#Watson grabbing Holmes hands and then his sleeve just ;-;

[angryducktimemachine]

I made it 14 pages into my Empty House reread before I had to grab my tablet and draw something.

[ID: a digital drawing of Watson and Holmes during a scene in "The Empty House". Watson is sitting in a chair and looking up at Holmes with surprise, clasping Holmes right hand in his, while grabbing Holmes arm with his left hand. Holmes is leaning towards him with a slight smile, his left hand is resting on the table next to them. /End ID]

[riddlerosehearts]

list of acd canon sherlock holmes things i absolutely love

(and am going to mostly put under a readmore because i made most of this list while rereading the entire canon so it is very long! listen i just think sherlock holmes is the best character ever and i need to share my love for him--)

immediately upon being introduced to watson he grabs him by the sleeve, starts excitedly showing off his bloodstain testing experiment, and claps his hands “looking as delighted as a child with a new toy”. once he finishes, his eyes glitter and he puts his hand on his heart and bows “as if to some applauding crowd conjured up by his imagination”.

watson: “i object to rows because my nerves are shaken”

holmes: “do you include violin playing in your category of rows?” he asked, anxiously

he’s noted to be extraordinarily knowledgeable and zealous in his studies, and yet on the same page it’s stated that he doesn’t know the earth travels around the sun and once watson tells him about it he immediately decides to forget about it because it’s not relevant to his work. this is where the famous “brain attic” monologue comes in.

watson writes this list about him and then throws it into the fire in despair:

has a habit of laughing in a way that’s described as bursting into an “explosion” or “roar” of laughter

frequently does this at crime scenes:

enlists a gang of street orphans to help him on his cases, pays them for their work, and generally treats them as equals but also playfully talks to them like a general to his soldiers

plays the violin for watson to help him get to sleep

is incredibly knowledgable on anything from different types of tobacco, to the ways one's trade can influence the form of their hands, to medieval pottery and stradivarus violins. and yet, i reiterate, does not know the earth revolves around the sun.

has a tendency of waxing poetic about the meaningless of existence, particularly when he’s bored from not having any cases to work on

once said about a dog “i would rather have toby’s help than that of the whole detective force of london”

used the word “doggy” when speaking to toby

once told watson “i don’t wish to be theatrical” despite all evidence to the contrary

disguises himself as an old man just to play a prank on watson

watson: “i think i had better go”

holmes: “not at all, doctor. stay where you are. i am lost without my boswell.”

is known to wiggle in his chair when he gets excited about a case

discovers that a man has tricked his own stepdaughter into a fake marriage so he can keep her at home and control her life and inheritance. acknowledges that said man hasn’t done anything illegal but still tells him “there never was a man who deserved punishment more” and that he ought to get whipped for what he did, and then goes to actually get his hunting crop, causing the man to run out the door at top speed

let a criminal go free because it turned out the man he murdered was trying to force said criminal’s daughter into an unwanted marriage

was suddenly made to participate in the wedding of someone he was tracking for a case, came home and laughed about it for several minutes, exclaimed “well, really!”, laughed for several more minutes, and only then did he actually tell watson what happened

responds to the king of bohemia insulting irene adler and saying she’s not on his level by saying coldly: “from what i have seen of the lady, she seems indeed to be on a very different level to your majesty”, which is basically him saying “actually she’s way better than you, so fuck off”

refused to shake said king’s hand

built a pillow fort in a client’s house so he could think better

let a poor jewel thief go because he cried, because it was christmas and therefore it was the season of forgiveness, and because the case was really easy anyway so it’s not his fault if the police are too stupid to solve it themselves

always reassures clients that they can trust him and watson and speak freely around them

is willing to waive his fee for clients who can’t afford to pay him, because according to him his profession is its own reward

this entire scene from speckled band when he gets confronted by his client’s abusive stepfather:

this nice little example of the gentleness he often displays with his clients:

the adventure of the copper beeches. just, all of it. a woman he doesn’t know comes to holmes for advice about a potential job she’s interviewed for and they both agree it sounds incredibly sketchy, she says she’s gonna take it anyway because she needs the money, and he’s like “well i wouldn’t want any sister of mine doing something like this but FINE i guess, just please write to us and let us know if you’re okay and if anything bad happens we’ll drop everything and come help you immediately”, and then the job does in fact turn out to be super sketchy and they drop everything and get on a train as soon as she writes to them

sometimes spends several hours out on walks through the park or the town with watson just relaxing and talking with him for the sake of it, despite watson frequently noting that holmes doesn’t have much appreciation for nature

