#Benedict Cumberbatch imagine

[daydreamtofiction]

Thou Shalt Not Covet // 20: Resurrection

Contents | Part 19 | First Person Version [AO3]

Summary: (Priest!Ben x Female Reader) THE FINAL CHAPTER IS UPON US. I love you all I love you all I love you all I love you all I love you all I love you all I love you all I love you all I love you all. I'm going to sleep now.

Word Count: 7.1K

Warnings: Strong language, irreverence, dark humour, adult & sexual themes. Readers must be 18+

You stirred gently from sleep, eyes closed as you drifted between the realms of reality and slumber. Echoes of the countryside seeped in through the open window like a soundscape, tranquil and idyllic; birdsong, wildlife, nature, rain-

Rain? 

Your eyes shot open, the remnants of your sleepy haze immediately falling away as you scrambled out of bed and hurried to the window. You pulled back the thick curtains, looking out over the vast landscape of the stately home, the plush, well kept grass and winding gravel paths, the fields in the distance that stretched along the skyline, as though nothing existed beyond it. 

The blue summer sky was blanketed in clouds, showering the earth in a rain so fine you could only see it in the ripple on the surface of a nearby pond. You gave a dejected sigh, walking around the bed to grab your phone off the nightstand. 

"Shit," you hissed as you noticed the time, the alarm you must have sent to snooze in your sleep.

You rushed out of your room in your t-shirt and pyjama shorts, making your way across the large landing towards the sound of voices and laughter, the smell of food and perfume. You tapped your knuckles on a door decorated with flowers and pushed it open, stepping into the room with an awkward grimace, an apology ready on your tongue. 

The spacious suite was buzzing with excitement, women with their hair in rollers, champagne flutes in their hands. They were all wearing matching silk robes; pale blue, 'bridesmaid' embroidered in white thread across the breast. You spotted Camilla from across the room, the only one in white, sitting with her back to you as a stylist blowdried her hair.

It felt like a bad teen movie; the moment the awkward new girl stepped into the high school cafeteria, looking over at the popular girls' table as she stood alone with her tray. They'd all known each other forever; the maid-of-honour her twin sister, the other four old friends. They were probably wondering why she'd asked you to be a bridesmaid at all, why you got to be part of the day they'd been waiting for since they were kids. 

"Oh, here she is!" One of the women shouted, jumping up from a couch in the middle of the room and rushing over to you. 

Camilla turned her head, smiling when she laid eyes on you and giving an excited wave. "You okay!?" she shouted over the sound of the hairdryer. 

You nodded, mouthing 'sorry' at her from across the room and pointing at your phone. 'Alarm didn't...'

She waved her hand at you, as if telling you not to worry. 

The woman approaching you was called Lottie, her freckled face gleaming with a grin as she handed you a robe. You took it and shrugged it on, looking down at the same 'bridesmaid' label embroidered into the pale blue silk. 

"Come and get some breakfast," she said, pointing to the coffee table between two couches, an elaborate spread laid across it. 

You picked at the food, putting a few pieces of fruit and croissant on a small plate and sitting down with the other women. 

"I'm so sorry I slept in," you said. 

"Oh don't worry about it," said Camilla's sister Alice. "You haven't missed anything. And Georgia's still asleep so you're not actually the latest." 

You laughed, biting into your croissant and relaxing back slightly into the couch. "I can't believe it's raining," you said, gesturing to the window on the other side of the room. "Especially with how warm June's been this year. I hope it stops before the ceremony." 

"Femi was just saying rain on your wedding day is supposed to be good luck," said Lottie.

The woman beside you nodded, her thick, dark hair sitting in a cluster of rollers on top of her head. "It is. They say it's supposed to wash away all the bad memories." 

"Hm." You nodded. "Well I hope it pours down then." 

They all laughed, and you allowed a smile, almost feeling bad for expecting coldness from them. They'd never been anything but kind; every dress fitting and group chat conversation filled with positivity and excitement, even the hen night had been surprisingly fun. Yet still, there was something inside you that made you doubt yourself, like you didn't belong amongst them.

Music played and the morning flowed as freely as the champagne. People rotated between the makeup artist and hair stylist, picking at the food and taking breaks in-between to dance and pose for pictures. You sat in the makeup chair as the woman swirled a brush over your eyelid, pinning your brow up with her thumb after you failed to stop blinking. 

You felt a tap on your shoulder, glancing up to see Camilla at your side.

"I know you don't like champagne so I got them to bring you a mojito," she said, handing you a tall glass, a sprig of mint floating over the ice. 

"Oh, wow, thank you. You didn't have to-" The makeup artist turned your face back towards her.  

Camilla laughed, patting you on the arm before walking away. 

You took a sip as the artist turned to dip her brush in another eyeshadow, quickly putting it down when she returned to you. You peered at yourself in the mirror through one eye, liking what you saw; glowing skin and romantically blushed cheeks, fluffy brows and the beginnings of a soft, dreamy eye. You found yourself thinking about your own wedding, the kind of makeup you'd have, the dress you'd wear, the colours you might choose. You could picture the guests, the bridesmaids, the church. But the groom didn't seem to have a face. No matter how hard you tried to imagine him waiting for you at the altar, you just couldn't make him out.

You were the last one to sit in the hair stylist's chair, nursing your cocktail as she ran a bristly round brush through your hair, spraying you with mists and pinning it up in sections while you watched the other women slip into their dresses. 

At every fitting, Camilla had been very specific about what she wanted your dresses to look like. They were beautiful; layers upon layers of delicate tulle that flowed to the ground like water, sleeves that draped off the shoulders and dozens of intricate flower appliqués. If it weren't for the soft blue colour, they could have been mistaken for wedding gowns. 

You watched as each woman was zipped and buttoned into her dress, the material gliding across the ground as they walked and twirled. And when your hair was finished, you put on your own, holding it tight to your chest as Femi fastened the back. You turned to looked at yourself in the mirror; the makeup, the hair and the most magnificent dress you had no idea how to walk in without tripping over it. You felt beautiful. You looked beautiful. You all did. 

You stood in the room waiting to go, clutching your bouquet in front of you, your thumb fiddling with the twine keeping it all together. Clusters of periwinkles, cornflowers, lavender and lilacs were peppered with baby's-breath and eucalyptus. You brought it to your nose, the sleepy perfume calming you down as you shifted your weight from side to side in your heels. 

The door opened and Camilla stepped into the room, eliciting a collective gasp from the bridal party, even you. Her jet black hair was slicked into a low bun, a veil cascading from it like a waterfall to the ground. Her dress was a pearly white; high neck and long sleeves, the beading catching in the sunlight that shone through the window. The train was long enough to rival royalty, her mother and father carrying it into the room behind her. 

The photographer was snapping pictures, moving around to catch each of the bridesmaids reactions. You glanced around to see them all carefully dabbing away tears, wondering if you were supposed to be crying too. You lifted a finger to your eye as he took your photo, not wanting to seem like the odd one out when they looked back over the album. 

"Right," said Camilla. "Let's go get married." 

It was two bridesmaids to a car; the dresses so big that you had to be packed and folded into the back seats like the stuffing of a pillow. You'd been put with Esther; the most laid back of the group, her soothing voice and charming laugh making the entire ordeal a little less mortifying. When the driver finally closed her door, she blew a loose strand of hair out of her face, turning to you and smirking. 

"Logistically, they should've just stuck us all in the back of a van," she said. 

You giggled. "Yeah, or one of those things they transport horses in." 

"Can you imagine," she laughed. 

The engine rumbled to life and you began to move, following in a long line of classic cars decorated with flowers. You returned to fiddling with the twine on your bouquet, breathing slow to loosen the knots forming in your stomach. You tried to focus on the view from your window as you travelled out of the countryside and into the small town, people stopping to look as you all drove past, the pretty views and brightening sky. You hadn't been back there in two months, and it was hard to look at the cobbled roads, thatched roofs and kitschy village shops without thinking of him, without knowing you were just a car ride away from facing him again. 

"Are you okay?" asked Esther.

"Hm?" You turned to look at her. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm good." 

"Are you sure? You seem more nervous than Cam, and she's the bride." 

You breathed out a weak laugh. "No, I'm fine, really. Just... churches, y'know. They make me uneasy." 

"Ah." She nodded, smoothing down a piece of her dress that had puffed up between you. "Well don't worry about that. If I can walk into a church then you definitely can." 

"What do you mean?" 

"I'm a trans woman, about to walk into a Catholic Church and stand in front of a priest who probably thinks I don't deserve to exist." 

"This one won't think that," you said. "He won't."

"How do you know? Have you met him?" 

"I have. And he's one of the good ones, I promise." 

She eyed you for a moment before smiling. "Well then you've got nothing to worry about either, have you." 

She reached over and squeezed your hand, holding it supportively for the rest of the journey. You felt bad, like you'd lied to her, taken her legitimate fear and used it to hide your own sordid truth. You'd tried to move on again, to get back to where you were before the day you found him in this town. But something was missing now, as though you'd left a piece of yourself behind, or maybe he'd taken it, and now nothing fit together right. 

The cars rolled to a stop outside the church. You could see the other bridesmaids gathering at the gates, their dresses fluttering together in a cloud of powder blue. The driver opened Esther's door first, taking her hand to help her out. And for a handful of seconds you were alone in the backseat, with nothing but the sound of your own breath, your nails raking over a fray in the twine you'd been fiddling with until it broke. 

"Oh, fuck sake," you whispered as the arrangement fell apart in your lap, stems and flowers and greenery sitting in the trough of your dress. 

You gathered it all back together frantically as your door opened, clutching it in your fist as you climbed out into the warm June breeze. Esther smiled at you, gesturing for you to come with her to join the others, then she looked down at the flowers in your hand, the piece of string in the other. 

"My god, you really are bricking it aren't you," she laughed, helping you tie it all back together. 

When you got to the other bridesmaids, your eyes darted across all of their bouquets, then down to yours. It looked like shit; too much green on one side, a clump of baby's-breath on the other, a broken stem of lavender hanging limply over your knuckles. You snapped it off and threw it to the ground behind you before anyone noticed. 

The bridal car pulled up and you watched as Camilla and her father climbed out, their smiles warmer than the summer air. You couldn't help but smile too, wondering if your own father would smile like that. He would. Though, he'd probably complain about having to wear a suit first.

You stared up at the church as you made your way towards it, blowing out slow, shaking breaths through pursed lips. 

"It's not about you, Ellis," you muttered to yourself. "This isn't about you." 

You felt an arm link yours, turning to see Esther at your side. She was looking straight ahead, pressing her lips together nervously, and you couldn't help but wonder if the arm she'd given was for your benefit or her's. 

The familiar musky aroma hit you as you walked into the church. You pushed your nose into your lopsided flowers, breathing in their scent instead, wishing you could tuck yourself away inside the petals like Thumbelina until it was all over. 

The organiser shifted you around, peeling you from Esther's side to arrange you in a line. You breathed a sigh of relief to find yourself somewhere in the middle, kicking the bottom of your dress out to stop it getting caught under your feet. Short steps, that's what the dressmaker had said. Little shuffles, a small kick if you feel it catching on your shoes. You were going to fall over. You just knew it. 

Music began to play in the chapel and the hum of chit chat fell silent. You took a deep breath, glancing over your shoulder to give Esther a reassuring smile, before turning back and staring down at the ground, waiting for your turn to walk. 

Lottie went first. Then Georgia, then Femi, then it was you. You turned the corner and stepped through the open chapel doors, taking the fastest small steps you possibly could, wishing you'd convinced Rav to choose the church with the tiny aisle instead. Heads were turned, women in large hats and extravagant fascinators, men with corsages on their lapels and children with wide eyes, all watching you with smiles as you made your way towards the altar. You kept your eyes on Femi in front, watching the way her dress moved so gracefully across the floor, hoping yours somehow looked the same. 

You finally raised your head when you reached the front, your eyes meeting Father Benedict's almost immediately. He was smiling softly, a crisp white stole draped around his neck. You notice his throat bob with a swallow, a glisten along the waterlines of his eyes. You could have cried. But then you looked at Rav, and you couldn't help but break into a smile. He was beaming, chest puffed, shifting on his feet with excited energy as he waited for his bride. He winked at you and you scrunched your nose happily before stepping aside to stand with the other bridesmaids. Esther followed behind you, then Alice. 

Father Benedict raised his hands and the music changed. There was a collective shuffle as everyone in the pews rose to their feet, turning to see Camilla enter the chapel, a bouquet in one hand, her father's fingers firmly clutched in the other. They walked together to the sweet sound of strings, her dress and veil trailing elegantly behind her. She kept her eyes on Rav the entire time, smiling, blushing, and you felt a selfish sense of pride wash over you. You'd introduced them. You'd known how perfect they would be for each other before they'd ever even met. And now here they were, just a year later, declaring their love in front of you all. 

"Hello everyone," said Father Benedict. "We are gathered here today to witness the marriage of Raviraj and Camilla. Let us call upon God to be with us today as we celebrate this union. In the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Peace be with you."  "And also with you," you said quietly, your voice lost amongst the collective.

"Let us pray."

You sat down as he began the prayer. You closed your eyes, allowing yourself to savour his voice, just for a moment. 

You wondered if he realised he was looking at you. Those striking blue eyes glancing over every few moments as he gave his first few readings, almost as though he was checking you were still there, making sure you hadn't been a figment of his imagination. You listened to him speak carefully; this was what he'd chosen, to share the word of his God, and he was good at it. 

"Raviraj and Camilla, you have come together today so that the Lord may seal and strengthen your love in the presence of your family and friends," he said. "And in doing so, you will be strengthened to keep mutual and lasting faith with each other as you carry out the duties of marriage. And so, in the presence of the church and of your family and friends, I ask you to state your intentions."

Rav and Camilla exchanged a glance and a nervous laugh. You smiled. 

"Raviraj and Camilla, have you come here to enter into marriage without coercion, freely and wholeheartedly?" 

"I have," they both said. 

"Raviraj, are you resolved to take Camilla to be your wife: to love her, comfort her, honour and protect her, and forsaking all others, to be faithful to her for as long as you both shall live?" 

"I am," said Rav, pressing his lips together to hold back an excited grin. 

"Camilla, are you resolved to take Raviraj to be your husband: to love him, comfort him, honour and protect him, and forsaking all others, to be faithful to him for as long as you both shall live?"

"I am," said Camilla. 

"And are you, Raviraj Mishra free lawfully to marry Camilla Anne Bowen?" 

"I am." 

"Are you, Camilla Anne Bowen free lawfully to marry Raviraj Mishra?" 

"I am."  "Well that's lucky," said Father Benedict, getting a light chuckle from everyone, including the bride and groom. 

He was always so good at easing tension; knowing exactly when people needed a moment to laugh, a second to take a breath. 

"Since it is your intention to enter the covenant of Holy Matrimony, join your right hands and declare your consent before God and his church," he said, gesturing for them to hold hands. 

You watched on with pure joy as the couple said their vows, your cheeks aching from smiling, any nerves or apprehension you had melting away as you listened to them giggle and trip over their words. But every now and again, you would find your gaze slipping to Father Benedict; the smile lines, the crinkled brow, the curve of his lips as he laughed. 

"You were right, he is really nice, isn't he," Esther whispered as she leaned over to you.

You nodded. "He is. I'm really glad he's the one doing this." 

"Do we have rings?" he asked.

Rav's best man took a step forward, taking the rings from the breast pocket of his suit and handing them to Father Benedict. 

"Lovely, okay," he said, clearing his throat. "May the Lord bless these rings, which you will give to each other as a sign of love and fidelity. Amen." 

He handed Rav a ring. "Repeat after me: Camilla, receive this ring as a sign of my love and fidelity. In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit." 

"Camilla," said Rav. "Receive this ring as a sign of..." 

You slapped your face with your palm. Camilla rolled her eyes with a laugh. 

"Come on, I gave you the easy version of this as well," Father Benedict joked, drawing another laugh from the guests. "As a sign of my love and fidelity." 

"Camilla, receive this ring as a sign of my love and fidelity. In the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit." 

He patted Rav on the shoulder like a proud father, and you couldn't help but smile.

"Give me the hard version," said Camilla, making him chuckle deeply in his throat. 

"Has to be the same, I'm afraid." He gave her the ring. "Raviraj, receive this ring as a sign of my love and fidelity. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit." 

"Raviraj, receive this ring as a sign of my love and fidelity. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit," she said before slipping it onto his finger, smiling like she'd perfectly recited a Shakespeare soliloquy.

Father Benedict ran a hand through his hair. "Now this is where we would usually declare them husband and wife," he said, addressing the chapel. "However, Raviraj and Camilla have asked if they can read their own declarations which they have prepared. So I will now take a step back and allow Raviraj to begin." 

You sat up straighter, your ears pricking with curiosity as Rav reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, unfolding it with nervous fingers and clearing his throat. 

"Okay," he said, taking a deep breath. "Camilla. Before I met you, I'd stopped believing in love. And because of that, I'd grown comfortable on my own; complacent, maybe even a little bit jaded. But from the second I laid eyes on you, I was forced to confront everything I thought I knew. You made me realise that love isn't something you can just avoid. It's something you feel whether you want to or not, and it should be embraced and cherished and nurtured."

The paper was shaking in his hands, and it almost made you tear up. You placed a hand over your chest as you listened, glancing over at Father Benedict who hadn't taken his eyes off Rav since he began speaking. 

"You found me at a time when I didn't even realise I was lost. When I thought the only way to be strong was to be alone. You showed me that real strength lies in being vulnerable and honest and imperfect, in being brave enough to risk letting someone behind the barricade. Maybe you'll lose everything. Or maybe..." He gestured to Camilla. "You'll gain more than you had to begin with." 

Father Benedict looked at you, you knew because you could feel his gaze on your face like the sun's rays. But you kept yours on Rav.

"So today, I vow to you, Camilla, that I will always keep my heart open for you. I vow to choose you, every single day. You are my person, my partner, and the best risk I ever took." 

The sound of sniffling echoed through the chapel, and you watched as Camilla wiped a tear from her cheek. She cleared her throat, turning to Alice who took out a piece of paper and handed it to her quickly.

"Rav," she said as she unfolded the paper, her voice still wobbly. "When a little over a year ago, a friend told me I should meet her neighbour, I was skeptical." 

You smiled, like you'd been given a shout out on the radio, mentioned in an Oscars speech. Father Benedict held back a smirk as he watched your reaction, rubbing his mouth with his fingers to hide it.

"I was focused and career driven and believed that a relationship would only slow me down. So I said no to meeting you. But then, like an act of God." She gestured to the church around her with a shy laugh. "We ended up in the same bar one night, where that friend introduced us after all. And I am... so glad. Loving you was never a question; I adored you from the start. The fear was that I'd found my soulmate at the wrong time in my life." 

Your focus flitted to Father Benedict as you thought of the last thing he'd said to you. Right person, wrong everything else. He swallowed, his eyes glazed over as Camilla spoke. 

"But there came a point where I had to ask myself: If I were to look back on my life, what would I regret more? Missing out on a few promotions? Or missing out on a lifetime of loving you? There was no contest. Choosing you isn't just a decision. It's the best decision I've ever made. I don't want to wonder what could have been." She flipped her paper over to read the other side. "And what I've discovered is that I actually haven't had to give up anything. Because you have supported me and encouraged me and cheered me on in whatever I've chosen to do. So my promise to you, Rav, is to always do the same. I promise to love and encourage and cheer you on in whatever you do, and I promise to choose you every day, because the only thing worse than not being with you is the regret of never having tried." 

You brought your hands together to clap, stopping when you realised no one else was applauding. Instead there were tears, sharp sniffs and coughs. Father Benedict stepped back up to them, clearing his throat and curling his mouth into a sincere smile. 

"That was beautiful," he said. "Now, let us humbly invoke God's blessing upon this bride and groom, that in his kindness he may favour with his help those on whom he has bestowed the bond of marriage." 

"Closer if you can, Darlin'," said the photographer from behind his camera. 

You shuffled closer to the groomsman you'd been placed beside, so close your hip was now pressing against him. Surely this was close enough. You held your bouquet in front of you and smiled as the camera snapped in quick succession. 

The sun was gleaming now in a clear blue sky, the air growing humid as you all stood outside the church for photos. The confetti you'd thrown was fluttering across the grass in the light breeze, the cars waiting near the road to take you to the reception. 

"That's lovely," said the photographer. "If you on the end there could just turn your body inwards a bit please." 

Lottie turned as the camera snapped again. 

You were standing in a meticulously organised row; six groomsmen and six bridesmaids, slotted together and posed in your blue dresses and their matching blue ties and pocket squares. Your groomsman was Rav's cousin Niall, who kept making you laugh by muttering things under his breath. 

"You, love, you're going to have to get closer than that," said the photographer. 

"Me?" You pointed to yourself. 

"If you can please, darlin'." 

"Jesus, any closer and we'll have to use protection," said Niall quietly.

You laughed through your nose, trying to hold it in as the camera shutter went off again. 

Across the grass, Rav and Camilla were standing together, stealing kisses and holding hands beneath the shade of a large tree. You felt warm watching them, unsure if you'd ever been this unequivocally happy for someone else before. Your eyes moved over the groups of guests to the church, your heart stopping for a moment when you saw Father Benedict standing at the top of the steps near the entrance. 

He was out of his white alb and stole now, standing with his hands in the pockets of his trousers, a black shirt rolled up at the sleeves and white clerical collar around his neck. He met your gaze for a moment and you gave him a soft smile. He smiled back, but it seemed sad, even from so far away. 

"Can we do a funny one?" asked Georgia.

The rest of you groaned in unison, but it was too late, the photographer already coming over to reposition the group. He turned you all sideways, your back to Niall's chest, his back to Esther's and so on until it looked like a twelve person queue.

"This is a bit human centipede-y, don't you think?" Niall called out to him.

"Do you think he's going to have us conga all the way back to the manor?" Esther joked.

Niall laughed. "Ellis is leading so we'd all be fucked." 

You elbowed him. 

"Alright, after three you're all going to kick out your leg and lean back on the person behind you!" the photographer shouted. 

"Oh cheers, Georgia, this is just wonderful," said one of the groomsmen. 

"I just wanted to pull some funny faces," she shouted back. "I didn't think he'd have us doing fucking Cirque du Soleil!" 

You looked over at Father Benedict again, shaking your head at him. His shoulders shook with a gentle laugh, his hand covering a smile. 

The photographer moved on to Camilla and Rav's parents soon after. You stayed on the grass, trying to rearrange your bouquet as your heels sank into the soft earth beneath you. You looked over at the other bridesmaids, watching as they all found their partners amongst the chaos; Alice and her husband talking to Femi and her fiancé, Lottie sitting on the church steps FaceTiming her boyfriend in Australia as Georgia introduced her girlfriend to Esther and her boyfriend. You bit the inside of your cheek, returning your attention to the flowers in your hand.

"Ellie!" 

You looked up to see Blossom running towards you. 

"Hi," you said, bending down to hug her before pulling back to look at her dress, the mint green material covered in a subtle frog print. "You look so cute." 

She smiled as Lorna caught up behind her, placing a hand lovingly on top of her daughter's head.

"So you compromised on her wearing the frog onesie to the wedding, then," you said. 

She nodded. "Praise the lord." 

You laughed. 

She slid her sunglasses onto her head, her almost-knee-length hair falling in loose waves down her back. She was wearing a long, sunflower print dress with exaggerated bell sleeves, a pair of wooden clogs with hand-painted soles. You didn't realise you were staring at her until she narrowed her eyes at you. 

"What is it?" she asked. 

"Oh, sorry. Sometimes I just wish I was you." 

"Don't be silly." She laughed and patted your arm. "I'm just going to see Rav. Are you coming Blossom?"

The little girl didn't move. You looked at Lorna and smiled. "I'll stay with her."

She thanked you as she walked away, and you returned to plucking stray leaves from your bouquet. You looked down to see Blossom running her fingers over your dress, quietly admiring the appliqués.

"Do you like it?" you asked. 

She nodded.

"I'll save it for you. You can have it when you're older." 

She smiled shyly. 

You crouched down, resting on your haunches to look at the dress with her, turning at the waist so she could see the back. 

Father Benedict was still standing at the top of the church steps, leaning against the open door as he stared off into space. But he seemed to sense that you were looking at him, glancing down to catch your gaze. 

You wanted to talk to him. Not about what happened, not about the two of you or your feelings or religion or anything. You just wanted to talk. About the weather, about how his day was going, about what he was going to have for dinner. There had to be a part of you that was still capable of that. 

Blossom pointed to one of the appliqués near the hem of your dress. "This one is my favourite," she said.

She didn't talk a lot, so whenever she did it took you by surprise. You returned your attention to her immediately. 

"Really? I like that one too. And this one here." 

You looked back up to find him smiling; a soft, sincere smile that made your heart ache. 

"Ellis, our car's ready to go!" Esther shouted across the grass. 

You stood up, taking Blossom's hand to lead her back to Lorna, allowing one last glance back at the church steps. 

A strange sense of calm washed over you as you looked at him, like there was comfort in your last memory of him being in the place he'd chosen to stay. 

You weren't sure how you'd ended up in the middle of the dance floor, huddled amongst a huge group of women as they squashed together in excitement. You'd intended to stay on the outskirts, but someone had pulled you, another accidentally pushing you further inward, until eventually you were at the heart of the cluster, watching as Camilla turned her back, counting down from three. 

Her bouquet came flying towards you, but instead of catching it, you ducked, letting it soar over your head and into the hands of a woman behind you. She jumped and cheered, the rest of the women laughing and clapping as her boyfriend jokingly made a run for the door. 

"God, Ellis, tell me you're scared of commitment without telling me you're scared of commitment," said Camilla, laughing as she walked over to you. 

"Well my natural reaction to things flying at my head is to duck," you said with a shrug. 

A waiter walked past with a tray of champagne. She plucked one off it and took a large gulp.

"The world's not running out of champagne, Cam," you said. 

"Sorry," she mumbled, wiping the corner of her mouth with her hand. "This whole wedding's just been so stressful. All that drama with the planner, and then the fucking church burning down." 

"Maybe it was her. Set fire to it out of spite because you sacked her." 

She laughed. "Wouldn't put it past her. We're just so lucky we got the church we did. He was nice wasn't he. The priest. Made it really... not boring."

"Yeah, he was... It was good." 

She cocked her head, brow furrowing slightly. "What?" 

"What?" 

"You just seem really sad." 

"I'm not sad. I'm not." You looked around the busy hall. "Lonely, yes. Sad, no." 

"Oh, Ellis, don't say that, you're breaking my heart."

You rolled your eyes. "I'm only joking. Go and enjoy your wedding for Christ's sake." 

She eventually disappeared into the sea of guests as you made your way over to the bar. You ordered a drink and plonked yourself back down at your table, resting your cheek on your fist as you sipped it slowly. 

The large hall was dark, flashing with colourful disco lights and strobes as the DJ played music from a deck in the corner. You watched people enjoying themselves; the funny dance-walk they'd do as they made their way to the floor, the buttons of men's shirts coming further undone as they got drunker and sweatier, the kids being told off for sliding on their knees in their good clothes.

Your table was empty since Lorna had taken Blossom home, the bridesmaids up dancing and catching up with people they knew on the other side of the room. You didn't mind, always finding parties more of an obligation than they were fun; you hated having to shout down people's ears just to have a conversation, being pressured to get up and dance, losing your seat if you left it for too long. You much preferred to sit on the edge of the room, nursing a drink and people watching. You were Ellis Attenborough, observing humans in their natural habitat. 

The music lowered and the multicoloured lights melted to a warm white. You looked around in confusion as the noise of the hall seemed to hush suddenly. 

"Ladies and gentleman, please join me in welcoming the new Mr and Mrs Mishra to the floor for their first dance as husband and wife," said the DJ over the speakers.

The room erupted into cheers and applause. You clapped along as Rav took Camilla's hand and led her to the centre of the empty dance floor. She'd changed dresses, swapping her ornate, bountiful gown for a sleek, elegant slip. You watched as the photographer scurried around them, trying to get a good shot as they wrapped their arms around each other and began to sway to the music. 

You hated yourself for thinking of him as you watched them dance. You hated that you felt jealous, persecuted, forced to spend the rest of your life as a spectator to other people's love stories from the corner of the room. You'd never been certain of what you wanted, and there was something so cruel in knowing now; knowing that you did want the marriage, the children, the brushing teeth side by side in the mirror each morning and washing dishes while the other dried them in the evenings. You wanted the fights, the sex, the anniversaries, the dates. You wanted to be a girlfriend, then a fiancé, then a wife. And if there really was a God, he was a fucking arsehole for taking all of those wants and putting them into a man you could never have. For setting up the dominoes so perfectly and then moving the last one just an inch too far to fall. 

The song was still going, and you watched as other couples began to join them on the dance floor, moving in their own little bubbles, smiling, kissing, embracing. You got up and weaved through the crowd towards the exit, stepping out of the hall into the vast, empty foyer of the stately home.

You grabbed the hem of your dress, lumping the abundance of material in your arms as you made your way through the front doors and out into the cool night air. Your ears were ringing, the noise of the party a distant hum as you walked down the steps and over the gravel towards the gardens. There were a few people dotted over the grounds, a couple walking hand-in-hand through the flower gardens, a man in a three piece suit smoking a cigarette as he sat on the grass, a woman waiting for a cab near the long driveway. 

You trudged over the grass with your dress balled up in your arms, drinking in deep breaths as you prepared yourself to go back inside. You turned around, taking in the full view of the manor, the stars above so bright and unpolluted by city light. 

You held your middle finger up at the sky. "Fuck you," you said. "You won. Well done." 

The man with the cigarette gave you an awkward look. 

"I'm talking to God," you said. "He's a prick." 

"Ah." He nodded.

You let out an exasperated sigh and walked back towards the house, almost tripping when your heel got caught in the grass. The noise from the reception grew louder as you made it back onto the gravel, and you wondered if you should just go straight upstairs to your room, lie down and begin nursing the inevitable headache. You reached into your bra for your key card, pulling it out and immediately dropping it, listening as it clattered down each step you'd just climbed. 

"Of course," you muttered, turning around to walk back down when a figure emerged from the dark. 

His footsteps crunched slowly as his tall frame came into view. You stopped, back straightening, blinking rapidly as your brain tried to catch up with your eyes. 

"Hi," said Father Benedict, his voice so quiet the breeze almost carried it away. 

"Hi..." you replied, brows coming together in confusion. 

He picked up the key card and held it out to you.

"Thanks," you said, walking down the last few steps and taking it from him. "I... I didn't think priests usually got invited to the reception..." 

"I wasn't invited," he said, awkwardly scratching the back of his head. "I erm, it was actually quite stalkerish if I'm honest, I'm- I'm not proud of it. I asked around the town and found out where they were having it." 

"Oh." You looked over your shoulder to the open doors. "Well I'm sure they won't mind that you're here. They seemed to really like y-"

"I came to find you." 

"To find me?" 

"To tell you that this morning was my last service." 

"You're moving churches again?" 

"I'm leaving the clergy." 

You fell silent, looking around in bewilderment. "Wh- I don't und- Why?" 

"You know why." 

You stared at him for a moment, then your eyes grew wide. "No," you breathed. "No. You can't- You can't."

"Well I have." 

"Wh- Wh... When did you...?" 

"Today." 

You lost your grip on the skirt of your dress, the material falling from your arms to the floor. "Why would you do that?" 

He didn't answer, looking down at you like you already knew. 

"Ben..." 

"I can live without this." He pointed to his collar, before shaking his head, his voice cracking. "I don't think I can live without you." 

Your lips parted, a breath escaping like your lungs had caved in. Your eyes were beginning to water because you'd forgotten how to blink, your heart thumping in time with the music inside. 

"Ellis," he whispered. 

"Are you playing a trick on me?"

He breathed out a laugh, shaking his head as he moved closer and brought his hands up to cup your face. He tilted your head back slightly and leaned down, placing a slow, tender kiss on your lips. When he stopped, he let his forehead rest against yours, looking into your eyes as you struggled to form a coherent sentence. 

"But what... What if- If it didn't work out? Then-"

"Then I'd be thankful I got to love you. Openly, completely. Even if it was just for a little while." 

"You're not thinking clearly. You're giving up everything-"

"I'm gaining everything."

You shook your head in disbelief. 

Another quiet laugh rumbled in his throat. "Ellis," he said. "What do you want?" 

You paused, staring up at him. "I want to brush my teeth with you." 

"What?" 

You shook your head, throwing your arms around the back of his neck and pulling him into another kiss. His hands slid down from your face to wrap around your waist, hugging you tight as your lips moved in perfect tandem. You felt him smile, and you smiled too, weaving your fingers into the back of his hair.

Rav and Camilla wandered through the doors, taking a few steps before stopping suddenly. 

"Is that... Ellis... kissing our priest...?" asked Rav.

Camilla grabbed his arm and they slowly retreated back inside. 

Ben broke away, bringing his hands back to your face as he stared down at you. "Right person," he said. "Full stop."

*Tags: @evelynrosestuff @thealleydog @lexlexigogh @allie131313 @simpingbestie @ironstrange1991 @witchoftheages @hiddendiary @swds @jyessaminereads @withalittlehoney @hunterofshadows04 @slytherindoctorsat221b @diabaroxa @phoebe221 @hai-kbai @downtownshabby @dara-of-qui-zi @unfilteredmoonchild @classicrebound @bigratbitchsworld @aphroditesdilemma @bloodyxsaint @ployavengersog1 @spectaclebitch @paola-carter @gordorio @shjl15 @thedaredevilsgirl @howardtonypotts @ceccille @wllsfer @thelostsmiles @vi0letdaze @stanfanfiction @king-kongbebe-blog @sof38 @doctorscarletwitch @rmoonstoner @intrappolatatrairicordi @ehuether @dragonqueen89 @estheticwh0re @Lfp10836 @kanyewestest @star-girl-05 @theothersideofthescreen @battledress @chaosdorito @vlqueen @erratica47 @happybunnyclumsyduck @bloggerbatch @bimrwolf @chaand-sitara @dude-where-s-my-tardis @run-clever-boy @j3mj3rrica

[brunchable]

Untamed Chaos [Request] || Doctor Strange x Scarlet Witch!reader.

Genre: Oneshot, Light-hearted romance, Teacher/Student Words: 5.4K The Request: a fanfic where the reader is Scarlet Witch and she is very insecure and afraid of her powers and Stephen Strange helps her control her powers. A/N: First request in such a long time. I mayhaps liked this idea a bit too much I got carried away but I hope it can make someone's day. Thank you to the GIF creator. For @honeymoon-salvatore

You've always been afraid of your powers. They are immense, unpredictable, and often seem to have a will of their own. It wasn't until the incident in your hometown that you truly understood the magnitude of your abilities. 

You had only meant to defend yourself, but in the blink of an eye, the entire street had been engulfed in a swirling vortex of energy, leaving destruction in its wake. The fear and confusion in the eyes of those around you still haunt your dreams.

