruptly, eyes flicking toward Cuddy like a suspicious cat. The question came out with extra venom, the kind he reserved for things that disrupted his usual chaos.

Cuddy turned sharply. Her hand clamped around his bicep before he could wiggle away, her heels already click-clacking toward the door.

"Since you've been prone to lawsuits," she snapped, practically dragging him down the bland hallway, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like judgmental bees.

"So... what, you finally decided I need adult supervision?"

"No, legal supervision," she corrected. "She's good. Try not to ruin her life in the first week."

"No promises."

"Why are we here?" House huffed, storming into the office like he hadn't been yanked there by force. His cane smacked the floor once— loud enough to make a point, but not loud enough to be helpful.

"We're talking about cutting off a kid's hand!" Cuddy snapped, her voice spiking as she spun on him. Her arms were crossed so tightly it looked like she might shatter from tension alone.

"Yes, we're talking about cutting it off. Not subdividing it and putting it in condos," he drawled, utterly unfazed. "Is that a legal issue now?"

It was only then that his eyes flicked across the room —and finally landed on her.

Her.

For the first time, he actually looked at the hospital's new legal counsel. And normally, by now, he'd be five misogynistic comments deep, probably ranking her legs and wondering aloud how many times she'd sued her way into a Birkin bag.

But now? He just stared. A brief pause. A twitch of curiosity behind those infuriating eyes.

Giselle, perched behind her desk like a queen forced to babysit jesters, met his gaze with glacial disinterest.

She didn't blink. Didn't smile.

Didn't budge.

"Are you being intentionally dense?" Cuddy's voice cracked through the moment, snapping House back to the present.

"Huh," he grunted, producing what could only be described as the dumbest syllable ever uttered by a mammal. Or plant. Or, possibly, rock.

"I think it's premature—" Lisa began, voice rising

"Okay, enough."

The voice was calm. Cool. Deadly.

Giselle stood now, a hand raised like she was dismissing a room full of interns, not two of the hospital's highest-ranking lunatics.

Her head tilted, eyes narrowing with something that wasn't quite disdain— it was boredom sharpened to a knife's edge.

"This isn't a frat house or a boxing ring. This is a conversation about a child losing a limb. So unless you have something legally sound to contribute, or medically relevant, I suggest you shut up or sit down."

There was a beat of stunned silence.

House blinked. Then... grinned.

Oh, he liked her already.

"His hand is a cesspool, and the crap is spreading!" House barked, dramatically waving a chart around like it owed him money.

Giselle didn't look up right away. Her brow ticked up with a silent you did not just interrupt me, and for a split second, she remembered what it felt like to hold power in rooms where no one dared speak over her.

This wasn't one of those rooms. Yet.

She inhaled slowly through her nose like she was trying not to commit a felony, and placed her hands flat on the desk as she sat back down into the comfort of her office chair. "Let me get this straight then—does this kid have active necrosis in his hand, or no?"

"Ye—“

"No—"

"SHUT UP!" Giselle snapped, her voice rising an octave as she slammed her pen against the desk so hard it echoed off the walls. A perfect, crisp sound of authority.

Instant silence.

And then, the smallest tug of a grin on her lips. She hadn't meant to smile —but it was delicious.

Cuddy blinked, stunned.

And House? He leaned back with a crooked, amused smirk, like he'd just found a new favorite game.

"I swear to God, you people argue like you're auditioning for Grey's," Giselle muttered, eyes sharp now as they scanned the room. "Now. Let's try again. Necrosis—yes, or no?"

"The hand still has an arterial pulse!" Cuddy blurted out, like the words had been building up pressure in her chest.

Giselle raised her eyes slowly, pausing her scribble mid-word.

"So," she said, with a hum that bordered on sardonic, "he doesn't have necrosis."

She dragged the sticky note closer and began writing again—methodical, deliberate, the kind of handwriting that looked like it had billed people thousands per hour. Every line she wrote down felt more like an official verdict than a doodle.

"His hand is turning the shade of a badly squished plum!" House snapped, gesturing with his cane like it was a laser pointer of doom.

Giselle didn't even blink.

"Doctor House." Her tone could've frozen a volcano. She didn't raise her voice—she never needed to. Just a sigh. Long, drawn out, disappointed. "Please."

The word hung in the air like a trap.

And suddenly, House looked like he might actually shut up. Not because he respected authority —God, no, never— but because he couldn't quite figure her out. That irritated calm. That clipped voice. That smirk that felt like it had claws underneath.

She wasn't afraid of him. That much was clear. Not his cane, not his insults, not his genius. And that... intrigued him.

"Okay." He leaned on the desk just slightly, watching her with the subtle curiosity of a scientist poking a dangerous specimen. "You win. But when this kid's hand falls off and tries to sue us, I'm blaming you in my notes."

Giselle didn't even look up.

"That's fine. I'll sue you first."

Hours passed. Then days. And for once, Giselle didn't mind.

Her office was sharp and clean, the view from her window made her feel like the lead in a legal thriller, and her coffee always arrived exactly how she liked it. Finally, all the years of pushing and clawing and calculating were starting to pay off.

Every heel click down the hospital halls echoed like a drumroll. Her handbag swung from her forearm with casual elegance, and the updo she wore had become almost mythic in its immovability.

ding.

The elevator dinged.

She stepped in.

Right as the doors began to close, a cane jabbed itself into the gap like a battering ram. The doors jerked back open.

Of course.

"Good morrrrning, Elle Woods," came the familiar gruff voice, rich with mockery. House slid inside like he owned the elevator, as usual. His eyes glinted with amusement. Or maybe caffeine withdrawal. Hard to say.

Great, she thought.

"Elle Woods is a fictional character," she replied coolly, barely glancing at him, "and frankly, she was stupid for spending most of the movie chasing a man who peaked in undergrad."