“we have had the good fortune to bring peace to many troubled souls. i trust that we may do the same for you,” he says “in his easy, genial way” to a potential client who’s clearly very upset and sleep-deprived

is completely wrong about a particular case and asks watson to remind him of that case next time he gets overconfident

is noted by watson to be very neat and methodical in his methods and way of dress, while simultaneously being one of the messiest people ever who keeps his tobacco inside a persian slipper and his unopened letters held up by a knife in the center of his mantelpiece, keeps tons of criminal relics which apparently somehow end up in the butter dish sometimes, and keeps countless stacks of papers and documents all over the place

tells watson anecdotes about his past just to avoid cleaning up said documents

deliberately knocks over a table, shattering a glass fruit bowl which then sends oranges rolling all over the room, and then blames it on watson and runs away

says snarky things like “when gregson or lestrade are out of their depth–which, by the way, is their normal state” and “you’ve done very well, watson! it’s too bad you’ve missed everything of importance”

laughs when watson suggests he’s being modest about his abilities

picked up a rose and got all sappy and poetic about it

more specifically, picked up a rose and said that religion can be a science which involves a lot of careful deduction, and that flowers are a source of hope and proof of the goodness of god due to the fact that they aren’t a necessary part of life but are still so beautiful anyway

recovered an incredibly valuable government treaty for a client and had it served to him on a platter at breakfast because, in his own words, he “never can resist a touch of the dramatic”

faked his death and then revealed to watson that he was still alive in a manner that even he admitted was unnecessarily dramatic

had a full-scale wax model of himself created and used it to fool his enemies

made a diagram out of breadcrumbs to explain something to watson

broke into a blackmailer’s house for a case because he believed it to be morally justifiable, and admitted that he always thought he might make a good criminal

held watson’s hand while they were burgling said house together

twice

allowed said blackmailer to be murdered in front of him by one of his victims and then refused to take the case when asked because he just hated the guy that much

“flushed up with pleasure” when watson complimented him

asked watson to sell his medical practice and move back into 221b with him after the death of his wife. and then secretly gave a relative of his a ton of money to buy watson’s medical practice at the highest price watson would ask for, just so they could live together again

was nearly brought to tears by lestrade saying he was proud of him

let a dog lead him around on a case, multiple times in different stories

was very gentle with a client who he knew to be the victim of an abusive marriage and allowed the man who killed her husband to go free out of sympathy for their situation

noticed watson looking sad and touching his war wound and tried to cheer him up by echoing his thoughts and providing a deduction of how he knew what he was thinking

mentioned watson’s sparkling eyes in said deduction

talked about nothing but violins and his favorite violinist for an hour while he and watson had lunch together

likes going to classical music concerts and getting lost in the music

does scrapbooking

chuckles and rubs his hands together when he’s happy

this:

takes getting called "the devil himself" as a compliment

let a killer go because he had only killed in retaliation for the unjust murder of his lover, and holmes felt that he might’ve done the same if someone were to kill the woman he loved

on a completely unrelated note tells a guy who shoots watson “if you had killed watson you would not have got out of this room alive”

also reacted like this when watson got shot:

went undercover to supposedly give a guy secret government intelligence documents, and then gave him a book about bees instead

frequently disguised himself either for cases or just to fool watson and was noted to be a great actor

once disguised himself as an old woman with a parasol

tried the best he could to talk a young woman out of marrying a man who had a history of “collecting” women for sport and destroying their lives, and admitted to watson that he thought of her as he would think of his own daughter

was prone to “imp-like moods”

sent watson a message to come over at once ("if convenient--if inconvenient come all the same") just so he could infodump to him about dogs

wasn’t surprised that a dog died of grief shortly after its owner’s death, because of “the beautiful, faithful nature of dogs”

listened with great sympathy to a depressed woman who wanted to tell him her tragic story, picked up on hints that she was planning to commit suicide, talked her out of it by convincing her that her life does have value and then called her brave for choosing to live

got lost in thought looking out the window at the publicly funded elementary schools and randomly went on about how he believes they and the children who attend them are beacons of a brighter future

made hot cocoa for watson

shook hands with a baby

retired to the countryside to live on a farm and become a beekeeper.

[topsyturvy-turtely]

OTP challenge - day 14

IT IS BACK YOU GUYS!!! I am bringing it back! ✨turtely's otp challenge✨

please someone tell me they are excited- i need that, lol.

I had the BIGGEST writer's block ever: didn't come up with an idea for mOnThs and when I finally did have one I was like "idk how to wriiiiite that" but today I was like *slams table* yk what?! Fuck that! I am bringing it back! Soooo yeah. Here we go? please lmk what you think!

Btw it is a bit (a lot) different then my other stories sooo bear with me yeah?

[Link to day 13]

14. Geeking out over something

Blue vs. red. Grunts vs. robotic breathing. Good vs. bad. Two lighsabers meet, trying to push the other away. Two male counterparts, fighting for what they think is the right way, which looks decidedly different from each view.

Suddenly - the taller, darker haired, with the black mask - strikes and-

"AAAAAAHHH", the shorter, blonder, with perspiration in his shaggy hair - cries in agony. His hand has been separated from his arm. (Or was he just hiding it in is sleeve?) The boy steps back, covering his injured arm under the healthy one. His weapon is lost. The dark guy steps closer and the blond is trapped on a small part of the treehouse platform.