Since then, you've kept your distance from people, isolating yourself to prevent any further harm. Your powers feel like a ticking time bomb, always on the verge of exploding. 

You can't control them, not fully, and the unpredictability is what scares you the most. One moment, you could be sitting peacefully, and the next, you could be unintentionally causing objects to levitate or shatter around you.

You've tried to manage them on your own, practicing in secret, but the progress has been slow and often discouraging. Each failed attempt chips away at your confidence, leaving you feeling more vulnerable and isolated. The frustration builds within you, feeding into the fear, creating a vicious cycle that's hard to break.

You often find yourself alone, both physically and emotionally. The isolation is a double-edged sword; it keeps others safe from your powers, but it also leaves you without support, without someone to reassure you that you're not a monster. You yearn for connection, for someone to understand your struggle, but the risk of hurting someone is too great. The potential destruction you could cause keeps you at a distance, even from those you care about the most.

In moments of despair, you imagine a life where your powers are not a curse but a gift, where you can use them without fear. But those are just dreams, far removed from your current reality. Every day is a battle against yourself, against the fear that one wrong move could lead to disaster. You live with the constant reminder that you are different, that you are dangerous, and that there might never be a place for you in the world as you are.

Despite the fear and the isolation, there's a flicker of hope within you. A hope that maybe, just maybe, someone out there can help you. Someone who understands what it's like to wield such power and can guide you in controlling it. This hope leads you to the doors of the Sanctum Sanctorum, but standing there, you hesitate. Your hand hovers over the grand door, and a wave of shame washes over you. What if Doctor Strange sees you as a lost cause? What if he thinks you're too dangerous to be helped?

× × × × 

As you approach the grand doors, your heart races with anticipation. You take a deep breath, steadying yourself before knocking firmly. The sound echoes in the silence, and the massive doors creak open seemingly on their own, revealing the grand entrance hall bathed in dim, mystical light.

At the top of the sweeping staircase, Stephen stands tall, his presence commanding and imposing. His cape flows dramatically behind him, catching the light in a way that makes it seem almost alive.

“Ah, I’ve been expecting you,” he says with a knowing smile.

“Expecting me?” you ask, chuckling sheepishly. You can’t shake the feeling of shame that lingers, making you want to shrink away.

“Yes. I could sense your presence,” he replies, descending the stairs. “And besides, you’re not exactly subtle.”

You manage a small, nervous laugh, looking down at your feet. “I actually came to ask for your help, Doctor Strange. My powers… they’re out of control. I-I don’t know how to handle them.”

“Hmm.” Stephen nods, his expression turning serious but not unkind. “Come with me. Let’s see what we can do.”

As he turns to lead you deeper into the Sanctum, you can't help but blurt out, “Are we starting already?”

Stephen glances back at you, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “No, we're going to have a tea party first. What do you think?”

You roll your eyes but feel a bit of the tension ease away. “Very funny.”

“I thought so,” he replies with a smirk, leading you to the doors that lead to Kamar-Taj.

The morning air at Kamar-Taj is crisp and fresh, the early sunlight casting a warm glow over the ancient courtyard. Birds chirp in the distance as you and Stephen stand in the center of the tranquil space.

“First things first,” he says, “Do you know the true nature of your powers?”

You nod, feeling a familiar weight settle on your shoulders. “I know. But I don’t know how to control them. It’s like trying to tame a storm.”

He nods, seeming to have expected that answer. “Your powers are unlike any other. They’re rooted in something very ancient and very potent—chaos magic.”

“How do I control something that’s inherently chaotic?” You sigh, looking down at your hands, a flicker of crimson energy dancing across your fingertips. 

“By understanding it, accepting it, and learning to channel it. It’s not about suppressing your emotions, but rather, learning to use them to your advantage.” Stephen steps closer, his voice gentle but firm.

“That’s easier said than done.” You scoff, frustration coloring your voice.

Stephen raises an eyebrow. “Is it? Or are you just making excuses?”

You glare at him, but there is no malice in your eyes. “You’re really good at this comforting thing, aren’t you?”

"I try," he says with a smirk, “Look Y/N you came here asking for my help. I know the media doesn’t really paint you. . . gracefully. So, from now on try not to let your self-doubt eat you up.”

You look down. Even though that was a hard pill to swallow, he was right.

“Come with me.” He leads you to a secluded area of the courtyard, where ancient runes are etched into the stone floor. 

“This area should have ample space to practice powerful magic. It will be a safe place for you to practice control.”

You nod, taking a deep breath to steady yourself. 

“First, we’ll start with some basic exercises. Focus on your breathing, and let your mind clear. Feel the energy within you, but don’t try to control it yet—just observe.” Stephen begins to demonstrate, weaving his hands through the air, creating intricate patterns of golden light. 

You close your eyes, following his instructions. You can feel the familiar hum of your powers beneath your skin, a constant presence that you're trying to grow accustomed to. Slowly, you begin to breathe in rhythm with the energy, letting it flow through you without trying to shape it.

“Good, you learn quickly.” Stephen’s voice breaks through your concentration. “Now, open your eyes and focus on a single point in front of you. Imagine your energy flowing towards that point, like a stream of water.”

You do as he says, but suddenly, a surge of power rushes through you, causing your body to twitch while you attempt to contain it. Your eyes snap open in panic. Your powers spiral out of control. Crimson energy begins to swirl around you, leaves and dust spiraling  around leaving you at its center. The ground trembles, and a strong wind whips through the trees around you.

"Dammit!" you shout, sinking to your knees as you try to contain the chaos. "I can’t do this, Doctor. It’s too much."

Before you can even process what's happening, Stephen is already moving, his hands weaving complex patterns in the air. Golden bands of light appear, encircling the wild energy and containing it. Sweat beads on his forehead from the effort, but his eyes remain focused and determined.

“Stay with me, Y/N,” he calls out, his voice straining as he tries to contain your powers. “You can do this. Focus on my voice.”

You try to calm your racing heart, taking deep breaths as you attempt to regain control. The golden bands tighten around the chaotic energy, slowly but surely bringing it under control. 

Finally, the room falls silent, the wild energy dissipating into the air. Stephen kneels beside you, his hand on your shoulder. 

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he says softly. “It’s okay to struggle. You’re learning, and that takes time.”

You look up at him, your eyes glistening, “What if I hurt someone? What if I hurt you in the process?”

“You won’t,” he assures you, placing a hand on your shoulder, “Relax, it’s okay. You’re safe.”

You take a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart. “I’m sorry, Stephen. It just… it just got away from me.”

He smiles reassuringly. “It’s all part of the process. Let’s try again.”

You picture the crimson energy within you, flowing outwards in a controlled stream. To your surprise, the energy responds, a thin tendril of red mist extending from your hand and touching the ground where you’re looking.

“Excellent. Now, try to maintain that flow, but gradually increase the intensity.” Stephen smiles, clearly pleased with your progress.

You concentrate, feeling the energy surge within you. The tendril of light thickens, glowing brighter as more power flows through it. You can feel the wildness of the chaos magic, but it no longer feels overwhelming—it’s like riding a powerful wave, guiding it with subtle movements.

“Remember, your emotions are your fuel,” Stephen reminds you. “Channel your focus, your determination, and your control into the magic.”

You nod, feeling a growing confidence. The energy flows more smoothly now, the thread of light dancing in intricate patterns at your command. It’s exhilarating, feeling the power within you and knowing that you’re in control.

“Alright,” Stephen says, taking a step back, his expression serious. “Now, let’s test your control under pressure. I’ll create some moving targets, and I want you to hit them with precise bursts of energy.”

He raises his hands, and several glowing orbs appear, floating in a precise formation. They begin to move, weaving through the air in unpredictable patterns. “Focus, Y/N. Use your emotions to guide your power.”

You take a deep breath, focusing on the first target. You extend your hand, and a tendril of crimson light shoots out, striking the orb dead center. It shatters in a burst of golden sparks.

Stephen nods approvingly. “Good. Now, try the next one.”

You move to the second target, feeling a surge of confidence. This time, you channel a stronger burst of energy, the crimson light brighter and more intense. The orb explodes, scattering shards of light in all directions.

As you continue, the targets move faster, their patterns more erratic. You struggle to keep up, the energy within you becoming harder to control. Sweat beads on your forehead, and your breath comes in shallow gasps.

“Stay focused,” Stephen encourages.

But the pressure mounts, and the chaos magic within you begins to surge again. One of the targets moves unexpectedly close to Stephen, and in a moment of panic, you release a powerful burst of energy.

The crimson tendril lashes out, striking Stephen’s arm before you can stop it. He stumbles back, a pained expression crossing his face as blood begins to seep from a cut on his arm.

“Oh my god, Stephen!” you cry out his name accidentally, rushing to his side. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to—”

“Don't. It was an accident.” He grits his teeth, his hand applying pressure to the wound.

You remained quiet, even though guilt is a close friend of yours, it still felt corrosive. 

× × ×

The morning training session had taken a turn you hadn’t anticipated. Now, sitting in the quiet, dimly lit infirmary at Kamar-Taj, the reality of your lack of control weighs heavily on you. Stephen sits on a low bench, his shirt discarded to reveal a nasty gash on his arm, inflicted by your uncontrolled magic. 

His Cloak of Levitation hovers nearby, holding the first aid kit with its hem, seeming to watch over him protectively.

“Let’s get this cleaned up,” Stephen says, his voice smooth despite the pain. He gestures to the hovering Cloak, which gently extends the first aid kit towards you. “Can you take the antiseptic and bandages?”

You quickly reach for the items, your hands shaking slightly. “I’m so sorry.”

“Y/N, it’s okay,” he interrupts gently, a small smile playing on his lips despite the grimace of pain.

“Let me help.” You kneel beside him, the sight of the deep cut making your stomach churn. The Cloak hovers closer, as if wanting to assist but unsure how. Stephen takes the antiseptic from you, but you gently place your hand over his. 

He nods, relinquishing the bottle. 

You pour the antiseptic onto a cloth and carefully dab it on the wound. Stephen hisses, his muscles tensing under your touch. His skin is warm, the contours of his body highlighted in the soft light of the infirmary. You try to focus on the task at hand, but it’s hard not to notice how close you are, how vulnerable he seems.

“Sorry,” you whisper, your voice trembling.

He reaches out with his uninjured hand, gently tilting your chin up so you meet his eyes. “Y/N, it was an accident. I know you wouldn't mean to hurt me.”

You nod, feeling a bit more at ease with his reassurance. Carefully, you finish cleaning the wound and reach for the bandages. The Cloak, as if sensing your need, floats closer, offering the bandages to you from its folds.

As you wrap the bandage around his arm, you can’t help but ask, “Does it hurt a lot?”

“I’ve had worse. Much worse.”

You can’t help but smile at his attempt to lighten the mood. “Well, you’re lucky I didn’t turn you into a frog or something.”

Stephen laughs, the sound filling the small infirmary. “I think I'd rather handle a few cuts and bruises. But I appreciate the concern.”

“There. All done.” You finish wrapping the bandage and tie it off, your fingers lingering on his skin for a moment longer than necessary. 

Stephen flexes his arm slightly, testing the bandage, “Now I have a new scar to show off. Women dig scars, right?”

“Well, it certainly adds to your mystique.” You laugh, the sound a bit shaky but genuine. 

He chuckles, standing up and pulling you to your feet with his good arm, “Go get some rest and clear your mind. Don't wallow too much on this. Really, I'm fine.”

× × × × 

The days turn into weeks. You find yourself growing more confident in your abilities, but there are still moments where the fear and frustration overwhelm you. Stephen’s consistent support and guidance have been invaluable, and you've begun to see glimpses of what your powers could be if fully controlled. However, the road to mastery is far from smooth.

One afternoon, while practicing a particularly challenging spell, your powers spiral out of control. The room around you blurs as a surge of energy erupts from within, sending you flying across the room. You crash into a stone wall with a sickening thud, the impact knocking the wind out of you. Pain radiates from your shoulder as you realize it’s dislocated. Before you can even catch your breath, you hear a creaking sound above you and look up to see a massive pillar beginning to topple over.

Panic courses through you, but before you can react, a burst of golden light encases the pillar, stopping it mid-fall. You turn to see Stephen, his hands outstretched and eyes glowing with a focused intensity as he uses his magic to stabilize the structure.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice steady despite the obvious strain.

You nod, still dazed from the impact. “I... I think so,” you stammer, though the pain in your shoulder is excruciating.

He waves his hands, and the pillar rights itself, settling back into place with a groan of stone against stone. Only then does he turn his full attention to you, his expression softening as he kneels beside you.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he admits, “Let me see your shoulder.”

You wince as he gently examines it. “I think it’s dislocated,” you say through gritted teeth.

Stephen nods, his expression serious. “We need to fix this. It’s going to hurt, but I’ll make it as quick as possible.”

You brace yourself, biting your lip as he carefully but firmly maneuvers your shoulder back into place. A sharp, intense pain shoots through you, and you can’t help but cry out. But just as quickly as the pain flares, it begins to subside as Stephen’s magic soothes the injured area.

"Better?" he asks, his voice gentle.

You nod, tears of pain and relief streaming down your face. "Thank you," you whisper, leaning against him for support.

Stephen clenched his jaw when he suddenly felt his heart racing. He wraps his arms around you, holding you close. “You’re incredibly brave, you know that?”

You manage a small, shaky laugh. “I don’t feel very brave.”

He pulls back slightly to look into your eyes, his expression earnest. “You are. You’re facing your fears and pushing through the pain. That takes real courage.”

“I couldn’t do this without you, Stephen.” Tears well up in your eyes again, this time from gratitude and the overwhelming emotion of the moment, “Thank you.”

He smiles softly, brushing a tear from your cheek. “You’re not alone. We’ll get you there.”

After that grueling session, you collapse onto a sofa in the library, exhausted. It was worth every sweat though as you felt being more in control compared to when you first set foot in the Sanctum. 

“Here, this will help,” Stephen joins you, handing you a cup of tea and sitting down beside you.

You take a sip, the warmth of the tea soothing your frayed nerves. “Thanks,” you murmur, glancing at him. “For everything.”

He smiles, his gaze warm. “It’s my pleasure.”

A comfortable silence settles between you, the flickering firelight casting soft shadows around the room. The warmth from the fire is a stark contrast to the chill in the air outside, and you pull a blanket tighter around yourself as you sip the tea Stephen prepared. The aroma of the tea mingles with the scent of old books and the faint trace of incense, creating an atmosphere that feels both intimate and soothing.

You find yourself drawn to Stephen, not just because of his wisdom and strength, but because of the kindness and patience he shows you every day. His presence has become a source of comfort, a steady anchor in the tumultuous sea of your emotions and powers. Yet, as the days pass, you've also become acutely aware of the growing attraction you have for him. Maybe because you never knew about this side of Stephen.

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, admiring the way the firelight dances across his features, casting shadows that highlight the sharp angles of his face. There's a certain grace to the way he moves, even in the simplest of actions like turning the pages of a book or adjusting his cloak. You wonder if he's aware of how often your eyes linger on him, how your heart races whenever he looks at you with those piercing blue eyes.

Stephen breaks the silence, his voice low and gentle. “You've been making remarkable progress. You should be proud of yourself.”

You smile, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. “I couldn't have done it without you,” you admit, your gaze meeting his. “You've been my rock through all of this.”

He chuckles softly, the sound sending a pleasant shiver down your spine. “I'm just doing what any decent teacher would do.”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “It's more than that. You've been patient and understanding, even when I wanted to give up.”

Stephen's eyes soften, and he reaches out, placing a hand over yours. The touch is light, but it sends a jolt of electricity through you. 

“You have an incredible strength within you,” he says quietly. “Sometimes it just takes someone else to help you see it.”

Your breath catches in your throat, the intensity of his gaze making it hard to look away. You can feel the tension building between you, a magnetic pull that draws you closer. The room feels smaller, the air charged with unspoken emotions.

"Stephen," you begin, your voice barely above a whisper, "I... I don't know how to thank you for everything you've done."

He smiles, a tender expression that makes your heart skip a beat. "You don't need to thank me," he replies. "Seeing you grow and gain confidence is thanks enough."

The fire crackles, filling the silence that stretches between you. You can feel your pulse quicken, your mind racing with thoughts and emotions. You want to tell him how much he means to you, how his presence has become a source of light in your life. But the words stick in your throat, your nerves getting the better of you.

As if sensing your hesitation, Stephen moves closer, his hand still resting on yours. "It's okay," he murmurs. "You don't have to say anything."

You weren’t sure if you were hallucinating, but you felt him drawing closer to you, his breath heavy and hot. The space between you seemed to shrink with each passing second, your heart pounding louder in your ears. His eyes, intense and unwavering, locked onto yours, creating a magnetic pull that you couldn't resist.

Your mind raced with a whirlwind of emotions—anticipation, fear, desire—all blending into a heady mix that left you breathless. His presence was overwhelming, his scent intoxicating, and you felt an inexplicable connection that seemed to transcend the physical space.

Stephen’s hand brushed against yours, sending a jolt of electricity through your body. His touch was both gentle and commanding, grounding you in the moment. You could see the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, mirroring your own. Despite the chaos surrounding you, this moment felt strangely right.

He leaned in, his lips just inches from yours, his breath warm against your skin. You could feel the tension building, the unspoken words hanging heavy in the air. The world seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you in this suspended moment of longing and vulnerability.

Just as his lips were about to meet yours, the sound of footsteps echoed through the room. You both jumped apart, hearts racing, as Wong entered, his expression a mix of curiosity and amusement.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Wong said, raising an eyebrow. “But there’s an urgent matter that requires your attention, Strange.”

Stephen cleared his throat, taking a step back and running a hand through his hair, trying to regain his composure. “Of course, Wong. I’ll be right there.”

Wong nodded, glancing between the two of you with a knowing smile before leaving the room.

You exchanged a look with Stephen, the moment between you lingering in the air. He gave you a small, apologetic smile. 

“We’ll continue this later,” he promised, his voice soft and filled with a mix of regret and hope.

You nodded, your heart still pounding. “I’ll hold you to that.”

As Stephen turned to follow Wong, you couldn’t help but feel a mixture of excitement and apprehension. The connection you felt with him was undeniable, and despite the interruption, you knew that this was just the beginning of something deeper and more profound.

The door closed behind Stephen and Wong, and the room was left in a charged silence. You could still feel the lingering warmth of his presence, the ghost of his touch on your skin. Your mind replayed the moment over and over, heart racing of anticipation.

You sighed and turned towards the window, trying to steady your breath as you watched the city lights twinkle below. The weight of what had just happened, what almost happened, settled over you like a warm blanket. It was exhilarating and terrifying all at once.

A few moments later, you decided to distract yourself by focusing on your training. You knew Stephen would handle whatever urgent matter Wong had brought to his attention, but you needed to regain your composure. The Sanctum's library was quiet and filled with ancient texts and artifacts, a perfect place to lose yourself in study.

You selected a tome on elemental magic, hoping the intricate spells would keep your mind occupied. As you read, the words began to blur, your thoughts drifting back to Stephen. His intense gaze, the way his touch had sent shivers down your spine, and the unspoken promise in his eyes.

Suddenly, a soft knock on the door brought you back to reality. You looked up to see Stephen standing there, his expression a mix of determination and something else—something softer.

“Hey,” he said, stepping into the room. “Sorry about earlier. Wong has impeccable timing, as usual.”

You chuckled, setting the book aside. “It's okay. I understand. Is everything alright?”

He nodded, taking a seat beside you. “Yes, just some minor mystical disturbance. Nothing we couldn't handle.”

A comfortable silence settled between you again, but this time it was tinged with a palpable tension. You could feel the unresolved moment hanging in the air, drawing you closer together. Stephen reached out, taking your hand in his. His touch was warm, reassuring.

“I meant what I said,” he began softly, his eyes locking onto yours. “About continuing this later. I don't want to rush things, but I also don't want to ignore what's happening between us.”

Your heart skipped a beat, his words sending a rush of warmth through you. “I feel the same way, Stephen. It’s actually, kind of. . . really hard to ignore. . .”

Stephen stood and offered you his hand. “Come with me. There's something I want to show you.”

Curious, you took his hand and followed him through the winding corridors of the Sanctum. He led you to a secluded terrace, the city spread out below like a sea of stars. The cool night air was refreshing, and the view was breathtaking.

“This is my favorite spot,” he said, leaning against the railing. “It's where I come to think, to clear my mind.”

You joined him, the two of you standing side by side, looking out over the city. “It's beautiful,” you whispered.

He turned to you, his eyes filled with a mix of emotions. “You make it even more beautiful,” he said softly.

Before you can respond, he leans in, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. The world around you seems to vanish as his lips move against yours, firm yet tender, igniting a fire within you. You respond eagerly, your hands sliding up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer.

The kiss deepens, growing more urgent and intense. Stephen's arms wrap around your waist, drawing you flush against him, his body warm and solid against yours. You can feel the heat radiating off him, mingling with the crackling energy of your powers, which glow softly around you both, bathing you in a crimson light.

His lips part slightly, and you take the opportunity to explore his mouth with your tongue, eliciting a low groan from him that sends a shiver down your spine. Stephen's hands roam your back, his touch firm and possessive, as if he never wants to let you go. Every touch, every movement sends waves of desire coursing through you.

You press closer, the feeling of his body against yours heightening your senses. His hand slides up to the back of your neck, his fingers threading through your hair, pulling you even deeper into the kiss. The intensity builds, and you feel as though you might melt from the heat of it all.

Breaking the kiss for a moment, Stephen's lips trail down your jawline, planting soft, lingering kisses along the way. You tilt your head back, giving him better access, and he takes full advantage, his mouth finding the sensitive spot just below your ear. His warm breath against your skin sends a thrill through you, and you can't help but moan softly

“Stephen,” you whisper, your voice breathless and filled with longing.

He pulls back slightly, his eyes dark with desire as he gazes at you. “Y/N, I need you,” he says, his voice rough with emotion.

Without another word, you pull him back to you, your lips crashing together in a passionate kiss. You pour all your pent-up emotions into it, the fear, the longing, the love. When you kiss Stephen, the energy around you seems to respond to your emotions, wrapping around the two of you in a protective cocoon of light. His hands grip your waist, and you feel the familiar surge of your powers, the crimson The light shimmers and sparkles, creating a captivating dance of colors that is reflecting the intensity of your connection.

Breathless and flushed, you finally pull away, resting your forehead against his. His eyes, dark and filled with emotion, hold your gaze, and you see your reflection in them, your powers glowing softly around you both.

“I'm so happy you came to me,” Stephen whispers, his voice low and sincere, “And now that I have you, I never want to let you go.”

You smile, feeling a warm sense of certainty. “You don't have to, l'm yours.”

He kisses you again, this time with a gentleness that speaks volumes. It's a promise of unwavering support and love. The crimson energy around you pulses gently, a testament to your newfound control and the harmony between your powers and your emotions.

As you stand there, wrapped in each other’s embrace, you realize that this is just the beginning. With Stephen’s guidance and your own growing confidence, you’re ready to face whatever challenges lie ahead. 

The night air is cool, but the warmth between you keeps the chill at bay. You lean into Stephen, your heart steady and sure. With him by your side, you know you can handle anything the future holds.

Stephen pulls back slightly, a mischievous glint in his eye. “You know,” he says with a smirk, “if you wanted to spend more time together, you could have just asked instead of throwing books around.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Oh, so now my out-of-control powers are just an excuse to see you more?”

He raises an eyebrow, still smirking. “I wouldn't put it past you.”

“Well, maybe next time I'll aim for the kitchen. Then at least we can have snacks while we train.” You roll your eyes playfully. 

Stephen chuckles, pulling you closer. “Deal. But only if you promise to keep the chaos to a minimum.”

“I'll try,” you say, grinning. “But no promises.”

He smiles, his eyes softening. “That's good enough for me.”

Together, you step back into the Sanctum, ready to embrace the future and the challenges it brings, knowing that with each other, you are unstoppable. 

As you walk through the grand halls, Stephen's hand remains firmly in yours, a silent promise of support and partnership.

“So,” Stephen begins, glancing sideways at you with a sly smile, “what's the next item on our agenda? More power control exercises or should we finally tackle the mystery of the enchanted teapot?”

You laugh, the sound echoing softly in the spacious hallway. “I think the teapot can wait. Besides, I’m pretty sure it's been spying on us for weeks.”

“That would explain a lot. It's always the quiet ones you have to watch out for.” Stephen chuckles.

You squeeze his hand, feeling a sense of normalcy and contentment that you haven’t felt in a long time. “You know, this whole training thing isn’t so bad when you have good company.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Good company, huh? I suppose I should take that as a compliment.”

“Don’t let it go to your head, Doctor,” you tease, nudging him playfully with your shoulder. “But seriously, thank you. For everything.”

Stephen stops walking and turns to face you, his expression sincere. “You don’t have to thank me. I’m just glad I could help. You’ve shown incredible strength and courage, Y/N. And I’m honored to be part of your journey.”

A warmth spreads through you at his words, and you lean in to kiss him softly. “Well, you’re stuck with me now, Sorcerer Supreme. Hope you’re ready for that.”

He grins, a boyish charm lighting up his features. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

[myveryownfanfiction]

18+ MINORS AND THOSE WITHOUT AGE IN BIO DNI

tags: @illiana-mystery

warnings: swearing, argument, menstruation

Sherlock paced the flat, occasionally tapping away on his phone. I sat in John’s chair, curled up around myself as tightly as I could.

“Sherlock.” I said. He continued to ignore me. “Sherlock.” There was a raise of the eyebrow but he still continued to ignore me. “Sherlock Holmes!” He jolted and frowned as he turned to look at me.

“What? What could you possibly want that is more important than this case?” He asked, venom dripping from his voice.

“and what about that case is more important than your partner being in pain?” I shot back. Sherlock looked me over.

“I see nothing wrong with you.” Sherlock scoffed.

“of course you don’t.” I muttered, getting up and grabbing my coat. “You’re such a fucking machine that you can’t even tell when your partner is in the middle of their period.” I shrugged my coat on and opened the door. “When you get your shit together Sherlock, call me. Until then…” I shook my head and left. I could hear him calling for me but I ignored him. Mrs. Hudson came out of her flat and looked up as I came down the stairs.

“what’s all that yelling about?” She asked.

“Sherlock being a dumbass as usual.” I muttered as I paused in front of her. “He thinks the case is more important than whatever I have doing on right now so I’m going to leave him to his own devices until he can get his shit together.”

“John will be back soon. Maybe if you wait…” I shook my head and sighed.

“I can’t wait for John to come back. I’ll rip his head off while we wait.” I admitted. “And as pissed as I am at him, he doesn’t deserve it.” Mrs. Hudson rubbed my arm.

“be safe luv.” She said before letting me leave. I wandered the streets of London, grabbing fish and chips from queensway before taking the London eye. I watched a couple take a picture in front of the parliament building, kissing before giggling at each other. I smiled softly to myself, pulling my phone out of my pocket as it buzzed.

‘The case can wait. You’re more important to me than anything. Please come home -SH’

biting my lip, I texted Sherlock back. I explained that I was still pissed off at him and I would be back later. I didn’t receive a response so I pocketed my phone and continued to walk around the city. When I had reached whitechapel, I started to head down towards the Jack the Ripper museum. I paused when I saw Sherlock leaning against the building.

“Sherlock…” I said, looking around before stopping in front of him. “What…”

“I’ve been an idiot.” He said, reaching out to touch my arm. “You always come here when you’re pissed at me. Or life. You’re looking for something to help solve it. Why I don’t know but it’s admirable. The unsolvable case.” He chuckled and shook his head. “You’re admirable. Everything about you. And you are more important to me than any damn case.”

“glad you finally noticed.” I said, chuckling as I shook my head. “John knock some sense into you?”

“Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock admitted. “And you. I didn’t realize that you were feeling like shit. For all my deduction and reasoning…I failed you.” Sherlock wrapped his arms around me. “I’m sorry. Really. How does going home sound?” I nodded, wrapping an arm around his waist as he turned to lead me back to baker street.

“strange to hear you apologize.” I mused as I laid my head on his shoulder. Sherlock hummed in agreement.

“Someone must have really knocked some sense into me then.” He teased. I smiled at him. Sherlock leaned down and pressed a kiss to my head. “If you ever need help solving that case…I’d be happy to help.”

“I think I’ve got this one.” I said, pausing and turning in his hold. “But thank you.” I leaned in and kissed Sherlock with the sun setting behind parliament.

[little-diable]

Lucky Shirt - Prof!Benedict Cumberbatch (smut)

I got the chance to work with @writingliv once again – yes, I am very much fangirling, y'all know how much I adore Liv – and boy, I am so proud of us and of this beautiful fic we've written together. Please like and reblog if you enjoyed reading this! Enjoy my loves. xxx

Summary: Professor Cumberbatch was perfect. He was sweet, supportive, ever-willing to help. He was attentive and loved to praise your achievements. It came to no surprise that you had ended up trying and succeeding at becoming his favourite student. The two of you had become an unstoppable duo, however, could there be more than mere passion for academia behind it?

Warnings: 18+, smut, piv, lots and lots of tension, small sprinkles of angst, age gap, professorxstudent relationship

Pairing: Prof!Benedict Cumberbatch x fem!reader (about 9k words, she's a long one)

Professor Cumberbatch led a life full of rules, keeping clear schedules, boundaries, and conversations. Honest, passionate, and helpful would probably be the three words most people would use to define him. A life dedicated to teaching, to helping, to learning. He never swayed away from his clear-cut schemes unless it was for somebody else’s benefit. Selfless… Professor Cumberbatch was also incredibly selfless. 

You, however, would think this set of facts did not do justice to his character. Professor Cumberbatch was not just selfless. He was an absolute saint. He had been your point of guidance since you first joined his class in your last year of undergrad and had offered you a place as a research assistant as a Master’s student. He had happily stayed until late hours helping you with your first dissertation and had never failed to answer any question related-or-not to his topic. Benedict Cumberbatch was your hero, which made your crush on him so much more inappropriate. 

You had tried to stop thinking about him that way, feeling guilty at the idea that this saint of man was so willing to help you and take you under his wing, and all you did was fantasise about him breaking all the university rules and fucking you. It was an awful feeling, especially when you were sure he didn’t feel the same way, but it was something you couldn’t yet find a way to get rid of. 

So here you were, sitting in his office, wearing that baby blue shirt he had once complimented a year ago or so, waiting for him to come back with news on whether you had been accepted to attend the most important conference in your field. You had excused your continuous wear of the shirt by referring to it as your lucky colour, making it the perfect attire for any important moment you had shared with the professor. 

Your black heels had been incessantly tapping his beautiful Persian rug as you tried your best not to bite your nails when the door of the office finally opened incredibly slowly, and a gloomy Cumberbatch appeared on the opposite side wearing a shirt of a starkly similar colour as yours. “I am sorry…” he started to speak, and you felt your heart drop immediately, your hands moving to your face, covering it. “That you will have to cancel all your plans for the week April 19th because we are going to the conference!” He shouted your way, a gigantic crooked smile filling his mischievous face. You couldn’t believe it, instantly uncovering your face and checking his expression for a bluff. 

You couldn’t help yourself jumping up from the excitement and reaching for him, giving him a hug. Your professor seemed to equally disregard all decorum, wrapping his hands around your waist before whispering to your ear, “it seems like your lucky colour works.” You tried your best to hide the growing warmth on your cheeks as he let go of you. 

“Thank you so much for this! I am so excited! I cannot believe it!” You replied once the two of you were at an appropriate distance again, still looking at each other with the utmost admiration and excitement. 

“Do not thank me. You did this all yourself. I just had to answer a reference request, and you may be surprised about this, but I find it incredibly easy to tell people how incredible you are.”

…

“Can anybody tell me when Operation Overlord was fought?” Professor Cumberbatch’s voice echoed through the classroom, eyes flickering to meet yours at any given chance. It felt like you two were playing a game, a game whose rules you have long forgotten, unable to focus on anything but him. 

Him, the one you dream of when the nights grow warmer, when the heat fills your bedroom like the heat filling your veins whenever he speaks to you. 

Him, the one that makes you tremble whenever his skin meets yours, never in an inappropriate way, though forced closer like magnets unable to part.

Him, the man that popped up in your thoughts when you wake and when you are about to fall asleep. An ever present sensation you slowly but surely adapted to. 

You didn’t pay attention to the answer of the student that tried to catch the professor’s attention for the past minutes. Your thoughts weren’t able to grow quiet, a loud sound that rang through your mind like a song you couldn’t stop singing. It was wrong, so awfully wrong, and yet you couldn’t stop yourself from craving his touch, wanting to feel his body pressed against yours without any clothing caught in between. 

Professor Cumberbatch needed a few moments to rip his eyes from your features, breaking eye contact with a slight scowl tugging on his face. The nagging voice inside your head made you wonder if he was annoyed with the other student for cutting your shared moment short. There was always something so intense about the way he looked at you, forcing you to sit straighter, eyes unable to move away. 

“Anything else you want to add to today’s lesson? If not, you are good to go.” Your heart picked up its beat as his eyes found yours once again, a silent way of communicating, asking you to stay behind for a few more moments. The other students pushed past you all too impatiently, wanting to flee from the classroom, but you didn’t move, not able to even try to imagine another place where you’d rather be. 

“I won’t hold you back for long, I just wanted to give you these folders. It’s everything they gave me for the conference.” Your fingers brushed his as you took the folder, breath hitched in your chest. His eyes followed your every move, watching you thumb through the papers, unable to bite down your smile. 

“I am so excited, I can’t wait for us to go there!” Your voice left him smiling, unable to bite down his excited grin. Your nerves were running wild, wondering how being at the conference with him will play out, praying to whoever was listening that you’d be able to also focus on something else besides the gorgeous professor you wanted to call yours.

…

Soft music filled Professor Cumberbatch’s office, ringing in your ears without distracting you from the essays you were grading with the professor. It wasn’t unusual for you to join in on his later sessions, finding comfort in his closeness, even though you wouldn’t share many words, just a few glances here and there. 

“What is it? You are biting your lip again.” Professor Cumberbatch’s voice ripped you out of your trance, eyes snapping up from the paper. Heat flushed through you as you let go of your lip, teeth no longer buried in the warm flesh. 

“Sorry, I struggle to follow their argumentation, it simply makes no sense, and you know how much I hate saying this.” Your voice was soft, not wanting to interrupt the calm atmosphere you two were trapped in. You watched him move closer, admiring the way he carried himself, the way his beige trousers hugged his legs, and how the rolled up sleeves of his black dress shirt exposed just enough of his muscular forearms and the watch clinging to his left wrist. Fuck, you’d dream of this tonight, you were sure of it. 

“Let me have a look.” The professor sat down next to you on the comfortable sofa placed in the far back of his office. The scent of his cologne crawled up your nostrils, making you shudder as his leg was pressed against yours. His eyes carefully followed the sentence you had highlighted, concentrating on the arguments the student seemed to have struggled with. “Yes, I see what you mean. Leave it on my desk later, I’ll add some comments myself.”