House barked a soft laugh. "Way to ruin the mood, Miss Legal Eagle." His tone dripped sarcasm— so much that the elevator probably needed to be mopped after.

She let her gaze drift from the glowing floor numbers to his reflection in the mirrored elevator walls.

"You should watch what you say to someone who's hired to get you out of lawsuits," she murmured, smooth as silk, sharp as litigation.

"Is that supposed to be a threat?"

Giselle didn't reply. She just shrugged— one of those perfectly timed, sardonic little shrugs that said I could ruin you before the next floor. The doors dinged open, and she stepped out without breaking stride, back straight, head high, leaving the faint scent of expensive perfume and disdain in her wake.

House watched her go, brows lifted.

"Y'know what..." he called after her. "I like you!"

A pause.

"You've got attitude. Oh—and a great ass!"

She didn't turn around.

But her hand raised as she walked—middle finger extended just slightly in that ladylike but lethal kind of way.

He laughed again.

He was doomed.

[greghousescane]

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈

ACT I

MONEY TALKS.

chapter i : legal issue

chapter ii : curiosity killed

chapter iii : time goes by

chapter iv : so slowly

chapter v : the story

chapter vi : four, eight

chapter vii : you're such a strange girl . .

chapter viii : astronomy

chapter ix : nothing special

chapter x : hit the road

"She's trying to kill my medical freedom!"

"Are you FIVE?!"

[greghousescane]

—𝐃𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐘 𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐇

you're the junkie , and i inject it

    INTO YOUR BLOOD STREAM,

IT'S LIKE A BAD DREAM

        MONEY'S THE THEME,

DO YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN?

DIRTY CASH (MONEY TALKS)

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺ ⩇⩇:⩇⩇

─•────

It wasn't supposed to mean anything. Until he got attached.

It was messy, sloppy, and damn, it felt good. It was wrong, but Giselle didn't care—bbecause when you're tangled up with a man like House, "right" gets messy real fast. They were co-workers, he was an insufferable ass, but there was something about him that made her feel... something.

    And no, it wasn't just the fact that he was hot— though he definitely was. Cuddy was hot, Chase was hot, Foreman was hot, even Wilson was hot. But House?  He wasn't as eager as Cuddy, not as boring as Chase, not as dry as Foreman, and definitely not as sweet as Wilson.

    Sweet like that candy you can't stop craving, even when you know it might rot your teeth.

MALPRACTICE

/ˌmalˈpraktɪs/

noun

improper, illegal, or negligent professional behaviour.

"now he would never stop his malpractice with how much joy he got out of the lawsuits."

Hugh Laurie as . . .

GREGORY HOUSE

    ❝ Keep glaring at me like that and we'll end up somewhere highly unprofessional. ❞

Mila Kunis as . . .

GISELLE PIVIONNE

❝ You don't get to touch me like that and treat me like I'm disposable. ❞

Robert Sean Leonard as . . .

JAMES WILSON

❝ You're pissed at me, and you should be. I ruined her, I ruined us. ❞

Lisa Edelstein as . . .

LISA CUDDY

❝ She's smart, she's sharp, has great taste in shoes. She deserves better than the mess you're making of her. ❞

Edward Norton as . . .

ROMAN PILARD

❝ They don't know who you are.  Don't ruin it. ❞

DISCLAIMER

    i do not own anything except the plot and my original character.

this book will contain smut, but appropriate warnings will be given beforehand.

WARNINGS

language

love triangle

eventual poly relationship

eventual smut ( f x m , m x f x m )

mentions of trauma and toxic families.

ONGOING

DATE STARTED: 21/06/2025

DATE PUBLISHED: 07/07/2025

DATE FINISHED: tba.

© greghousescane '25

[greghousescane]

𝓓IRTY 𝓒ASH ♡

˚ 𝜗ৎ dirty cash ❪gregory house , james wilson❫

ongoing

❝it wasn't meant to mean anything. until he got attached.❞

━ 𝖎𝖓 𝖜𝖍𝖎𝖈𝖍 ,

giselle locks horns with the world's most infuriating doctor, tiring lawsuits, and james wilson's warm brown eyes.

; GREGORY HOUSE X FEM!OC X JAMES WILSON

; © greghousescane 2025

INFO ; cross posted on wattpad (@ -REALMRSHOUSE), ao3 (@ realmrshouse)

—𝐃𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐘 𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐇

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈

i | legal issue

ii | curiosity killed

iii | time goes by coming soon

[greghousescane]

FOR ANY1 THAT WANTS TO GET TAGGED IN FUTURE FICS! C:

[greghousescane]

DIRTY CASH CH I BEING POSTED TODAY ON AO3 + TUMBLR !!

TWINS IM COOKING UP THESE FICS 😍😍😍

[greghousescane]

can't believe that cuddy's nightmare would be house and wilson being rachel's gay dads

[greghousescane]

JIM MORIARTY THE MAN U ARE 🤞🤞

[greghousescane]

iii | the yard

THE

YARD

𝓥ivienne's luck hadn't exactly been in her favour today.

As she rushed down the busy London streets— after stopping for a map, of course— she began to feel it: the small, cold drops tapping her forehead.

Please don't rain. Please don't rain. Please don't rain.

Honestly, it was like the harder she pleaded, the angrier the sky got. A spiteful little god somewhere was clearly having a laugh, because within minutes the drizzle turned into proper rain. By the time she made it to the building, there were droplets clinging to her hair, her mascara had begun a very unfortunate migration south, and her sweater— her cozy, previously comforting sweater— was now damp and sticking to her like the biggest betrayal since Brutus.

"I'm, uh... looking for..." she cleared her throat, awkwardly fumbling with her phone, flipping it around like it was some sort of identification badge, though she doubted anyone could actually see the screen.