The other boy man speaks up, "There is no escape. Don’t make me destroy you. You do not yet
realize your importance. You have only begun to discover your power. Join me and I will complete your training. With our combined strength, we can end this destructive conflict and bring order to the
galaxy."

But the blond boy - even with no escape in sight, even being greatly injured - refuses. Brave soldier until the bitter end, he counters, "I’ll never join you!"

But the masked one does not give up, "If you only knew the power of the dark side. Obi-Wan never told
you what happened to your father."

Desperately holding onto the tree branch the metal construct the blond boy speaks through gritted teath, "He told me enough! It was you
who killed him."
Perhaps you would see a sad smile behind the mask as his friend enemy speaks. "No. I am your father."

Shocked, the blond stares at his counterpart. Refusing to believe even one word, he yells, "No. No. That’s not true! That’s impossible!"

The taller argues in his deep voice, "Search your feelings. You know it to be true."

But the smaller won't believe. "No! No! No!"


"Luke. You can destroy the Emperor. He has foreseen this. It is your destiny. Join me, and together we can rule the galaxy as father
and son. Come with me. It is the
only way." He puts away his sword, and offers his hand to the shorter boy man.

The injured breathes deeply, indescribable but pronounced tranquility waving over him. He looks over the edge, looks back at the masked man and-

He jumps off, landing safely in a trampoline underneath, falling into the endlessness of the galaxy.

The taller boy rips his mask off and reveals messy dark curls. With one jump he follows the blond boy and lands next to him on the trampoline. The shorter boy giggles and turns around on his belly. His face prepped on his palm, blue eyes sparkling as he looks at his friend. The dark haired boy grins widely and lays onto his back, with one arm under his head. "Nice acting there, Martin"

The blond laughs, "Yours was pretty good too, Ben"

Ben, the taller, dark-haired boy, grabs his own hand and imitates the shout of pain from the act, that appeared minutes before, "AAAAAHHHH!"

The blond - Martin - playfully nudges Ben's shoulder with his hand. "Oh, shut up!"

The dark haired boy smiles at him. Then his face turns serious, "Join me when I go to acting school, after high school."

"We could be Holmes and Watson", Martin grins.

Ben grabs Martin's hand, "Whatever happens you'll forever be the Holmes to my Watson."

But as soon as he says that, Martin has to visibly fight a laugh back.

"What? What is it?"

"It's just-", now Martin can't help laughing. "Have you looked at yourself?! You definitely got the looks for a genius. You- with your cheekbones..."

"My cheekbones?!"

"Yeah! And the dark hair and all that." Martin waves generally at Ben's face. "Gotta be you."

Ben considers that. Then he shrugs. "Alright. As long as it is us."

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.", Martin says with a gentle smile, squeezing Ben's hand.

"John Watson and Sherlock Holmes.", Ben replies.

"Yeah, could work." Martin grins.

"BBC is gonna love us." Ben says, a dreamy expression on his face.

"Everyone is gonna love us." Martin says, shrugging, completely unaware how true these words will be.

~The story about how Freebatch turned into Johnlock because of Star Wars.

---

(tags and info under the cut)

sooo yeah I guess that was a multi crossover? Ever looked for a "young Freebatch geeking out over Star Wars and then talking about becoming Johnlock"-fanfic? Well there you go! xDD This was my first freebatch fic ever (I don't usually write or read that because I think the actors deserve some privacy...) and probably my last so don't hate please :P

The dialogue (the one written in italics) is taken from the Star Wars, The Empire Strikes Back movie. Check out my Source.

All I've got left to say is: Thank you for sticking with me and reading, my lovely turtles!

tag list! (please tell me if you wanna be added/removed or if i forgot you!) @justanobsessedpan @helloliriels @boredsushi @fluffbyday-smutbynight @inevitably-johnlocked @hisfavouritejumper @rhasima @forfucksakejohn @ohlooktheresabee @turbulenttrouble @7arantellgrrl @ssmeowl123 @so-youre-unattached-like-me @totallysilvergirl @peanitbear @train-mossman @loki-lock @smulderscobie @timberva @grace-in-the-wilderness @chinike @pansherlock @the-smol-bean-libby-blog @jawnn-watson @whatnext2020 @escapingthereality @missdeliadili @kettykika78 @musingsofmyown @7-percent @speedymoviesbyscience @astudyin221b @francj15 @almosttinycowboy @ladylindaaa @we-r-loonies @mxster-jocale @sherlockcorner @noahspector @our-stars-graveside @jobooksncoffee

[ren-therose]

The Penthouse Plot

Sherlock X F!Reader (3.8k words)

Summary: Sherlock, John and Reader all go to a penthouse party to pick up some clues about their newest case. But Y/N and Sherlock are put in a compromising situation. 

Warnings: smut 18+, semi-public sex, fingering, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it kids), creampie, squirting, after care

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“We are going to a party”

This was an incredibly abrupt statement from the detective who was still in pajamas at four in the afternoon, slouched down into the arm chair with the news paper covering his face. I couldn’t see his emotions, but I could tell that the idea had already been formulated, and he had not quite been excited out of it. His boredom was chronic, and it would often times only be soothed by myself to get him out of it. 