He pushed the essay back into your hands, eyes meeting yours. Neither one of you dared to move, eyes not wanting to break contact, hearts calling out to one another without finding the right words to express what was burning on the tip of your tongues. He broke the intense moment first, clearing his throat before he rose back to his feet. 

“I think I’ve kept you here long enough, you should get some rest and start packing your bags.” Disappointment filled your system, slowly nodding your head as a quiet “Of course” left your lips. And with one last glance shared, you left his office with a racing heart and sweaty palms. 

…

You arrived at your apartment and dropped on your bed, sighing loudly. It was getting too difficult to deal with, to keep your gazes in check, to keep him from knowing how you felt. It was overwhelming. It was driving you crazy. You were growing so desperate for any hint of reciprocation that you had started to imagine things, seeing lust in his gaze when it couldn't be there, when it shouldn’t be there. 

You decided to check your already packed bag one more time, giving into the parting words of your professor. All the outfits for the conferences lay perfectly organised in your bag, each accompanied by a pair of matching lingerie. No. you were not planning on sleeping with anyone at this event. It was just an old trick that you had once read; wearing matching lingerie makes you feel confident even outside of the bedroom. 

You were about to close the bag when your phone rang on your nightstand. You picked it up, surprised to see Professor Cumberbatch calling you at almost 1 am. 

“Hello?” you picked up, your fingers playing with the silky material of the matching nightgown to your lingerie. 

“Hey there, apologies for the late phone call,” his voice sounded tired and stressed. You knew exactly how badly he wanted all his students to do well, and grading always put him in a bit of a bad mood. 

“No problem, Professor. Is everything okay?” your question was filled with worry as you sat down on your bed and wondered if he was still in his office. 

“I was just thinking about our conversation from earlier, and I was worried you would think I dismissed you because you couldn’t finish correcting that paper. You know how much I appreciate you helping me with corrections, and I wouldn’t want you to think anything bad of my dismissal. It was just so late and… I sometimes worry that I am stealing all your time. I am sure you have better things to do on a Saturday night than spend it with me, correcting papers with me.” He ranted away nervously. You could hear the sound of his dress shoes in the background as he paced through the room. 

“There is no other place I’d rather be,” you blurted out right away, immediately realising the finality of that statement. 

“Really?” he chuckled bitterly, “I am sure any other woman your age would disagree. Your twenties are important for your career but also to go out, have fun, make friends, and make mistakes. Please don’t let me keep you away from doing all of those things.”

“I am having fun, and I have friends,” you laughed, slightly hurt that he thought you were a complete loser. 

“You know what I mean,” he chuckled, embarrassed. 

“No, professor, I am not quite sure. From what I understand, you think I am a loser with no friends or fun,” you laughed, teasing him further. 

“What I was trying to say is that there are significantly funner things to be doing on a Saturday than correcting papers with me. At your age, I was doing much more interesting things, at least.”

“What were you doing, Professor?” It was an inappropriate question, especially in the tone you had spoken it. You were not sure where it had come out from, but the exhaustion and comfort of your bed had pulled it out of you. 

“I don’t know…” he seemed to be thinking, trying to understand himself where he wanted to draw a line before this conversation broke his rules, “I was partying, drinking, getting into trouble, trying to get girls.” 

“I do all of those things,” you replied confidently, a foxy smile on your lips and a particularly strong inflexion in the all. 

“Girls?” he asked, cursing himself right away for falling into your obvious trap. 

“Girls… boys…” you laughed, “I am usually not the one trying, though. Especially recently, nobody has really caught my interest that way.”

“I guess I should take advantage of it and continue to monopolise your time until you do,” his answer sent a shiver down your spine. It was late, and neither of you was thinking perfectly straight. 

“I think you should,” you replied before a yawn took over your voice. 

“I should let you get some sleep. We have a long week ahead of us. See you at the station tomorrow.”

“Goodnight, Professor.” 

…

You watched the scenery pass by, the lush green countryside, the houses that seemed empty and once left behind in a hurry to disappear from rural places like these. Your heart ached at the thought, finding sadness in the empty places, wondering who had once lived inside these buildings. 

It had been a good two hours since you had met the professor at the railway station, boarding the train to the conference. And while he was sitting next to you, elbows and thighs close to touching, eyes focused on a book he was reading, you didn’t find the needed comfortableness to focus on your book nor on your notes. 

Your mind painted a colourful picture, wondering how the upcoming day with him so close would play out. Even though you were used to seeing him every single week, this was something new, something exciting, something that left you gasping for air. 

“Are you cold?” His voice stroked your limbs like the soft April breeze, hands instinctively finding your arms. 

“No, I’m alright, thank you.” You shot him a tired smile, cursing yourself for going to bed that late. A yawn clawed through you, eyes momentarily fluttering close. Perhaps you’d be able to find a few moments of rest, nothing long, though just enough to settle your mind and heart. 

It felt like a trick of your brain, focusing on the elbow that was slowly pressing against yours, the forearm that met yours on the armrest separating your seats. Your heart was back to jumping in your chest, pounding louder than the rattling noises of the train. 

While your mind started overthinking his move, trying to read between the lines, your body seemed to understand what it was supposed to do. All too slow, you placed your head on his shoulder, eyes not daring to flutter open in case you read the signs wrong. A soft exhale of air left the man, hand finding your knee to squeeze your soft skin. 

“Get a bit of rest.” His voice successfully managed to lull you to sleep, heart slowly but surely finding a pace that would allow you to rest. 

…

“We are here,” a voice shook you softly awake as you realised you had fallen asleep on the man’s arm. You instantly retracted back to your seat, putting as much distance as the train allowed. He looked at you entertained as he stood up, offering you his hand so you could do the same. 

You grabbed it slowly, savouring the way his slender long fingers held yours so confidently and got up. 

“The hotel is just a 10-minute walk from the station,” Cumberbatch added as he brought down both of your bags from the shelf at the top and then handed you yours. 

…

You made sure to fill up the walk with every possible fun fact you had on the city, describing the few monuments you passed by and making sure you to search for your professor’s eyes, incredibly afraid that you had crossed a line by falling asleep on him. He listened to every single one of your words attentively, nodding and smiling as you made the third energy joke in a row. 

“We are here,” Cumberbatch finally interrupted you, pointing at a beautiful historic hotel. You exhaled, thankful that soon you would be able to be in your room, away from him, and finally able to think straight. 

The two of you entered the hotel and approached the reception, where a pretty, tall girl offered you a smile. “Hi, how are you? We have a four-night reservation under the name Cumberbatch. Two rooms.” 

“Mmh… Cumberbatch?” the woman spoke back as she typed the name. A worried expression crossed her face before she looked up, meeting your eyes first and then the professor’s. “I only have one room for two reserved. Not two rooms.”

“That cannot be.” Benedict’s voice was firm and serious as he calmly placed his arms on the front desk. 

“I am very sorry. People sometimes get confused when booking from more than one person and assume there are separate rooms.” She spoke politely, showing her best apologetic look.

“I will then pay for an extra room,” Benedict replied, not once turning to look at you. 

“We are fully booked,” the woman replied, pressing her lips together, “I am very sorry.”

“There must be SOME available room,” he doubled down before you interrupted him. 

“It is fine. We can make it work. The room has a couch, right?” You tried to ease off the tension, smiling at both your professor and the receptionist. 

…

“I am so sorry. I have no idea how this mistake could have happened,” Benedict apologised for the tenth time as you reached the elevator, his eyes as soft and heavy as he tried to find a solution to this situation. 

“Professor, it is completely fine.” You finally stopped him as the two of you entered the elevator, “there is a couch in the room. I am happy to sleep there.”

“I won’t let you sleep on the couch,” he replied, shocked that you would even think that was an option. 

You sighed, closing your eyes, trying to decipher whether this was a dream or your worst nightmare. All you wanted right now was to be alone, to be by yourself, away from the overwhelming need this man filled you with. You had no idea how you would survive sleeping in the same room, regardless of whether it was on a couch, on a bed or on the ground. 

The two of you walked towards the room’s door as Benedict bit the inside of his lip to stop himself from apologising again. He opened the door and was met with a queen-sized bed and a tiny minuscule couch. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, turning back around to you to apologise once again, but you stopped him.

“Let’s grab dinner! I heard some people from the conference are also staying at the hotel and grabbing dinner close by! Let’s go!” You patted him on the back and dropped your bag, ready to leave the room and what it would bring in the following days. 

His heavy steps pounded against the ground, following you back towards the elevator. An almost uncomfortable silence was now following you two around, urged on by the inappropriate thoughts you both couldn’t shake off. Perhaps dinner would manage to distract the two of you for a moment, letting go of the tension and relaxing in comfortable chairs with other academics close by. 

…

“Some more wine?” Benedict’s breath tickled your neck, forcing you to swallow loudly as you wordlessly reached your glass out for him to refill. His gaze was stuck on your features, on the smile you couldn’t stop from widening whenever he spoke up, murmuring facts about the academics you were now surrounded by. 

“You have to tell us, (y/n), how does working with a stubborn man like Benedict Cumberbatch work out?” Your chuckles rumbled through you, eyes finding the piercing ones of the man sitting next to you. By now, you have forgotten most facts Benedict had shared with you, could barely remember their names, and yet you tried to play along, elbows placed on the table with your face placed in your hands. 

“Let me tell you, it’s an utter nightmare.” Laughter boomed through the evening, through the garden that surrounded a few tables and chairs. The cosy atmosphere that lingered in the restaurant eased some of your tension from earlier, allowing the two of you to breathe calmly. “I am very lucky to have him by my side. No other professor has ever taught me this much.” 

The hand of his that was resting on the back of your chair found your shoulder, fingers stroking your skin softly to communicate the gratitude he was feeling. Benedict was all too used to praises, and yet your words had a new meaning to them, making him sit a bit straighter as he began to pay attention to how some of his colleagues looked at you, unable to bite down their curiosity. 

“I am the lucky one, I’ve rarely met students as bright as (y/n).” Heat flushed through you, forcing you to take another sip of your wine. You weren’t nearly as tipsy as you wanted to be, unable to accept his praises, the words he spoke that left your insides churning in excitement. 

“Be careful, Benedict, otherwise, we may steal her from you.” One of the men sitting close to Benedict spoke the words without much thought, or so it seemed, not expecting the hard expression to widen on Benedict’s features. The professor didn’t reply, eyes searching yours as you shot him a small smile, hand finding his knee before you could give the gesture much thought. His muscles tensed underneath your hand, but before you could even try to move your hand away, he placed his hand on top of yours, squeezing yours. 

“We had a long day, we should catch up on some sleep. Have a good evening.” Benedict’s words forced you to your feet, murmuring a soft “Goodbye” to the others. Your breath got stuck in your lungs as Benedict’s hand found your waist, pulling you closer to him as he guided you out of the restaurant. Once again, you felt your thoughts race, focusing on the way his fingers stroked your clothed waist, guiding you through the warm evening towards the hotel. 

No further word was spoken as you stepped into the elevator, standing in front of Benedict with your eyes searching his. You couldn’t ignore the way his eyes flickered between your lips and eyes, praying deep inside that he’d finally close the gap. The two of you stood closer than needed, with his hand still placed on your waist and your hand finding his other one. Perhaps this was the moment you had been desperate for years, hoping that he’d finally cross the invisible line between you.

The mere thought of finally feeling his body pressed against yours left heat to fill your veins, heart pounding in your chest. But before either one of you could move again, the elevator came to a halt, forcing the two of you to step out. Only as the darkness of your shared hotel room lured you closer did you begin to realise that the night wouldn’t end like you had hoped it would. 

He turned on the light and spoke, “I will take a shower before going to sleep, but don’t wait up for me, sleep well, (y/n). Please take the bed.” 

…

Benedict entered the bathroom and left you alone in the bedroom, leaving you to wonder what you had possibly done wrong to ruin such a perfect moment, to stop him from kissing you. You sat on the bed, defeated, as you heard the sound of the shower turning on. Fuck. Maybe it was the alcohol or the burning feeling on your skin, but this felt like too much, too close, too little. It was ridiculous, nothing that deserved you crying over it, yet you could feel your eyes tearing up. The need was too much. He was too much. It almost felt unfair for him to leave you wanting the way he did. 

As the sound of the shower stopped just for a second, you snapped out of your pity party, cleaning the tears from your face and getting changed before your professor could exit the room. You opened your bag and searched for your pyjama, only then realising you had brought your nightgown as your only sleeping option. You sighed loudly, covering your face and then dropping your arms to decide. 

“Fuck it,” you spoke to yourself as you took off your clothes, putting on the nightgown that barely covered your ass and left little to the imagination for much else. If he could tease you all night, touching your waist, looking at you the way he did, you could do the same and even if he was not interested at all. Even if you had made every sign up in your mind, no man would not at least be tempted by such an outfit. 

The bathroom door opened a few seconds later as you were busy folding your clothes back into your bag. You didn’t even dare to turn around to meet his gaze, suddenly feeling a wave of embarrassment overcome the boldness of the alcohol. 

Your professor cleared his throat, and you finally met his gaze, feigning being completely and totally oblivious to what you were wearing. His blue eyes looked almost black by how dilated his pupils were, and you couldn’t help but offer him an innocent smile. He was wearing a loose black T-shirt and some grey pyjama pants. 

“I am sorry. I didn’t think I would be sharing my room tonight,” you acknowledged the outfit, walking by his side, brushing his arm just so slightly before entering the bathroom with your toothbrush at hand. 

Benedict had to command every single one of his muscles not to turn around, not to look at you walk into the bathroom, not to follow you, to pin you against the sink and fuck you right there. 

You left the door of the bathroom open as you brushed your teeth, giving him the possibility to look into to watch as the hem of your nightgown rose high enough to show the curve of your ass. He, however, didn’t. Going straight to his couch and grabbing a pillow and duvet from the cupboard, and laying down. 

You exited the bathroom excitedly, hoping to have one more chance to tease him before heading to bed but found him already deep asleep. Facing the back of the couch as he uncomfortably tried to fit within it. 

…

POV Benedict

He didn’t dare move, eyes squeezed shut, arms wrapped around his too tall frame for a couch this small. Benedict tried to listen to your breaths, counting them to try and figure out if you were already asleep. His cock was aching, twitching in his boxers in a desperate need to be touched by you. 

Fuck, he felt like a young boy, unable to guide his body, to pick up on his needs and urges, and to stop himself from giving in before it got too much. He hadn’t expected you to wear something like this, something that left his heart racing, pumping blood straight to his cock. It was torture, the worst situation he had been forced to live through so far, Benedict was convinced of it. 

The second his mind painted a picture of your body pressed against his, he shot up from the couch, searching the false comfort the bathroom offered him, door falling shut with a thud. He could only hope that you were truly asleep by now, not picking up on his movements, the heavy breaths leaving him.

His hand pushed his boxers down his legs, just enough to free his hard cock. Precum was bearding his tip, veins shining through the thin skin, fuck, how much he wanted to feel and see your hands wrapped around him. Would you use your mouth on him? Would you stroke your tongue along the underside of his cock before sucking on his tip?

A heavy moan threatened to leave him, caught seconds before it could echo through the bathroom. His teeth left marks on his lower lip as his hand picked up its pace, fucking himself without any mercy, working on the fleeting time night offered him. Deep down, he hated himself for pushing you away this very night, wondering why he hadn’t given in, why he hadn’t chased the closeness you had been willing to offer. But something had held him back, something he was now regretting.

He couldn’t stop another moan from not leaving him, eyes squeezed shut, head rolled back. His orgasm was close, a desperate need to finally get over the sensations the mere sight of you had pushed through him. Benedict had to stop himself from choking on your name, from talking to the (y/n) he imagined kneeling in front of him. 

With one last heavy breath leaving him, white cum began to cover his hand, sticking to his skin. Benedict pumped his cock a few more times before he let go of his cock, settling down on the toilet seat.  

…

POV Reader

This night probably counted as the top three worst nights of sleep in your life. You had spent it between nightmares and sweats, waking up every couple of hours, feeling incredibly restless. You were thankful to see that it was already 7 am the next time you were shaken awake by another terrible dream. It took you a second to ground yourself; remember where you were. You instantly turned to the couch and found it empty, the bedsheets of your professor perfectly folded on top of it. 

You scanned the rest of the room, sitting up, finding it equally as empty. A mix of disappointment and relief filled your chest as you were equal parts thankful he wouldn’t have to see you with this exhausted face and sad you didn’t even get a glance at how he looked right after he woke up in the morning. 

You checked your phone and found a message from him, “Good morning! I wanted to give you some privacy before the big day. I will be waiting for you at the lounge if you want to grab breakfast together.”

You smiled at the message, forgetting all about last night. Everything was okay. The two of you were okay. He was your professor, after all, your rock. He had every right to reject you. Everything was okay. 

…

You took your time getting ready, trying the different outfits you had brought as options and opting for the simplest one. Your ‘lucky’ shirt, some black suit trousers, and black stilettos. You exited the room confidently, your bag with your presentation at hand and your earphones in your ears. Your “gameday” playlist playing at full volume. 

You entered the hotel lounge, finding your professor sitting on a beautiful leather couch, a newspaper on his lap. He was wearing a white button-up and some navy trousers. You approached him eagerly, removing your earphones and greeting him with a smile, “good morning, professor.”

“Good morning,” Benedict spoke, not meeting your gaze once. Eyes stuck on the newspaper. 

“Should we get breakfast?” You kept on the smile, sure, he was just very enthralled by whatever he was reading. 

“I have actually already eaten,” he replied with a sigh, intensifying his gaze on the paper. You pouted, disappointed, confused by his sudden coldness. “I have some meetings to attend before your presentation. Do you mind if we meet there already?” 

You hesitated in answering, trying to keep the disappointment on your face from turning into clear sadness. He finally looked up, noticing your silence. His eyes were empty, cold like they had never been before. 

“Of course,” you finally replied after he raised an eyebrow, “I…I will just go over the presentation by myself.” You had to look away before your eyes started to water, which seemed to pull a reaction right out of you. 

Benedict stood up and placed a hand on your shoulder, “you will do amazingly. You are smart and incredible. You don’t need me for this. I will be in the crowd cheering.”

You tried to look at him, thankful that it had just been a small weird moment of coldness, but he had already started to walk away towards the exit of the hotel, leaving you standing there.  

…

Were this many people always supposed to be at the event? Had everyone just suddenly realised your topic was cool and decided to listen to you talk? Where was he? You were starting in mere minutes, and there were barely any seats left. Where was he?

You squeezed the flashcards in your hands, trying to stop the trembling in your hands. You peeked once again from the stage, searching for him between the rows of mostly middle-aged men. 

“You are going up in three,” some random guy with an earpiece said as you nodded emphatically, shutting your eyes and trying to control your breathing. 

You stayed there for a couple of seconds, controlling your breathing, reminding yourself that this was your research. That you could do this alone. That you didn’t need anybody else. You were about to open your eyes when a hand on your shoulder startled you. Blue. All you saw was blue for a second until you could focus on the rest of his face. He had changed. He was wearing your lucky colour.

“Everything will be fine,” Benedict nodded softly, a thin layer of sweat covering his forehead as he seemed slightly out of breath. 

“You are here,” you exhaled the words out. 

“I am sorry, I-” he lowered his gaze in shame, but he was stopped by the earpiece guy announcing you were up. “You can do this. You are smart. Your research is incredible, and you are so incredibly charismatic that I wouldn’t be surprised if every professor in the room would try to steal you after this. Go show them how amazing you are. I am here.”

You nodded emphatically, instinctively pulling him into a hug and burying your face in his chest just for a second, feeling as he stiffened under your touch. You let go of him and nodded a little more, breathing in and out and walking onto the stage. 

…

“Thank you, everyone, for listening,” you closed your presentation as the room broke into a myriad of applauses, a feeling of euphoria filling your chest as you turned to look to your professor, that stood still behind the curtain, giving you the most idolising smile you had ever seen.

You walked out of the stage with a gigantic smile straight towards your professor, whose hands immediately cupped your face, “that was incredible.”

“Thank you,” you looked up at him, immediately filled with all that tension that had been there the night before. 

You were interrupted by a group of listeners approaching, and Benedict immediately moved away from you, looking down, realising the inappropriateness of his proximity. It felt as if this moment managed to rip you out of your trance, the bubble of excitement and happiness had popped, and once again doubts began to fill your mind. You were hurt, sad, and angry that Benedict hadn’t been there to support you through the hours leading up to your talk, hiding away from you rather than murmuring comforting words. 

Whatever game he was playing, it was a game you found no pleasure in, growing antsy as you began to overthink what had happened in the past hours. From the second he had told you about the conference, Benedict had promised that he’d be with you on that very special day. He’d guide you like a mentor, like a friend, empty promises you were now clinging to. The ship had left the harbour, but the waves of anger had ripped it to the cold ground before the crew could swim to safety. Swimming had always been easy with Benedict near, but drowning had felt so much easier today. 

…

The glass of champagne felt cold against your palm as you let your eyes wander. You were able to spot a few familiar faces in the crowd of scientists you were trapped in, celebrating your and their success. Benedict stood close to you, focused on the conversation he had been pulled into, unable to escape before the others had noticed him. 

“An impressive talk, (y/n), I hope you’re proud of yourself.” One of the men you and Benedict had dined with yesterday evening was now standing in front of you. He was handsome, almost as tall as Benedict, but his eyes didn’t have that mesmerising blue colour you’d always recognise, his hair wasn’t brown like the coffee Benedict would bring you whenever you helped him grade essays, and his hands weren’t as big as the ones you wanted to feel on your body. 

“Thank you! I am very happy about the crowd’s reaction to it.” A smile tugged on your lips as you took a sip, buying yourself some time. Fading seconds Benedict used to study you, the fake smile he instantly saw through, the slightly uncomfortable shifting of your weight from one leg to the other. He stepped closer, hand trying to come to rest on your waist, but you pulled away before he could touch you. “Excuse me, gentlemen, I’ll get myself another drink.” 

You felt his eyes burning through your back, standing on the spot you had been standing on seconds ago, jaw muscles clenched. With every step you took away from him, your heart picked up its pace, pounding in your ribcage, fuelled by your anxiety and anger. Why did he have to be so cold towards you this morning? Why did he have to chase the distance rather than finally closing the small gaps between you? 

Slowly you made your way through the crowd, holding onto your refilled glass with an iron grip. You weren’t nearly as tipsy enough as you wanted to be, pouring down big gulps to try and get rid of the tension that held your system hostage. Piercing blue eyes found yours from afar, wordlessly guiding you closer, surrounded by men and women you haven’t met before. 

“May I introduce you to my wonderful (y/n)?” Benedict’s voice had a strange undertone to it, pronouncing your name with a newfound possessiveness dripping from it. This time you didn’t get to pull away as his hand gripped your waist, pulling you into his side. Your thoughts were racing as fast as your heart, but you tried to smile at the people that now shook your free hand, eyes not wandering from your features. Benedict’s fingers kept boring into your skin, not giving you the slightest chance to even try and escape him.

Only as the people moved on, finding new conversations to get lost in, did you manage to free yourself. With your gaze set on your glass, you took a step away from him and another before his patience seemed to snap. His big hand came down on your wrist, the other took your glass from you to place it down on the nearest table before he started pulling you through the room.

“Where are we going?” He ignored your question, pulling you outside into the hallway.

“What is going on with you? You’re behaving like a child.” Benedict’s words cut right through you, forcing a scoff from you. For a second, you allowed yourself to study him. His eyes no longer reminded you of a cloudless blue sky, but rather an angry storm threatening to unleash its power, fuck, why was he still so very handsome.

“I’m the one behaving like a child? You left me hanging this morning, even though you promised not to leave me alone before the talk!” He clenched his jaw, eyes growing even darker as he took a step closer, towering over you.

“Is that how you speak to your supervisor? I’d be careful of my tone if I were you.” You barely recognised his voice, dark and husky, leaving your thighs clenching and your hands shaking. Even though you were angry at him, so fucking angry, you couldn’t help but let your gaze flicker to his lips, wanting to feel them pressed against yours. 

“Are you threatening me? You know what, fuck you, Benedict!” The words left you before you could stop them from rolling off your tongue, trying to turn away from him with hurried steps. But you didn’t get far, pulled against his hard chest with one of his hands cupping your warm cheek and the other resting on your waist. For a few seconds, Benedict studied you with dilated pupils and heavy breaths spluttering from his thin lips. Seconds that passed by all too slowly, torturing you and your racing heart. Something seemed to give him the final push, lips meeting yours before you could speak another word. 

Your mind didn’t get any time to focus on the situation, guided by your body, by the way your lips moved in sync with his. For years you had tried to imagine what kissing Benedict may feel like, but this was a new sensation, something raw, something full of emotion, something you were addicted to from the first second on. Your hands found his suit jacket, clinging to him for dear life as if you were scared he’d part from you way too soon. 

His tongue moved along your lower lip, coaxing a moan from you. The kiss grew more heated with every passing second, relishing in one another’s touch, the beats of your racing hearts, the blood rushing through your veins, a beautiful mixture. Benedict slowly parted from you to catch his breath, staring down at you with a smirk, an expression that left your insides churning in anticipation. With his hand finding yours, he wordlessly pulled you down the hallway towards the elevator that would take you up to the floor of your room. 

Was this it? Was this the moment you had thought of too many times to count? Was this the moment you had thought of as your wandering hands took care of the ache between your legs? 

The second the doors of the elevator started to close, you were pulled in for another kiss, pressed against the mirror you didn’t dare look at. You could only guess that you looked like a mess, hair tousled, lips swollen, eyes wide – all because of the man that couldn’t stop touching you. 

“I,” Benedict murmured against your lips, hands toying with the fabric of your lucky shirt, struggling to find the right words. “I’m sorry for being this cold towards you, I still struggle with what you make me feel, and with the power my position holds over you, I don’t ever want you to think that I’m using you. You need to know, if you want me to stop, you can always say so.”

His thumb ran along your swollen lips, unable to bite down his smile as you pressed a kiss to his digit. The elevator came to a halt, allowing the two of you to find your way to your hotel room, pushed inside by his big hand finding your lower back. Benedict didn’t let you get far, hands pulling you against his chest, eyes getting lost in yours. 

“I need your spoken consent before I touch you.” His lips ghosted over yours, patiently waiting for you to speak up. It took you a few seconds to speak up, unable to concentrate on anything but his touch, the fire he had unleashed inside of you, a fire so daunting he wouldn’t ever be able to tame it. 

“Touch me, please, professor.” The use of his title seemed to push Benedict over the edge, growling against your lips as you were guided towards the big bed. His lips found your throat, sucking on the spots that left your toes curling and your heart skipping needed beats. Skilled hands undid the buttons of your shirt, pushing the fabric off your shoulders to expose the lacy lingerie you were wearing. Benedict marveled at you, freezing the moment for seconds as his eyes took in the sight in front of him, wondering how and why he got so lucky. 

You murmured his name, snapping him out of his trance, hands working on his shirt. The moment pushed your nerves over the edge, hands struggling to undo the small buttons, signing in relief as he pushed you away, tugging the shirt over his head. Benedict didn’t give you any time to take in his upper body, the muscles you wanted to run your hands across, the freckles and small spots you wanted to kiss, forced down onto the bed. Your professor towered over you, lower lip caught between his teeth as he watched you undo your bra, exposing your breasts to his wandering eyes. 

“I’ve been waiting a long time to see you like this, at my mercy, ready to give me whatever I’m asking of you.” His raspy voice left you gasping, eyes rolling back as his hands undid your trousers, helping you out of them. By now, you were only wearing your soaked-through, lacy panties, a sight that could make the blind see again, Benedict was sure of it. A work of art, the finest creation his eyes would ever get to take in. He wanted to take his time with you, wanted to love on every inch of your skin, but his own desperation drove him closer to you, shuffling out of his trousers with hurried movements. 

He crawled up your body, flipping the two of you around for you to settle in his lap, feeling his hard cock pressing against your core. Fuck, you were already done for, balancing along the line of your state of pleasure only he’d push you into. His hand found the back of your neck to pull you in for another kiss, eyes fluttering close as his free hand found your chest, cupping your breast, tugging on your hard nipple. Moans clawed through you, all too shamelessly, all too freely, unable to hold back the sounds he elicited. 

“I knew I'd never be able to hold back once I touched you, and I was scared of losing my control around you.” You knew he was talking about yesterday evening. You knew he was trying to smooth out the wrinkles on your heart he had crumpled like a piece of paper, and yet you couldn’t focus on them. You kissed him again, murmuring a soft “I need you, professor” against his lips. 

His strong hands found your hips, grinding your core against his clothed cock, making your breaths get stuck in your lungs. The both of you were close to snapping, skipping the foreplay just to feel one another, and yet Benedict tried to hold back, not wanting to end your moment together this fast. Your legs quivered, the feeling he pushed through you with the grinding movements left your walls clenching around nothing, forcing a “More, please” out of you. 

“Ask for it properly, you know how to be a good girl for me.” Benedict’s teasing words left you whining, eyes fluttering close as he stopped your movements, holding still to patiently wait for you to express your every need.

“Want your cock, fuck, need you inside of me.” A growl was forced out of Benedict, flipping you around once again, panties forced down your legs before your mind could even begin to catch up with his movements. With your body fully exposed to him, you were lying beneath him, staring up at him with lust-blown pupils and your teeth buried in your lower lip. His big hand found your core, brushing his fingers through your folds, moaning as he felt your wetness. You were dripping for him, body showing him how much you needed his touch, how desperate you were for him, for his fingers, for his cock. 

His soft fingers circled your pulsing bundle of nerves, forcing your back to arch and your hands to fist the fabric of the blanket you were laying on. Benedict found himself obsessing over your sounds, hoping that he’d get to coax them out of you for endless nights to come, very well aware that he’d never be able to part from you and your bond again. 

“Oh fuck, don’t stop.” He had pushed two fingers into your tightness, curling them against your swollen spot. Both of you knew that he was teasing you, fucking you all too slow, wanting to prolong the moment for as long as possible. Curses rolled off your tongue, forcing one of your hands to find his forearm, nails clawed into his skin, set on leaving marks he’d have to hide for the next few days. 

“So desperate for me, so pretty, I knew you’d be perfect for me.” His praises left your skin growing warmer, eyes unable to meet his intense gaze. You felt your orgasm growing closer, wanting to let go, giving room to the intense sensation you were aching for. But just a second before you could give in with his name rolling off your tongue, Benedict let go of you. 

Your eyes snapped open, staring at him with parted lips and furrowed eyebrows, a moment of confusion passed as you watched him reach for his wallet, pulling out a silvery foil packet. His eyes searched yours as he pulled his cock free, boxers left on the ground next to your panties; you couldn’t pay any attention to the fabric, eyes wandering down his naked frame, taking in the sight of his hard cock. His tip was flushed red, length twitching in his grasp, close to combusting. 

“Are you sure about this? We can always stop.” Benedict was once again towering over you, not daring to move as he stared down at you. With one hand, you pulled him down to you, lips finding his as you murmured a soft “Fuck me”. Skilled fingers rolled the condom down his cock, aligning himself with your entrance before he slowly pushed into you. The both of you had to halt for a moment, eyes squeezed shut to take in the new feeling, adjusting to the tightness of your walls to the size of his cock. 

“Move, please.” Your command was met with a groan, building a slow rhythm that took a few thrusts for you to get used to. The moans that tried to claw through you were held back by your pressed-together lips, not wanting to give your loud sounds enough room to reverberate through the thin four walls you were surrounded by, something Benedict easily picked up on.

“Don’t hold back, let me hear you, love.” The use of the nickname broke the dam, allowing your sounds to rumble through you. Your nails left marks down his back, scratching at his skin in a desperate try to hold onto him. His hips met yours with every thrust, forcing himself deeper into you, needing to etch this every moment into your mind. “You’re doing so well, my pretty girl.” 

The second his tip met your swollen spot, you choked on your gasps, letting go of a high-pitched “Oh god”, very well knowing that you’d cum all too soon. Benedict’s smile began to widen as he picked up on your desperation, fingers finding their way back to your clit. You gripped his shoulders as your orgasm began to rock through you, filling your every pore, overtaking your whole body. 

Benedict fucked you through your high, getting lost in your pleasure and drunken features, feeling his own high filling his body. He gave it a few more thrusts before he came, holding still as his cum filled the condom.

…

The rest of the week was spent between conferences, lingering touches, and long nights of fucking. Benedict could barely keep his hands away from you when you were in public. His eyes were always searching for you when you weren’t by his side. His hands perpetually on your waist as the two of you made small talk with other academics. Sometimes you couldn't make it until the night, sneaking into an empty hallway, a bathroom, back to your room. He was addicted to you, and you could barely believe all your dreams had finally come true. 

It was safe to say your grading sessions were never the same again. They mostly occurred in his house now, and they included dinner and a couple of fucking-breaks. They weren’t as efficient but significantly more fun. 

[strangelockd]

Hii!! How are u? 🥰

Could you write something with the prompts 7.“how mad would you be if i kissed you?” and 2.“my lipgloss is all over your lips.” from the fluff list with Stephen pls

Fates Embrace

Smut - Explicit content - NSFW - 18+ only!

Pairing: Sinister Strange x FemReader

Summary: Your sick at the Sanctum and Stephen being poor with words tries to comfort you in his own special way leading to a much greater surprise.

•Im slowly chipping away at my requests and this one was so long overdue. I really tried keeping it fluff but i couldn’t help myself. There were many directions that this fic could have taken but I hope you love it. The story was inspired by Harry Styles and you can find the song on my Sinister Playlist•

“Sinister was fully convinced that if you tasted half as divine as the forbidden fruit of Eve, then he absolutely understood her succumb to the surrender of temptation”

You had been nauseous for days, and no amount of rest seemed to make it better. With a shaking hand, you reached for the bed pan, the cool porcelain a welcome contrast to your already warm skin. Setting the bed pan on the floor, you groaned, wiping the leftover vomit from your cheek. Yep you definitely were sick no doubt. Despite having everything you needed from herbal tea to nausea medication, Sinister still paced the room in a worry for your health; you are his world after all.

Leaning against the foot of the bed Sinister pawed the comforter on the four poster bed, “are you sure there's nothing else I can do for you my love,” eyeing you like a hawk he was seeking your gaze making sure you were not just playing the hero. Stephen could always see right through your poker face. Letting out a small hum you smiled reassuring him, “Babe relax, it's just a little bug. You as a doctor even said it's more than likely a common cold, trust me I will be fine in a few days.”

Sinisters chilled hands slowly slithered from the warmth of the blankets, searching for your feet, which were hidden under the many layers of blankets, “Yes yes I know my pet, it's just that I can’t help but worry for you so,” his grip tightened more around your ankles as if you would disappear like smoke. Sinister had always felt alone in the world, and he had never expected to find someone who could make him feel so connected and loved. He had believed that he could never be happy, but you knew deep down that Sinister was willing to do anything to keep you in his life. The thought of losing you was unbearable to him, and it felt like his own personal hell.