"Gavin..? Lestrade...?" she winced slightly— was that even how you pronounced it? It came out like she was taking a quiz she hadn't studied for, reminding her of her anxious primary school days.

A groan left the man's lips as he stood up, rolling his eyes. He was... quite handsome, honestly— or was that just some strong daddy issues talking?

"Yep... yeah... it's— it's Greg."

"Oh— oh, sorry, Jesus— uh—the text—" she stammered, shaking her head as the sheer weight of secondhand embarrassment crashed over her like a heavy wave.

"It's alright," he chuckled, brushing it off easily. "That's Sherlock for you—always.. pretends he can't remember my name."

"Yeah... Sherlock..." she echoed, voice a little distant.

Well, that confirmed the text earlier. It had been Sherlock. It was strange, honestly— how he'd gone out of his way to land her an internship like this. Or maybe, knowing Sherlock, it hadn't taken him more than a two-minute phone call and a veiled threat. Still... it was oddly thoughtful. Kind of sweet, in that emotionally stunted Victorian ghost way he had about him.

"Right—right... Vivienne, yeah?"

"Yep. Vivienne. Viv. Watson. That's me," she said, flashing an awkward smile she instantly regretted. God, why did she sound like a terrible cartoon sidekick?

"Alright, come with me—aren't you a little soaked?" he chuckled, leading the way.

The office was surprisingly... nice? In a sad beige government building sort of way. The carpet was dull, the wallpaper even duller, and the sound of typing echoed in loud, clunky bursts—not the nice, ASMR kind of keyboard clacks either, more like a very angry woodpecker.

"Well hello," a man popped around the corner, bluntly scaring the living hell out of Vivienne.

"Anderson..." Lestrade sighed, gesturing vaguely in his direction. Vivienne blinked. Why did this man look so smug? He looked like he'd just won an argument no one else was aware of during his first few seconds of life.

"Vivienne," she offered, nodding politely.

"So you're the one from the freak?" a woman's voice cut in sharply from behind.

"The... what?" Vivienne blinked between them, confusion mounting.

"—Sherlock," Anderson clarified, like it was obvious. And horrifying.

"Won't be long till he's the one committing the murders," the woman replied, dry as sandpaper. "Donovan," she added, like an afterthought. As if the name-drop would soften the fact she just casually implied Vivienne's new roommate was a future serial killer.

That sentence alone sent a weird shiver down Vivienne's spine. Because—well. Sherlock was her roommate.

"All right, all right���yes, Sherlock is... Sherlock," Lestrade cut in before Donovan could add more fuel to the paranoia fire. "Why don't you go make yourself some tea, just down the hall in the kitchen? I'll come grab you in a minute. We'll go over the latest files."

Vivienne nodded slowly, offering Donovan and Anderson a small, very very awkward smile before backing away. The kind of smile that said please don't speak to me again. She felt their eyes on her the whole way out, like she was an exotic zoo animal or a living bomb with legs.

The kitchen was... functional. That's really the nicest way she could put it. Yellowish linoleum floors, mismatched mugs, and a microwave that looked like it could electrocute someone on a bad day. But honestly? After that conversation, the hum of the fridge and the rattle of the kettle were a weird comfort.

After wrestling with the coffee machine for what felt like a humiliating eternity— and nearly giving up out of pure shame before daring to ask for help on the first day of her internship—Vivienne finally got the damn thing to work. She grimaced as the sad stream of what might generously be called "coffee" oozed into a chipped, off-white porcelain mug.

Lestrade had said tea... but surely coffee was acceptable too? She prayed it was. The liquid looked more like muddy pond water than caffeine.

Turning around with the cup in hand, she scanned the room for signs of milk—real or plant-based. Her eyes landed on the first unfortunate soul in sight: a young officer minding his own business.

"Sorry—uh, do you guys have oat milk here?" she asked hesitantly, instantly cringing.                                                                                                                                         

The officer blinked at her, then grinned. "Ey, think we've got some in the fridge, love."

He was tall. Not museum guy tall— but still tall enough that Vivienne cursed genetics just a little. And damn if that uniform didn't flatter him.

"Right... fridge. Sorry. Thanks." She returned a sheepish smile, already kicking herself internally.

"Pretty sure it's jarg though, love," he added with a chuckle.

"Oh..." she nodded slowly, pretending to understand instantly what that meant. (She very much did not.) After a beat: "Right. Of course. Jarg."

She turned back to her cup, accepting her fate. Maybe she'd just stick to the black sewer water and pretend it was artisanal.

"You the new intern then, hey?" he raised a brow.

"Uh—yep. Vivienne. Uh... I'm John's—Sherlock's... um, friend's sister," she nodded, stumbling over the titles and trying her hardest to shake off the awkward fog clinging to her.

"Ah, right—the lad with the cane. Theo," he offered with a grin, hand shooting forward. Vivienne braced herself for a polite, professional handshake—only to be jolted slightly when his palm clapped her shoulder instead.

"Nice to meet you," she managed with a breathy laugh.

"So, how you findin' it? Anderson givin' yous a hard time already?" He laughed with a knowing nod.

His Scouse accent was strong—at first, she'd had to concentrate to understand him, but the more he spoke, the easier it became. There was a rhythm to it, a warmth, that settled her nerves slightly.

"He's... uh—strange," she admitted.

Before she could say anything more awkward, Theo's expression softened a bit. He pulled open the fridge, grabbing the sad-looking oat milk she had asked about.

"Relax, love," he said gently. "You seem right tense an' all... no need for that, really."

After a warm, surprisingly relaxing conversation with Theo— and a few hours flying by as Lestrade introduced her to the office, showed her where the files were kept, and helped her sort out her badge— Vivienne was finally done.

By the time she pushed the door open, the fresh, cold air hit her face like a slap. It was dark. Not dim, not dusky—dark. The kind of pitch black that made the city lights look blurry and the sky feel too low.