The first time we met, I was sitting on a park bench in Paddington Street Gardens, not but two blocks away from his flat. As if drawn to the cigarette I was smoking, he walked up as casually as he could, coat turned up, and sat on the bench over from my left. I didn’t look, but I was aware that a tall, dark man was watching me as I tried to solve today's crossword in the paper. 

He leaned closer, trying to take in the smoke for the nicotine high. With a slight glance his way, it was all I needed to take the cigarette from my mouth in my left hand, and casually rest it on the bench next to me. I blew out the smoke to the right side of my mouth though, purposefully keeping it from him, allowing my lips to guide the smoke in a stream to dissipate into the morning air. Still looking at the crossword, I began filling in 20 across, feeling a sense of intrigue and frustration emanating from the man next to me. 

“It’s not diva, its aria,” a deep voice says. I smirk, not looking up to his face quite yet. 

“No shit, Sherlock. 18 down is ‘erie’, so why would I put down diva?” I inquire, but before he could answer, I reply myself. “I was proving my hypothesis: is the detective next to me just trying to second-hand smoke, or is he actually paying attention to me? And the answer was both.”

He stands and comes to sit on my right side, not looking at me directly. The cigarette dangling from my lip wasn’t his main concern anymore. 

“How quickly did you realize it is only an herbal cigarette Mr. Holmes?” I ask, erasing my trap from 20 across. 

“As soon as I first looked at you. You have no stains on your fingers from the smoke, as well as no burns, which tells me you don’t smoke often. If you were a smoker, you would need at least a pack a day, and these tell-tale signs would be there. You don’t need to smoke because there isn’t an addiction. I presume you do it to attract men, though possibly women too, and to fit into the culture of London, as you are not from here. But you specifically looked up this park because you were looking for something or someone. I would presume it is me, considering you recognized me through my name” he says smuggly, finally looking at me. I didn’t know it then, but he later explained that he was shocked to see the prominence of my “subtle beauty”, and the way in which I held posture in every way that symbolized I was relaxed next to him. This of course was followed by the fact that I was so comfortable that I had gained a pound within the first year of knowing him. 

“So you are as good as they say,” I reply, looking up into his clear blue eyes. Those eyes dart down to my lips where the cigarette is still being held by the moisture of my mouth. I remove it, holding out the cigarette between my fingers. “I can imagine it is worlds different from a regular cigarettes addictive effects, but the smell of smoke and the herbs inside might calm you,” I offer. He leans down and takes the cigarette in his mouth, inhaling deeply. I let go of the cigarette as he leans back and removes it. He exhales out, happy to have something other than CO2 leave his lungs. 

“You could have phoned” he said nonchalantly. I closed the newspaper and turned my body slightly more towards him. 

“No I couldn’t. This isn’t about a case or me looking for my parents or some shit. I needed you to listen. I am a doctor and I am looking for the topic of my next publication” I state. His eyes widen a bit, as he gives me a once over. I was quite young to have a doctorate, but the ambition I have was intriguing to him.

“Great, another doctor. And you must study some form of psychology right?” he implies. 

I chuckle as I brush the hair behind my ear to look at him as I explain my credentials. 

“BA in a social science and a minor in Women's Studies and Gender, just to make it easier on you. Two masters in something to do with policy and a knack for behavior trends across cultures. A PhD in…” I trail off to let him figure it out. 

“International Relations. You couldn’t let go of the need to work abroad and help other. You also study the difference in human behaviors and how it can be interpreted and persuaded. It is why you are now living in London, after living in a southern European country, and I’m going to go with Italy” he responds. 

I raise my eyebrow at him. “Italy was fun. I spent most of the time on the mainland with a friend and would visit their family in Sardinia”. 

“He was gay wan’t he?”

“Not that he himself knew.”

The detective laughed. It was the beginning of a friendship, with many late nights, bad coffee and fighting. I lived in the basement of 221 Baker Street, after coming to a bargain price with Mrs. Hudson if I agreed to get rid of the black mold and redo the space for future renters. When I asked her why she was already thinking of future renters, she just smiled and told me Sherlock's door was open and I could just walk in. 

Now, a year and a half later, I was in his flat, in my own night gown and robe, working on pot of tea to make a London foggy, one of Sherlocks favorite drinks I could make. I had told him that if he got to work in his pajamas, or just a sheet at times, then he couldn’t expect anything less of me. But his abrupt statement that we were going to a party had me do a double take. 

“A party? Are we feeling like clubbing tonight Sherlock?” I tease. 

“It is just a bit of field work. But I need you to come with as my date so that I am not bothered by lonely, sad women.”

“Ah yes. All the lonely, sad women will flock to the handsome, cocky detective for comfort and an inquisitive night,” I mock, bringing the tea to him. 

“Isn’t that what you did?” He says without looking up. 

Offended, I grab the paper from his hands and smack him on the head with it. He flinched, protecting his tea from me. 