Seeing the worry laced in his eyes you shot him a comforting smile,“Stephen, trust me I'm not going anywhere. You know i'm with you forever in this life,” extending your arms outwards beckoning him to join you. Sinister for a second was taken aback; feeling a sudden warmth spread over him he couldn't help but grin, his heart swelled with your irrevocable love so much that he could burst. Letting out a soft contented sigh he couldn't help but feel unbrimmed joy for being so wanted by such a divine woman. For how could he say no to his queen, the very person he would sacrifice his own life for.

Kicking off the heavy boots they made a slight thump against the wooden floorboards as your husband manifested a beautiful purple indigo smoke. The smoke cascading around him as he opted to change into his comfiest pair of dark purple pajamas leaving you in awe. You have been with him for years and even doing basic things, Sinister was the pure definition of elegance and it bever failed to leave you breathless. Feeling the weight of his form shift on the mattress, Sinister slowly made his way across the burgundy comforter. He snuggled close to you, wrapping himself in the warmth of the covers sighing contentedly.

Sinisters scarred hands reached over to gently cup your jaw placing a delicate kiss to your forehead. He nuzzled his nose against yours adding softly, “…In this life. And the next my love. For I have crossed oceans of time to find you and I will never lose you,” his finger traced your cheek softly as his blue eyes searched yours, the sentiment making you blush a deeper red. Placing a hand above his you leaned in to his touch, batting your lashes softly you couldn't help but melt into his eyes that reflected your very own.

“And you'll always have me, Stephen Strange,” breathing in his scent you closed your eyes, “For my heart and soul are yours and yours alone,” breaking the gap Sinister leaned into your lips. The sudden connection made you moan as he traced your lower lip with his tongue tasting your skin. It was so hypnotic, so mesmerizing that you suddenly snapped back to reality pulling away not wanting him to catch your cold. Feeling your resistance his strong hands only pulled you flush to his chest.

“Babe, don’t! You'll catch whatever I got,” you protested. Sinister couldn't help but chuckle at your declaration.

“Darling, I'm a man with the power of gods. It will take more than a cold to stop me from adoring you”, feeling the brush of his goatee against your delicate earlobe. His lips were so close to yours that you could feel his heat radiating from them. His lips ghosted your collarbone, his breath sweet and warm as he continued to ghost across your soft skin, sending a shiver of pleasure through your body and a fire of desire awakening in your core. Cocking his head to the side Sinister gently pinched your chin between his thumb and forefinger, eyes laced with mischief he had a better idea in mind.

“How mad would you be if I kissed that beautiful mouth of yours?” He smirked, taking note of your sudden tight grip on the crimson sheets. Hes such a fucking tease…

Pulling away once more in an attempt to resist, you looked into his eyes and you could clearly tell that all your husband wanted to do was to be there to make you feel good no matter what. “I dunno,” biting your lip you smirked, “why not find out.” The familiar feeling of his hands slithered against the back of your neck as he pulled you in slowly, kissing you once more he tasted the sweetness of your lips. The essence of strawberries sticking to his mind imprinted on his eidetic memory forever. He wanted to drown in you for the rest of his days. You both pulled away chuckling like a couple of school kids as his hands sought your face tracing your jawline, his breath welcoming against your soft delicate flesh.

“Delicious,” he cooed, giving your lower lip a gentle nip.

Damn him…

Sinister always brought you great joy even on days you were not at your best, times when you were sure he would leave after seeing your unsavory sides. You knew that deep down he would walk through fire for you, proving all too well his devotion time and time again leaving you with no doubts. Sinisters hands trailed down your curves resting at the slope of your hips guiding you to his lap. You leaned forward, pressing your lips to his once more as his hands traced your thighs gripping them firmly. Pulling away to look into your eyes he smiled brushing your cheek with unbridled admiration.

“I love you y/n,” he proclaimed, palms giving a slight tremble, “you know that right?”

Your heart swelled at the profession of his words only for them to taper, it broke your heart knowing he was alone for so long and yet still felt uncertainty about your devotion. Years if self loathing convinced him that his blackened heart was too difficult to bear, that he was a burden and needed to hide from the light forever. But here you are loving it through all the dirt to bare something of a diamond underneath the crevice of his newly alivened heart.

Heart racing you leaned in kissing him deeper, showing him how much he truly means to you. His moans drowning all thought as you pulled away looking him in the eyes. “And I love you Stephen Strange. I always have,” nibbling his earlobe in return you felt his grip tighten. You were sure there would be mark’s later no doubt, but in the moment you couldn’t care less. He growled pulling you in for another kiss, taking note of your nightgown riding up your thighs he smirked suddenly flipping you to once more your backside.

“Stephen!” You cried feeling him slither down between your thighs taking note of what's below. Or lack thereof.

“Hmm no panties?” His eyes suddenly turning dark and piercing it shot right to your center causing you to involuntarily rock your hips against his goatee.

“Mmm ya,” giving a teasing smile, “Didn't feel like it,” flashing him a cheeky wink it only spurred him on more to dig into your needy heat inhaling your arousal.

“You naughty girl,” his voice laced with a husky desire as you felt the welcoming sensation of his fingers slipping deeper into your thighs. His fingers gliding between the folds of your heat as his thumb traced circles around your clit.

“Always so wet for me my pet,” slipping two fingers inside he watched as your body writhed against his touch, “and my cock isnt even inside you yet,” he teased, pumping his digits at a steady pace. Sinister watched in awe as he felt your pussy clamp down like a vice around his fingers.

“You're such a good girl. Do you know that? Do you know how beautiful you look coming undone by my hands?” His eyes glowed under the light as he watched on, your legs trembling. He felt them spread wider, practically welcoming him to feast upon you. You get off on the praise, and he knows it all too well. Your body arched and pebbled against his touch as if you were fabricated just for him. Your reaction alone was enough to make his stiffened cock ache between his trousers. The only thoughts going through his mind were mine mine mine…like a sacred prayer only for you.

“I adore you. Your absolutely beautiful,” he purred, pressing his face into you deeper he traced his tongue over your wet folds making you moan deeper only urging him to need more. Sinister wanted to drown in your essence for this was his paradise and his alone, you locked around him wanting to be entangled in this state for eternity. Swirling your clit in a figure eight his mouth continued its assault as he felt your climax grip around his digits, you were close and nothing felt more sweeter or divine than this very moment. You moaning for him and only him alone. Your fingers laced through his ravenous strands pushing him deeper as his hands reached up, ripping the straps off your gown to expose your perfect bare breast on display. His hands immediately seeking your exposed nipples, giving them a gentle twist. It was just enough to send you over the edge as his right hand continued pumping in and out of your throbbing cunt claiming him only tighter.

Sinister takinging in the staggered rise and fall of your breath he placed his hand on the flat of your stomach in an attempt to steady yourself. For a moment he felt something…a heartbeat. But it…it can't be? His heart fluttered and flipped all at once with the sudden possible realization but there was something more pressing that demanded his attention and that was you.

“Ste-Stephen I’m gonna!”

The echo of your pleasured moans suddenly snapping him back to reality. This is the only thing he ever wants to do, be lost in you. Devoting every waking moment to your pleasure.

“That's it! That's my girl,” His thumb pressing firm circles on your clit as his lips traced yours, “your so beautiful when you come”

Your mouth shot open in a silent scream as you arched off the mattress, your heat riding his digits as he finger fucked you through your orgasm. The curling of his hand making you see stars, he truly did have magic hands in more ways than one.

Sinisters mind suddenly shot to the thought of what he felt in the base of your tummy. Tracing his palm over his chest he instinctively placed the other over your lower tummy, your elbows propped you up as your heart fluttered when you casted your gaze upon your husband.

“Stephen? What's wrong?” You asked with bated breath.

“Nothing my love,” he spoke with promise, his gaze still fixated on your belly, “hold on and let me see here”

At first the sensation was warm as if being cloaked by a blanket fresh from the dryer. A soft purple glow emitted from your abdomen as you both witnessed what was clearly a little baby in your belly no more than 10 weeks. The motions of its little arms made tears form in your eyes. You couldn't believe it, and neither could Sinister but here you are in fact pregnant.

You traced his features taking note of his reaction, noticing the swell of tears in his eyes he sniffled looking up at you, “And I thought I've seen everything,” you brushed a stray strang away from his forehead; he couldn't help but grin wide.

Come to think of it It's not like safe sex was a part of your repertoire. You both were more shocked it just took this long to finally happen.

“You're not upset, are you Stephen?” Your heart filled with sudden rising dread at the silly question. The seconds felt like minutes as you waited on for your husband's answer.

Eyes widened he practically leapt forward his hands sought yours as he paused just a fraction from your lips. You couldn't help but feel the sudden thrill of it, his unbridled excitement and joy seemed to penetrate every cell of your body. The comfort of his large hands made you lean into his touch, you took a breath as he craned his neck down ensuring you met his gaze. The calm timber of his voice was slow and smooth like the sweetest of chocolate and all you wanted was to melt into him.

“Heavens no my sweet angel. I am beyond thrilled. For you have given me all the more reason for being alive, and I couldn't possibly love you more than in this moment.”

Hearing the soft sniffles he leaned forward nuzzling foreheads peppering you with kisses that spoke of promise, you just couldn't believe that you are with child. Instinctively you couldn't help but draw his palm forward over your bare belly once more, the soft purple glow emitting from his palm glowed once more revealing the miracle underneath leading Sinister to smile.

“So much for you being sick,” he chuckled, kissing you once more. Rubbing your belly softly you placed a hand above his, joining the three of you in unison.

“Seems like the doctor is getting a little rusty with diagnosing,” you teased, feeling him give a playful yet gentle shove so as to not hurt you or the baby.

You smiled leaning in, nestling your face against his. “Oh hush now kiss me once more”

For a moment, all was still and peaceful and you never wanted it to end. Wrapping his arms around your waist you took in the warmth and familiarity of him. With a contented sigh, he whispered, "I love you."

Tears rolled down your cheek as his thumb took the liberty of wiping them away gently. Your lips sought his as you mended once more into each other like the sand meets the sea. You've kissed many times but yet somehow it feels like your millionth and first all wrapped up in one. Sinister was fully convinced that if you tasted half as divine as the forbidden fruit of Eve, then he absolutely understood her succumb to the surrender of temptation. For nothing ever tasted so sweet.

Masterlist

Spotify

@withalittlehoney @deepbatched @bakerstreethound @thealleydog @sassenach-on-the-rocks @blxckdragonfly @asherloki @pinkthick @stewardofningishzida @geeky-politics-46 @lokidokieokie @strangesgirls @silversword7000 @newavenger @icytrickster17 @lucimorningst4r @lady-harvey @evelyn-kingsley @battledress @budugu @kentucky-criedfricken @km-ffluv @datauthorress @azu21 @cemak @sobeautifullyobsessed @aphroditesdilemma @huxs-waifu @strangesslut @butchers-girl @strangesthirdeye @vickiee-mcmuffin @eternal---autumn @jasmarie2600 @kats72 @bobateadaydreams @iobsessoverfictionalmen

[girl-of-many-fandoms]

Dr. Show Off

Pairing: Stephen Strange x Reader

Summary: Leave it to Stephen to show off with his powers.

Warnings: None

MASTERLIST

HO! HO! HO! Merry Christmas my loves I hope you all had a wonderful day today. I also apologise for going MIA for months, I got busy with uni and my mental health took a decline. However, I couldn't let today pass without gifting y'all some Christmas fluff.

-----

"Question, do you plan on getting off your ass anytime soon to help me out here?" Stephen barely glanced in my direction before he returned to his laptop in front of him, completely ignoring the fact that I'm basically decorating our apartment all alone for Christmas.

"I told you that if you wanted to transform our home into Santa's workshop you're on your own darling."

"I don't recall that at all."

"Sure you don't."

Lies, I do remember him telling me that if I wanted to go the full nine yards for the holidays I'd have to do all the work since he's not, and I quote, "Feeling festive."

Stephen adjusted himself into a more comfortable position on the sofa giving whatever he was looking at his undivided attention. Huffing I resumed decorating the Christmas tree, mumbling things that would easily land me on Santa's naughty list this holiday.

Truth be told I wanted this to be something Stephen and I did together as it's our first Christmas together as a married couple. I'm also bumbed because he knows how much this holiday means to me.

Too caught up in my own thoughts I hadn't noticed that Stephen had been staring at my every move for the past five minutes before he practically snapped his fingers and turned our apartment into Christmas haven leaving me speechless.

"Really Stephen?" Crossing my now empty arms over my chest, I turned to face him. The sorcerer got up from his place on the sofa and crossed the living room to get to me with a sly smile on his face.

"Merry Christmas my love." He planted a kiss on my lips, slowly wrapping his arms around my waist.

"Merry Cristmas to you too, show off."

-----

Taglist:

@dorks2022 @sophiaedits @peakascum @anonymoustip217 @iiddaaa @panaitbeatrice @n3ssm0nique @mintphoenix @inas-thing @sketch-and-write-lover @friskae @bernthalbabe43 @trinkets01 @blackcat420 @justreadingficsdontmindme @bakingpotatoes21 @hardcoppizzasludge @tanyaherondale @creatingjana @calimoi @rootcrop @louisianalady @chrisfucksblog @thummbelina @vicmc624 @leyannrae @janaev4ns @queenofkings1212 @believinghurts @poor-unfortunate-soul-85 @stumbleonmywords @youarethereasonimsmiling @juxtaposition-exe @wanda-1 @katzenwahnsinn @v0idl1nq @winksasleeplesseye

[kte-alxxndr]

My single *ss is bored and had enough of my family asking on when I'm getting married. So I made these for the holiday - gonna live in the moment imagining I'm in a relationship with my favorite actors, Benedict Cumberbatch and Cillian Murphy.

Merry Christmas y'all.

Shared the one with Ben on my ig story and I'm happy to share that my family is happily thinking I'm in a relationship.

Me too 🤭

[newtsniffles]

started writing a khan (benedict ver) fanfiction because i’m severely upset by the lack of them.

[virq-qgo]

Another fucking drabble that I found in my notes ❤️

I’ve been gone for awhile, mainly because I’m lazy, secondly, I moved and lastly work. Literally gonna swan dive off a cliff 😏 and we’re back with Dr. Strange 🤌❤️

WARNINGS: slight smut, slight dom!reader

NSFW under the cut

————————————————————————————

A groan leaves his lips as he tilts his head back. His hands grip at the sheets while his thighs trembled. He had no idea that you could make him feel so good with just a few words and touches.

“How do you feel?” You ask, breaking his train of thought. Your hands grip at his hips as you lean into his face.

Stephen struggled to make eye contact with you. He couldn’t dare to interact with someone who had knocked him off his feet so easily. It was embarrassing. That was until you kissed his jaw and sucked on it gently, trying to create a faint hickie. Making him groan and look down at you.

“Are you going to answer me? Or are you to caught up pleasure that you’re ineligible to speak?”

He shakes his head, “G-good!”

A smirk dances on your face as you leaned back. Your grip loosened on his waist as you sit on his lap. Pride filled your body as you feel his hard on press against your inner thigh. “Wow,” a chuckle erupts from your throat, “someone’s excited.”

Stephen didn’t answer, instead he grabbed onto your thighs. “C’mon.” He mumbled. His hips grind up into yours trying to get desperate friction but a frustrated groan leaves his lips when you stilled his hips.

“We’re having none of that tonight.” Your fingers peel back his robe, pushing it back too his shoulders. Your eyes scan his sweaty body as you bite your lip in anticipation.

Your voice was stern and grabbed onto his wrist. “If you attempt to even touch me or get yourself off. Then I’ll show you what true pain is.”

You watch his eyes widen before they narrow. His lips curl as he darts his tongue out to lick his lips. “Why won’t you tell me what you’re going to do to me.”

His teasing tone angers you but before you could react the cape that he wore slipped off his shoulders and wrapped around your wrist, binding them together. “What the fuck.” You gasp while you try to pry open the cloak. Your eyes snap to his as your brows furrow. “Stephen fucking Strange. You are pushing yourself to a place you don’t want to be.”

He cocks his brow and pulls your hips closer to his face. “I don’t think your in the position to talk like that, dear.” He kept tugging you closer and closer till you were directly over his face. His fingers dig into your skin as he looks up at you with lust. “Why won’t you sit down for a while?”

[daydreamtofiction]

Thou Shalt Not Covet // 19: Spirit

Contents | Prev Part | First Person Version [AO3]

Summary: (Priest!Benedict x Female Reader) A year and a half has passed and Ellis has moved on, but the universe never seems to let her forget her past.

Word Count: 8.3K (It's another hefty one lol oops)

Warnings: Strong language, irreverence, dark humour, adult & sexual themes, alcohol consumption, smut incl: penetrative sex, 'quickie', rough, no aftercare. Readers must be 18+

The world never stops turning, no matter how unfair it may seem. We crash our cars yet the radio still plays, traffic lights keep changing as we sit in the wreck, red then amber then green, and back again. Daffodils bloom as dreams wilt away, and the sky still glitters with fireworks at the end of the worst year of someone's life. We are passengers on a train with no stops, and the options are limited; embrace the journey or get dragged along behind it. 

Eighteen months had passed since you'd let the light back in. A year and a half of laughter and growth, of new friends and milestones. Granted, you still couldn't drive. Still had terrible posture and a knack for saying the wrong things. But those that loved you didn't care, and you were finding it easier to love yourself because of that. 

You were four hours from home, sitting in the passenger seat of Rav's car as he drove you through the most quaint, scenic town you'd ever seen. It was like an illustration; thatched roofs and Tudor cladding, ivy on brick and winding cobblestone lanes. There was a milkman driving a float in front of you, an old lady setting up tables outside a café as a policeman strolled down the street, smiling and waving at passers by. 

You turned to Rav. "Did you ever watch Midsomer Murders?" 

He looked at you from the corner of his eye, smirking like he knew what you were about to say.

"This place is just too idillic," you said. "Feels like Jessica Fletcher's somewhere investigating a suspicious death." 

"That was Murder She Wrote." 

"Oh. Well, still..." 

He laughed, craning his head to see around the milk float in front. "Fucking hell, first the tractor, now this." 

"It looks like he's going that way." 

"Woohoo!" he cheered, speeding up as the float turned the corner.

You rolled your eyes. "Alright, Lewis Hamilton, slow down." 

"Oh, I'm sorry, for a second there it sounded like you were criticising my driving. You, Ellis Weiss, the woman whose name alone strikes fear into the hearts of driving instructors everywhere." 

You hit him on the arm.

He laughed, before squinting to read the road sign ahead. "I'm not seeing any directions for this place yet, are you?" 

"No. And I still don't have any signal so I can't Google Maps it. Why don't you pull over and we can ask someone for directions?" 

He gave a reluctant hum and kept driving. 

"Rav, just pull over and ask." 

"Hang on a second, let me see-"

"Why are men so opposed to getting directions?" 

"I'm not opposed, I just-" 

You reached a dead end. He rolled to a stop as you glared at him. 

"Y'know what, it's fine," he said facetiously. "Who needs marriage anyway? This isn't the 1920's, we're a progressive society."

You laughed. "May I remind you, you were the one who proposed."

He pressed his mouth into a straight line, jokingly rolling his eyes before turning the car around and driving back the way you came. 

You drove a little while longer, finally spotting a spire in the distance; the tall, stone point peeking over a row of houses.

"Is that the one?" asked Rav.

"I think it is." 

He got closer, turning onto the street where a large church stood proudly at the bottom. Perfectly kept grass bordered the beautiful stone building, winding paths and an elaborate sign near the entrance. 

"St Joseph's," Rav read. "Yeah, this is it. Thank fuck for that." 

He pulled into the carpark and you felt a strange wave of discomfort ripple through your stomach. It didn't seem to matter how many churches you visited, how much time passed; the memories were like a scar, healed but never fully gone. 

You climbed out into the cool, spring breeze, drying your sweaty palms on your trousers. 

"Here we go, church number three," said Rav. "Third time's a charm, right?"

"Well this isn't falling apart like the last one, so we're off to a good start," you replied.

You walked together down a long path, climbing the steps and pushing through the doors into the foyer. It smelled musky, smoky; frankincense and myrrh, wood and incense, rose and beeswax. There was a man pinning signs to a noticeboard, his back to you as he whistled happily to himself. 

"Excuse me," said Rav. "Are you the priest?"

The man turned. "Hm? Oh no, I'm just a volunteer." 

"Oh sorry. We were hoping we might be able to talk to the priest about possibly having a wedding here. I don't know if you might be able to... Erm..." 

"Ah, well I think he's in his office. I'll go and grab him for you." He smiled kindly. "You can come in and have a look around if you like? I'll only be a minute." 

"That's great, thank you." 

The man hurried away, disappearing through a nearby door that led to a long corridor. You walked with Rav, tentatively stepping into the chapel and looking around at the bright, vast space. 

He turned to you with an excited grin. "This is nice, isn't it." 

"It is," you said, looking up at the windows, the artwork on the walls. 

"Look." He walked down the aisle, pointing to the pews either side of him as he went. "Flowers here, right?" 

You nodded, watching as he jogged the rest of the way to stand at the altar. 

He held his hands out, gesturing to the space around him. "Yeah, this is nice. I can picture myself standing here. What do you think? Is the aisle long enough? Quick, Ellis, go there and walk down, see if you can picture it." 

You laughed and waved your hand at him, wandering over to a display of flowers instead, touching the petals gently to see if they were real and leaning forward to smell them. 

"Hi there, sorry to keep you," a voice echoed through the chapel. 

It sent a chill down your spine; the deep, rich tone seeping straight into your bones. You glanced over your shoulder, eyes widening in shock as the priest walked right past you, the sight of him leaving you frozen, staring at him as he met Rav in the middle of the aisle and reached for a handshake. 

There was a moment where you thought you were imagining it. The tall frame, dark curls and pale skin nothing more than a ghost, a mirage, a sign you needed to get some sleep. Then he introduced himself, I'm Father Benedict, and you knew he was real.

"Rav, nice to meet you." He gestured over to you. "And this is Ellis." 

He turned to look at you; his smile lines melting, lips parting in a stunned silence that seemed to last an eternity. But it couldn't have been more than a few seconds before he cleared his throat, forcing a smile and making his way over to you.

"H-hi..." he said breathlessly, reaching out his hand. "Nice to meet you." 

You glanced down at his trembling fingers, conceding after a moment with a weak handshake. 

Rav began to talk, but his voice was nothing more than a muffled buzz in your ears. Your eyes glazed over, losing focus as Father Benedict walked back over to him.

"Yeah, I apologise for showing up like this," Rav said. "I know it's a shot in the dark that you'll have an opening at such short notice. But the church we were supposed to be having the wedding at burned down." He laughed in disbelief. "Like literally burned down to the ground. Talk about a bad omen." 

Father Benedict chuckled. But the sound was shallow, half-hearted, his eyes flitting over to you every few moments. 

"Yeah I can- I can have a look. What's er, what's the date you're after?" he asked. "I'll check my... erm... my... calendar- book- diary. Diary, that's the word." 

"June..." Rav hesitated, looking over at you.

"Seventh," you said. 

"Seventh, right." 

You rolled your eyes. 

"Okay," Father Benedict nodded. "Okay, let me just go and erm... Have a- Let me check." 

He walked out of the chapel, and it felt like you'd been holding your breath the entire time. You blew out a soft, shaking exhale as Rav walked over to you. 

"He's alright, isn't he," he said. "Better than the priest this morning who kept staring at your tits."  

"What? No, I liked him. Made me feel wanted." 

"Fuck off," he laughed, immediately covering his mouth in regret. 

You gave a weak smile. 

He narrowed his eyes. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah I'm fine."

"Are you sure? You seem a bit... I don't know." 

"No I'm... It's just... I think I might be getting a cold or something. Bit headache-y." 

He gave you a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. 

Father Benedict returned, his eyes focusing immediately on Rav's hand on your shoulder. He fell silent for a moment before snapping out of it, shaking his head and looking down at the diary in his hands.

"S-sorry, could you just remind me of the date you wanted again?" 

Rav nodded. "It's June..." 

"Seventh," you said again.

"Okay, right, er..." Father Benedict cleared his throat, flicking through the pages. "So I do already have a wedding on the seventh. But Friday the sixth is open, or if you really want a Saturday, the following week is a possibility; the fourteenth?"

Rav looked at you, then down at the ground as he thought about it. "Yeah, no either of those should work. We know the owners of the venue so we should be able to swap the dates around. Could I... Can we get back to you?" 

"Yes, yes no problem." He closed the diary. "I er, I have somewhere to be, shortly, but if you want to come back tomorrow morning, we could sit and go through everything. Usually we'd need six months notice but, with the... fire and what not, I'm sure we can work something out; squeeze in your preparation, Saturday day, talk about costs and everything." 

"Yeah, that'd be great. Thank you." Rav looked at you, as though seeking approval. 

You gave another weak smile.

"No problem," Father Benedict replied, glancing at you again. 

You began walking towards the exit, and you couldn't quite believe that was it; a quick conversation, a handshake, a 'nice to meet you' as though you were nothing but strangers. You weren't sure what the alternative would have been; a hug, tears, a blazing row? Perhaps it was best to leave it like this, to run without another word, just like he'd done to you. 

But all of a sudden, there was a rush of white noise above you, growing louder until it was deafening. You looked up at the ceiling in confusion, then over to the windows as rain began to stream down the glass. 

"Oh my god," you muttered. 

"You can't say that in a church," said Rav. 

You groaned. "We parked so far away." 

"Tell you what, you wait here and I'll go and get the car. I'll drive it right up to the door."

"What? No it's fine. It's just rain-" 

"Don't be stupid. Wait there, I'll be two seconds."

He ran off before you could protest any further. You huffed and crossed your arms, hovering in the archway between the chapel and the foyer. You could hear Father Benedict moving around behind you, but you refused to turn around, as though not looking at him meant he wasn't actually there. 

You felt like a stroppy child, balled up, head turned, teeth clenched. When he first left, you'd have done anything to see him again, to hear his voice, smell his aftershave. But there was something painful about finally knowing where he'd been; knowing that for eighteen months he'd been just four hours away, starting anew like you were just an old VHS he could tape right over.

"Ellis...?" he said softly, tentatively. 

You exhaled through your nose and turned slowly, looking up at him with a heavy brow and glassy eyes. 

"Hi," he breathed, like he didn't know what else to say. 

"Hi," you replied bluntly, turning away again. 

He paused for a while, but you could hear him getting closer, feet shuffling tentatively across the floor. "H... How are you?"

You turned back and glared up at him in disbelief.

He sighed, dropping his head. "I'm sorry-"

"Don't," you interrupted. "Just don't." 

He seemed reluctant to give in, standing there staring down at you, anxiously biting his lip as he deliberated with himself. But finally, he yielded, turning in defeat and beginning to walk away. 

You watched him leave, your breath quickening, lungs bubbling with anger and confusion, sadness and grief. 

"You just... Left," you blurted out. 

He stopped, turning back to look at you. "I know." 

"No word, no explanation. You just..." You struggled to find the words, eyes darting around the chapel as they welled with tears, before finally giving up. "Why?" you whispered.

He took a long pause, head stooped. He swallowed hard and cleared his throat, forcing himself to look back up at you. "Because I was falling in love with you," he said simply, his voice nothing more than a breath.

You stared at him, the blue of his eyes so vibrant against the red in his waterline. 

"And..." he continued, taking a step towards you. "I know without a doubt that if I'd stayed, I would have just continued to fall more in love with you. And I would have loved you... more than... anything. More than..." He gestured to the church around you before shaking his head, his lip quivering. "I couldn't. I just- I couldn't..." 

"I wouldn't have ever asked you to." 

"I know that. But it wouldn't have stopped it from happening."

You pressed your mouth into a straight line, sniffing sharply and steadying your voice. "I was falling in love with you too." 

He nodded, like he already knew. 

You swallowed the urge to cry, taking a deep breath and shrugging. "Well there you go. What can you do."

He dropped his head, closing his eyes like your words hurt. 

You turned away, leaning against the frame of the archway as you waited for the beep of a car horn. 

"You're going to make a beautiful bride, Ellis," he said solemnly.

Your stomach tightened. Then you looked at him again. "I'm not the bride." 

His brow furrowed in confusion. 

"Bridesmaid," you said, pointing to yourself. 

"Oh..." he whispered. 

"Rav's fiancé had a dress fitting so she couldn't make it. Asked me to come with him instead because she didn't trust him to find a new church on his own." 

He exhaled a shaking breath, the corner of his mouth twitching with a relieved smile. "So you're- So you're not... Seeing anyone?" 

You shook your head. "No one's been worthy of me yet..." 

He gave a subtle smile, but your face remained stony. 

There was a loud beep and you turned to see Rav's car waiting near the door. You glanced back over your shoulder. "Good to see you, Father."

You rushed outside without waiting for a reply. The rain was warm, falling so hard it hurt as it pelted your skin. You tried to keep your breaths even as you hurried towards the car, a painful lump lodged in your throat. 

"Ellis! Ellis, hold on!"

You stopped at the passenger door, turning to see Father Benedict running down the church steps after you. He halted at the bottom, chest heaving, eyes wide. 

You stared at him, waiting for him to speak. 

"I..." he stammered. "I felt the urge to chase you but I didn't actually think through what I'd say once I got here..."

You blinked at him.

"D-do... Do you- could we maybe talk? I've got some work this afternoon but-" He pointed to a pub across the road. "We could get a drink, maybe? This evening? If you're not busy...?" 

You looked at the pub, then back to him.

"I know I don't deserve it," he said, wiping the rain out of his eyes. "But if you could give me... an hour of your time..." 

You sighed and shook your head. "Yeah," you finally said. "Yeah, okay."

He let out a relieved sigh, nodding with a slight smile. "Okay. Okay, erm... I can be over there for eight?" 

"Okay." 

"Okay."

You pulled the handle and got into the car, slicking your wet hair back with your hands. 

"What was that about?" asked Rav. 

"Oh, nothing, he erm... he just needed me to remind him of the dates again." 

He began to drive and you sat in silence, shocked, shivering. The church grew smaller in the wing mirror until you could no longer see it all, the rain easing, a double rainbow emerging in the sky above you. 

Rav glanced over at you. "Are you alright?" 

You nodded, staring out of the window, the quaint town looking entirely different to you now. 

The Poplar and Dove. Why did pubs always have such odd names? What did trees and birds have to do with beer, fruit machines and sticky carpets? 

You stood under the awning of the pub, wringing your hands nervously as you waited for 8pm to come. You'd gotten there earlier than you'd meant to, and though you could have just gone inside, you couldn't bring yourself to seem eager. 

You wished you'd packed nicer clothes than the t-shirt, long denim skirt and trainers you were wearing. But as a man stumbled out onto the street in oil-covered overalls and work boots, you almost felt overdressed.

It was 8:01 when you finally drew in a deep, anxious breath and went inside, the smell of beer hitting you like a boozy cloud as you pushed through the doors. It was quieter than you'd expected; a low hum of conversation as a television played quietly above the bar, an old song drifting from a jukebox in the corner. You slipped through a group of men, their hands and faces smattered with motor oil like the one you'd seen outside.

You tried to not make it obvious you were looking around, standing at the bar as you scanned the room quickly. What if he didn't come? What if he'd changed his mind at the last minute and stood you up? You'd have no one to blame but yourself; already dreading telling your sister you'd agreed to this at all.

"Ellis!"

You turned to see him in the corner, pointing to a drink on the table in front of him and waving you over. You couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief, pushing through another group of people to get to him. 

"Rum and Coke," he said as you sat down opposite him. "I hope that's still...?" 

"Yeah, yes. That's great. Thanks." You hooked your bag onto the back of the chair and took a sip - the rum was spiced, your favourite kind. 

He was even more beautiful than you remembered, and it annoyed you greatly. His casual shirt was open at the collar, sleeves rolled up to the elbow as he clasped his long fingers together in front of him. His curls were fluffy, falling slightly over his brow and framing his eyes. 

Those eyes. God. You took an extra sip of your drink. 

"Thank you for showing up," he said.

You gave a halfhearted smile.

"I know I don't deserve it..." 

There was a lull; an awkward pause as you both shifted in your seats. There'd never been an uncomfortable silence between you before. Even in the moments no one spoke, it was always pleasant, content. 

"So, what's it like around here?" you asked. 

His eyes rounded for a moment, like he was taken aback, not expecting you to make small talk. You weren't expecting yourself to make small talk either. 

"It's, er, It's- Nice," he said. "The parish is a lot bigger, so more work. But the town itself is... It's quiet." 

You nodded. 

"Why did your friends choose it for their wedding?" he asked.

"Camilla - the bride - grew up here." 

"No way," he laughed softly. "How did you meet her?" 

"Through a work thing. And Rav's my downstairs neighbour. I introduced them." 

"Ah, so you're basically Cupid." 

"I expect they'll be naming their first born Ellis," you said, unable to resist a smile. 

You'd planned to walk into that pub with fire in your belly, venom on your tongue. You'd gone over the things you wanted to say in the shower, practiced arguing with him in the mirror as you got ready. Yet there was something about him, like a sedative, that made it impossible to do anything but talk. 

"So Camilla's a photographer?" he asked between sips of his drink. "Editor?" 

"Oh, erm, no. I don't work at the studio anymore," you replied. "I'm a freelance book cover designer now; met her at a publishing thing." 

He smiled proudly. "You always wanted to do that." 

"I did." 

"Congratulations." 

"Thanks." you said shyly, bringing the glass to your lips. 

"Is that a tattoo?"

"Hm? Oh, yeah." You lifted the sleeve of your t-shirt to reveal a small, fine ink design on the inside of your upper arm. 

He leaned forward slightly, squinting to look at it more closely. 

"Why?" you asked. "Is it like... A cardinal sin or something?"

"No, I just couldn't see what it was." He laughed and relaxed back into his seat. "I like it." 

"Thanks. I've got another one as well, but if I tried to show you that we'd probably get kicked out." 

There was a subtle glint in his eye, making you realise what you'd said.

"I didn't mean for that to sound so..." You shook your head. "Sorry."

He chuckled quietly. "There's a guy in my congregation; biggest, buffest guy you've ever seen. Bald head, covered, and I mean covered in tattoos. And when I tell you he is the sweetest, gentlest most devoutly catholic man I've ever met, it's incredible."

"I bet he gives really good hugs."

"Oh absolutely."

You clinked your nails against the side of your glass, filling another awkward silence, letting the last of the nervous energy out through your fingertips. 

"How's your sister?" he asked.

"Oh, yeah, she's good," you replied. "She actually just had another baby."

"She did? Oh that's wonderful." 

"Mhm, a few months ago. Another girl." 

"What's her name?" 

You glared at him, pressing your lips together reluctantly. 