She wasn't sure what time it was exactly, but the idea of taking a cab didn't sit right with her. It never really did. Something about it creeped her out—too confined, too unpredictable. She much preferred walking, or in case of emergency, sprinting home completely out of breath with her coat flapping behind her like a bat.

Somewhere on her way back, feet pounding against the pavement, she could practically feel the blisters forming from being on her feet all day. And as the wind bit at her damp sweater, she felt it creeping in again—that quiet sadness. It wasn't anything new. The heaviness always came around this time of night. Like something invisible and cold had dropped onto her chest the second the sun was fully gone. That was usually her sign to just go to bed.

That's how she found herself standing in front of a church.

She wasn't particularly religious. Not really. Not until John went off to Afghanistan, and Harry started drinking like she was trying to outrun something. Clara left, Harry spiraled, John was unreachable— and Vivienne was left alone, just her and her thoughts echoing too loud in her head. So she clung. Clung to anything that might offer the illusion of hope. Even if it was hollow.

She cursed under her breath, tugging on the church doors. Locked—of course they were.

With a sigh, she ran a hand down her face, pausing for a moment to take in the scent of the old building. It smelled like wet stone and something sweetly decayed. The street lamps nearby flickered faintly, casting the pamphlets by the door in a soft, golden blur. They shimmered faintly as the light caught their gossamer-thin paper.

Vivienne pouted to herself, sighing in quiet annoyance at nothing in particular. She plucked one of the pamphlets from the holder and squinted at the bold print:

SERMON THIS SUNDAY — LIGHT IN THE SHADOWS

Huh.

A sermon. She remembered those. Not fun, not really—though she sometimes tried to convince herself they were. The ones at the last church she went to had been quiet, dull, full of hollow phrases and tired smiles—but still, they'd meant something once.

Maybe attending would help her settle into this new life.

Maybe if she prayed hard enough, Harry would finally put the bottle down.

Maybe if she prayed hard enough, John wouldn't be so haunted anymore.

And maybe—just maybe—if she prayed hard enough, everything would fix itself, and she could find her way back to that childhood happiness she barely remembered anymore.

She quietly unlocked the door to 221B, fumbling with the keys. She tried the wrong one first—of course she did. She really needed to put a sticker or some nail polish or something on them. Her steps were nearly silent as she crept inside. She didn't want to wake anyone up.

The flat was... a little cleaner than before. Barely. But one of the boxes was gone, which felt like a sort of progress.

To her surprise, Sherlock was sitting on the couch. Not reading. Not typing. Not playing violin. Just—sitting. Staring at... well, nothing.

Okay...

She shut the door behind her quietly, slipping off her shoes and kicking them aside with a soft thud.

"How was your museum trip?"

His deep voice broke through the silence like a knife through still water.

Her head snapped up. "How did you—?"

"Oh, please," Sherlock cut her off, not even looking at her with a wave of his hand. "I said 'educational,' you looked around—of course you went to the museum."

What Vivienne didn't like about Sherlock was how intense his voice always was. Something about it scratched at her, a little too sharp, a little too close to the way their father used to speak. But from what she'd gathered, Sherlock just... always sounded like that.

"Yeah... it was nice," she nodded, hesitating.

Should she mention the internship?

"You went to Scotland Yard."

She blinked. "I did... um—thank you, by the—"

"Don't drink the coffee there," he said, interrupting again. A faint twitch of a smirk at the corner of his lips. "It's disgusting."

She parted her lips in surprise, then closed them with a small, meek nod.

"John's asleep," Sherlock added, tone softening just a fraction. "He was waiting."

Her chest tightened. "Right... I'll, um... goodnight."

A beat.

"Goodnight."

[greghousescane]

update from greghousescane :3

-PART III OF FATHER FIGURE COMING TONIGHT !!!

- began preparing (full) fics FORRR

+ (hmd) wilson x oc(/reader) x house

+ (hmd) house x oc

+ (bbcsh) sherlock x oc

+ (hmd) thirteen x oc

- A TAG LIST APPLICWTION GETTING POSTED TOO 4 PPL THAT WANT TO BE TAGGED IN FUTURE FICS

,,so these are coming (very) soon as of today 🤭🤭

i am on a ROLL TWINSSS

[greghousescane]

ii | tea in the trenches

TEA

IN

THE

TRENCHES.

𝓣he night passed by strangely for Vivienne.

The air felt heavier than usual—damp, still, like the world had been stopped while she slept. The sheets were too new, too crisp. Unused and uncomfortable. The kind that wrinkle loudly with every toss and turn.

And it was much, much quieter than she'd imagined 221B would be.

When she finally stirred, the morning light barely creeping through the window, her joints cracked with the sharp precision she'd grown used to. The price of hypermobility.

She and her older sister had inherited it from their father's side—John, on the other hand, got lucky.

Still bleary-eyed, she sat up and reached for a pair of cotton socks from the little pile beside her bag. She hated the feeling of dust or crumbs sticking to bare feet—something about it made her skin crawl. Every night, slipping off her socks to sink into a cold duvet felt like a quiet reward after surviving the day . Now, she tugged them back on with a quiet sigh, bracing for a day in a flat that still didn't feel quite like home.

"I looked you up on the internet," she heard her brother say—to who she could only assume was Sherlock.

"Anything interesting?" came the deep, unmistakably posh voice. Bingo. Of course it was Sherlock. Who else would it be?

"That sounds a little stalkerish..." Vivienne mumbled groggily, her voice still heavy with sleep. She rubbed her eyes with one hand as she shuffled into the still-cluttered living room.

Both men snapped their heads toward her, startled.

John's lips parted, quickly turning into a grin.