“Haven’t you figured it out by now? I’m here for John” I say, tossing the paper into his lap. Sherlocks mouth slightly gapes before he snaps it shut, looking behind me. 

“I’m sorry, what did I just walk in on?” John says from the doorway. Sherlock turns red as I walk up to John, pulling my leg up on him, placing my hand on his cheek while giving him a lingering kiss on the other, maintaining eye contact with Sherlock. “Afternoon John,” I say with a flirtatious growl. He didn’t move since my dramatic act, and as I exited the apartment to get ready, I hear John exclaim “I could get used to that kind of welcome”. I laugh as I hear the paper get thrown at the doctor. 

Two hours later, and a lot of fighting with a curling wand, I hear a knock at my door. I do a once-over of myself in the mirror. It was a high-end party, requiring a more put together look, and I was determined to look my best. In helping Sherlock and John, I realized that I rarely dressed up-practicality and professionalism is key. 

I put my phone into my handbag, and slipped my feet into my black pointed stilettos. One more once-over in the mirror next to the door, and I unlatched the lock. As soon as I opened it, the detective couldn’t help but let his eyes wander. My hair was in loose curls around my face, and the dress, oh the dress, flattered my body in every way. It was a silk green dress, that hugged every curve. It was ruched in the sides, creating a tight draping across my abdomen. The fabric on my bust sat just below the tops of my breasts, and dropped to my off-the-shoulder sleeves. I was wearing a simple emerald necklace with matching earrings, and a ruby ring on my left hand. My legs were well accentuated, and the stilettos did wonders for my posture. Still, I was the same girl in pajamas at this now well suited man's place as I was now. 

“You’re giving yourself away Detective,” I flirt, walking by him to climb the stairs to the front of the building. I make extra care to add a little movement as I climb, knowing he would be right behind me and very distracted. It was my favorite game to tease both of the boys, but especially Sherlock. It was always a game, and he loved games. As I exited the building, John was waiting for us outside, also dressed sharply. His eyes widened as I walked towards him. 

“In the words of a great detective, ‘Your body betrays you’ John. It’s still me inside this get-up. Now where is the cab?” I ask. 

“Umm...uh, there hasn’t been an available one yet...” he forces out. 

London was busy on a Saturday night, and it could often be difficult to find a cab. Lucky for us, my dress is pretty reflective, and I was going to use that to my advantage. I stepped off the curb just slightly, jutting out my shoulder blades and putting my weight on one foot to give myself more shape. By the time I had raised my hand, two taxis pulled up. I heard a cough behind me, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson both smirking at me. 

“I’m sorry, did you have a better idea?” I shoot at them. I open the door for myself and climb into the cab. The two men clambered in after me. 

The party was at a lovely high-rise in the middle of London. It looked to be a penthouse, but one grander than I had ever seen. As the three of us exited the elevator, we looked at each other once more, setting our plan in motion. John was to walk around and mingle, while Sherlock and I were to snoop about the place, looking for context clues. I grabbed a flute of champagne from one of the trays, and Sherlock and I began our promenade. We quickly realized that I was drawing a bit too much attention in my get-up and we would need to look around before people noticed we were gone. Our arms entwined, we strolled past the main crowd into a hallway, casually chatting the weather. The detectives hand was on my waist, holding tightly, as though I might leave his side. It was different than they way he usually grabbed my arm to move me around or out of the way of harm. 

We were looking for the bedroom of our hosts place, though, it did not seem there was one here. The penthouse was more of a party pad then a living space, which lends more to our profile of him. We continued to walk, and came across a study. His hand slid off my waist as he entered the room. I stood outside with my drink, while Sherlock took note of every little detail there. As he came out of the room though, I heard footprints coming round the corner. I grabbed his arm and pulled him into the bathroom next to the study. As I pushed him in, our eyes searched each other for the next move that we hadn’t initially planned. Though we were going as a date, it was never really a date. Until now. 

Grabbing the lapels of the detectives suit, I slammed my lips on his, pushing us both backwards onto the sink. Knowing that he was more recognizable. I spun him around so that my back was to the sink and his was to the door. I jumped on to the sink, hiking up my dress a little higher, so that I could hook one leg around his waist. Instinctively, his right hand went to my leg to hold it up, and his left hand was in my hair. 

His lips. I had seen them a million times before, studying his face as he rambled about a case. While he was just a colleague and possibly a friend, there were a few times when I would fall asleep thinking about those lips. And here he was, kissing me on a bathroom sink at a party, with enough force to make me melt into it. My hand went to his hair, as he began to trail kisses down my neck, hiding his face in me so that his reflection could not be seen. My other hand was gripping his waist, trying not to slip into the sink itself. My shoe was dangling on my toes as our bodies continued to crash. We heard the door click open, and my eyes opened to see the host and his assistant wide-eyed at us. 