"Oh come on, it can't possibly be more out there than Soleil," he laughed.

"Eulalie." 

"You-lay-what?" 

You giggled. "Eulalie. It's French as well, apparently." 

"Well, they certainly love a unique name, don't they." 

"I know. I'm going to have to call my kid Keith or something, just to restore the balance." 

"Ah, little baby Keith." 

You lifted your glass, speaking before taking another sip. "What's the worst name you've ever baptised?" 

"I'm sure we've had this exact conversation before." 

"I don't think so." 

"We have. The woman with the twins?" 

You shook your head, looking up at the ceiling as you tried to think back. 

"I definitely told you. Don't you remember? We were lying in bed one night and..." he faltered suddenly, losing his train of thought and pressing his fingers to his mouth to disguise it. 

You wondered if the memory of you in his bed was too painful, or perhaps it was just embarrassing, an uncomfortable reminder of how close you once were. 

"Were they called something like Paco and Rabanne?" you asked. 

He laughed, his shoulders relaxing again. "Dolce and Gabbana." 

"That's it. Yes, I do remember. Those poor children." 

He smiled before shifting in his seat, reaching into the back pocket of his trousers and pulling out his wallet and keys. He placed the keys on the table and opened the wallet, sifting for money.

"Are you still driving the old car?" you asked, gesturing to the keys.

"Nope." He grinned. "And this new bad boy I've got has - get this - a working passenger door and air-con that actually blows cold air."

You gave a sarcastic, impressed whistle. "Living the dream." 

"I know. It's funny, when I bought it my first thought was 'Ellis would love this'."

"Why?" 

"Because it's an automatic so you wouldn't be able to stall it." 

You rolled your eyes. "Well actually, I have my license now, and I drive a Lamborghini, so..." 

"Really?" 

"Obviously not." 

"Fuck sake." He burst into laughter. "Do you want another drink?" 

You looked down at your rum and coke, surprised to see how much you'd already drank. You promised yourself you'd only stay for one. Yet there you were, nodding and watching him walk up to the bar to buy you another. 

It was hard to connect him to the man who'd left you broken and confused eighteen months ago. Hard to accept that as he laughed at your jokes and asked about your family, there was a part of him that was capable of such carelessness and cruelty. 

"Here you go," he said, placing a new drink in front of you.

You looked down at it for a moment, then up to him. "Why didn't you tell me you were leaving?" 

His face softened, the smile he'd sat down with falling away. 

"Come on, you knew I was going to ask at some point." You shrugged.

He remained quiet, rubbing his mouth in deliberation. "I..." He inhaled through his nose, letting it out again slowly. "I didn't decide to leave until that last night. I know that doesn't make it any better, but I swear to you it wasn't some big, thought-out departure I'd planned ages in advance. I just... I got scared." 

"Scared of what?" 

He paused. "There was a moment that night when we were sitting together; I told you there was nowhere else I'd rather be than with you. And suddenly it dawned on me; Fuck, I am falling in love with this woman. I've made a vow of clerical celibacy, a vow to devote myself to the church and to God and to put that before anything else in my life. Yet here I am, wanting to be nowhere else but with her..."

You stayed quiet, watching him fidget with his hands as he spoke. 

"I knew then that I couldn't stay." He lowered his voice. "So I did the terribly selfish thing of giving myself one last night with you. I made love to you, I kissed you before I left the next morning, and I suppose in a way I convinced myself that that was the goodbye." 

You swallowed. "If I hadn't randomly turned up here today, you'd have let me live the rest of my life not knowing any of that..." 

"I know. And trust me, Ellis, not a day has gone by where I haven't hated myself for it. But the way I would have loved you.... I have no doubt it would've eclipsed everything." He tilted his head to catch your gaze with his own. "I had to get away." 

You wrapped your hands around the glass in front of you, straightening your spine and clearing your throat. His words were like whiskey; his confession a painful burn, the truth a soothing warmth. Your only fault had been that you were loved, and you couldn't help but wonder how much easier it would have been to know that; perhaps you wouldn't have spent so long sitting alone in the dark. 

"Do you not think I deserved to know that?" you asked.

"Of course. But would it have made it any easier?" 

"Well... I'm not sure there's any easy of way of hearing someone say they'd rather be celibate than with you."

He shook his head, chewing his lip to hold back a smirk. "That's not fair." 

"I have a year and a half of pent up anger inside me. Let me make jokes." 

"Fair enough." 

You scanned his face, finishing off your first drink before moving swiftly to the second. "Are you happy with the decision you made?" 

He opened his mouth to speak when a sudden, roaring cheer erupted through the pub. You looked over your shoulder, watching the group of men celebrating a goal on TV. They bounced around, throwing their arms around each other as lager splashed over the rims of their glasses.

When you turned back to Father Benedict, he was smiling at them, laughing softly as he watched their roistering from across the room. But there was something melancholic about his expression; no lines in his cheeks, no crinkle between his brows or at the corners of his eyes. 

He returned his attention to you, realising you'd been watching him. "Not as happy as that," he said. 

You exhaled a laugh. 

"Ellis, I... I can't tell you how many times I've thought about what I'd say to you if I ever saw you again. The truth of the matter is, I don't know. I don't know if I'm dedicating my life to a God that doesn't exist. I don't know if any of it's real, I have no proof. But I really fucking hope it is. And what I do know is that I chose to become a priest because it allows me to help people, and inspire and encourage and share that hope with them, every single day." He paused. "I just never predicted I'd meet you."

You picked up your glass, swirling the ice around, making the liquid bubble and fizz. Then you sighed, meeting his gaze again. "I get it," you said. "I do, I get it. One of us would always have had to give up a part of themselves to be with the other. Either you would've had to leave clergy, or I'd have had to concede to being someone's secret lover for the rest of my life. And let's face it, neither of us would've expected that of the other." 

He looked sad, brows curved upwards over glistening eyes.

"Right person, wrong... everything else." You shrugged. "Our paths just crossed too late." 

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his eyes never leaving you. 

"I just hope you know that the collar you wear isn't what makes you a good person," you said. "You gave me hope when I really needed it. And that had nothing to do with God or church or sermons... It was you." 

He smiled, before dropping his head and clearing his throat. "You're being far more gracious to me than I deserve." 

"I know."

The TV above the bar was muted, the jukebox switched off. A strong smell of lemon disinfectant drifted through the air as a barmaid pushed around a mop bucket, another collecting glasses and wiping down surfaces. There was no one left, the lights raised to full brightness, chairs stacked on tables around you like the battlement walls of a castle. 

You'd talked through the end of the football match, through the noise of drunken punters and the bell for last orders. You'd talked as the crowds dwindled away, as the sky turned black beyond the windows and your glasses emptied to dregs of melted ice. 

It was like no time had passed since he left. You'd never understood that expression before; how could absence not change things? How could a river erode with time and water still flow the same way? But you got it now. With every joke he laughed at, every facial expression he understood and insignificant detail he remembered, it was clear your bond had never severed. It had just been frozen, lying in wait until something came to thaw it out. 

He was covering his face as you spoke, shoulders shaking as he laughed into his hands. 

"It's true!" you said. "They called the police and everything." 

"They did not call the police!" His laugh grew heartier, tears forming in his eyes.

"They did! I had to sit and explain to two uniformed officers that I hadn't meant to walk out of the shop with the coat on."

"Why were you even wearing it?" 

"I tried it on as a joke because it was so fucking ugly. Then Soleil decided to turn into Usain bloody Bolt and run outside at full speed into the busy street." 

A tear spilled onto his cheek. He wiped it away, still chuckling to himself. 

"I told Mara she was nuts for trusting me with her child," you said.

"Maybe next time try a soft play centre or a park, y'know, instead of a high end clothing shop." 

"Well you just have all the answers, don't you." 

He smiled, shaking his head and leaning back in his chair. "Just giving you some advice so you don't go losing Keith in a Selfridges one day." 

You laughed. "Keith will be kept on one of those baby leashes until he's eighteen." 

You could feel a hair on the side of your nose, rubbing your finger over it a few times. He began speaking, but you couldn't concentrate, the itch on your skin too distracting. You tried to wipe it away again. 

"Because then I went-" He stopped. "What's the matter?" 

"There's something on my face, it's driving me mad." 

He sat forward, gesturing for you to lean over the table to him. You did as he instructed, watching as he brought his face close to yours, examining the side of your nose for a moment before seeming to lose focus, his eyes softening as they trailed slowly from your eyes to your lips then back again. 

"Father," you said. "I'm going to say something you used to say to me all the time." 

"What's that?" 

"You need to stop looking at me like that..." 

He dropped his head and breathed out a laugh. "I apologise," he said, gently pressing the tip of his finger to the side of your nose, holding it up to show you a small black wisp. "Eyelash." 

"Thanks," you replied, sitting back down. 

"You know you can just call me Ben, by the way," he said. 

"I know, but, I don't-" You shrugged shyly. "I only ever really called you that when we were..." 

"Ah." 

"Yeah..." 

"Excuse me, guys," said one of the barmaids as she approached your table. "We're going to be locking up in a few minutes." 

Father Benedict glanced around the deserted pub, the wet floors and stacked chairs. "Oh, god, sorry. We didn't even realise-"

"It's okay," she replied kindly. "You looked like you were having a nice time, we didn't want to disturb you." 

"Thank you, we'll get out of your way." 

You stood up, grabbing your bag and hooking it over your shoulder as Father Benedict lifted his chair onto the table, making his way around to yours and doing the same. The women behind the bar smiled appreciatively as one of them unlocked the door to let you out. You almost felt embarrassed that you'd let yourself get so carried away, talking so far past closing time, your conversation the only sound inside the empty pub. 

You stepped out into the dark, chilly night, light rain falling in a mist that glittered under the streetlights. You crossed your arms over your chest to hide your nipples, suddenly very aware of how thin your t-shirt was. The street was quiet, the church nothing but a dark, imposing silhouette on the other side of the road. 

"Where are you staying?" asked Father Benedict. "I only had a couple of drinks so I can drive you wherever you need to go." 

"Oh, no, don't worry. My Airbnb's not far from here so I'm just going to walk." 

He furrowed his brow. "They have Airbnbs around here?" 

You laughed. "Yeah, it's just a little cottage, nothing fancy."

"Well I'll walk you." 

"Are you sure? You really don't have to." 

"Of course I'm sure, come on." 

You walked most of the way in silence, your impending separation like a thick cloud in the air between you. Were you to simply say goodbye? No hard feelings? See you in June for the wedding?

The cobbled roads glistened like oil in the gentle rain, the houses quiet, as though the entire town had gone to sleep. You kept your arms crossed over your chest, your eyes straight ahead. When the road was on your left, he would walk on your left, and when it was on the right, he would move again, always keeping you on the inside despite there not being a single car. 

You pointed to a row of small terraced cottages at the bottom of a steep lane. "That's me down there." 

"Which one?" 

"Hanging baskets, right at the end." 

"Wow, you weren't joking when you said it was small." 

You exhaled a short laugh. "It's all I need. Only staying two nights." 

When you arrived at the cottage, you stopped at the gate, placing a hand on it and turning to look up at him. 

"Well this was... weird," you said.

"Very," he replied. "But also really great." 

"Yeah." You paused. "Thank you for the drinks, and for walking me home." 

He smiled, but the expression quickly grew forlorn as he stared down at you. You kept your hand on the gate as you waited for him to speak, a part of you willing yourself to just go inside, while another needed to know what he was thinking.

"What?" you asked. "Do I have another eyelash on my face?" 

He shook his head with a quiet laugh. "I've missed you," he said, his voice almost a whisper. 

You sighed. "You can't say that." 

"Why?" 

"Because it's not fair. You've known where to find me... This whole time, you've known exactly where..." Your voice trailed off. 

He closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath through his nose. "I told you why I couldn't come back-"

"And I said I understand. I do. But you made a choice. So you... You don't get to tell me you've missed me." You remained gentle, calm. "You can't act like something's been keeping us apart when the thing keeping us apart is you." 

"The thing keeping us apart is my vow."

"And so go and live by your vow, Father. Go and live your pious, solitary life. I am truly sorry I ever jeopardised that for you." 

He scoffed slightly. "There's no need to be sarcastic." 

"Wh-? I'm not. I'm really not." You pulled the gate shut again, turning to face him fully. "But surely you understand how much it hurts to know you see loving me and worshipping God as some kind of contradiction?" 

"I see loving you as the most easy thing I could've ever done." His voice was harsh yet quiet, frustration laced in a whisper. "But choosing to leave the clergy, to break the promises I made when I was ordained; that would've been the consequence of it."

"And I've already told you I wouldn't have expected you to do that. I understand your decision-"

"But you don't, Ellis. Not if you can stand there and tell me I don't get to say I miss you." 

You slowed your breathing, calming yourself before looking up at him. "If you truly missed me, it wouldn't have taken me randomly turning up here today for you to realise it." 

"I didn't have to realise it, because it's never not been the case." He took a step closer, speaking with more passion, intensity in his eyes. "Not a single day has gone by where I haven't thought of you. Where I haven't questioned if I made the right decision. You asked me earlier if I was happy with the choice I made, and the truth is... I don't know. Because my resolve has wavered so much more over the past eighteen months than it ever did before I left."

"And what changes now that I know that?" you replied. "Nothing. You're still going to go back to that church and I'm still going to go home on Friday. Alone."

"I don't- I don't know, I just... When I saw you there today in my church, there were ten or so minutes where I really, honestly thought you were marrying someone else," he shook his head. "And I wasn't happy for you, Ellis. I was... devastated." 

"And when you realised I was actually single, how did you feel then?" 

He blinked a few times, brows coming together, forming a crinkle at the bridge of his nose. "I felt..." 

"You felt...?" 

"Ellis you know that's not fair to ask-"

"But everything you've said to me in the last five minutes is fair?" 

You were getting angry now. The rage you'd planned to unload on him in the pub bubbling in the base of your chest. He ran away from you. Tore you apart and left you strewn across the rectory flowerbed in pieces. Now you'd finally bloomed again, and here he was, plucking at your petals. 

"Do you know what, I don't want to do this anymore," you said as you opened the gate and stepped through. "I knew meeting you tonight was a bad idea."

"Because I told you I've missed you?" he called out behind you.

You stopped and spun around. "Because everything you're saying is for your own benefit, not mine! To- to- to make yourself feel better, to unload how you feel onto me even though you know it doesn't change your decision." 

"So what would you prefer I do, Ellis? Not say anything? Walk you home and leave without another word?" 

"I'd prefer you to just fuck off," you snapped, taking in a sharp breath, stunned by your own words.

"You want me to fuck off..." he replied in dry disbelief, taking a few steps down the path towards you.

"Yes. Fuck off. Go away." Your voice quivered. You waved your hand at him dismissively and walked to the front door. "Just... Let me forget about you."

You fished through your bag with shaking hands, finding the key and struggling to push it into the lock. His eyes were on you, you could feel them, like a hand around the back of your neck. You unlocked the door and pushed it open before looking over your shoulder at him. 

"There's a reason you haven't walked away yet," you said, stepping into the cottage and turning around, placing your hand on the door and preparing to close it. "You want permission. You want to hear me ask you to choose me. But that's never going to happen. I have too much respect for myself to ever do that." 

You took a step back and swung the door shut, but there was a hard thump as it hit something on the other side, stopping it from fully closing. You pulled it back to see him standing there, palm planted against it, foot halfway over the threshold. His chest was heaving, nostrils flaring with heavy breaths. 

You stared up at him, unable to resist giving an insolent shrug, a brattish shake of your head. It seemed to annoy him even more, the muscle in his jaw twitching as he clenched his teeth.

"Wh-"

He interrupted you with a sudden kiss, his hand gripping the back of your head as his lips pressed firmly against yours. You lost yourself for a moment, swept away in the passion of the unexpected rush. Your mouth began to move in time with his, hot breath and sweeping tongues, but then you stopped, placing your hands on his chest and gently pushing him away. 

You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath to quell the anger rising up your throat, before glaring at him through your lashes. His face was still close, lips parted, eyes glassy. You wanted to push him away, but you couldn't; any sense of logic you possessed clouded by impulse. 

You gave in, letting your body take over, wrapping your hands around the back of his neck and pulling him down into a fevered, forceful kiss. He curled his fingers into your hair, holding it in fistfuls as you stumbled back into the cottage. You slammed the front door, grabbing him by the shirt as you moved in a mess of teeth and tongues, fingernails and clumsy missteps through the small, open living space. 

Your backside made contact with a dining table first. He gripped your hips and lifted you onto it as you continued to kiss with unwavering ferocity. You began pulling at your skirt, working impatiently to drag the heavy, stiff material up your legs as he used one hand to unbutton his trousers, the other helping to push the skirt over your thighs. His breaths were heavy, laboured, pouring into your open mouth as he freed himself from his underwear, like he'd been aching, desperate for release. 

You reached down and slid your fingers into your underwear, the thin cotton so wet it gave little resistance as you moved it to one side, parting your legs wider to let him stand between them. His lips broke away from yours, just long enough to spit into his hand, coating the head of his cock before sweeping you back into another kiss.

He slid the tip along the seam of your pussy, using his hand to guide it inside you. You gasped at the stretch, the dull burn and intense pressure. You'd only slept with a couple of people since he'd been gone; a one night stand, and a short-lived fling that fizzled out after a few dates. Neither of them matched up to him. Not in size, nor skill. So much so that you'd almost convinced yourself he wasn't as good as you remembered. 

You dug your nails into the back of his neck as he sank his full length into you, the walls of your pussy moulding to the shape of him, softening, lubricating to welcome the intrusion. His throat rumbled with a groan, a hum falling from his lips as he kissed you, fucking you with a hard, steady rhythm. You whimpered into his mouth, sliding your hands down to grip his backside, encouraging him to thrust harder, deeper. He planted a palm on the table beside you to steady himself, pressing his chest against yours as he moved with more force, each snap of his hips sending a jolt through your core, making the table rock and creak beneath you. 

Your mind was blank, clouded and hazy as your body welled with pleasure; a tingling in your clit and a deep, intense pulsing in your core. You were going to be swollen after this, bruised, sensitive. But you didn't care; there was an anger inside you that you had to extinguish, and with each slam of his body against yours, you were getting closer to putting it out. 

Your body began to tense and tighten, each slide of his cock met with a growing resistance, making him breathe quickly as he worked harder to maintain his thrusts. Your thighs came together, squeezing his hips as waves of electricity began to thrash in your pelvis. He growled and grabbed your legs, forcing them apart again, and you let out a heavy moan as he sank deeper, hitting the spots that sent you floating on the precipice between pleasure and pain. 

Your back arched, and with another brush of his cock, you fell apart. He hid his face in the crook of your neck as he buried himself completely, giving in to his own orgasm as you came around him. You were shaking, your bottom lip chattering like you'd been caught in a blizzard. Every time he shifted or twitched, the echoes of your climax would ring through you, making you shudder, goosebumps pricking your arms. 

The room was suddenly so quiet in the clarity, only the rushing of your breaths and the pulse pounding in your ears filling the silence. He lifted his head and carefully pulled out of you, your centre immediately feeling tender and raw in his absence. You glanced up at him, but he couldn't bring himself to look you in the eye, and you suddenly felt nauseous. 

You slid off the edge of the table onto your feet, readjusting your underwear and pulling your skirt back down. He stayed beside you, buttoning his trousers as he kept his head down, staring at the table and pensively biting his lip. You looked at him again, and when he finally looked back, you knew; the same remorseful expression you'd seen so many times before. A face full of regret, shame, disappointment in his own lack of restraint. You sighed and shook your head, walking off into the next room, trying to ignore your shaking legs and the lump in your throat. 

You stood in the small sitting room, looking out the window into the dark back garden. You felt a tear fall down your cheek, the droplet tickling your skin as it clung to the edge of your jaw. Your lip wobbled, but you bit it to keep it still, sniffing sharply.

"Ellis...?" His voice was so soft and gentle, his footsteps light as he entered the room behind you. 

"Just go, Ben," you replied weakly, too numb to even try to turn around. 

He paused at the sound of his name on your lips. Then he took another few tentative steps towards you. 

"Please, just..." You sighed. "You... broke me. Not just when you left, but every time you treated me like a mistake." 

"You're not a mistake. You were never a mistake." 

"Was that a mistake?" You turned around, nodding towards the other room. 

He hesitated. 

"Exactly," you said. "Getting over you was the hardest thing I have ever done. And all it took was one day for me to end up right back where I started." 

"It wasn't a mistake," he whispered. "I just... I suppose I wish I'd been more... forbearing. Made it mean something, y'know. I don't regret what just happened. I regret the way it happened." 

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying desperately not to cry. But another single tear betrayed you. 

"Please don't cry," he said softly. "I can't- I never wanted to-" He sighed, walking over and wrapping his arms around you. 

You resisted at first, but you quickly yielded, letting your head fall on his chest, your arms tucked in the space between your bodies. He cradled you in his large embrace, resting his chin on the top of your head.

"I love you, Ellis." 

You closed your eyes, his words stinging as much they soothed. 

"Right person, wrong everything else," he said. 

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[brunchable]

We Can’t Be Friends || Doctor Strange x F!Reader.

Genre: Angst(?) || Song MV inspired

Pairings: Stephen Strange x F!Reader

Word Count: 5.2K

Quick Summary: Your relationship with Stephen Strange has been strained to the breaking point by his constant absences and mystical duties. Despite Stephen's attempts to mend your fractured bond, you decide to seek a more permanent solution.

A/N: Lisssteeen, this is not proof read lol. I haven't written in a while, I am feeling rusty so please be forgiving hehe. Every nice interactions are most valued <3

Stephen had been gone for a month for the third time, with no word, no warnings. You had spent countless nights worrying, wondering if he was safe, if he would ever return. And now, as the sparkle of the portal opened and caught your attention, Stephen stepped out, looking weary and worn from his latest mission.

You were waiting for him in the living room, feeling a mixture of anger and frustration, yet your expressions show otherwise. You had been rehearsing what you would say, but now that he was here, the words felt heavy on your tongue.

“You're back. Where in the seven hells have you been this time?” You began, your voice firm but calm, you had that motherly tone when a teen returns home from sneaking out.

“Seven hells pretty much sums it up… can we do this later? I just got back,” Stephen chuckled, rubbing his temples, the tone of your voice grating and adding up to his headache, “I’m exhausted.”

“No, I think we should address this, now,” You insisted, pointing to the ground for emphasis.

Stephen sighed, sensing the confrontation he so wanted to avoid. “Alright, I’m listening.”

You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. “Stephen, you’ve been gone for a month. No warnings, no pass the message from Wong. . . What is going on?”

“Y/N, you know what my responsibilities are. The world needs me. I can’t just ignore that,” Stephen said defensively.

“A heads up would be nice. Like how you were before. It feels like I’m nothing more than a distraction to you,” You shot back, your eyes narrowing.

Stephen’s expression hardened with irritation. “You knew what you were getting into from the start. My work–my duty is important. Do I need to explain myself every single time?”

“Why are you so defensive? Is it wrong of me to at least know where you are? So I don't worry all the time? At least still show me that I matter to you. Right now, it feels like you and your missions are all that matter,” you replied, rolling your eyes. 

“This is ridiculous, Y/N. Clea and I are working to protect this world. It’s not like I’m off on a vacation. I’m trying to keep everyone safe, including you.”

It was impossible to overlook the single name that slipped from Stephen's lips. The air seemed to thicken even more with tension. Your face transformed dramatically; what had been a mask of frustration quickly crumbled, replaced by a deep, probing suspicion. Your eyes narrowed, searching Stephen's face for any hint of deceit, and your heart pounded in your chest, echoing the name that now hung heavily between you. 

“Who’s Clea?” you asked, making sure to stress the name you didn't want to say, your voice tinged of disdain.

“Fuck,” Stephen muttered under his breath. A wave of regret washed over him as he realized he should have told you who he was teaming up with sooner. He wondered why he had left out such an important detail, knowing it would have made a difference in your reaction. . . or make it worse?

“Clea is from the dark dimension, I have caused an incursion in reality and I had to go with her and fix it, okay?” Stephen explained it for what it is. . . to him at least.

“So, you were with her every time you vanished without a trace?” you replied, your voice dripping with sarcasm and a barely concealed resentment that felt like a knife twist in your chest.

“Like I said, I had to fix the incursion I caused,” he responded, his tone distant, as if the gravity of his words could shield him from the emotional storm brewing between you.

You stared at him, not caring what he even meant by 'incursion'. Your mind was a whirlwind, fixated on the crushing weight of this new revelation, which felt like an earthquake shattering the foundation of everything you thought you knew. 

The man who once made you feel safe and cherished now stood before you, a stranger entwined in secrets and sacrifices you couldn't begin to fathom.

Stephen ran a hand through his hair, clearly exasperated. “I don’t have time for this. If you can’t understand that my work is important, then maybe we do need to rethink this relationship.”

You were stunned into silence for a moment, the weight of his words hitting you like a physical blow. Your throat stings badly as you fight to prevent any tears from falling. “So, that’s it? You’re willing to throw everything away because I worry about you?”

“I’m not throwing anything away, Y/N. All I do is try to save the world. If you can’t see that, then maybe we need to reconsider,” Stephen replied coldly.

“Okay. . .so you find a new partner in crime and the first thing you could think of is to ‘reconsider’,” You nodded, a little laugh might've escaped from you and it triggered something in Stephen.

“Do you hear yourself? You’re acting like I’m choosing Clea over you. This isn’t some petty love triangle, Y/N. This is about life and death, about the safety of the entire world!” Stephen’s voice was now raised.

“Oh my god! Enough about saving the world already! You belong to the world! Alright, I get it! But don't expect me to be nonchalant when you've spent your time ‘saving the world’ with her. Meanwhile I rot in my apartment worried sick if you're even still alive because I only want to belong to you.” Your voice was sharp, cutting through the air, firmly jabbing his chest with your finger

Stephen clenched his fist tightly, the knuckles turning white, as he took a deliberate step closer. His presence loomed over you, casting a shadow that seemed to amplify the tension in the air, “You think it’s easy for me? You think I don’t miss you? I have responsibilities that go beyond us—" 

“If you're thinking I am asking you to abandon your responsibilities, I am not. I didn’t think you’d understand me.” You replied, striving to maintain your composure under his unwavering presence and the intense gaze fixated on your face.

Stephen shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “I never hid what my life was about, but you knew what signed up for when you said yes to me.”

“I did but I didn't sign up to be treated like an afterthought,” Y/N said, your voice softening slightly but still firm.

Stephen sighed and was silent for a moment, “So, what then? What do you want me to do? It is so hard to find balance with all this shit happening around us.”

“I don't know. . . whatever I may want, it'll be impossible for you to do,” You said, your voice resigned as you crossed your arms, a gesture of both self-protection and defiance.

Stephen’s eyes narrowed. “And what’s your solution? To just walk away?”

“That was your suggestion first, wasn't it?” You responded, a low, mirthless chuckle escaping your lips. 

Stephen looked down, his silence speaking volumes. The decision crystallized in your mind. You turned away, grabbed your keys from the table, and headed toward the door, needing to cool off and get your head straight. The sound of the door closing behind you echoed through the Sanctum, a final punctuation to your heated exchange.

× × × × ×

You gripped the steering wheel tightly as you drove through the darkened streets of New York City. The familiar hum of the engine and the blur of passing lights did little to calm your racing heart. Your eyes were red from preventing a single tear to shed, but the tears came after being alone, blurring your vision and forcing you to blink them away repeatedly.

Your mind was a whirlwind of emotions—anger, sadness, confusion, and a deep, aching sense of betrayal. The argument with Stephen played on a relentless loop in your head, each word echoing with painful clarity.

"Maybe we do need to rethink this relationship."

"Maybe we shouldn’t be together."

You shook your head, trying to dispel the hurtful words, but they clung to you like a stubborn shadow. How did it come to this? How did your love, once so vibrant and full of promise, deteriorated into something so cold and distant?

Your thoughts drifted to the early days of your relationship. The way Stephen's eyes would light up when he saw you, the warmth of his touch, the way both of you would laugh and talk for hours about everything and nothing. You remembered the adventures you shared, the quiet moments of intimacy, and the feeling of safety and love that enveloped you whenever you were with him.

But those memories felt like they belonged to another life, another couple. Now, Stephen was always preoccupied, always focused on his missions with Clea. You couldn’t shake the feeling of being an afterthought, a secondary priority in his life. The loneliness you felt was suffocating, and tonight’s argument had only confirmed your deepest fears.

You pulled over to a quiet spot by the Hudson River, the soft glow of the city lights reflecting off the water. You turned off the engine and sat there in silence, the sound of your own breathing loud in the stillness of the night. 

You leaned your head back against the seat and closed your eyes, taking a deep, shuddering breath. You felt a crushing weight on your chest, the sense of impending loss almost too much to bear. You loved Stephen with all your heart, but you couldn’t keep living like this—constantly feeling like you were competing for his attention, always coming second to his duties as a sorcerer.

A part of you understood the importance of Stephen's work. You admired his dedication, his unwavering commitment to protecting the world from mystical threats. But at the same time, you couldn’t ignore your own needs, your own desire for a partner who was present, who made you feel valued and loved.

The idea asking Wong to use the Runes of Kof-Kol had come to you in a moment of clarity during your drive. It was a drastic measure, but it felt like the only way to save yourself from the inevitable heartbreak of this deteriorating relationship. If you both forgot each other, if you became strangers once more, maybe then you could find peace.

You opened your eyes and gazed out at the river, the dark waters flowing steadily under the moonlit sky. You felt a strange sense of calm wash over you as you made your decision. It wouldn’t be easy, and it would hurt like hell, but it was the only way you could move forward without the constant pain of their fractured love.

As you started the car and drove back towards the Sanctum, you knew what you had to do, and you hoped that in forgetting, you could both find a way to heal. The city lights blurred once more as fresh tears welled up in your eyes, but this time, they were tears of acceptance. You were ready to let go, ready to find yourself again, even if it meant losing the man you had loved with all your heart.

× × × ×

After driving aimlessly for hours, you finally pull up in front of the Sanctum Sanctorum. The building looms before you, its ancient architecture shrouded in an almost foreboding silence. You sit in the car for a few moments, gathering your strength, knowing the decision you have made is final. The city is quieter now, the hustle and bustle having died down to a gentle hum in the background.

You take a deep breath and step out of the car, your legs feeling like lead. You walk up to the front door and pause for a moment, your hand resting on the cold brass handle. Memories of happier times flash before your eyes—moments of laughter, love, and a bond that once felt unbreakable. But those memories are now overshadowed by the reality of your fractured relationship.

Pushing the door open, you step inside. The familiar scent of incense and ancient books fills your nostrils, but instead of comfort, it brings a pang of sadness. The Sanctum feels emptier than ever, a reflection of the void that has grown between you and Stephen.

As you walk into the living room, you see Stephen sitting on the couch, his head in his hands. He looks up as you enter, his eyes filled with the weariness which mirrors your own.

“Y/N, you're back,” Stephen says softly, standing up. “I was worried about you.”

You nod, your face devoid of emotion. “I needed some time to think.”

Stephen takes a few careful steps, “I know I haven’t been around much. And I know tonight's argument was... I didn’t handle it well. I’m sorry for that.”

You feel a flicker of acknowledgment at his words, you look into his eyes, the eyes you once found so much solace in, and feel a deep sense of finality, “I need to see Wong,” you say, your voice steady and cold, “Is he here?”

Stephen steps closer, his gaze searching your face for any hint of what you might be feeling. “Are you okay now? About earlier. . .”

“I'm fine, Stephen. Really,” you say with a forced smile. “I just need to speak to Wong.”

“Wong? Sure, I'll summon him for you.” Stephen's eyes narrow slightly, sensing something is off. He didn’t think he’d get out of trouble that easily.

A few moments later, Wong enters the room, his expression pondering about what you might need him for. “Y/N, Stephen said you wanted to speak with me. What’s going on?”

You took a deep breath and glanced at Stephen who remained curious about why you needed Wong.

“Are we able to chat somewhere private?” You asked, your eyes flickering towards Stephen which Wong took notice of.

Wong turned his head towards Stephen and then you, “Of course. Follow me.” He headed towards the door to Kamar-Taj. 

He led you to the empty library, ensuring no one else was around, and gestured for you to sit across the table from him.

“How can I help?” He asked.

“I hope this isn't too much to ask. . . but can you please cast the Runes of Kof-Kol on me?” 

Wong's expression shifts to one of alarm. “The Runes of Kof-Kol? Those spells are dangerous, Y/N. What could possibly make you consider using them?”

You explained the situation, trying your best to keep your voice from breaking, “Stephen and I... we’re not working anymore. It’s too painful. I need to forget him. I want to move on quickly. I don't want to spend months wallowing in heartbreak.”

Wong listens quietly, his expression softening with understanding. “I see. But you know the risks, don’t you? The Runes of Kof-Kol only erases memories, not feelings.”

“I know,” you say firmly.

Wong nods slowly, his gaze thoughtful. “I understand your pain, Y/N. But this is a decision that cannot be undone. I urge you to think about it very carefully. Take some time to reflect on whether this is truly what you want.”

You shake your head, your decision unwavering. “I've already thought about it, Wong. I’ve thought about nothing else. This is what needs to be done.”

Wong sighs, his expression resigned yet compassionate. “Still, I urge you to give it a few more days. I suggest you stay here at Kamar-Taj. Meditate, reflect, and if you still feel the same, we will discuss it again.”

You nod slowly, appreciating his concern. “Alright. I’ll stay and think about it.”

× × × × ×

After you left the library, Wong stood silently, his thoughts troubled by your request. He knew the depth of the pain you were feeling, but the Runes of Kof-Kol were not to be taken lightly. As he pondered the situation, he sensed a presence lingering near the bookshelves. Turning his head slightly, he caught sight of Stephen, partially hidden in the shadows, clearly eavesdropping.

“Strange,” Wong called out, his tone firm but not unkind. “You can come out. I know you've been listening.”

Stephen stepped out, a mixture of guilt and concern etched on his face. “I didn't mean to intrude. I just… needed to know what she was thinking.”

Wong crossed his arms, looking at Stephen with a mixture of disappointment and empathy. “You heard what she said. She's feeling hurt. . . more than I think you realize.”

Stephen sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. “I know. I know I've been neglecting her, but my responsibilities... the missions... They demand so much of me. I never wanted her to feel like this.”

Wong nodded, his expression softening slightly. “Your duties are important, Stephen. But so are your personal relationships. Y/N came to you because she believed in you, trusted you. But right now, she feels like she's lost in your shadow.”

Stephen's eyes glistened with unshed tears, a rare display of vulnerability. “I don't know what to do. I don't want to lose her, but I also can't abandon my duties.”

Wong walked over to Stephen, placing a hand on his shoulder. “The balance between your responsibilities and personal life is delicate, but not impossible to achieve. You need to make her feel valued and prioritize your time better. She asked about the Runes of Kof-Kol, so she's considering erasing her memories of you. Right now, though, she needs space to think.”