He was sitting stiffly on the same armchair from the night before, cane in hand, posture straight, clothes already neatly on. So were Sherlock's. But Vivienne knew her brother—knew him well enough to remember that he used to lounge in pajamas until 1 p.m. on weekends.

That was before Afghanistan.

Now he woke early, moved like clockwork—military muscle memory that wouldn't fade.

"Found your website," John continued, nodding toward Sherlock. "The Science of Deduction."

"And what did you think?" Sherlock asked, tilting his head slightly, eyes curious. His brows furrowed a little as John scoffed in reply.

Vivienne sat quietly on the arm of the chair, half-listening. Sherlock, already dressed in a suit and looking maddeningly polished, had curls that looked deliberately perfect. She felt a sharp stab of jealousy. Some people just woke up like that, apparently.

"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie... and an airline pilot by his left thumb?" John questioned, sounding halfway between amused and skeptical.

While John had spent the night down a Sherlock-shaped rabbit hole, Vivienne had fallen asleep back at the old, dreary rental flat. She'd woken up unsure where she was, for just a second, before remembering the move.

She couldn't lie—221B Baker Street was prettier.

Messy, yes. A chaotic flurry of cardboard boxes and scattered papers—but somehow it already felt more like home than their last place ever did. Still...

There was a difference between moving in with your brother and moving in with a stranger who looked like he hadn't blinked in hours.

And Vivienne? Still a little wary. But trying.

"Yes," Sherlock began, not moving an inch. His voice was calm, almost bored.

"—And I can read your military career in your face and your leg—"

His gaze flicked to John, then shifted, "—and your brother's drinking habits on your mobile phone."

Vivienne snapped out of her drifting thoughts at that, blinking hard. Brother's drinking habits?

Her head turned sharply toward John. He was already responding.

"How?" he asked, brow raised—cool, steady.

But he didn't correct Sherlock. Didn't say sister, didn't explain.

Vivienne caught the brief flicker of his eyes in her direction, and she understood. He didn't want to explain yet. Not now. Maybe not to him.

Before the tension could settle into silence, the soft, tapping rhythm of flat shoes echoed from the kitchen.

Mrs. Hudson's gravelly voice floated into the room. "What about these suicides then, Sherlock?"

Vivienne stood, carefully stepping down from the arm of the chair. Her cotton socks barely made a sound as she crossed the floor.

She wasn't sure if she was more interested in the case or the tea—but her stomach rumbled at the right time either way. Still, she paused for a moment, letting her eyes skim the headline of the newspaper left carelessly on the desk nearby.

"Three. Exactly the same."

Sherlock's voice was sharp as he turned to look out the window.

Vivienne had already established one thing: Sherlock Holmes was, without a doubt, very dramatic.

"Well, that sounds... strange," she murmured, glancing at Mrs. Hudson, who nodded as if that were the understatement of the century.

"There's been a fourth," the older woman added, her voice lowering.

In the few short minutes Vivienne spent focused on making herself some toast—carefully, quietly—everything had changed. Sherlock was suddenly out the door in a whirlwind, his coat flaring behind him like a stage curtain mid-act. John followed close behind, cane clicking urgently against the floor.

He opened his mouth to call something back to her—probably an explanation—but Sherlock was faster, as always.

"Vivienne! You'll be in the way—go explore something educational!"

Her lips parted in confusion, brows pulling together.

"What—?" But they were already gone.

She blinked once, then turned slowly toward Mrs. Hudson, who offered her a warm, sympathetic smile and a little shrug.

"I've heard the museum is nice..." Vivienne murmured as she buttered her toast, eyes still a little hazy with sleep.

"Oh yes, dear!" Mrs. Hudson beamed. "I do recommend the Science Museum—but the British Museum's only a few away."

After a lovely morning of tea and gentle gossip about the neighbors—who apparently were an entire novella on their own—Vivienne found herself back upstairs, debating what on earth counted as museum-appropriate attire. It felt strange, being in Baker Street by herself. Not bad, necessarily. Just... off.

And maybe it was pathetic—at least, that's what her mind insisted—but she missed her brother.She was used to spending time alone. She had been for years, really.

After John went off to the military and Harriet slipped further into her drinking, solitude had become less of a choice and more of a constant. The only person she had been able to truly count on was Clara. Clara, who had practically become family during the worst of it. Clara, who had held her hand when she didn't know how to hold herself together. And though their contact had dwindled—crumbled, even—after Clara left Harriet, Vivienne couldn't bring herself to blame her. Not really.

It wasn't easy to admit, but she had taken Clara's side. She had meant every intervention, every concerned voicemail, every time she held back tears and begged her sister to please just try. But the line between loving someone and enabling them was thin, and it frayed fast.

Now? Her contact with Harriet was delicate at best. Brittle. Fragile. A blown-glass sort of love, beautiful and breakable.

She had settled on something casual—comfortable, but not so comfortable that she looked homeless or vaguely unwell. From her perch by the window, watching the people pass by below, she realized it wasn't nearly as warm outside as it was in the flat. She couldn't tell if it was about to rain or if the sky was just wearing its usual London expression: vaguely annoyed and unmistakably grey.

Once she was out the door—cozy light grey sweater tugged down over her hips, bag slung across her shoulder—she set off.

Mrs. Hudson had said it was "just a few away." Just a few what, though? Steps? Streets? Emotional breakdowns?

She'd gone right at first. The wrong way, naturally. In the end, she was pretty sure she'd taken the scenic route around the entire museum—twice. But eventually, after a confusing loop and an accidental detour into a pretty large Asda, she found herself at the top of the stone steps.

She let out a soft sigh of relief, actively trying not to look winded or, God forbid, sweaty. Her hip had clicked twice on the way up. Possibly three times. It sounded like she was entirely made of poorly-assembled IKEA parts.