“Occupied,” I panted, smiling with a small wave. The two quickly shut the door, their footprints receding down the hallway. As soon as it was quiet, Sherlock froze on my collarbone, neither of us moving for a moment. I removed my hand from his hair, trying to pat it back into place. He stood up, and looked down at me. My dress had ridden up further, and my black lace panties were definitely on display. So was the red in both of our faces. I glanced over his shoulder to look at the door, realizing that there was a lock on it. Sherlock didn’t look back. He kept his eyes on me. 

He knew there was a lock. He wanted the situation. He wanted to get caught.

“Lock it” I demanded.

He took a few steps back and turned the button, locking the door. His eyes didn’t leave me. I was still propped up against the sink, both hands propped up behind me. My legs had still been open, and as his eyes raked over my body looked, I grew self-conscious and went to close them. But he stepped towards me, grabbing my lower thigh. I hesitantly opened myself back up for him. His hand moved up my thigh, while the other wrapped around my waist, drawing himself closer to me. I placed a hand on his chest, running it up until it was at the nape of his neck, playing with his soft, black curls. I gently tugged him toward me, and our lips attached once more. This time, it was more more sensual. Taking the time to just allow ourselves to feel one another. As he pulled away, I let out a small gasp as I felt his growing bulge against my clothed core. 

He seized the opportunity to kiss me again, letting his tongue wander and explore my mouth, pulling me as close as I could be to him. He pushed himself against me, causing a soft moan to escape, as I involuntarily rolled against him. He smirked against my mouth, moving once more against me. I hissed, feeling myself grow wetter. 

Sherlock pulled me off the sink, wrapping both of my legs around him before pinning me against the wall. I was sitting just on top of his cock, and the friction was even more frustrating. I grinded down on him, kissing his neck, while leaving small bites in between. I needed more though. I unwrapped my legs, and he lowered me to the ground. When he placed me down, I kissed him with passion while I started to undo his trousers. He walked backwards to the sink, leaning up against it, as I palmed him through his suit. His low groan made me quiver as I licked a long stripe up his neck to his ear, wear I softly bit the lobe. This drove him crazy.

Pants still undone, he whipped us around so that I was against the sink again. He pulled my dress up enough so that he could hook his fingers in the lace of my panties and pull them down. He lifted me up on to the sink to get them off of me. He worked them past my heels, and placed both of his hands on my thighs, rubbing circles into them with his thumb. His forehead was resting on mine and we were both breathing in sync. I opened my legs for him, as he traced his way between my legs. The violinist in him was showing, and he was going to work out the tension and boredom he had been feeling all day. His fingers came in contact with me, running through my folds. He went from my clit down to my opening, just toying with me. I let out a whimper as he placed his middle finger just barely inside of me. He slowly pushed his digit inside of me, causing a guttural groan to escape. I bucked into his hand, desperate for more. He pumped it casually, as if he had done this to me a million times and knew how I would react. He then slipped a second finger into me, causing me to emit another moan. 

“Please Sherlock. No games,” was all I could manage. 

He began to pump his fingers in a come-hither motion, curling them to hit my g-spot. I gasped with every movement, keeping as quiet as I could. He was working his way to get me as wet as I could be for him. I was starting to feel the tension in my stomach build when he placed his thumb on my clit and made sharp movements with it. I cried out, gripping his shoulders for support. I was going to need him soon if he wanted to me to finish with his cock inside me. But he kept pumping and rubbing, watching as my face conveyed every emotion he had ever made me feel. My arm wrapped around his neck, as I could barely keep myself up anymore. 

“Sherlock, you-you’re gonna..m-make me..c-cum…” I stutter out. I am rocking against his hand, chasing what I can’t stop. This only urges him more, as he quickens his pace. Without warning, I cum all over his finger with a cry. But he doesn’t stop. He continues to work my pussy, until I gasp out “I’m...I’m gonna squirt”. He steps out from between my legs, his fingers not stopping. As he steps to the side, he leans in to my ear and finally says something. 

“Show me”. 

It was all it took for my orgasm to elongate itself, as I squirted on his hand. I couldn’t stop and was shaking, barely able to keep myself up. I almost crumpled backwards before he caught me. Once again, he was between my legs, his hands on my neck and waist. I reached for his painfully hard cock, pulling it from his pants. I started stroking him, causing his eyes to flutter close. I was still coming down from what he had done with just his fingers, but I needed his dick inside me. I looked up at him, and said something that I knew would only boost his ego, and he would probably use against me later. 

“Mr. Holmes, I need you inside me, now”. 

His eyes shot open, as I looked back at him with lust-blown eyes. My hand was still wrapped around his cock, slowly pumping him. He and his god-complex were completely enamoured with my new take of teasing him. I lined his cock at my entrance, but not before teasing him through my folds. Just that little movement caused goosebumps to erupt on my skin. As I put his tip in my entrance, he searched my eyes once more for the consent he needed. I pushed myself onto him a little, letting him know he could take me. He leaned in, pushing his length all the way into me. I let out a loud gasp, wrapping my arm around his neck once more, my other hand on his back. I was still throbbing from my previous orgasm, and I knew he could feel my warm pulse inside me. He slowly pulled out, and then quickly sheathed himself inside me again. Our pelvises were against each other and his gently movements drove me crazy. I let out a cry of ecstasy, letting my head roll back, exposing my neck. He kissed it gently, and then, lifted me off the counter and back against the wall. All I could do was struggle to remain quiet as he began quick thrusts deep into me, relentlessly hitting my sweet spot. He was open mouthed against my neck, breathing erratically as he continued to hold me up. 