Stephen's breath hitched, the gravity of Wong's words hitting him hard. “She wants to forget me completely.”

Wong nodded solemnly. “She believes it's the only way to move on from the pain. I advised her to stay here for a few days, to meditate and reflect before making such a drastic decision.”

“I can't let her do this. I need to talk to her, to make her understand that I can change, that I can be better.” Stephen closed his eyes, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. He was about to walk away to find you but Wong stopped him.

“Right now, she needs time. Barging in and trying to convince her otherwise might only push her further away. Give her the space she asked for. If she decides to go through with it, we'll deal with it then. But for now, respect her wishes.” Wong shook his head gently.

Stephen glanced in your direction with a sigh, shrugged off Wong's hand, and returned to the New York Sanctum. That night, sleep eluded him despite his restless tossing and turning. No position felt comfortable, not when your scent lingered on his pillowcases.

Anxiety ate him up, twisting his stomach into knots as he replayed the argument repeatedly in his mind. Each harsh word and dismissive gesture haunted him, intensifying his regret.

He had always prided himself on his composure and control, but now he felt them slipping away. The weight of his mistakes pressed heavily on his chest, making it difficult to breathe.

“I should have been more understanding, I should have put myself in her shoes,” he thought, his mind consumed by remorse.

The thought of your hurt expression cut him deeply, more than any physical pain he had ever endured. He realized how much he valued your presence, your support, and the warmth you brought into his life. The fear of losing you was a constant ache, gnawing at the edges of his consciousness.

He was ashamed of how he had dismissed your feelings, how he had let his pride overshadow the love and respect he had for you.

Desperation clawed at him as he searched for a way to make things right, to prove that he could be the partner you deserved. In the silence of the night, he vowed to himself that he would do better, that he would learn from his mistakes and show you how much you meant to him. That is if it’s not too late.

× × × × ×

Two days later, the peaceful atmosphere of Kamar-Taj had failed to ease the unrest in your heart. Despite your attempts at meditation and introspection, the serenity of the surroundings could not calm the storm of emotions within you. Your resolve remains the same. You knew what needed to be done, and it was time to inform Wong of your decision.

You found Wong in the courtyard, meticulously tending to a small garden. The scent of blooming flowers mixed with the crisp mountain air, creating a serene environment that contrasted sharply with your inner conflict.

“Wong,” you called softly, approaching him.

Wong looked up from his work, his expression calm but observant. “Y/N, have you made your decision?”

You nodded, taking a deep breath. “I have. I still want to use the Runes of Kof-Kol.”

Wong sighed, setting aside his tools. “I was hoping you might reconsider, but I respect your decision. . .” he trailed off, noticing Stephen walk towards you, “Give me a moment? I'll back.”

As Wong turned to leave, Stephen entered the courtyard with his presence of authority. He had been waiting for this moment, fully aware that your decision was imminent.

With careful, deliberate steps, he approached you. The air was thick with unspoken emotions, and each passing second felt like an eternity as he stood there gathering the right words to say.

“Y/N,” Stephen began, his voice calm but carrying a hint of vulnerability, his eyes intensely scanning your face for any hint of doubt or hesitation. “Is this truly what you want?”

You jumped slightly, startled by his sudden appearance behind you. “Stephen,” you exclaimed, “What are you doing here?”

“I came to—I just wanted to apologize... that it has led to this. I was wrong…” Stephen began, but his voice seemed to fade into the background as you stared at his face intently, trying to memorize every detail.

As Stephen spoke, the reality of the moment hit you hard. You felt an overwhelming need to imprint his features in your memory: the way his brow furrowed with concern, the earnestness in his eyes, and the subtle lines that hinted at the weight he carried.

Time seemed to slow down, and every second stretched into an eternity. You noticed the slight quiver of his lips, the way his hair framed his face, and even the small scar on his cheek that you had always found endearing.

Your heart ached with the knowledge that this might be the last time you saw him like this, so close and vulnerable. Each detail became precious, a fragment of a moment you desperately wanted to hold onto.

The intensity of your emotions made it hard to breathe, and you felt a lump forming in your throat. Even though Stephen's voice was a distant echo, the look in his eyes told you everything—you were both struggling with the same pain, the pain of letting this story die. 

“. . . I love you, Y/N—but if this will save you from the hurt I’ve caused you then so be it. I will cast the spell on you.”

You were taken aback, surprise flickering across your face. “You would do that?”

Stephen stepped closer, his eyes earnest. “Yes. If this is what it takes for you to find peace, then I’ll do it.”

Stephen leads you back in the New York Sanctum, heading towards the ritual chamber in the Undercroft. Each step you took echoed with the weight of what was about to happen. Stephen’s mind was a whirlwind of memories and emotions.

He glanced at you walking beside him, your face a mask of calm determination. Opposite to the storm he knew must be raging inside you. He wished he could reach out, take your hand, and pull you back from the edge of this irreversible decision. But he knew he had no right to, not after everything.

As you descended the final set of steps into the Undercroft, Stephen’s heart ached with regret. He had always prided himself on his ability to solve problems, to find solutions where others saw only obstacles. But here, in this most personal of battles, he had failed. He had failed to protect what mattered most.

Every step felt heavier than the last. Stephen’s mind raced with unspoken words, a torrent of emotions he struggled to contain.

He remembered the early days of your relationship, the way your laughter had filled the Sanctum with warmth, the quiet moments of understanding, and shared dreams. Those memories now felt like shards of glass, cutting into him with each step he took.

He glanced at you again, your determined stride a painful reminder of the distance that had grown between you. He wanted to tell you how much he loved you, how sorry he was for every time he had put his duties before you, for every missed moment, every broken promise. But he knew that words would not change the course you had set for yourself. Actions had spoken louder, and they had driven you to this point.

You reached the entrance to the ritual chamber, Stephen paused, taking a deep breath. The room beyond was prepared, the symbols drawn, the components ready. It was a place of power, of ancient magic, but today it felt like a tomb for the love you had shared.

“Y/N,” Stephen began, his voice soft but heavy with regret. “I want you to know that this isn’t easy for me. I never wanted to hurt you. If I could turn back time and make different choices, I would. But I respect your decision. I hope you find the peace you’re looking for.”

You looked at him with eyes glistening of unshed tears, “Thank you, Stephen. . . I hope you find happiness, I really do.”

With that, you stepped into the center of the circle, and Stephen moved to the edge, his heart pounding in his chest. He began to chant the incantation, his voice strong and unwavering despite the storm of emotions inside him. The symbols around you began to glow, the magic swirling in the air like a tangible presence. You felt a strange sensation, a mix of warmth and cold as the spell took hold.

As Stephen chanted, your mind drifted to the memories you were about to lose. The first time you met flashed vividly in your mind—the way Stephen had looked at you with those piercing blue eyes that seemed to see right through you. You remembered feeling an instant connection, a spark that ignited something deep within you. You had been fascinated by his intellect, his confidence, and the way he carried himself with such purpose.

The mornings you woke up wrapped in each other’s arms, sunlight streaming through the curtains, casting a warm glow on your intertwined bodies. The way he would brush a strand of hair from your face and kiss your forehead, making you feel like the most cherished person in the world. You remembered the laughter, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, the sound of his voice when he whispered sweet nothings into your ear.

As the incantation reached its peak, a bright light enveloped you, and you felt a sudden rush of memories and emotions being pulled away. The love, the pain, the shared moments—all of it faded into a distant, forgotten dream. Your vision blurred, the light intensifying until it was all-consuming.

Then, everything went dark. You felt your knees give way, the world tilting as you lost consciousness. The last thing you heard was Stephen’s voice, calling your name out of concern as you slipped into oblivion.

When you finally stirred, you found yourself lying on the familiar softness of your own bed, the morning light filtering through the curtains. The familiar hum of the city outside your window grounded you, your arms reaching on the other side of the bed and it was empty. You shook it off, chuckling to yourself.

You sat up slowly, looking around your apartment. Everything was in its place—the books on the shelf, the photos on the wall—now mostly of you by yourself, the cozy blanket draped over the armchair. Nothing out of the ordinary and yet you feel disorientated.

You made yourself a cup of tea, the warm liquid offering a small comfort. As you sipped it, you stared out of the window at the bustling city below. The people, the cars, the rhythm of daily life—it all seemed so normal, so unremarkable. Yet, there was an inexplicable void within you, a sadness that lingered just beneath the surface but you try not to dwell on it.

Days turned into weeks, and while the feeling of emptiness persisted, you found ways to move on. You immersed yourself in work, reconnected with old friends, and took up new hobbies. Slowly, you began to carve out a new life for yourself, one that was no longer defined by the shadows of forgotten memories.

× × × × ×

Stephen sat alone in the Sanctum Sanctorum's library, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows on the ancient tomes that lined the walls. The room, once a place of solace and knowledge, now felt suffocatingly empty. He absentmindedly traced the spine of a book he had read countless times, but the words blurred together, unable to hold his attention. His mind was elsewhere, lost in thoughts of you.

He stood up and walked to the window, looking out over the city. The lights twinkled in the distance, a stark contrast to the darkness he felt inside. He remembered how you used to stand there with him, your hand in his, both of you silently watching the world below. Those moments had been a rare reprieve from his responsibilities, a time when he could just be Stephen, not the Master of the New York Sanctum.

The silence of the Sanctum was interrupted only by the distant hum of the city's nightlife, but it felt louder than ever. Every corner of the room seemed to echo with memories of you—the laughter you shared, the quiet conversations late into the night, the way you used to tease him about his incessant need to organize his magical artifacts. Now, those echoes were all he had left, but he guesses that he at least deserved to go through this heartbreak alone.

Wong quietly stood with him, the silence heavy between them. After a moment, he cleared his throat, “Keeping yourself busy?”

Stephen nodded, his response short and clipped. “Yep.”

“She did brighten up the place, didn't she?” Wong glanced around the room, taking in the emptiness that seemed more pronounced now. 

Stephen's eyes followed Wong's gaze, a hint of a sad smile touching his lips. “Yep.”

Wong shifted slightly, turning his head to look at Stephen with curiosity and concern. "So, what's next for you?"

Stephen sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly as he contemplated the question. The thought of waiting was both a comfort and a torment, a reminder of what he had lost and what he still yearned for.

“I don't know... Wait for her, I guess. Wait until our paths cross again, wait until she loves me again.”

TAGS: @goldencherriess @strangeions @sobeautifullyobsessed

[little-diable]

I’ve decided to add a collection of my smutty professor fics, since this list will definitely keep on growing. Please remember that I am not allowing you to edit or copy those fics to other platforms.

Professor Aaron Hotchner

Profiling 101 (Series, Prof!Hotchner)

The reader enrolls in professor Hotchner's class "Profiling 101", a man she has always looked up to, a man who treats her like an asshole from day one. Will her need for academic validation manage to push the two closer together? Will her bright mind push her into the world of Aaron Hotchner and the BAU team? Will he manage to keep his distance before the world he tries to protect her from can get its grasp on her?

Professor Tom Holland

Tides of Drowned Affections (fake dating, smut)

The reader has never been close with her family, but when she's ordered to come home for her sister's wedding, (y/n) is in need of a helping hand. Or: When a panic attack is the reason Professor Holland takes on the role of the reader's boyfriend.

Distraction��(smut)

After years of being professor Holland’s student, the reader finally finishes her studies and joins the team as a young professor – allowing the two to finally give into their teasing.

The Painting (smut)

Professor Holland takes his students on a trip, exploring art galleries, admiring paintings he can barely spare any attention to, mind fully focused on her, the student he found himself. drawn to like a moth to a flame

2am Texts (smut)

An unknown number texts Tom in the middle of the night, forcing his attention away from grading his stack of exams. And somehow he finds himself obsessed with the stranger that keeps holding contact with him.

Lovers like Orpheus and Eurydice (smut)

Professor Holland hates the reader, and she hates him. But when she applies for the position as his TA, things start to change and somewhere along the way - between an argument and spending the night together - they fall for one another.

Professor Tom Riddle

All to myself (smut)

Another student tries to touch the reader, so Professor Riddle has to remind his TA that she is his, only his. Pwp

Professor Benedict Cumberbatch

Summer Retreat (smut)

Mean prof!Benedict and the reader are forced to cross paths on their vacation, the vacation he used to read her dissertation.

Lucky Shirt  (smut)

Professor Cumberbatch was perfect. He was sweet, supportive, ever-willing to help. He was attentive and loved to praise your achievements. It came to no surprise that you had ended up trying and succeeding at becoming his favourite student. The two of you had become an unstoppable duo, however, could there be more than mere passion for academia behind it?

Abide by my rules (smut)

Professor Cumberbatch can’t quite stop thinking about the most mediocre and obnoxious student he has ever had to supervise.

The secrets our notes tell (smut)

The reader had always crushed on professor Cumberbatch, the man that treated her without any kindness dripping from his words, clearly signaling his annoyance with the woman. And yet, both are forced to work together, but perhaps he’s the reason for that forming teamwork after all.

Tea and Cologne don’t mix (smut)

Professor Cumberbatch has always admired the reader’s intelligence and as she joins him as his new TA it doesn’t take long for them to give into the pull they feel inside their burning systems.

Professor Tommy Shelby

Drunken Longings and Sober Actions (modern!prof!Tommy, smut)

The reader takes on the position of Professor Shelby's assistant, the man who is also the advisor of her PhD thesis. How long can the two endure to be around one another before they finally give into their longing?

The Book Thief (modern!prof!Tommy, smut)

Professor Shelby is taking his students on a trip, a trip that ends up with his book stolen by the reader – perhaps this is what they’ve needed to finally get closer.

The Vote -Professor!Tommy (smut)

Another vote is coming up, allowing the students to pick their favorite professor. He would always win, leaving her behind on 2nd place, but she’s determined to win this year. But Tommy is determined himself, though not about winning, but about finally pulling her in.

Sharp Like Tybalt’s Blade (Professor Tommy, smut)

Professor Shelby and the reader fuck in his office.

Professor Carlisle Cullen

Ruin Me (prof!Carlisle smut)

Professor Cullen eats the reader out after coming clean with his feelings.

Teaching Assistant (prof!Carlisle smut)

This is basically pwp, the reader helps Carlisle grade some essays and they fuck.

Professor Draco Malfoy

Professor Malfoy (smut)

The reader works as Professor Malfoy's TA, a man she had been crushing on ever since meeting him at Hogwarts all these years ago; but kind of just pwp

Hate Me - Professor x Professor (smut)

(Y/n) had always hated Draco, or at least that’s what she likes to tell herself. But now they have to share a classroom, teaching a lesson together, forcing the two to cooperate.

Darkness Whispers To Us (smut)

Plain porn, they fuck in his classroom

Professor Damon Salvatore / Klaus Mikaelson

Just A Dream - Prof!Klaus x fem!reader x Prof!Damon (smut)

Maybe she shouldn’t have told her friends about the things she’d like to experience with her two hot professors. But maybe it was time for her dream to become real

Professor Loki

On My Mind (professor x student smut)

The reader drunk texts her hot professor - who is awfully delighted by the picture she has messaged him. Perhaps (y/n)’s drunken self didn’t embarrass herself as much as she had feared.

Beautiful like Halley‘s Comet - Prof!Loki (smut)

Professor Laufeyson saves the reader from her ex-boyfriend, followed by some filthy smut in his classroom.

[strangelockd]

Hello, I have a smut Sherlock x reader smut request, if you'd like!

The reader is similar to Sherlock (minus the rudeness), which means she's intelligent and has a strong attitude.

She's also a consultant detective, they end up in the same crime scene and act competitive to each other and slowly end up to have steamy sex.

Thank you so much!

Vices and Virtues

18+ ONLY CONTAIN HEAVY FILTH & SMUTT

Pairing: Sherlock x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: You are a new graduate and the brightest in your class. You became a consulting Detective that's been assigned a homicide case with the great Sherlock Holmes. Will you two play nice and get along?

Word Count: 1.9K

Warnings: Fingering, Cursing, P in V, Creampie, Use of Pet Names, Colleges to Lovers, Mutual Pining

A/N: Thank you Anon for my first ever request. I have never written for Sherlock before and I hope this fills your request and desires. I had a lot of fun writing this. If there are any spelling or mistakes I will fix later bc I wrote this in only a few hours.

************************************************************************

“You can be such an ass sometimes Mr. Holmes”

When you graduated from the top of your class only to have the opportunity to take on a case in downtown London, working with the world’s most intelligent consulting detective this was no were near what you had in mind. All your years of late-night studying with sleepless nights lead up to this. You and Sherlock alone together in a room. You knew he was cocky and carried a lot of arrogance along with that. But you needed to build up your credit and figured working together with him was the best option to grow in your craft. Every other case beforehand seemed to just bore you to no existence anyways. 

“I’m sorry but your voice is very distracting Ms.(Y/N)!”

You scoffed rolling your eyes, “My voice?! Oh and yours is so perfect”

Glancing from the corner of his eyes a smirk on his lips, “I like to think I have the most soothing voice in the world”

Squatting down together to examine the potential murder in front of you Sherlock couldn’t help but notice your outfit. Your laced blouse that covered and caressed the peaks of your breasts just right. The way you attempted to keep your knee-high skirt down from exposing your delicate legs. It was making it increasingly difficult to keep his focus.

Looking across from the body you examined your teacher; his beautiful slender fingers resting in a steepled potion against his sensuous mouth. The way his sea glass eyes shimmered like a cat when he knew the answer to something. It was impossible to remove your eyes from him, but you had a job to do and that was to solve the case at hand.

“Ms.(Y/N) so what do you make of this? My bets are you’re not going to get it right anyways. But I feel inclined to ask”

Brushing of the insult you shook your head to remove the hair from your shoulders. Exposing your chest and elongated neckline a bit more than anticipated. His eyes grew slightly wider trying his best to contain himself. 

“From what I’ve processed the woman is in her late forties and married due to the wedding band along the left ring finger. However, upon my examination the inside of the band is clean indicating that it has been removed quite a lot. Classic tell-tale signs of adultery. Also, there’s an empty pill bottle grasped beneath her hand. So, I think it was suicide by medication.” Beaming up with pride on your face you noticed Sherlock never removed his gaze from you; his eyes piercing with hunger.

“That was very good Ms.(Y/N) but you got everything right except for one thing”

In a sarcastic tone, “Oh? And what’s that? Pray tell.”

“She didn’t kill herself, it was murder,” a self-satisfied smirk growing across plush his lips.

Cocking an eyebrow you tilted your head, “Oh and how do you exactly know that Mr. Genius?”

Taking a sharp drawn inhale, he jumped up, his trench coat tails bouncing with his movement as he placed his hands behind his back to stand unusually close to you, “Normally when someone is from out of town, they bring their luggage right?”

You nodded your head silent in agreement still squatting down looking up at him.

“So why would she come all the way from Cardiff with no baggage? This clearly means that she was driven here and somehow forced to commit suicide by the killer and indicating that the murderer took her suitcase with them.”

Your eyes opened wide in shock and awe; he truly was a genius.

“That…was…impressive,” you stammered.

“Yes, I guess for someone of your mental standards I suppose so” he assured.

You scoffed at him mouth hung open noticing he was still staring down at you but in silent hunger. Taking a slender arm, he reached out with a gloved hand and caressed your face bringing you upwards to face him. His bright eyes turning dark with lust he lunged for your mouth, slowly and ever so deftly at first your lips melting together into a fervent passion. Taking your arms, you laced them through his soft curls tussling the delicate brown locks between your fingers hearing him release a husky moan. His hands trailing across your frame grabbing every curve he could reach like a starving man. Feeling his fingers ride up your skirt, he needed more and wanted more of you. Pulling away with a sheepish grin you chuckled looking into his eyes. Like a mind reader you asked, “Want to see more?”

“Oh god yes,” he moaned leaning his head into your neck placing bites and kisses along your collar bone.

Leaning into his touch you lifted your skirt up higher for easier access, returning up to your blouse to hurriedly unfasten the buttons. He stopped you suddenly taking his hands assisting with the task.

“Allow me,” he insisted. Nodding silently a small sigh escaping your lips.

Returning his mouth to yours he ever so glacially unfasted each button one by one. His slender fingers proving his talented dexterity all too well, you wondered what else those fingers were able to accomplish. It made the wetness in your legs increase. Releasing a moan in unison he opened your blouse exposing your voluptuous breasts causing him to expel a sigh and your nipples to harden.

“You have no idea how long I have been wanting to do this to you (Y/N),” his tone was low, barely audible.

“Trust me, I know Sherlock. I have observed the way you’ve been looking at me these past few weeks. It was only too obvious”

He chuckled in your bold assumption bringing his face down to kiss the valley between your breasts. Your moans echoing across the room, he quickly removed his leather gloves tossing them to the floor. Before you could comprehend what he was doing, he hoisted you up like you weighed nothing. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, and your arms tighten around his neck pressing your frame against the wall, his tall frame towering over you. 

Trailing his warm fingers down your chest he brought them to your moist center, sliding a finger delicately between your folds. 

“Someone’s been ready, you’re all wet just for me,” he hummed bringing his finger up to his mouth tasting your nectar. Pulling his digit out releasing a soft pop.

“You have no idea how bad I want you Sherlock”

His smile grew wider as he returned to your mouth trailing his tongue along your lower lip begging for entrance. Parting your lips you welcomed it greatly, tasting his velvet mouth with such urgency making him release a delicate moan.

You trailed your fingers up his purple shirt the buttons popping off with ease exposing his lean frame causing his scent to waft through your senses. Instinctively taking your head you buried it in his chest grazing your nose up to his collar taking a large inhale. He smelled divine and you wanted more.

Returning his fingers to your center he slid a middle finger inside slowly at first registering your reaction before increasing the pressure. Hearing you moan at his action he took that as a que to continue farther. Moving his fingers along your folds teasing the sensitive bundle of nerves above your entrance. Every time he thrusted his fingers, it made you groan or plead out loud in pleasure.

“Your breathing heavy, someone’s enjoying themselves,” giving off a cocky smile as he continued to kiss across your neckline.

“Need more,” you whispered.

With his arm supporting your ass he leaned in, “I’m sorry, what was that? I couldn’t hear you”

Knowing damn well he could hear what you said you appeased to his ego.

“I need more of you, all of you now”

Without missing a beat he asked, “Alright then, hold on tight”

Wrapping your legs to lock them around his waist tightly eyes locked, he unfastened his trousers pulling his boxers down in unison. He sighed upon his proud shaft becoming free of the confines. Feeling the cold room mixed with your warm flesh made his cock harden and twitch with anticipation. Grabbing your ass lifting you up higher for leverage, slowly bringing you down on top of his member.  You moaned in unison upon the long-awaited contact his thrusts becoming faster with each whimper you released.

“Fuck you feel exquisite, so tight around my cock. So wet for me,” he groaned mouth locked against your neck. 

Tilting your head against the wall moaning, “You feel fantastic Sherlock please don’t stop”

Using both hands to support you his thrust became deeper and harder with more desperation for release. His wool trench coat enveloping you; trapping the heat between your joining flesh. 

Pulling him in tighter you could feel his cock twitch and knew he was close.

“You’re going to cum soon,” you stated.

Between heated breaths kissing you, “Really? How do you know?”

Rocking along with his hips faster, “Because your cock wont stop twitching inside me”

He smirked at your intelligence; he always knew you were the brightest consulting detective next to him. How he has gone this long without you he would never know.

“Well, let’s end on a high note shale we. You might want to hold on tighter babe”

Lacing your arms firmer across his shoulders he thrusted into you with a speed you never thought possible. Eliciting heavy moans from you both, the sound of your skin slapping together echoed great across the empty room. Faster and faster, he continued with unrelenting force, clearly, he was a touch starved man who hasn’t has a release in quite some time. 

Feeling his cock throbbing more, he pressed deeper into you hitting your cervix in a intense rhythm, it wouldn’t be long now.

Pulling his hair back exposing his perfectly chiseled neckline he groaned while you purred into his ear, “you’re going to come when I do, do you get that?”

He nodded in obey eyes wide with carnal lust. Keeping up the pace with such tenacity he felt your walls clench and flutter along his cock. One last thrust and you were finished, feeling his cock twitch he released inside your sopping cunt.  He covered your mouth with his to muffle the sound of your orgasmic scream. Enjoying the taste of your flesh once more. Feeling his seed overflow out, it was dripping down your thighs sending goosebumps up your flesh.

Foreheads pressed huffing in euphoria he pulled out of you gently placing your feet on the floor, your legs quivering from the fucking.

He pulled a clean rag from his pocket handing it to you.

“Thank you”

“It’s the least I can do,” he smiled.

Pulling your skirt down you pressed the wrinkles to smooth yourself out.  Fixing your hair to hide any evidence. The smell of passion and sex filled the room. Sherlock walked over placing his hands on your waist pulling you into a tight hug, his palm cradling the back of your head. Quickly wrapping your arms around him you welcomed the heat from his body warm against yours. It was the most welcoming thing that felt like safety.

“You really are the brightest consulting detective I have ever worked with,” he professed.

Smiling wide you gazed up into his bright blue eyes, “That means the world coming from you Sherlock”

“I want you with me on every upcoming case, something tells me we are going to be taking a lot of breaks between them”

************************************************************************

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[annmaximoff18]

My type of boy is tall, intelligent and doesn't know how to socialize.

Spencer Reid

Tech

Zoro Roronoa

Sherlock

Newt Scamander

Bruce Wayne

Steven Grant

Daryl Dixon

[ironstrange1991]

Can't Live Without You

Pairing: Doctor!Strange x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: Stephen is feeling lonely and doesn't know how to deal with his own feelings and needs.

Word Count: 3,1k

Warnings: SMUT: Male masturbation.

A/N: This is not my best work, but I am glad I'm finally able to post something. Hope you guys enjoy it and have a nice reading ;)

Stephen couldn't remember the last time he was completely alone in the Sanctum Sanctorum. Ever since the other Stephens arrived, he had gotten used to having them roaming within those walls, but both of them were out on different missions.

Defender went with Wong to Hong Kong's Sanctum and they would stay there for a few days and Supreme were in another planet with the Avengers. Wong not being in there  was the only reason he wasn't tormenting Stephen with the most boring tasks he could think of, but to be honest, Stephen was already missing his friend.

Christ, he really wasn't doing well to have gotten to the point where he missed Wong's nagging. In fact he was feeling alone. Lonely. That was the word he was trying to find to express the feeling he had been feeling in his chest all day. What a weird thing to feel.

He was missing you. You had gone on a work trip earlier in the week, but although you had promised to return in three days, it was Friday and he hadn’t had no sign of you other than the text admitting that you wouldn't be able to return before Monday.

He got angry when he read it. Not at you, but with the fact that somehow he was getting a taste of his own medicine: alone on a Friday night while you worked.

Of course he could come to you. Anywhere in the world, he could come to you, but he couldn't do it without you telling him you wanted so and every night you talked on the phone you didn't mention it. It wasn't like you suddenly forgot that your boyfriend could open a portal in your room to fuck you. No, Stephen was almost certain that you were using those days to distance yourself a little bit from him. Like a Stephen detox. After all, you had three of him and he admitted that they were not at all easy on you.

Stephen sighed, walking down the halls to the kitchen and took a good look in the fridge trying to find something to eat. There was leftover Chinese food he bought on Wednesday, two pieces of pizza he bought yesterday and some Tupperware with leftover food that he promised you he would get rid of and clean up, but he hadn't.

Shit, he was a terrible housekeeper.  It was pathetic, but it was true. Before you, he used to live of take-outs and the things that Wong cooked. Now he could barely imagine living the rest of the weekend like that. Obviously, he could try cooking. There were some half-finished things in the fridge, easy stuff, but he didn't want to risk setting the kitchen on fire, so he took the box of Chinese food and put it in the microwave to heat it up. While he waited, he took a piece of cold pizza and started eating while opening a bottle of beer.

He was starving and tired. He needed a good shower and a good night of sleep, but he hadn't been able to sleep well since you left. It wasn't a coincidence, you were the only person who could make him sleep when he was having one of his insomnia crisis. The methods you used were... how to say? Delicious.

He smiled to himself just at the thought of your nights together, then the microwave beeped  and he sat down to eat, but even that made him feel depressed. Stephen, who for many years lived alone and always thought it was great, now began to understand that he hated being left alone. He couldn't even conceive the idea of ​​living alone again.

He ate in complete silence and when he finished, he checked all the Sanctum seals and went up to his room. He crossed the room, getting rid of the boots he had worn all day and which were already making his feet hurt and took off the top of his robes,  took a pair of sweatpants from the closet drawer and headed to the bathroom.

The water was hot enough to burn his skin, but that was exactly how Stephen liked it. The fog fogging up the shower glass and enveloping the entire bathroom. Stephen let the hot water fall directly on his back and little by little he felt his tense muscles relaxing. He soaped himself quickly and washed his hair taking as long as he could and when he finished he wrapped a towel around his waist and dedicated himself to shaving. He was used to shave once every two days, goatee maintenance was a priority for him because he knew you loved it, it made him want to always make it perfect for you. In fact, as time went by, Stephen realized that everything he did was for you.

Finally, he threw himself on the bed feeling the tiredness of the day hitting him. He wanted to sleep, but he wasn't sleepy. That was one of the worst feelings in the world: being tired, but not being able to fall asleep. Usually you helped him in these situations, you made him sleep in your special way. God, he wanted you. He needed you.

He rolled over on the bed to reach the nightstand and threatened to take his sling ring, but stopped, scolding himself. Give her space, Stephen Strange. He thought, trying to convince himself, but the mere idea of ​​opening a portal in your hotel room made his body react instantly and Stephen sighed, realizing that maybe there was only one way to get through that hellish night without you: to handle the issue himself... thinking of you.

He let out a heavy sigh and shook his head allowing himself to run his hand down his abdomen imagining it was your hands reaching for his growing bulge. Stephen moaned softly with the contact of his hand on his cock even through the fabric of his pants. He was without a lay for five days. It was absurd to him, he couldn't imagine lasting another day without you and yet there he was being forced to resort to masturbation because you weren't there. It was unfair and cruel and he wanted to scream to the world that he didn't deserve to go through that, but deep down he knew he was being melodramatic.

When his hand went under his pants and his trembling hand made contact with his hard, sensitive member he closed his eyes immediately and your face was what he saw. You smiling sweetly at him. Stephen had an extra factor that made masturbation always intense: his photographic memory.  He could basically remember in great detail every moment you ever spent together, every touch, every kiss, every moan that came out of your mouth. It was all there in his head ready to be used like a movie whenever he needed it. And that night he needed it.

His cock pulsed in his hands the moment he closed his fingers around it. The tremor in his hand, previously a problem, was now an even greater stimulation that made jerking off more pleasurable.  Stephen had been working on it for some time. Hours and hours of physiotherapy to try to regain a minimum of strength in his hands that would allow him to pleasure himself without having to resort to magic. Of course, he would never admit that was the real motivation behind his decision to seek help after so many years. It wasn't significant enough to solve the problem, but it strengthened his nerves enough for him to gain the necessary autonomy.

Obviously he still preferred your hands. Oh god, your hands were magical. Much more magical than his. They were small and delicated and way they were soft and yet had a firm and insistent grip was enough to make him see stars.

"Fuck sweetheart..." Stephen moaned softly, moving his hands slowly up and down inside his pants. He didn't want it to end quickly. He was just working himself up, just letting his mind wander as he felt the sensation building inside him. His balls were full and sensitive. So much cum contained there. So much to give you, but you weren't there.

But if you were, he knew exactly how you would treat him. How you would get down on your knees and prop your body to show up your tits for him, how you would look him right in the eyes with that naughty face biting your bottom lip and then pull the hem of his pants to free his cock and how you would smile pleased seeing how hard he was for you.

You were so dirty, you loved sex as much as he did and he never needed to ask for a handjob or blowjob because you loved to give. You were perfect for him and he was irrevocably yours.

He moaned again finally releasing his cock and then conjured a bottle of lube in his left hand and poured some of the sticky liquid onto his cock and began to stroke himself slowly, but putting a little more firmness into the touch. In response his cock pulsed in his hand and his hips jumped up.

Oh you would love to see him doing it. You would praise him for it and would say how much you loved him and how much you adored seeing him pleasuring himself. You would call him Steph. Such a silly way of calling him, yet so sweet coming from your lips in your sweet voice. Stephen knew very well he loved everything you did.

He lolled his head back onto the pillow and bit his lip to hold back a loud groan.

Following the memories that played in his mind, he thought about how you always moaned while jerking him. How having his dick in your hands made you horny and how it always made him feel.

He thought about the way your lips curled into a shy smile every time he started talking dirty to you. How the grip of your hand got tighter, how you loved it. You were a dirty little thing. His dirty little thing.

Stephen let a louder moan echo through the room. You loved that too. The sounds he made when you held him in the palm of your hand. He closed his eyes and stroked his cock harder and faster. The tip was leaking precum and he was so ready to be inside you, but all he could do at that moment was think about it. And that's what he did.

He thought about how wet you always were when he touched you after you give him a handjob. How his fingers easily slid in and out of you and how you always squirmed around his fingers, begging for more. He thought about how you always begged for him. How you couldn't bear to wait, how you shamelessly opened your legs to welcome him in.

"Always so good to me." He murmured "My sweet girl is always so good to me."

Stephen started using his other hand to massage his balls too. It was how he liked you to do it. He liked to be stimulated as much as possible, he liked when you licked and sucked on his balls. He liked it dirty and messy and you knew exactly how to do it.

He knew you like no one else and he liked to think that even the other Stephens didn't know how to satisfy you like he did, but at the same time he liked to see them trying.

"Oh shit." Stephen was startled by that train of intrusive thoughts and increased the strength of his strokes as the room was invaded by the wet sound of his hands working on himself.  He thought about how he loved watching you get fucked by the other Stephens. It was no surprise, but the images that invaded his mind were of really intense moments and they almost threw him over the edge immediately, such was the strength they had as stimulation.

Stephen let out a breathy laugh as he shook his head in disbelief, but he did not try to change the thoughts in his mind, instead, he dwelled in those memories. How you always looked beautiful bouncing on top of Defender while you kept Supreme's cock in your mouth, and that bastard always fucked your mouth roughly and you loved it and Stephen loved the sound it made, the tears that ran down your eyes as they abused you.

Stephen thought about how he loved watching you get creampied. How delicious it was to see them emptying themselves inside you, to see you being violated by their release knowing that you would have to take one more.

His hands now punished his cock with a touch of violence and his mouth was half open, eyes squeezed shut as the images played in his mind.  He thought about the delicious feeling of fucking your pussy full of cum, how the wet squelching noise turned him on even more and how you always seemed gloriously spent after rounds and rounds with the three Stephens. It was pornographic, it was filthy and beautiful.