After spending far too long squinting at the slightly crumpled, deeply unhelpful museum map, she was almost ready to make a beeline for the Roman Empire exhibit.

The Romans had always been a fascination of hers growing up. She could still hear Harry's voice teasing her about her inexplicable schoolgirl crush on Julius Caesar. At the time, Vivienne had insisted it was the leadership she admired.

Now, she was starting to realize it may have just been the trauma.

After weaving through the other exhibits—Greek, Mesopotamian, a brief flirtation with Medieval Arms—she found herself circling back. Nothing quite grabbed her the way the Romans did. Still, she appreciated the artifacts, the worn details, the quiet hum of preserved history.

But what she didn't expect was actual human interaction. Like, beyond buying a ticket or offering a quick awkward smile to a passing tourist. She wasn't prepared.

She took a slow step back, eyes fixed on the statue of Dionysus in front of her. There was something eerie and beautiful about it—the way the marble framed his face, the tilt of his smirk.

And then—bump.

Vivienne gasped, audibly which was quite embarrassing, as she backed right into something solid.

Or, more specifically, someone.

"Oh god—"

"It's fine," a voice replied—low, rough, just gravelly enough to feel cinematic.

She turned, eyes dragging upward.

He was tall.

T A L L.

Broad shoulders. Jawline like it was carved from the same stone as Dionysus himself. Scars, too—faint, but enough to suggest he knew violence a little too well. That didn't make him not handsome, though. No, no, it made him dangerously handsome.

Tall... and those biceps? Hunky. Like... objectively.

But it was his eyes that stopped her. Icy, piercing, like he saw a little too much, too fast. It made her stomach do something dumb. Flippy.

"I'm so sorry—I should've looked where I was going," she stammered, panic already bubbling under her skin. Her face was hot. Great. She

could feel the embarrassing red creeping up her neck.

"It's all good. No worries," he chuckled, easy and low.

Then, with a glance toward the statue: "You seem to really like Dionysus, huh?"

Vivienne felt her brain short-circuit slightly. Small talk. Her oldest nemesis.

"Oh! Uh—yeah. I mean... I love the statues." She winced. That sounded weird. Who says that? Who just admits to being in love with statues like some creepy art freak with no friends?

"They are beautiful," he said, humming his agreement. There was a smoothness to the way he spoke—measured, unhurried.

Somehow that made it worse.

"Did you know," she started, trying to recover, "Romans usually sculpted the bodies first and then attached the heads separately?"

He raised a brow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Oh yeah?"

"I mean, they did that when they were mass-producing sculptures. Swapping heads depending on who was emperor. But like—did it actually save them time?" she asked, laughing a little despite herself.

That earned her something unexpected: a real laugh. A deep, throaty sound that made her insides coil weirdly. Not in a bad way.

"You sure know a lot about the Romans," he said, eyes twinkling. "Maybe you're Ovid incarnated."

Vivienne blinked. "Wow. Bold of you to assume I'm not already."

Saved by the buzzing from her bag, she cursed under her breath and fished out her phone.

SISTER DEAR. I HAVE ACQUIRED YOU AN INTERNSHIP WITH SCOTLAND YARD. PUT YOUR PASSION TO GOOD USE. MEET D. GRANT LESTRADE.

-J.W

Vivienne blinked.

Okay. Weird.

She knew immediately this wasn't actually her brother—not really. Sure, it came from his number, but John had never signed off his texts in his life. He barely texted at all. And definitely not like a sentient fax machine. No. This had Sherlock written all over it. Robot speech and all.

"Meeting someone?" the gruff voice pulled her back to reality.

"Huh? Oh—uh, no. Just... my brother," she replied, smiling sheepishly as she shoved her phone deep into her bag again. Right into the crumby abyss, where granola bar shrapnel lived and phone charging ports went to die.

"It was nice meeting you—um, I've gotta—" she gestured vaguely at the wall, then quickly corrected herself and pointed at the actual exit. "That way."

"I'm Sean by the-"

One last awkward smile, and she was gone—practically sprinting, nearly colliding with another person on her way out but catching her balance just in time

[greghousescane]

getting dommed by cuddy and house only for house to throw a fit bc cuddys strap is bigger than his cock

just a thought that i’ve had every day for like two months

[greghousescane]

i | the soldier, the sister, and the sleuth

the soldier

    the sister

        and the sleuth

        "𝓙ohn..?"

    A soft voice broke the stillness of the room. Her lips were tugged down into a frown, pale hands trembling slightly around a steaming mug that was probably tea.

She stood in the doorway, leaned gently against the frame. Cotton socks slipping slightly down her ankles, eyes glazed with quiet concern as they settled on the sweat-drenched figure of her older brother.

    She knew what nightmares could do. And god, she couldn't even begin to imagine what his were like.

John panted, eyes wide and locked on the ceiling. For a moment, he wasn't really there—just trapped in a distant fog. The room was dim, only the thinnest streaks of sunlight managing to cut through the curtains. He barely registered the dip of the mattress as she sat beside him.

    Vivienne's hand found his leg—gentle, steady touch.

"I'm okay..." he murmured, voice rough and dry, his smile weak but genuine.

    They sat in silence for a few moments, his breathing slowly finding a stable rhythm again.

"Do you want to go back to sleep?" she asked softly, like speaking too loud might shatter something fragile between them.

"No... no, I'm alright." He nodded, pushing himself up on his forearms.

    The sheets beneath him were visibly soaked through, clinging to his skin.

Vivienne's eyes flicked down briefly before she offered a soft, sympathetic smile. She stood, disappearing out of the room with her socked feet whispering against the carpet.

   

    John sat up slowly, the dream still clawing at the edges of his mind. It wasn't just a nightmare. It never was. It was a memory—too vivid, too real. The kind that left you staring at the ceiling wondering if you'd ever outrun it.