“You feel, s-so g-good,” I moaned, urging him to continue. He loved it when I complimented him, he had always been that way. But to be inside me as I told him how much I loved his cock, it was heaven for him. The guttural sounds from his throat proved to me that he felt the same.

“Y/n, I’m not gonna last much longer” he said, as though it would deter me. As he began to remove himself, I grabbed his face to look at me. 

“I want you to cum inside, Detective,” I whisper, wrapping my legs tighter around him to prove my point. 

His eyes widened searching my face as I was in taking all of him, bouncing on his dick in a penthouse bathroom, loving everything he did. Seeing what he could do to me, looking into my eyes as I stifled my moans, he began to stutter inside of me. I was on the edge too, and when his hot rope of cum shooted inside of me, my own orgasm exploded, milking him of the rest of his cum. 

When we had both stilled, frozen with him still inside me, we could hear the party still going and the noise of London below us. He pulled his softening cock from me and as he did, our cum dripped down my thigh. My legs were incredibly weak, as he continued to hold me up. I reached for a hand towel to clean me up, but he beat me to it, wiping up and between my legs, careful not to cause pain from the sensitivity. He picked up my underwear that he had tossed on the ground somewhere, and helped me step back into it. I was still shaky if I bent my legs, but I knew he would hold me up. As we looked at each other, there was something new we both saw. Romance. The sexual chemistry that had been there was a response to the catalyst of romance. 

Before we could discuss the aftermath of our actions though, there was a loud banging on the door. Smoothing out my dress just past the door, Sherlock opened it to find John, arms crossed, waiting outside.   

“Are you shitting me Sherlock? You look like you just took a hit of something. Did you seriously lose Y/N at this party because you were trying to get hi…”

The door widened to reveal me, just behind Sherlock, makeup slightly down my fae, and both of our hair tousled. I smiled at John, knowing it wasn’t what he had expected. His jaw dropped, “Tha..you were,,,um...has this been long or...?” Dr. Watson stuttered. 

“No John, that was the first time and it won’t be the last” he said, grabbing my arm and pulling me past him. 

“Don’t be too jealous John,” I said with a wink. 

John didn’t know what to say except, “Are we done here?”