"F-Fuck yes." He moaned spurting his release all over his stomach and making a mess on himself. Still, he didn't stop, he kept bringing himself dangerously close to overstimulation as his mind focused on the expressions you made as your entire body writhed in ecstasy with your orgasm. How your cheeks would turn red when they were done and how sweetly you would smile at them. Almost innocent.

"Such a dirty girl." He muttered to himself, slowing down his hand until it came to a complete stop, but he didn't have time to recover as he was surprised by the sound of his cell phone ringing.

"Shit." He grumbled, wiping his hands quickly on the sheet and making even more of a mess when he turned to pick up the device on the nightstand and felt his release running down the sides of his ribs.

It was your name on the display. In fact, the word Sweetheart.

"Hey, sweetheart." He answered, still trying to regulate his breathing, but of course you noticed.

"Hey. I was wondering if maybe you’d want to..." But you stopped for a moment and then asked, "Were you running?"

Stephen instinctively cleared his throat. "What? No. I was..." But he couldn't think of anything to say and there was a silence on the line and then a little giggle.

"What were you doing, Stephen?" You asked.

He sighed feeling his cheeks get hot from the fact that he had been caught. There was no point in lying.

"I... I missed you, Y/n."

There was an affectionate hum from your side of the line.

"Well, I called to ask if you'd like to come and meet me now. I'm missing you too, Steph."

He chuckled nervously. "I thought you would never ask. I thought you were enjoying having some time away from us."

You giggled, "Don't be silly. I was just really tired. But it's okay if you don't want to come now that you've solved your problem on your own. Maybe you would prefer to go to sleep…"

But he was already getting up.

"Now who's being silly?" He ran to the bathroom and quickly cleaned himself up and went back to the bedroom to get his sling ring. "Remind me again what hotel are you in?"

"At the Plaza." You responded promptly. "I told you yesterday and I thought..."

But you stopped talking when the portal opened in your room and he walked through it, heading towards you and taking you in his arms in an intense kiss.

"I missed you. So badly." He confessed on your lips, letting his forehead rest on yours. You smiled, looking surprised by his confession and cupped his cheek. "It's only been five days, Stephen. You've already spent three weeks on a mission."

He shook his head, "It's horrible. Staying at home. Without you.

He confessed to which you smirked.

"Now you know how I feel."

"I'm very sorry." He said pulling you back into his lips.

...

Stephen was staring up at the ornate ceiling of your hotel room with a smile plastered on his face. Making love to you had that effect on him. His arm was extended so you were cuddled close to him, your head resting on his chest, moving slowly as he breathed. The two of you were silent, still enjoying the afterglow of your release and his heart was finally at peace. Outside you could hear the sporadic sound of cars passing on the street and conversations in the hallway.

"The sound insulation in this place is horrible. How have you been able to sleep here?" He asked breaking the silence and you hummed, apparently still unable to form a sentence.

"Your boss could have paid for a better hotel." He continued and you shrugged.

"I liked it here. The room service is great and the food too."

Stephen smiled to himself. You were always so satisfied with everything. You never complained about anything. Totally the opposite of him.

"Besides, I'm always so tired when I get here that I fall asleep as soon as I put my head on the pillow."

He nodded, stroking your cheek and was silent for a moment, just a minute, but long enough for you to tilt your head to look at him.

"What is it?"

"I think I made a discovery this week and it was kind of scary." He said already knowing he would regret what he was about to say.

You smiled convinced as if you already knew what he was going to say. "Did you find out you can't live without me?"

He chuckled "I already knew that. I just realized the obvious and it wasn't pleasant."

You frowned trying to understand what else it could be then.

"I don't think I can live alone anymore. Before, when I worked at the hospital, I liked the silence of my apartment, but this week the empty Sanctum filled me with horror to the point that I missed Defender and Supreme."

You smiled glancing at him "That's something I never imagined you would say."

"I never imagined I would feel this way, sweetheart. The truth is, I like them. I can talk to them in a way that I don't talk to anyone else."

"It might have something to do with the fact that they are you” You reminded him.

"You are right."

You brought your hand up to his chin scratching his goatee. "How are things at home? No problem, I imagine. No demonic entity has tried to take over our washing machine?"

Stephen giggled "No. All boringly normal."

"What a shame!" You said, feigning disappointment.

Stephen smiled to himself and lifted your chin enough for him to kiss your lips.

"I love you, sweetheart. With each passing day I love you more. You changed my life for the better and changed me in the process. I'm definitely a better man because of you."

You sighed softly, your throat bobbing. "Oh I love when you say these things to me, Steph."

He smiled, pinching your cheek provocatively. "I may not be Defender, but I know how to be romantic sometimes."

“Of course you do.” You smile "And I love you too. With all my heart."

Reblog please! Leave a comment if you liked it. Interact! I will love to read all of your comments and opinions. It inspires me to keep writing!

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SAVING GRACE | BBC SHERLOCK

A STUDY IN PINK - bbc sherlock x oc

summary: Grace Carter, the newest and best detective at Scotland Yard meets Sherlock Holmes, the one and only consulting detective. The case of the woman in pink marking the first chapter of their story.

Or in which two pained individuals find each other in amidst some of their hardest times.

WARNING/S: This story will contain mature scenes and discuss themes of mental health, specifically depression, suicide, and drug use. If these topics may trigger you in anyway please proceed with caution or do not read. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

word count: 12.6k

There was a certain dreariness to living in a constant state of repetition. The sun would rise in the east, set in the west, and in between Grace would find herself completing the same mundane tasks. It was boring. Life is boring. Even the persistent feeling of melancholy that swallowed her entire being felt a little empty as of late.

Grace had only taken a few bites of her cereal before deciding that she did not want it to start with. The clattering of a spoon and now-emptied bowl echoed around her small apartment. The sound loud enough to distract her from thought, if only for a second. The niggling voice in her head whispering to do more with her life, find some excitement. The other half of her wanting nothing more than to curl up in bed and never get out again.

Cold fingers clutch onto the strap of her leather handbag as Grace rushes out the door. Dark hair swishing behind her as fresh winds connected with her front. It was unlikely that she’d be late to work. However, who was she to give Anderson something to bitch about? The rain had lightened up during the night, now just spitting in the early morning. There was a chill in the air, the type that you felt down to your bones. Each splash of water as boots hit the ground created a small sound that drew comfort, should you listen for it carefully.

There were too many noises in the morning rush. Grace found it severely overwhelming, but it had been something she had learnt to cope with. The overpowering of her senses that she found completely and utterly unbearable. It sent a shiver up her spine, and her fight or flight spiralling. Perhaps not the best thing to be susceptible to when working as a detective. But oh, how good she had become at concealment. So unbelievingly talented at masking it all. How great she was at getting lost in thought and forgetting the present moment. Such that as she walked into her workplace, Scotland Yard, she felt as though only moments had passed since she left her apartment, and not half an hour.

‘You’re late,’ Anderson tsked from behind his desk.

‘I’m on time,’ Grace spits back. The minute hand on the clock flicking to 9am just as she places her belongings down.

‘For future reference, it’s best to get here at least ten minutes early—’

‘For future reference, mind your own business. And get a haircut.’

‘Now, now, children, play nicely.’ Lestrade exits his office, files in hand. ‘I’m going to need you all on board for this one.’ He drops the files individually down on each desk.

‘The serial suicides?’ Grace questions. ‘I thought you and Donovan had these covered.’

‘So did I, there was another one late last night. Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for Transport.’

‘And you didn’t call me in?’

‘You needed rest, we had it covered.’ Greg lowers his voice before continuing, ‘and I don’t want this case to trigger you.’

‘I’m fine, Greg. I wouldn’t be in this field of work if I couldn’t handle it. I’m not as fragile as you seem to believe.’

Lestrade was aware of Grace’s mental health issues, he had to be as her boss. But sometimes she wished she could erase that part of his memory, so that he’d stop treating her like a child that cannot look after herself. She was capable of resting, she was capable of eating, so why must be bother her so much? One could say it was friendship, another could say he simply worries. Grace would say that Greg just had a very caring nature. He was rough and tough around the edges, but anyone could tell he was a softie at heart. But sometimes, he cares a little too much, and it becomes overbearing.

‘We have a press meeting in an hour, you’ll want to read those files by then,’ Greg gestures with his head.

‘The body of Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for Transport, was found late last night on a building site in Greater London. Preliminary investigations suggest that this was suicide,’ Sally Donovan addresses the gathered reporters. ‘We can confirm that this apparent suicide closely resembles those of Sir Jeffrey Patterson and James Phillimore. In the light of this, these incidents are now being treated as linked. The investigation is ongoing, but Detective Inspector Lestrade will take questions now.’

‘Detective Inspector, how can suicides be linked?’

‘They all took the same poison,’ Grace cuts in. ‘They were all found in places they shouldn’t have been.’

‘Yes, and well, none of them had shown and prior indication of—’ Greg continues, only to be cut off by reporters.

‘But you can’t have serial suicides.’

‘Obviously you can,’ Grace rebuts.

‘These three people: there’s nothing that links them?’

‘There’s no link been found yet, but we’re looking for it. There has to be one,’ Greg sighs. At that moment every phone in the room goes off, signalling the receiving of a text message. There was only one word written across every screen.

Wrong!

‘If you’ve all got texts, please ignore them,’ Donovan rolls her eyes.

‘Just says, “Wrong.”’

‘Yeah, well, just ignore that. Okay, if there are no more questions for Detective Inspector Lestrade, I’m going to bring this session to an end.’

‘But if they’re suicides, what are you investigating?’

God, these people just don’t get the hint.

Grace sits back as the conference continues, the sentences of her colleagues and the reporters all blurring into one as she struggles to care enough about dealing with the press. She may not like Sally but she certainly thanks whatever higher power is out there that it is Donovan that deals with the media.

‘We’ve got our best people investigating—’

Wrong!

Grace smirks as she glances at her phone screen. This must be the famous Sherlock Holmes that Greg had been telling her about when she transferred a few months ago. She had never met the man but judging by the way Anderson and Donovan speak of him, she has a feeling that he couldn’t be too bad considering he irks them in the same way she does.

‘One more question,’ Sally informs the reporters.

‘Is there any chance that these are murders, and if they are, is this the work of a serial killer?’

‘I know that you like writing about these, but these do appear to be suicides. We know the difference. The, um, the poison was clearly self-administered,’ Greg explains.

‘Yes, but if they are murders, how do people keep themselves safe?’

‘Don’t take the poison,’ Grace answers.

‘Daily Mail,’ Sally mumbles under her breath in warning.

‘Obviously this is a frightening time for people, but all anyone has to do is exercise reasonable precautions. We are all as safe as we want to be—’ Greg is cut off once more as all the mobiles trill their text alerts.

Wrong!

However, this time on Greg’s phone, he receives another message.

You know where to find me.

SH

‘Thank you,’ Lestrade ends the press conference.

‘You’ve got to stop him doing that,’ Sally complains. ‘He’s making us look like idiots.’

‘Well, if you can tell me how he does it, I’ll stop him.’

Grace smirks as she walks past the two and towards the exit, ready to start her own investigation of the suicides—if you could even call them that. Any human would have to be blind to continue walking the path of ‘serial suicide.’ They are murders, she just doesn’t know how, yet.

Despite all the obvious signs that point to a serial killer, Grace had yet to find any hint of how or why. There was one thing about killers though, they always make a mistake… eventually. The problem though, is waiting for that mistake to be made. How many bodies will turn up before the killer leaves behind a trace? Too many a lot of the time.

Grace knows how killers work; she’d been this career for a while now. But even despite that, her childhood had been one filled of late nights in her dad’s office at the police station. Reading books and watching documentaries written and filmed by professionals since such a young age. She was quick to complete university, graduating earlier than most. Now, Grace wouldn’t call herself a genius, she would simply say she works hard, perhaps too hard in the grand scheme of things. Burning out was not something infrequent, learning to persevere was the difficult part of it all.

She had been staring at these files for hours, the words had started to go blurry. God, she needed a cigarette, a coffee, something to keep her from pulling her hair out. Something to occupy the mind so that her thoughts wouldn’t. The shrill ringing of her phone is what finally brought her back to the real world.

Greg Lestrade

‘There’s been another one.’ Grace states rather that inquires to the man on the other side of the call.

‘Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.’

‘Be there shortly.’

A monotonous beep indicates the end of the call, as well as the end of being stuck at her desk in a hopeless back and forth of words and papers. Now the real fun starts, it’s time to catch a killer.

It was only early in the night, eight o’clock to be precise. A building and its vicinity had been blocked off by red and blue lights, police tape lined corner to corner. It seemed most of the crew was already here. Had they accomplished anything though? That is the question. Grace approaches the building, slowing her pace and coming to a halt after seeing a fuss at the entrance.

‘Quite clear. And is your wife away long?’ A tall man questions Anderson at the doorway. He has fair skin with dark curls, high cheekbones sharp as knives. His eyes a grateful victim to central heterochromia, beautifully green in the centre, fading out to a cold and calculating blue.

Ah, this is Sherlock Holmes.

Grace struggles to hold in her snicker as she listens in to the conversation, it seems he was as observant as she had heard. Although, it didn’t take much brain power to deduce Anderson was cheating on his wife.

‘Oh, don’t pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that,’ Anderson sneers.

‘Your deodorant told me that.’

‘My deodorant?’

‘It’s for men,’ Sherlock mocks.

‘Of course, it’s for men! I’m wearing it.’

‘So is Donovan. Oh, and I think it just vaporised. Excuse me.’ Grace smirks as she pushes past the quarrelling men. Intrigued blue eyes watching as her form recedes into the building.

‘Whatever you’re trying to imply Carter! —’ Anderson calls out to the woman, but she was too far to hear it.

‘Nothing is being implied,’ Sherlock nudges past Anderson, stopping to look Sally up and down. ‘And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees.’ With a smug smile, Sherlock enters the building, his new flatmate, John Watson, following close behind.

Grace was already upstairs examining the body. Her mind starts running a marathon, exploring all the details, discovering different conclusions. The dead woman sure did love pink… pink nails, pink coat.

Peculiar. Underside of the collar is wet. Rache… German, revenge? No. Rachet? Absolutely not. Ah, Rachel. Who is Rachel? She wrote it with her left hand, so she must be... there’s a wedding ring—

‘—hasn’t been here long. Some kids found her. Grace, found anything?’ Greg asks as he enters the room.

‘A bit, but I’m missing something.’ She stands, taking a step back from the body. Pulling the gloves from her hands, Grace turns to see that Sherlock Holmes and his friend had joined them.

‘Sherlock, Doctor Watson, this is Grace Carter, best detective on our team,’ Greg introduces.

‘Best?’ Grace watches Sherlock’s eyes squint as he observes her. Up and down. She’s more than interested to know if he can tell her entire life story as she has heard from others. Actually, she was observing him herself.

Straight posture. His clothes are neat, crisp. Shirt slightly crinkled, only because it seems a size too small. He doesn’t like things out of place unless it’s his own mess. And those eyes… so cold but so captivating. He’s hiding a lot behind them. There’s a loneliness—

‘Intriguing…’ Sherlock mumbles.

‘What is?’ Greg questions.

‘Nothing,’ he snaps out of his daze. ‘Now, let’s have a look. Shut up.’

‘I didn’t say anything?’

‘You were thinking, it’s annoying.’

John and Greg share a surprised look while Sherlock steps forward, beginning to examine the body. Grace watches as his eyes flicker everywhere, unbelievably quick. Only a few moments of silence pass before Sherlock is standing back up, pulling off his gloves.

‘Got anything?’ Greg asks.

‘Not much.’ Sherlock takes out his phone, using it to search something up. Meanwhile Anderson appears in the doorway.

‘She’s German. “Rache,” it’s German for revenge. She could be trying to tell us something…’

‘Yes, thank you for your input,’ Sherlock slams the door in his face, still typing away on his phone.

‘So, she’s German?’

‘Of course she’s not. She isn’t from London though,’ Grace answers Greg. Sherlock pulls his phone down, staring deeply at the female detective.

‘Coat?’ She watches a brow rise on his face as he questions her.

‘Coat.’

‘Intended to stay in London for one night…’ Sherlock trails off, turning his attention from Grace to Greg and John. ‘Before returning home to Cardiff. So far, so obvious.’

‘Sorry, obvious?’ John’s eyes appear to pop out of his head.

‘What about the message though?’ Greg joins in with his astonishment.

‘Doctor Watson, Detective Carter, what do you think?’

‘Of the message?’

‘Of the body. You’re a medical man, no?’ Grace questions the doctor.

‘We have a whole team outside,’ Greg scolds.

‘I don’t like them.’

‘They won’t work with me,’ Sherlock is blunt in his response.

 ‘I’m breaking every rule just letting you in here, Sherlock.’

‘Yes, because you need me.’ Lestrade stares at Sherlock for only a moment before lowering his eyes in surrender.

‘Yes, I do. God help me.’

‘Doctor Watson.’

‘Hm?’ John looks over to Greg for permission to assess the body.

‘Oh, do as he says. Help yourself,’ Lestrade exits the room. ‘Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes.’

John and Sherlock move to crouch by the body, the doctor painfully leaning on his cane. Grace entertains herself, fiddling with her fingers while they whisper quickly to each other in hushed voices.

‘Yeah, well, this is more fun.’

‘Fun? There is a woman lying dead.’

‘Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you’d go deeper.’

Lestrade walks back into the room, standing beside Grace in the doorway. He gives her a look and she shrugs in response.

‘Yeah... Asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can’t smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure; possibly drugs.’

‘You know what it was. You’ve read the papers.’

‘What, she’s one of the suicides? The fourth…?’

‘Sherlock – two minutes, I said. I need anything you’ve got,’ Lestrade cuts in.

‘Victim is in her late thirties. Professional person, going by her clothes; I’m guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. It’s obvious from the size of her suitcase.’

‘Suitcase?’

‘Suitcase,’ Grace murmurs. ‘That’s what I was missing.’

‘Suitcase, yes. She’s been married at least ten years, but not happily. She’s had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, if you’re just making this up,’ Greg huffs.

‘He’s not,’ Grace cuts in. ‘Her wedding ring. It’s got to be at least ten years old. Her necklace, earrings, all clean. But not the ring. State of her marriage.’

‘Yes…’ Sherlock is now staring directly at Grace as he speaks. She was quick, almost as quick as him.

How interesting.

‘The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside – that means it’s regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It’s not for work; look at her nails. She doesn’t work with her hands, so what or rather who does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover; she’d never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple.’

‘That’s brilliant,’ John admires both the detectives. ‘Sorry.’

‘Cardiff?’

‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’ Sherlock scrunches his nose.

‘It’s not obvious to me.’

‘Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring.’

‘May I take this one?’ Grace steps in, interrupting Sherlock.

‘Be… my… guest.’

Sherlock’s eyes were locked onto her smaller form, waiting for the words to leave her mouth. Where had this woman come from? She wasn’t here three months ago on the last case he took with Scotland Yard. Not to mention he couldn’t read anything about her past the obvious lack of sleep, the slight discolouration under her eyes proving the fact. She had noticed everything he had about the crime scene… she is unreadable... she is a mystery waiting to be solved. The woman is a lack of boredom in which he’d keep documented in his mind palace for later.

‘Her coat. It’s damp. She’s been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London during that time. Under her coat collar is also damp, she turned it up against the wind. Umbrella in her left-hand pocket is dry, and unused.’ Grace paces back and forth beside the body as she speaks. ‘The wind was too strong for it. Now that Mr Holmes has previously mentioned it, I see what I missed. I missed her suitcase, which means she came a decent distance. But her coat is still wet. Where has there been heavy rain and strong winds within that travel time? Cardiff.’

‘That’s… fantastic.’

‘Yes. Quite… remarkable.’ Oh, those eyes. They studied her so deeply. Grace wanted to run and hide from the piercing gaze of the tall consulting detective. But her physicality did not betray her, remaining strong in her stance, continuing to appear unbothered.

‘Not too bad yourself, Mr Holmes.’

‘Please, Sherlock is fine.’

John and Lestrade exchange a look once more, completely confused by the odd situation in front of them. Two stone faced detectives staring into each other’s souls with such intrigue. An exchange that Greg never thought he’d see, Sherlock… complimenting someone? It couldn’t be. ‘Why are you both saying suitcase?’

Sherlock spins on his feet. ‘Yes, where is it? She must have had a phone or an organiser. Find out who Rachel is.’

‘She was writing Rachel?’

‘No, she was leaving an angry note in German,’ Grace rolls her eyes.

‘Of course, she was writing Rachel; no other word it can be. Question is why did she wait until she was dying to write it?

‘How do you know she had a suitcase?’

‘Back of the right leg: tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand,’ Sherlock explains. ‘Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious - could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night.’

‘So, where is it? Did Anderson take it?’ Hands on hips, Grace moves to open the door that had previously been slammed in said man’s face.

‘There wasn’t a case.’

Sherlock’s stare narrows, ‘say that again.’

‘There wasn’t a case. There was never any suitcase.’

‘Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?’

Lestrade follows Sherlock down the stairs. ‘Sherlock, there was no case!’

‘But they take the poison themselves; they chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs, even you lot couldn't miss them.’

‘Right, yeah, thanks! And…?’

‘It’s murder, all of them,’ Grace walks downstairs. ‘Unsure of how yet, been exploring the files. But they’re not suicides. They’re killings—serial ones.’

‘We’ve got ourselves a serial killer. I love those,’ Sherlock claps. His excitement unbefitting of the current situation. ‘There’s always something to look forward to.’

‘Why are you both saying that?’

‘Her case, Greg. Where is it?’ Grace, now standing beside Sherlock on the lower level of the stairs.

‘Did she eat it? Someone else was here, and they took her case,’ Sherlock has a sudden epiphany. ‘So, the killer must have driven her here; forgot the case was in the car.’

‘She could have check into a hotel, left her case there?’ Doctor Watson pitches in for the first time in a while.

‘No, she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair. She colour-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She’d never had left any hotel with her hair still looking… Oh. Oh!’

‘Sherlock?’

Lestrade leans further over the railing, desperate to hear whatever realisation Sherlock has come to. ‘What is it, what?’

‘Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake.’

‘We can’t just wait!’

‘Oh, we’re done waiting! Look at her, really look! Houston, we have a mistake. Get on to Cardiff: find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!’

‘Of course, yeah – but what mistake!?’

‘Pink!’

Grace watches as Sherlock rushes out the building, a whispering voice in the back of her head growing louder, eventually shouting at her to ‘follow!’ For once in her life, she decided to listen, a split decision to do what she actually wants. Her feet carry her quickly after him, it took only seconds to catch up to his speedily walking form heading down the street.

‘You’re following?’

‘You’re looking for the case.’

Oh, I’m going to be in so much trouble for this. Forgive me, please don’t fire me, Greg.

‘A correct observation, but as to why you’re following?’

‘That is a question I would think you already have the answer to.’

Sherlock stops walking for a second, his gloved hands moving from his pockets to clasp behind his back. His taller form looked down at the shorter woman. ‘There is a lot about you that I thought I would have the answers to.’

‘One, consider me your get out of jail free card. You find the case without me; Sally and Anderson try to pin the murders on you.’ Grace starts walking again, every two of her steps equalling one of his. ‘Two, you’re aware of how dull working for Scotland Yard can be, they’d never find the case. Three, curiosity.’

‘Curiosity?’

‘You’re a curious person yourself, surely you understand. This case is intriguing. How does this killer work? How does this killer make a person take the poison? We’re running out of time to figure it out, before long another dead body will be on our doorstep, and I will be blaming it on the incompetence of Scotland Yard,’ Grace sighs. ‘I understand the steps they need to take, the protocols. But between you and me, things could be solved so much more efficiently if they turned a blind eye to the rule book, if only sometimes, which I’m thankful they’ve done this time by calling you in. Now, tell me your thought process.’

‘The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention – particularly a man, which is statistically more likely.’ Sherlock turns down a back street, not bothering to look back, knowing the female detective would be following. ‘So obviously he'd feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it. Wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realise his mistake. If we check every back street wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens...’

‘…and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed,’ Grace follows along with Sherlock’s thought process. ‘Back street skips.’

‘You continue to astound me, Detective Carter.’

She watches as Sherlock begins to search around the first skip, moving to help. ‘Please, Grace. Should I call you Sherlock, I think it only fair. I was never one for formalities anyway.’

‘Not this one,’ he announces, stepping back and walking onwards.

‘I heard you can tell everything about a person at first glance, have I been lied to? Greg claims you call yourself a “Master of Deduction.”’

‘I can tell things about people that not even they know.’

‘Well, can you deduce me?’

‘Most people tell me to piss off, yet you’re openly asking me to do so?’

‘I told you. I am a curious individual.’

Sherlock’s head tilts slightly to the side, as he tries once more to deduce things about the woman. But again, he was left with hardly anything. It was infuriating, and yet so exciting. ‘You’re tired.’

‘Yes, but that is common knowledge. I expected to be astonished.’

‘You’re a mystery to me. And it’s maddening.’

‘Well, “All great experience has a guarded entrance and a windowless facade.”’

‘Robert Grudin, 1997,’ Sherlock immediately recognises the quote.

‘Precisely. You can’t deduce anything about me because I won’t let you. Becoming aware of someone’s strength is to find their weakness.’

‘You seem quite adept in the nature of observation yourself. What do you see?’

‘I doubt my skills are anywhere near as I’ve heard yours to be. Although, I can say that you probably won’t enjoy hearing what I think.’

‘Did I not just say people mostly tell me to piss off? I’m quite aware of the consequences. Nobody likes to hear of their hidden complexities so easily read by another.’

‘You have very straight posture; you carry yourself tall because it makes you feel less vulnerable. Your clothes, they’re neat, ironed regularly. But your shirt is slightly crinkled because you buy a size too small. Why? Because you like the way it hugs you. It feels affectionate, something I think you’ve forced yourself to believe you don’t want, but subconsciously crave. You don’t like things out of place, unless it’s your own mess, even then the mess is somewhat organised to your liking.’ Grace could mention that loneliness, that pain in his eyes. But she won’t for the sake of the hiddenly vulnerable man digging through a skip in front of her.

‘I don’t need affection,’ Sherlock spits.

‘Ah, yes. Sociopath. You don’t have a heart, I’ve heard.’ Grace smirks as she sees a flash of pink behind the large bin. ‘But I don’t have to look very hard to know that isn’t quite true.’ She reaches an arm behind the skip, pulling the case out with little struggle. ‘Found it.’

Sherlock reaches out to grab the case from her, ignoring her previous statement. Pulling it away she hums a little ‘ah-ah.’

‘How do you expect me to investigate if you won’t hand over the case?’

‘Where do you live?’

‘221B Baker Street.’

‘Closer than me, let’s go. We have a case to investigate,’ Grace begins walking to the main road for a taxi, pink case trailing behind her.

‘Why must you insist on coming with me? I am perfectly capable, even more so than you of solving this.’

‘Perhaps, and I don’t doubt it for a second. But I have jurisdiction, something in which you don’t.’

Sherlock’s steps fall into sync with Grace’s, knowing he won’t be able to shake her off. ‘Gage won’t be happy.’

‘I think you mean Greg. And he’ll survive. Taxi!’

The two climb into the backseat of a taxi, informing the driver of their destination. They sit in silence for a moment. Grace well aware that Sherlock had no urge to start a conversation.

‘Should I tell you something about me, to make things fair? Even out the playing field.’

‘No. If I don’t figure it out myself, I don’t care.’ Sherlock is blunt, not once turning his head from looking out the foggy window. ‘There is one thing I have figured out though.’

‘That is?’

‘You get bored.’

‘Everyone gets bored.’

‘Not enough to follow a stranger down different back streets to pick up a murder victim’s suitcase.’

‘You called me a mystery, didn’t you?’ Grace grins. The streetlights casted a light glow through the window connecting with Sherlock’s cheekbones, casting a shadow across his face.

‘I did.’

‘You’re a mystery yourself. I’m a detective, a bored one, a curious one.’ Sherlock’s attention finally shifts, casting his gaze at the woman in the seat across from him. Curiosity meeting curiosity. Blue eyes meeting grey eyes. ‘Such are you. Let’s do our jobs and stop another body from showing up, yeah?’ Grace doesn’t continue to elaborate, but he didn’t need her to because he understood.

He is a challenge to her, just as she is to him. Something that intellectual minds gravitate towards. There was a comfort in finding someone that understands your thought process. Someone that could keep up. And then there was John Watson, Sherlock’s mind was running rampant. A man that craves danger, and a woman that seeks mystery. Perhaps he finally found the correct people to surround himself with, maybe he could finally belong somewhere.

No, I don’t need friends. He was simply intrigued, that is all. Intrigued in the face of mystery.

The rest of the taxi ride passed in silence. Both detectives spending the remaining period of time lost within their own minds. Neither had even realised they had reached Sherlock’s flat until the taxi driver let them know of the cost. Sherlock was already walking inside with the case, leaving Grace to pay. Which she did deem fair considering she forcibly tagged along.

‘Hm, endearing,’ she hummed, observing the sight. A small café, Speedy’s, was beside the flat building. It appears to be a nice place to live. Convenient.

Grace enters and walks upstairs into 221B. Sherlock had discarded his coat and suit jacket, his white button-up sleeves pushed up to the elbows. Forearms exposed; three nicotine patches stuck to alabaster skin. He dug through the contents of the pink suitcase, sat with his legs spread on a black leather chair by the fireplace.

What a sight for sore eyes. Snap out of it.

‘Smoker?’ Grace questions.

‘Trying not to be.’

‘Makes two of us. Three patches though?’

‘Three patch problem.’

Grace moves to sit on the armchair opposite Sherlock. Looking through the contents of the bag herself. ‘Found anything?’

‘It’s more what I haven’t found.’

‘Hm?’

‘Grab my phone. It’s in my jacket pocket by the door.’

‘Did your parents never teach you manners?’ Grace asked, doing as he said anyway. ‘Here.’

Sherlock doesn’t look up from his position, hands clasped together under his chin. ‘Text John, “Baker Street. Come at once if convenient.” Don’t forget to sign my initials at the bottom.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Tell him it could be dangerous and to come if inconvenient anyway.’

Grace’s own phone dings. She lifts it up to inspect the message, knowing already who it will be. And as she thought, Greg Lestrade.

Come back to Scotland Yard, right now.

‘And that is my signal to go back and receive a scolding.’ Phone returning to pocket, Grace walks to the entrance. Blue eyes watching her every move unbeknownst to her. ‘If I leave the case here for you to further investigate, you promise not to run off with it?’

‘I assume you’ll be coming back with the Detective Inspector the next time I see you,’ Sherlock lowers his hands, letting them cross over his lap.

‘I’ll stall him as long as I can. You’d best keep me updated, Sherlock Holmes.’

‘How do you expect me to do that? I don’t have your number.’

‘Your excuses fall to deaf ears.’ Grace holds her phone out, shaking it at him. Walking downstairs she calls back out, loud enough for him to hear. ‘I don’t think you had the numbers of everyone at the press conference either.’

Sherlock grinned to himself at her words. She was a smart woman; he’d allow himself to admit that much. Maybe he’d even allow himself to admit her beauty had he not known it to be construct based entirely on childhood impressions. One thing he knew for sure: Grace and John are both completely different mysteries waiting to be solved.

‘You just decided you’d run off from the crime scene?’ Greg scolds Grace. She sat across from him, on a chair at the other side of his desk. ‘I know you’ve been off lately, but—’

‘That’s got nothing to do with it, Greg. People are dying and you’re all being awfully slow about trying to do anything to fix it.’

‘You followed Sherlock, didn’t you?’

‘What about it? You’ve said so yourself, he’s the best out there, and you need him.’

‘That doesn’t mean you just run off instead of doing your job.’

‘I was doing my job, and I was doing it a hell of a lot quicker than anybody else here.’ Grace taps her finger on Greg’s desk in frustration. ‘Who found the case? Me and Sherlock. I’m doing you a favour. I don’t care who sticks their name on the report.’

‘You found the case?’

Oops.

Grace had flaws, of course she did. But one she hates the most about herself? Her inability to not spit things out that she shouldn’t whenever she’s angry.

‘Yes.’ Better to admit it now.

‘Where is it?’

‘With Sherlock, but please, just give him a few hours at least to figure it out.’

‘Why should I? —Grace! This is not how it works. I know you like to work on your own and differently to everyone else, but you do not just give away evidence to people!’

‘Greg, please,’ Grace takes a deep breath. ‘You know my judgment is better than anybody else’s here. As much as you, and I, hate to admit it, Sherlock is what we need to solve this case.’

‘He’s got two hours,’ Greg finally agrees after a moment of thought. ‘After that we’re going to his flat.’

Ding

‘Got a text?’ Both Lestrade and Grace know well who it is. She doesn’t get texts, there’s nobody she really talks to. Apart from work colleagues.

Got a lead.

SH

Attached to the message was an address, a restaurant on Northumberland Street.

‘Go, but I’ll be expecting to be updated,’ Greg sighs, slumping in his seat. He may not be a ‘Master of Deduction,’ like Sherlock, but he wasn’t stupid. He knows Sherlock is a great man, and perhaps Grace is what he needs to be a good one. And potentially, Sherlock may just be what Grace needs. So, for once, he will turn a blind eye to the dos and don’ts.

‘Yes, sir,’ Grace fake salutes before exiting his office and the building, rushing downstairs to get a taxi.

There is a welcoming warmth that encases Grace’s body as she leaves the icy streets and enters the restaurant. A shiver runs down her spine at the sudden temperature change. She gazed around, not taking long to notice Sherlock and John sitting at a booth beside the entrance. Pulling up a chair, and removing her coat, she sits across the table from Sherlock, and beside John.

‘Detective Carter?’ John questions, not expecting to see the woman here.

‘Evening.’

‘Wh—’

‘I texted her,’ Sherlock answers the question on John’s mind.

‘I told him to keep me updated, lest he get into trouble with Scotland Yard.’

‘George knows of the suitcase?’

‘Greg, and yes. But you’ve got time.’

John shakes his head, the poor man struggling to keep up with any events of the day. The clock hands were turning a lot faster than normal, and 6pm had been quick to become 11pm. He decides changing the subject might be the best way to involve himself in the conversation. ‘People don’t have archenemies.’

‘Sorry?’

‘In real life. There are no archenemies in real life. Doesn’t happen.’

‘Doesn’t it? How dull.’ Sherlock’s line of sight does not stray from across the street.

‘So, who did I meet?’

Ignoring John’s question, Sherlock responds with his own. ‘What do real people have, then, in there “real lives?”’

‘Friends? People they know, people they like, people they don’t like… girlfriends, boyfriends…’

‘Yes, well, as I was saying, dull.’

‘You don’t have a girlfriend, then?’

‘Girlfriend? No, not really my area.’

‘Mm,’ John pauses. ‘Oh, right. Do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way.’

‘I know it’s fine.’ Sherlock’s eyes finally move from the street and to lock onto John at his insinuation.

‘So, you’ve got a boyfriend the—’

‘No.’