He didn't know if he regretted it, joining the army. He only knew that sometimes he wished he'd listened to his sister's voice—begging, pleading, heart on her sleeve. Guilt would be chasing him to the grave.

His thoughts began to drift, warping from heavy reflection into a numb, vacant stare at the cream-colored wall.

He had been good. Brilliant, even.

    The Watsons were always sharp-minded, clever—maybe too clever for their own good sometimes.

But family... family was a more complicated subject now. Once it had been everything. Now? Their parents were long gone. Harry—his older sister—was off somewhere, drowning herself and pretending it didn't hurt. And Vivienne, the youngest, was just trying to hold herself together as the world pressed in from all sides.

The silence broke with the soft padding of socked feet.

"I didn't really... go shopping," Vivienne said, voice still laced with sleep, "so I cut you some fruit..."

Her hair was a mess of frizz and waves, the ends curled up stubbornly, and the sleeves of her oversized jumper swallowed her hands. She looked so tired—young and soft and far too good for the weight she was carrying.

   

   

The rest of the day went by in silence.

John had trudged through his mandatory therapy session, thought vaguely about his—what he considered deeply stupid—empty blog... and, on his way back, was blessed with an old friend.

Oh. Wonderful.

For a split second, he thought he could make it past without being seen.

    Wrong.

"John! John Watson!"

    He sighed, long and low, then turned on his heel. The dull click of his cane echoed off the gravely pavement as he faced the man, the beginnings of a polite grimace forming on his face.

"Yeah... I know. I got fat."

"No, no..." John lied blatantly. Because Mike indeed, definitely did get quite fat.

    That, of course, led to lunch. And then a casual stroll to the lab.

The sterile air hit him first—the overwhelming scent of bleach and fake lemon stinging his nose. A sharp tang of something clinical and unwelcoming.

And then his eyes landed on him.

A man hunched over a microscope, dark curls falling across his forehead. Cheekbones like razors. Pale. Almost sickly. Though with Vivienne, the paleness came from health deficiencies. With this man—it felt... different.

    John, unsure what else to do in the situation he was in, offered up the phone with a shaky hand. His other stayed gripping the cane, knuckles white. Fingers then twitched instinctively at the hem of his plaid shirt, then drifted down to his cardigan—grounding himself in texture, in the present.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

    The voice was low and precise, cutting clean through the hum of fluorescent lights.

John blinked, turning to look at Mike, who only smiled like this was a perfectly normal tuesday afternoon.

Of course Mike smiled— he knew how Sherlock Holmes worked. Everyone seemed to. Except John.

"Sorry...?"

"Which was it—Afghanistan or Iraq?"

    The man's bright blue eyes were sharp. Blinding, almost.

John blinked, thrown off by the sheer bluntness. His mouth opened slightly, brain scrambling to catch up.

"—Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other," the man added, voice breezy like he was commenting on the weather.

    Now this was officially spiraling into something.

John's gaze ping-ponged from the lanky man to Mike, then back again. What the hell was going on? It was borderline creepy, strange.

For a second John wondered if he was dreaming, or if he had a brain injury which resulted in hallucinations.

"Sorry—what? You've told him about me?"

    Mike glanced up from the beaker in his hand, glasses sliding down his nose. He offered a knowing smirk accompanied by a small shrug of his shoulders.

"Not a word."

John wasn't sure if he was being lied to or if this was just some elaborate joke. Either way, he very much didn't like being the butt of it.

"Then who said anything about flatmates?"

    His stance straightened, voice sharp with suspicion.

"I did," the other man replied simply, already slipping on his long coat. "I told Mike this morning I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for—"

Sherlock shrugged the heavy, dark wool over his shoulders, as if this explained everything.

It didn't.

"—And now here you are. Just after lunch with an old friend. Clearly recently returned from military service in Afghanistan."

Scarf on. Collar up.

Not a beat missed.

"Wasn't a difficult leap."

"How did you know it was Afghanistan?"

    John squinted, brows furrowed

Sherlock didn't answer. Instead, he launched right back into his very much one-sided monologue.

"Got my eye on a nice little flat in Central London. Bit pricey, but between the two of us, should be manageable."

    And just like that—he was halfway out the door, utterly ignoring John's question.

"Um—sorry—my sister—"

"Sister, hm. Younger or older?"

"Younger," John started, only to be promptly steamrolled.

"How old? How tall?"

"What? She's—uh—twenty-two. Around... five foot five?"

    John squinted, clearly bewildered by the interrogation.

Sherlock nodded absently, already doing calculations in his head.

"Fine. She won't take up much space. That landlady could use a new friend."

"Wh—sorry, what?"

    John blinked, entirely lost.

"Tomorrow evening. 7 o'clock. We'll meet at the flat."

Sherlock was already halfway down the hall before John could respond, coat billowing behind him like a Victorian ghost.

   

After a long, restless day, the flat was finally still. Quiet.

Vivienne had fallen asleep on the floor sometime in the early hours — curled up like a cat, arms tucked in close, face slack with exhaustion. John noticed her breathing slow and even, the kind of peace that only came after too much chaos. He sighed, moved carefully, and with a quiet grunt, lifted her off the carpet.

"Alright, alright..." he muttered more to himself than her, gently placing her on the couch and tucking a worn blanket over her shoulders.     She stirred slightly but didn't wake.

He sat back down with a sigh. Sleep wasn't happening — not for him. Not tonight. He already knew what days his insomnia was going to hit.

His laptop hummed as he opened it, the soft glow of the screen illuminating his tired face. His blog page sat open on one tab, still woefully empty. On impulse, he opened a new tab.

𝚂𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝙷𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚜 |

Nope.

Backspace.

𝚂𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝙷𝚘𝚕𝚖𝚎𝚜|

He hit enter, eyes narrowing as search results flooded in. Articles, headlines, police reports, conspiracy theories... and photos.