Grace listens to the conversation, trying to stop herself from giggling. Lips grinning, knowing full well the misunderstanding between the two that it taking place between her.

‘Right, okay. You’re unattached. Like me. Fine. Good.’

‘John, um… I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I’m flattered by your interest, I’m really not looking for any…’

‘No. No, I’m not asking. No,’ John shakes his head. ‘I’m just saying, it’s all fine.’

‘Good. Thank you.’

John turns, giving Grace the most bewildered look she has ever seen, and she couldn’t help the small laugh finally pushing through the restraint of her lips. Sherlock snaps his head to look at her, before quickly turning back to look outside.

‘What about you, Grace?’ John asks. ‘Boyfriend, girlfriend?’

‘No, no. Not at the moment. I only moved here a few months ago. Also, not really an area I’m great at.’ If she couldn’t even love and care for herself, how could Grace ever care and love for another? The feeling was foreign, she longed for it, but found it impossible to find.

‘Oh? Where are you originally from?’

‘Around…’ Grace trails off, not wanting to discuss further.

‘Look across the street. Taxi.’ Sherlock interrupts, saving them all from a lot of awkwardness. ‘Stopped. Nobody getting in, and nobody getting out. Why a taxi? Oh, that’s clever. Is it clever? Why is it clever?’

‘That’s him?’

‘Don’t stare.’

‘You’re staring.’

‘We can’t all stare.’

All three grab their coats before hurrying out of the restaurant. The second the cab starts to drive away, Sherlock rushes forwards, almost getting hit by a car. Luckily, they slam on the breaks and narrowly avoid him.

‘Sorry!’ John yells to the driver. ‘I’ve got the cab number.’

‘Good for you. Right turn, one way, roadworks, traffic lights, bus lane, pedestrian crossing, left turn only, traffic lights,’ Sherlock lists off quickly. He takes off in a sprint, Grace and John quick to react, chasing after him.

They run through buildings, up sets after sets of stairs, across roofs, and back down again. Sherlock leading them around every corner and down every back alley. Eventually, they intersect the taxi. Pulling open the door, Sherlock observes the man in the back. ‘No, teeth, tan. What, Californian? L.A., Santa Monica. Just arrived.’

‘How can you possibly know that?’ John asks.

‘The luggage,’ Grace informs.

‘It's probably your first trip to London, right, going by your final destination and the route the cabbie was taking you?’

‘Sorry, are you guys the police?’

‘Yeah. Everything all right?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Welcome to London,’ Sherlock says sarcastically, walking away from the cab, clearly frustrated.

‘Uh, any problems just let us know,’ John closes the taxi door. ‘Basically, just a cab that happened to slow down.’

‘Basically.’

‘Not the murderer?’

‘Not the murderer, no,’ Grace answers.

‘Wrong country, good alibi.’

‘As they go.’

‘Hey, where-where did you get this?’ John pants, still exhausted, pulling a badge from Sherlock’s hands. ‘Right. Detective Inspector Lestrade?’

‘Yeah. I pickpocket him when he’s annoying. You can keep that one, I’ve got plenty at the flat.’ Grace and John share a glance, both starting to laugh at his words, and the situation as a whole. ‘What?’

‘Nothing, just… “Welcome to London.”’

Sherlock grins at the two before he notices the American man talking to a police officer by the corner. ‘Got your breath back?’

‘We’re ready when you are.’

‘That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.’ John admits, laughing as the trio stumble into 221 Baker Street. They lean against the entrance wall, panting from the long distance they had just ran.

‘And you invaded Afghanistan,’ Sherlock laughs.

‘That wasn’t just me. And why aren’t we back at the restaurant?’

‘They can keep and eye out, it was a long shot anyway.’

‘So, what were we doing there?’

‘Proving a point, from my observation,’ Grace smirks, now noticing John was without his walking stick. Also, him having ran many kilometres.

‘Precisely,’ Sherlock grins at her.

‘What point?’

‘You. Mrs Hudson! Doctor Watson will take the room upstairs.’

‘Says who?’

‘Says the man at the door.’

A knock echoes through the hallway, John glancing between Sherlock and Grace before walking over to answer the door.

‘What I don’t get is why you messaged me?’ Grace turns to Sherlock. ‘If it was a “long shot.”’

‘Because,’ he grins.

‘Because?’

‘Because you’re bored.’

‘That’s not why.’ Grace watches a brow raise on Sherlock’s face, clearly, he wasn’t expecting her to see through his lies. ‘I know a lie when I hear one. You want to try and deduce me. But you can’t, can you?’

‘It’s infuriating.’

‘I try my best.’

‘Sherlock, what have you done.’ An older woman in a purple dress comes into view. Her worried and panicky stature informing everything that something wasn’t quite right.

‘Mrs Hudson?’ One thing that Grace noted was the concern in Sherlock’s voice, and the man had the audacity to say he has no heart, that he doesn’t feel.

‘Upstairs.’

The three rush up the stairs, Sherlock skipping two at a time with his long legs. He opens the door to 221B, finding Greg sitting in his seat, and other Scotland Yard officers searching the flat.

‘What are you doing?’ Sherlock demands.

‘Well, I knew you’d fine the case. I’m not stupid. Plus, Grace slipped up and told me. You’re lucky she convinced me to lay off as long as I did.’

‘You can’t just break into my flat.’

‘And you can’t withhold evidence. And I didn’t break into your flat.’

‘Well, what do you call this.’

‘It’s a drugs bust.’

Oh Greg, that’s low, very low. Grace shakes her head, stepping further into the room to make herself known to Greg and the other officers.

‘Seriously? This guy, a junkie?’ John asks, bewildered. ‘Have you met him?’

‘John.’ Sherlock addresses sternly.

‘I'm pretty sure you could search this flat all day, you wouldn't find anything you could call recreational.’

‘John, you probably want to shut up now.’

‘Yeah, but come on… No?’

‘What?’

‘You?’

‘Shut up!’ Sherlock shouts, turning back to Lestrade. ‘I’m not your sniffer dog.’

‘No, Anderson’s my sniffer dog.’

‘What, An— Anderson, what are you doing here on a drugs bust?’

Anderson peeps his head out from behind a cupboard in the kitchen. ‘Oh, I volunteered.’

‘They all did. They’re not strictly speaking on the drugs squad, but they’re very keen.’

‘Are you serious, Greg? You told me you’d come for the case in two hours, not set up a drugs bust.’ Grace’s annoyance begins to show. All of this was highly unnecessary, and frankly, just mean.

‘Yes well, you didn’t tell me you were running off from the crime scene to find the case with this guy,’ Greg points to Sherlock. ‘So, I guess we both don’t tell each other everything.’

‘Are these human eyes?’ Donovan rounds the corner, holding up a jar.

‘Put those back!’

‘They were in the microwave!’

‘It’s an experiment!’ Sherlock spits.

‘Keep looking, guys.’ Lestrade orders. ‘Or you could help us properly and I’ll stand them down. That goes for the both of you.’

‘This is childish.’

‘Well, I'm dealing with a child. Sherlock, this is our case. I'm letting you in, but you do not go off on your own. Clear?’

‘Oh, what, so-so-so you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?’

‘It stops being pretend if we find anything,’ Greg stands, coming face to face with Sherlock, although slightly shorter.

‘I am clean!’

‘Is your flat? All of it?’

‘I don’t even smoke.’ Sherlock tugs up his sleeve, a nicotine patch stuck to his forearm.

‘Neither do I,’ Lestrade pulls up his own sleeve. ‘So, let’s work together. We’ve found Rachel.’

‘Who is she?’ Grace inserts herself back into the conversation.

‘Jennifer Wilson’s only daughter.’

Sherlock tugs his sleeve back down. ‘Her daughter? Why would she write her daughter’s name? Why?’

‘Never mind that. We found the case,’ Anderson points. ‘According to someone, the murderer has the case, and we found it in the hands of our favourite psychopath.’

‘I’m not a psychopath, Anderson. I’m a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research.’ Sherlock’s head snaps around. ‘You need to bring Rachel in. You need to question her. I need to question her.’

‘She’s dead.’

‘Excellent! How, when, and why? Is there a connection? There has to be.’

‘Well, I doubt it since she's been dead for fourteen years. Technically she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter, fourteen years ago.’

‘No that’s… that’s not right. How? Why would she do that?’

‘Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments? Yup – sociopath, I’m seeing it now,’ Anderson rolls his eyes.

‘She didn’t think about her daughter, Anderson,’ Grace spits, fed up with his shit. ‘She scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails, while she was dying. It took effort, and it would have hurt.’

‘Sherlock said the victims all took the poison themselves, that he makes them take it. Well, maybe he… I don’t know, talks to them?’ John offers. ‘Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow.’

‘Yeah, but that was ages ago. Why would she still be upset?’ Sherlock pauses after his words. ‘Not good?’ He turns to John.

‘Bit not good, yeah.’

‘Yeah, but if you were dying… if you’d been murdered; in your very last few seconds what would you say?’

‘“Please, God, let me live.”’

‘Oh, use your imagination!’

‘I don’t have to.’

‘Yeah, but if you were clever, really clever. Jennifer Wilson running all those lovers – she was clever. She’s trying to tell us something.’

Mrs Hudson stands at the doorway. ‘Isn’t the doorbell working? Your taxi’s here, Sherlock.’

‘I didn’t order a taxi.  Go away.’

Odd. Grace closes her eyes, falling into thought.

‘Oh, dear. They’re making such a mess. What are they looking for?’

‘It’s a drugs bust, Mrs Hudson.’

‘But they’re just for my hip. They’re herbal soothers.’

‘Shut up, everybody, shut up! Don’t move, don’t speak, don’t breathe. I’m trying to think. Anderson, face the other way. You’re putting me off.’

‘What? My face is?!’

‘Everybody quiet and still. Anderson, turn your back.’ Greg demands.

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’

‘Your back, now, please!’

‘Come on, think. Quick!’

‘What about your taxi?’

‘Mrs Hudson! Oh…’ Sherlock’s brain clicks. ‘Ah! She was clever, clever, yes! She’s cleverer than you lot and she’s dead. Do you see, do you get it? She didn’t lose her phone, she never lost it. She planted it on him.’

‘When she got out of the car, she knew that she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer,’ Grace opens her eyes, finishing Sherlock’s explanation.

‘But how?’

‘What? What do you mean, how? Rachel!’ Sherlock exclaims. ‘Don’t you see? Rachel! Oh, look at you lot. You’re all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing. Rachel is not a name.’

John is the first to speak amongst all the vacant faces. ‘Then what is it?’

‘John, on the luggage, there’s a label. E-mail address.’

‘Er, jennie dot pink at mephone dot org dot uk.’

Sherlock sits at his desk, laptop open. ‘Oh, I’ve been too slow. She didn’t have a laptop, which means she did her business on her phone, so it’s a smartphone, it’s email enabled. So, there was a website for her account. The username is her e-mail address. And all together now, the password is?’

‘Rachel.’

‘We can read her e-mails. So what?’

‘Anderson, don’t talk out loud, you lower the IQ of the whole street. We can do much more than just read her e-mails. It’s a smartphone, it’s got GPS, which means if you lost it, you can locate it online. She’s leading us directly to the man who killed her.’

‘Unless he got rid of it.’

‘We know he didn’t.’

‘Come on, come on. Quickly!’

‘Sherlock, dear. This taxi driver…’

‘Mrs Hudson, isn’t it time for your evening soother? We need to get vehicles, get a helicopter. We’re gonna have to move fast. This phone battery won’t last forever.’

‘We’ll just have a map reference, not a name.’

‘It’s a start!’

‘Sherlock…’

‘It narrows it down from just anyone in London. It’s the first proper lead that we’ve had.’

‘Sherlock…’

‘What is it? Quickly, where?’

‘It’s here. It’s in two two one Baker Street,’ John informs.

The phone is here, how? I’m missing something, what am I missing? Grace felt like hitting herself across the head, scratching the skin from her arms. It was in front of her, she knows it, but she can’t put her finger on what she’s missing. ‘How can it be here? How?’

‘Well, maybe it was in the case when you brought it back and it fell out somewhere,’ Lestrade suggested.

‘What, and I didn’t notice it? Me? I didn’t notice?’ Sherlock spits.

‘Anyway, we texted him and he called back.’

‘Guys, we’re also looking for a mobile somewhere here, belonged to the victim…’ Lestrade ignores the facts.

‘Who do we trust, even if we don’t know them?’

‘Who passes unnoticed?’ Grace adds to Sherlocks food for thought.

‘Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?’

‘Oh—’ Grace whispers, but only Sherlock hears. She steps backwards slowly, out of the room. Step, then step, she walks down the stairs and out of 221B. At the same time, Sherlock’s phone dings with a message from an unknown number.

COME WITH ME.

‘It’s you, isn’t it?’ Grace confronts the old man. He stands in front of his cab, pink phone in hand.

‘Took you ‘while. But then again you did surprise me, keeping up with the great Sherlock ‘olmes.’ The old man glances over Grace’s shoulder. ‘Speak of the devil. Taxi for Sherlock Holmes.’

‘I didn’t order a taxi,’ Sherlock’s deep voice sounds from behind Grace. He walks forwards, standing beside her with his hands in his coat pockets.

‘Doesn’t mean you don’t need one.’

‘You’re the cabbie, the one that stopped outside Northumberland Street.’

‘It was you, not your passenger,’ Grace observes.

‘See? No-one ever thinks about the cabbie. It’s like you’re invisible. Just the back of an ‘ead. Proper advantage for a serial killer.’

‘Is this a confession.’

‘Oh, yeah. And I’ll tell you want else; if you call the coppers now, I won’t run. I’ll sit quiet and they can take me down, I promise.’

‘Why?’ Sherlock asks.

‘‘Cause you’re not gonna do that.’

‘Am I not?’

‘I didn’t kill those four people, Mr ‘olmes, Detective Carter. I spoke to ‘em… and they killed themselves. An’ if you get the coppers now, I promise you one thing. I’ll never tell you what I said.’

‘No one else will die, though, and I believe they call that a result.’

‘An’ you won’t ever understand how those people died. What kind of result do you care about?’

‘If I wanted to understand, what would I do?’

Grace steps towards Sherlock, placing a hand on his arm. ‘Sherlock—’

‘Let me take you for a ride.’

‘So, you can kill me too?’

‘I don’t wanna kill you, Mr ‘olmes. I’m gonna talk to you… and then you’re gonna kill yourself.’

‘Sherlock.’ Grace warns again, his face becoming far too curious for her liking. ‘Don’t.’

‘You too, Detective. Get in the cab, come for a ride.’

‘I don’t think I want to.’

‘I ‘on’t really care what you want.’ The cabbie moves his jacket to the side, flashing the sight of a pistol.

Don’t let him know you’re onto him.

Shame Grace didn’t have her own on her person at the present time. Both Sherlock and Grace get into the backseat of the taxi. ‘Phone up ‘ere please, Detective.’ Grace takes her phone from her pocket, placing it on the console of the car. The engine starts, and they’re on a ride.

‘How did you find me?’ Sherlock questions, inwardly judging the driver’s route.

‘Oh, I recognised ya, soon as I saw you chasing my cab. Sherlock Holmes!’ The cabbie exclaims. ‘I was warned about you. Both of ya, actually. I’ve been on your website, too, Mr ‘olmes. Brilliant stuff! Loved it.’

‘Who warned you?’ Grace crossed her legs, deciding it best to be comfortable while potentially heading to her death.

‘Just someone out there who’s noticed.’

Sherlock sits forwards in his seat, eyes brushing over every detail of the cab. ‘Who? Who would notice me?’

‘You’re too modest, Mr ‘olmes.’

‘I’m really not.’

The cabbie glances at his passengers through the mirror. ‘You’ve got yourself a fan.’

‘Tell me more.’

‘That’s all you’re gonna know… in this lifetime.’

‘Wow, how ominous,’ Grace rolls her eyes.

The rest of the trip passes in silence. Each set of eyes wandering out each window, staring into every mirror to avoid surprise. The cabbie gets out of the car, walking around to open Grace’s door.

‘How gentlemanly.’

‘Where are we?’

‘You know every street in London, Mr ‘olmes. You know exactly where we are.’

‘Roland-Kerr Further Education College.’

‘Why here?’ Grace asks.

‘It’s open. Cleaners are in. One thing about being a cabbie; you always know a nice quiet spot for a murder. I’m surprised more of us don’t branch out.’

‘And you just walk your victims in? How?’ Sherlock’s brows furrow on his face, his eyes darting between Grace and the cabbie. He pulls out a pistol, aiming it directly at Sherlock. ‘Oh, dull.’

‘Don’t worry. It gets better.’

‘You can’t make people take their own lives at gunpoint.’

‘I don’t. It’s much better than that,’ the cabbie tucks away his gun. ‘Don’t need this with you, ‘cause you’ll follow me.’

Grace could just run away, take the cab and drive back to Scotland Yard at this moment. Left behind in the car as Sherlock and the cabbie walk into the right-side building. What kind of detective would she be if she left an unarmed man to enter a building alone with a serial killer? She was well aware that Sherlock could look after himself, but her own curiosity needs an excuse. Her own hunt for mystery, and the excessive need to just know. That was the truth behind her rapid footsteps, gradually catching up to the two men in the building.

Lights flickered on in an empty study hall as they entered. Sherlock paced slowly, observing his surroundings.

‘Well, what do you think?’ The cabbie grins. ‘It’s up to you. You’re the ones who’re gonna die here.’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘Bold of you to assume,’ Grace and Sherlock answer simultaneously.

‘That’s what they all say. Should we talk?’

The cabbie takes a seat at one side of the table, Sherlock turns a chair to sit on the other. Grace, who still stands in the doorway walks over, pulling up a chair beside Sherlock. He was a man lacking empathy, yes. A man who struggles to show his emotions. He didn’t purposefully exude comfort. But there was just something about his tall frame, his intellect, that allowed Grace to feel safe in his presence. Or maybe, just maybe, she was simply comfortable knowing the cabbie couldn’t outsmart him.

‘Bit risky, wasn’t it?’ Sherlock removes his gloves, tucking them in his pocket. ‘Took us away under the eye of about half a dozen policemen. They're not that stupid. And Mrs Hudson will remember you.’

‘You call that a risk? Nah. This… is a risk.’ The cabbie lifts a small glass bottle onto the table, containing a singular pill. ‘Oh, I like this bit. 'Cause neither of you get it yet, do ya? But you're about to. I just have to do this.’ Two more bottles are lifted onto the table. ‘Weren’t expecting that? You’re both gonna love this.’

‘Love what?’

‘Sherlock 'olmes. Look at you! 'Ere in the flesh. That website of yours; your fan told me about it.’

‘My fan?’

‘And yours, Detective Carter. Didn’t think you’d be able to keep up, but ya did.’

‘Your compliments are very backhanded,’ Grace snarks.

‘You are brilliant. You both are. A proper genius though, you are Mr ‘olmes. "The Science of Deduction." Now that is proper thinking. Between you, me, and Detectibe Carter sitting 'ere, why can't people think? Don’t it make you made? Why can’t people just think?’

‘Oh, I see. So, you’re a proper genius too,’ Sherlock mocks.

‘Don’t look it, do I? Funny little man drivin’ a cab. But you’ll know better in a minute. Chances are it’ll be the last thing you ever know.’

‘Okay, three bottles. Explain.’

‘There's a good bottle and two bad bottles. You take the pill from the good bottle, you live; take the pill from the bad bottle, you die.’

‘Both bottles are of course identical.’

‘In every way.’

‘And you know which is which.’

‘Course I know.’

‘But we don’t.’

‘Wouldn’t be a game if you knew. You’re the ones who choose.’ Words continue to fly back and forth between the two men. Grace listens intently, thoughts racing although she appears to remain calm.

Grace sits forwards in her chair, inspecting the glass bottles thoroughly with her eyes. ‘Why should we choose? We have nothing to go on. There’s nothing in it for us.’

‘I 'aven't told you the best bit yet. Whatever bottle you choose, I take the pill from the other one, and then, together, we take our medicine.’

‘So basically, two of us die.’

‘Exactly, Detective. Think of it as natural selection.’

‘Nothing about this is natural, old man. I think six feet under is going to be calling for you first.’

‘You don’t believe that do ya? You’ve been ‘ere before, Detective. Tossing up whether to take your medicine or not.’

The racing of Grace’s mind stops only for a split second, thoughts replaced by a single word. How?

Sherlock takes note of the blank expression on her face. His mind formulating its own theories and conclusions. How? How did he miss it, of course. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

‘You of all people should know that you’ve been a lot closer to hell than I ‘ave.’

‘This is what you did to the rest of them, you gave them a choice,’ Sherlock cuts in. The tense form of Grace clearly unlikely to respond any further on the topic.

‘And now I’m givin’ you one. You take your time. Get yourself together. I want your best game.’

‘It’s not a game. It’s chance.’

‘I've played four times. I'm alive. It's not chance, Mr. 'olmes, it's chess. It's a game of chess, with one move, and one survivor. And this...’ The cabbie pushes two of the bottles forwards. ‘This... is the move. Did I just give you the good bottle or the bad bottle? You can choose either one.’

A moment of silence washes over the study hall. Grace had taken the time to collect her thoughts, bringing herself back to the present moment. ‘Who told you?’

‘Your fan has known about you a lot longer than you’d think. So, are you ready yet? Ready to play?’

‘Play what?’ Sherlock spits. ‘We each have a thirty-three-point-three percent chance of surviving.’

‘You’re not playin’ the numbers, you’re playin’ me. Did I give you the good pill? Or a bad pill? Is it a bluff? Or a double bluff? Or a triple bluff?’

‘Still just chance.’

‘Four people in a row? It’s not just chance.’

‘Luck.’

‘It’s genius. I know ‘ow people think. I know 'ow people think I think. I can see it all, like a map inside my 'ead. Everyone’s so stupid – even you. Or maybe God just loves me.’

‘Either way, you’re wasted as a cabbie.’ Sherlock interlocks his hands and rests his elbows on the table. ‘You risked your life four times just to kill strangers. Why?’

‘Time to play.’

‘Oh, I am playing. This is my turn.’

Grace sits up straight. Was she finally going to witness Sherlock Holmes’ full skill set? Indeed, she was, and that excites her. Her emotions were spiralling at this moment. She is worried, excited, scared, thrilled. A little bit of everything that is slowly going to cause her to overload.

‘There's shaving foam behind your left ear. Nobody's pointed it out to you. Traces of where it's happened before, so obviously you live on your own; there's no one to tell you. But there's a photograph of children. The children's mother has been cut out of the picture. If she'd dead, she'd still be there. The photograph's old but the frame's new. You think of your children, but you don't get to see them. Estranged father. She took the kids, but you still love them, and it still hurts.’

Oh, he’s good. Much better than her. Grace watches the side of his face with wide eyes as he continues deducing the old cabbie. Once again, his prominent cheekbones casting a mysterious shadow over his face that makes him all the more enticing. He’s like forbidden fruit, so dangerously tempting. Hosting his own set of consequences should you ever take a bite.

‘Ah, but there's more. Your clothes: recently laundered but everything you're wearing is at least... three years old? Keeping up appearances but not planning ahead. And here you are on a kamikaze murder spree. What's that about? Ah... Three years ago. Is that when they told you?’

‘Told me what?’

‘That you’re a dead man walking.’

‘So are you.’

‘You don’t have long, though. Am I right?’

‘Aneurism. Right in ‘ere.’ The cabbie points to his head. ‘Any breath could be my last.’

Grace scoffs. ‘And because you’re dying, you’ve just killed four people?’

‘I’ve outlived four people. That’s the most fun you can ‘ave on an aneurism.’

‘No. No, there's something else. You didn't just kill four people because you're bitter. Bitterness is a paralytic. Love is a much more vicious motivator. Somehow this is about your children,’ Sherlock deduces.

‘Oh. You are good, ain’t you?’

‘But how?’

‘When I die, they wont get much, my kids. Not a lot of money in driving cabs.’

‘Or serial killing.’

‘You’d be surprised.’

‘Surprise me.’

The cabbie leans forward, speaking his sentence slowly. ‘I ‘ave a sponsor.’

‘You have a what?’

‘For every life I take, money goes to my kids. The more I kill, the better off they'll be. You see? It's nicer than you think.’

‘Who’d sponsor a serial killer?’

‘Who’d be a fan of Sherlock ‘olmes? You're not the only one to enjoy a good murder. There's others out there just like you, except you're just a man... and they're so much more than that.’

‘What do you mean, more than a man? An organisation? What?’ Grace questions.

‘There’s a name no one says, an’ I’m not gonna say it either. Now, enough chatter. Time to choose.’

‘What if we don’t choose? We could just walk out of here,’ Sherlock threatens.

‘You can take the chance, or I can shoot you both in the ‘ead.’ The cabbie lifts his pistol, aiming it directly at Sherlock. ‘Funnily enough, no one’s ever gone for that option.’ Grace and Sherlock share a glance momentarily, little smirks on their faces.

‘I’ll have the gun, please.’

‘I’ll take the gun too.’

‘You’re both sure?’

‘Definitely. The gun.’

‘You don’t want to phone a friend?’

‘The gun.’ The cabbie pulls the trigger but is quick to sigh after realising he’s been discovered. The pistol, not real, but a cigarette lighter instead. He tosses it to the side.

‘I know a real gun when I see one.’

‘None of the others did.’

Grace stands from her chair. ‘Clearly.’

‘Well, this has been very interesting. I look forward to the court case.’ Sherlock walks to the door but stops at the cabbie’s taunting.

‘Just before you go, did you figure it out? Which one’s the good bottle?’

‘Of course. Child’s play.’

‘Well, which one, then? Which one would you ‘ave picked, just so I know whether I could have beaten you? Come on! Play the game.’

‘Sherlock—’ Grace whispers warningly for only the tall man to hear. ‘Don’t fall for it.’

Sherlock ignores Grace, walking back over to the table, he picks up the bottle that is closest to the cab driver. Grace rolls her eyes. Could this man ever just listen? A bit hypocritical of her to think actually.

‘Oh, interesting. So, what d’you think? Shall we?’

Grace watches as both Sherlock and the cabbie take the pills out of the bottles. She is quick in her movements, walking over to Sherlock, grabbing his arm in an attempt to pull him towards the exit. ‘Sherlock, come on. It’s not worth it. We can have the pills tested if you’re so desperate to know.’

‘What do you think? Can you beat me?’ The cabbie continues to taunt, ignoring Grace. ‘Are you clever enough to bet your life? I bet you get bored, don’t you? I know you do. A man like you… So clever. But what’s the point of being clever if you can’t prove it? Still the addict.’

Sherlock was much stronger than Grace. Lifting his arm to inspect the pill under the light, her hands falling in the process. He didn’t even bat an eyelid, like she didn’t exist in that moment. Just a speck in an indifferent universe. Hopeless, little Grace, she couldn’t save the ones she loved, what makes her think she could save someone who chases the danger?

You think you can stop him? You think he cares about what you want? Nobody cares about you, never did, never will. Stop trying. Get over yourself. Pathetic, and weak, is all you are.

Shut up.

‘But this… this is what you’re really addicted to. You’ll do anything… anything at all… top stop being bored. You’re not bored now, are you? Innit good?’

Just as Sherlock was about to place the pill in his mouth, Grace understands that he truly will go through with this. Ignoring the voice in her head, the instincts kick in. She forcefully slaps the pill out of his hands. At the same time, a gunshot rings out and the cabbie falls to the floor.

Sherlock rushes over, inspecting the gunshot in the window. He steps are quick to carry him back over to Grace.

‘You’re not hurt?’ He asks, hands grabbing each of her shoulders. She shakes her head, unable to voice her thoughts as her heart pounds against her chest. The gunshot having startled her, unaware of any backup that had been heading their way.

Sherlock scurries around, finding the pill that had been slapped from his hand. He stands over the cabbie, holding it in front of his face. ‘Was I right? I was, wasn’t I? Did I get it right!?’ When he doesn’t receive a response, Sherlock harshly throws the pill at the dying man’s face. ‘Okay, tell me this. Your sponsor. Who was it? The one who told you about me, my fan? I want a name.’

‘No.’

‘Give us a name,’ Grace demands.

‘You're dying, but there's still time to hurt you. Give me a name.’ Sherlock presses his shoe to the cabbie’s gunshot wound when he continues to refuse. ‘A name! Now! The name!’

‘Moriarty!’ The cabbie screams in pain.

Moriarty?

‘I’m fine,’ Grace nudges the paramedics hands away from poking and prodding. ‘Please stop touching me.’ She watches as Sherlock speaks to Lestrade in front of another ambulance, the orange blanket around him a striking contrast to his dark hair and clothes.

‘We have to make sure you’re not injur—’

‘I’m not injured!’

She feels overloaded, overwhelmed in this moment. Her senses clashing with each other in an all-out war. The flashing lights were too much, the different conversations were too much. Grace wants to run away and hide and never come back. The whole ordeal so confusing.

She was doing fine. She was doing so much better until very recently. What has gone wrong? That’s the scary thing about depression. It creeps up on you so quickly, so unnoticeable, and then you can’t see yourself anymore. It’s no wonder Sherlock couldn’t deduce her; she doesn’t even know who she is at this very moment. She doesn’t think she’s known for a while if she’s being honest.

I’m fine. I’ll be fine. Just breathe. What can I see? What can I feel?

Grace’s eyes were trained on her hands, fingers picking at fingers in attempts to ignore all the heightened senses. A soft warmth falls over her coat-covered shoulders, looking up to find Sherlock has draped his ‘shock’ blanket over her.

‘For the shock.’

‘I’m not in shock.’

Sherlock grins, ‘I know.’

‘Thanks.’ Grace tries to smile at him, but her attempt falls short.

‘It’s very busy here. A lot happening…’

‘Yes, well, we did just catch a serial killer… sort of.’

‘There’s a good Chinese, Baker Street. Open till two. Should we see if John wants dinner? He’s a growing boy.’ He pokes fun at the doctor’s height.

Grace chuckles and looks up, directly into Sherlock’s icy irises. They were so cold but so warm, so inviting, yet so standoffish. She was stupid to think he wouldn’t realise, especially after the words of the thankfully now dead cab driver. This was Sherlock’s way of trying to help, to get her out of this situation that had made her fight or flight go off the rails. This was him… trying. ‘Chinese sounds good right now, I won’t lie.’ She stands, blanket falling off her shoulders and back into the ambulance.

Sherlock looks down at her shorter form with a soft expression. There was something about her head only reaching his chin that he found… endearing? And by Gods did he despise it. Who does she think she is to waltz into his life only a day ago and inspire such thoughts.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t read her earlier, he had discovered. It was that he had stopped himself from doing so subconsciously, as she reminded him of himself. And even he wasn’t immune to the fear of looking so deeply into oneself. Even he wasn’t immune to insecurity. She was as broken as he. She has learnt to put on a mask just like him. She was lonely, in a constant battle with herself. Grace was smart, and she was misunderstood. Sherlock knew the feeling better than anyone.

‘Come on.’ Sherlock and Grace walk over to John who stands behind some police tape. ‘Good shot.’

‘Yes. Yes, must have been, through that window.’

‘Well, you would know,’ Grace smirks.

‘Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers. I don’t suppose you’d serve time for this, but let’s avoid the court case. Are you all right?’

‘Yes, of course I’m all right.’

‘Well, you have just killed a man.’

‘Yes, I… that’s true, innit?’ John looks up at Sherlock. ‘But he wasn’t a very nice man.’

‘No. No, he wasn’t really, was he?’

‘And frankly a bloody awful cabbie.’

‘That’s true. He was a bad cabbie. Should have seen the route he took us to get here.’ The trio start walking away from the scene, giggling.

‘Stop it! We can’t giggle, it’s a crime scene. Stop it.’

‘Well, you’re the one who shot him. Don’t blame us.’

‘Keep your voice down! Sorry, it’s just nerves, I think.’ John apologises to the passing Sally Donovan. ‘You were going to take that bloody pill, weren’t you?’

‘Course I wasn’t. Biding our time. Knew you’d turn up.’

‘No, you didn’t,’ Grace rolls her eyes. ‘You were going to take the pill.’

‘It’s how you get your kicks, isn’t it? You risk your life to prove you’re clever.’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘Because you’re an idiot.’

Sherlock smiles, ‘dinner?’

‘Starving.’

‘End of Baker Street, I was telling Grace, there's a good Chinese stays open 'til two. You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handle.’

‘Sherlock, that’s him, that’s the man I was telling you about.’ John gestures towards a car. A tall, posh looking man in a suit climbs out.

‘I know exactly who that is.’

Grace watches onwards, completely confused. ‘I think I missed a chapter.’

‘So, another case cracked. How very public-spirited… though that’s never really your motivation, is it?’

Ah, sounds posh too. Must be the “archenemy” from earlier.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘As ever, I’m concerned about you.’

‘Yes, I’ve been hearing about your “concern.”’

‘Always so aggressive. Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?’

‘Oddly enough… no!’

‘We have move in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer… and you know how it always upset Mummy.’

‘I upset her? Me?’ Sherlock exclaims. ‘It wasn’t me that upset her, Mycroft.’

‘No, no, wait. Mummy? Who’s Mummy?’ John asks.

‘Mother. Our mother. This is my brother, Mycroft. Putting on weight again?’

‘Losing it, in fact.’

‘He’s your brother?!’

‘Of course he’s my brother.’

‘So, he’s not… some criminal mastermind?’

‘Close enough.’

‘For goodness’ sake. I occupy a minor position in the British Government.’

‘He is the British Government, when he’s not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis.’

‘Huh? I never heard of him,’ Grace mumbles.

‘What?’ Sherlock’s head snaps in her direction.

‘Nothing.’

‘Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home – you know what it does to the traffic.’ Sherlock storms off, Grace chuckles and follows him with John close behind.

‘So, it runs in the family then?’

‘What?’

Grace grabs the lapel of Sherlock’s coat playfully, pulling it to the side to expose his suit. ‘Weird names and an affinity for suits.’ She drops the coat back into place.

‘Shut up.’ He pretends to be annoyed but cannot help the smile that rises on his face.

‘So, dim sum?’ John brings up dinner.

‘I can always predict the fortune cookies.’

‘No, you can’t.’

‘Almost can. You did get shot, though.’

‘Sorry?’

‘In Afghanistan. There was an actual wound.’

‘Oh, yeah. Shoulder.’

‘Shoulder! I thought so.’

‘No, you didn’t.’

‘Left one.’

‘Lucky guess.’

‘I never guess.’

Grace cuts in, ‘yeah, you do. Gonna tell us what you’re so happy about?’

‘Moriarty.’

‘What’s Moriarty?’ John questions.

‘I’ve absolutely no idea.’

‘I don’t think I want to know, to be honest.’

‘Come on, Grace. Not the least bit curious?’

‘I might be after getting some food in my stomach, but right now I’m hungry and tired,’ Grace groans. ‘By the way, I’m crashing on your couch.’

-

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