God help him, who is this man?

       

"Hello," came a deep voice just as the taxi door slammed shut.

John turned on his heel, recognizing the voice instantly. He shifted his cane and gently nudged his sister with his elbow.

"Ah—Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock, please." The man corrected, his coat flaring dramatically in the wind, unintentionally theatrical.

    Sherlock's pale eyes shifted to Vivienne.

"You must be the sister. Shorter than John described. Good."

"Oh—uh, okay... yes. Hi." Vivienne blinked, uncertain whether to be offended or concerned.

    Sherlock didn't bother too much with introductions.

"Twenty-two. Pale—anemia. Studying forensic science. Anxious disposition. Recently went through a breakup. And it was his fault."

    Vivienne froze like a deer in traffic. John raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips as he glanced at her.

"Um... what?" Vivienne let out a nervous laugh, her voice pitching an octave higher.

"He just tried to deduce you," John muttered to Vivienne, amused.

"Tried?" Sherlock whipped around, affronted. "I did deduce—"

"You got it wrong," John cut in, deadpan.

    Sherlock turned sharply to Vivienne, blinking at her like she was a puzzle he'd misassembled.

"I... I study criminology," she said, a little sheepish. "And um, I did go through a breakup—his fault, yeah—but it was... around two years ago."

There was a beat of silence. Sherlock stared.

"...Oh. Hm."

That was it. Just a flat hm, like he was a computer processing an error code.

John snorted.

Vivienne just blinked. "Did I pass, or...?" she whispered.

John burst into a stomach-cramping laugh.

The door opened, and the familiar scent of chamomile and something faintly burnt wafted out—like lavender potpourri left too close to a radiator or a scorching summer afternoon window.

Mrs. Hudson beamed, instantly pulling Sherlock into a warm, grandmotherly hug.

"Mrs. Hudson—Dr. John Watson, Miss Vivienne Watson." Sherlock gestured behind him with a casual sweep.

"Oh! Hello, oh come in, come in!" she chirped, stepping aside to let them through. "You're both just as lovely as Sherlock isn't."

    Vivienne gave a small startled laugh as they stepped inside, eyes scanning the space.

The flat was an absolute chaotic symphony. A mismatched collection of furniture: a sagging sofa with threadbare arms, a fireplace stained slightly with ash, stacks of books teetering on every surface like intellectual Jenga. The wallpaper peeled ever so slightly at the edges, and one lampshade had been aggressively duct-taped into compliance. Dust floated lazily in the shafts of golden late afternoon light that spilled through tall windows. A deer skull hung above the mantle. Was that... a human skull on the mantle?

"It's a little... messy," Vivienne murmured, trying not to sound judgmental as Sherlock immediately began rearranging boxes like he was conducting a surgical procedure on chaos itself.

"No, no, it's—um. Lived in," John offered, cane clicking as he took a careful step over a violin case lying suspiciously open on the floor.

    Vivienne drifted toward the window, trailing a finger along a dusty bookshelf. Her reflection was pale in the glass. She turned back toward John, who was eyeing the sitting chair like it might be booby-trapped.

"You get used to it," Sherlock said offhandedly, already unboxing a collection of strange vials and something that looked dangerously like a femur. "Eventually, the mess becomes ambiance."

   

Mrs. Hudson peered over his shoulder. "That femur better not be from the butcher's again."

"No promises," Sherlock muttered.

"That's a.. skull," John pointed out, nodding toward the odd ornament perched above the fireplace.

    Vivienne whirled around, eyes wide. "What...?"

"Friend of mine," Sherlock said casually, like this was the most normal thing in the world.

Vivienne blinked.

        Is this supposed to be normal?

Mrs. Hudson swooped in like a warm grandma hurricane. "Oh, don't you have such pretty hair," she beamed, her wrinkled hand reaching out to gently curl the ends of Vivienne's frizzy locks.

Vivienne flushed, shy but smiling. "Thank you," she murmured.

John cleared his throat, furrowing his brows.

"Of course, we'll be needing two bedrooms..."

"Oh, don't worry, dear," Mrs. Hudson chirped. "There's all sorts around here—Mrs. Turner next door's got some lovely married ones."

    Vivienne shot John a quick glance. "I think... Mrs. Hudson thinks you and Sherlock are... um, together."

John groaned quietly under his breath. "Oh, Lord..."

Once Sherlock rushed to the kitchen at the sound of Mrs. Hudson calling out about strange science experiments, John glanced over at his younger sister as she stood by the window, arms wrapped around herself like she was holding in a storm. The fading light cast soft shadows across her face, eyes distant.

"You don't have to do this if you don't want to," he said quietly, stepping closer.

    Vivienne swallowed, voice barely above a whisper. "I just... I don't want to get stuck again. Moving in with Sherlock—it feels like stepping into a different world.. He's strange.. and it's impulsive— what if it's worse than being alone?"

John's expression softened. "I get that. You've been through a lot. But I don't want you left alone anymore, not here, not now. Just... let's give him a chance. We can still keep looking for a flat if it doesn't work out."

She met his eyes, searching for any trace of doubt. Finding none, a fragile smile tugged at her lips.

    "Okay," she said, voice steadying. "For you."

John smiled back, relief blooming quietly. "That's all I ask."

[greghousescane]

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈

THE PREACHER

chapter i : the soldier, the sister, and the sleuh

chapter ii : tea in the trenches

chapter iii : the yard

chapter iv : a stranger in the house of god

chapter v : moran's file

chapter vi : he said he knew the way

chapter vii : soft steps & sacred grounds

chapter viii : unknown number

chapter ix : verstappen after hours

chapter x : threads & mazes

chapter xi : the door

"What could force someone to take the pills?"

"Control. Or the illusion of it."