Sherlock and I walked arm in arm down the hallway, casting back a look at John as if to say “What do you think?” 

~~~~~~~~~~~

This was my first oneshot and was it trash? Yeah, maybe. So if you know me, no you don’t :)

Leave suggestions if you’d like, I’m writing smut I can’t find. 

[killuaisaprincess]

ocean blues

summary: 

"You're really pretty, Killua."

Killua’s breath is snatched right away from his lungs again as if he's being pushed underwater once more. His sunburned cheeks, pale red in hue, changing like the sunset to bright red, his brilliant blue eyes darting down.

"I-"

He isn't. Not at all. He isn't attractive like Gon. Gon with his bright smile, his little dimples, his dumb hair, that looks way too stupidly good down and wet like this. Pretty. That wasn't a word to describe Killua at all... his vampire pale skin, skin marred with scars, his dumb, stupid hair that always poofs up even when he combs it..

Gon's fingers press into the skin near his cheek, lightly, so careful to not touch where he was burnt by the sun. Sunscreen only helped so much with a complexion as fair as his.

"Killua. I meant what I said earlier. You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

♥*♡∞:｡.｡　　｡.｡:∞♡*♥

Geez... for someone so insistent on coming to the beach Gon Freecss was sure taking his sweet ass time.

Killua had ended up situated at the beach house located near the far back of the beach, resting on the wooden porch. It was open to the public, so he had no worries of getting yelled at. Speaking of, boy, was he ever going to yell Gon's ear off when he got here...

The soles of his feet just scrap against the sand, one leg swung over the other, his elbow resting on his knee, his chin against his open palm. He lets out a huge sigh, inhaling the ocean breeze, salty, a little wet, and calming in a way.

His free hand taps at the wood impatiently, blue eyes narrowing. Gon must be packing an entire fucking suitcase of stuff with how long he's taking. All Killua has is was what he has on. A sunhat made of straw, with a beautiful deep royal blue bow in the back, a white tank top and white trunks, and... a white jacket with a neon-bright light blue zipper over the tank top.

All to protect him from the beating sun... and stares...

He wasn't like Gon with his gorgeous skin-kissed skin; he was all sickly and pale looking...

"Killlluuuuuaaaaa!"

Speak of the devil, and he shall arrive. Killua stands up, a hand falling to his hip, glaring holes at the figure approaching. The very easy-to-spot figure with the ridiculous green trunks and turtle floatie hanging around his left arm.

"Sorry! I didn't mean to take so long!"

Gon presses his palms together, closing one eye and attempting to look sorry, too bad he doesn't in the least! Not to Killua...

"Stupiddddd! Next time I'll just ditch you and go someplace else!"

Gon lets out an awkward, nervous laugh stepping up onto the dock, making Killua back up slightly.

"Did you put on sunscreen?"

A strong hand goes to grab his thin pale wrist, his sleeves not reaching quite that far, pink brushing across his cheeks.

Gon peers up at him before staring at his wrist once more, as if he could magically tell if Killua put on sunscreen or not by staring long enough...

Not like he's the same damm color as the thing...

"I don't want you to get hurt. You're so pale."

Geez. Thanks for the obvious observation, Sherlock Holmes. Might as well call him Watson... but his heart picks up in pace for some reason when Gon looks at him with those caramel eyes all full of concern.

"S-shut up! Do you think I'm stupid?"

Killua snatches his hand back, his ears burning as Gon stares dumbly before jumping off the porch, grinning.

"Nope! I guess not!"

Killua stares at him, incredulously going to step down himself before a hand is offered to him.

H-Huh? Did Gon think that was deep? It was like a tiny step down. He just got down on his own perfectly well! What's with this?

He's stuck staring at a row of brilliant pearly whites, all straight minus one canine on the left upper side that sticks further out. It's endearing, like everything about Gon, and how can Killua say no to that smile... it sort of... feels warm. This feeling.

He grasps Gon's offered hand with a puff of air and shy mumbled word of gratitude, stepping down, the warmth of the sand almost scalding hot. He sort of regrets not wearing flip-flops now... how was Gon perfectly okay?

Gon grins, slowly letting go and dashing ahead.

Killua follows. Albeit, very, very slowly.

—

They get closer to the shore of the beach, and turns out the reason Gon was taking so long was that he had been setting up a small nice little resting area. Complete with two umbrellas and two towels. Killua takes his hat off and places it under his towel.

Gon carefully places a book of some sort on top of it, so it doesn't get blown away, saying how it looked really pretty on Killua. Something Killua chooses to ignore. His cheeks flush every color of pink and red in the dictionary, but he just scoffs, looking away with a retort on how Gon's embarrassing. Which he is!

Still, it didn't mean anything. What Gon says that is. He likely says the same thing to his aunt and everyone, really. Killua's isn't special... if only his heart would realize that too and stop pounding so hard.

—

"Killua? Aren't you going to take that off? It'll get wet."

Gon points to his jacket, and Killua's heart stops beating, and he forgets how to breathe.

He can't say no to Gon...

Thin fingers grasp the edges of his jacket with an iron grip, shakily moving down to tug the zipper down, slipping one side off, then the next, letting it drop into the sand.

Shame burns in his chest, across his creased brow, the tilt of his neck down. His neck tinted red, alongside his cheeks and near his sternum. All in shame.

He doesn't want to wait for the comments. A dry chuckle choked past lips.

"Creepy, right?" Black and blue marring his arms, silver-like scars long healed. It was just how it is. He wouldn't learn any other way...

Killua leans down to pick up his jacket, his throat constricting, a lump crawling up and clawing at his throat, fire burning in his eyes, tears building up.

"No!"

...Huh?

Killua refuses to look up, slowly grasping at the cloth.

"I don't think that! At all! I think you're the most pretty thing I've ever seen!"

Killua slowly slips the jacket back on, refusing to look up, chewing on his bottom lip.

You're just saying that.

It's sweet, Gon. Thanks.

"Ah! Well! I mean! It just proves how beautiful and strong you are! On the inside and out!"

A small laugh spills from his lips, his heart skipping a beat.

What a dumbass.

"But not anymore! You don't have to be strong! I mean! 'Cause I'm here!"

Stupid. ...What does that even mean?

Killua looks up, Gon's arms stretched out, a sheepish grin across those childish but strong features. His heart may have skipped a beat again...

If not for how ridiculous Gon looks, saying it all wearing bright-green trunks with a turtle floatie over his arm, a turtle floatie that was clearly manufactured wrong with its beady black eyes and giant head.

Killua bursts out laughing.

—

Gon is already waist-deep in the water by the time Killua reaches the shore of the ocean, staring down at the murky water. The sand squishes between his toes, the waves washing over the tops of his feet. It's cold, but that's not really what bothers him. Below the surface, he catches glimpses of green wavy seaweed. He sucks in a breath, a furrow to his light brows obscured by his curly locks that shift with the movement.

"Killua! What's taking so long?"

Gon's voice draws him from his stupor, looking up to see the dumbass hadn't moved at all, waving his hand to signal Killua.

"Geez! You have no patience, idiot!"

He snaps to play it off, eyeing the seafloor once more, taking a slow step forward, his breath hitching. Blue eyes shifting up to see the progress he has made. Except he's greeted by those warm caramel eyes, golden specks and all, and almost falls back on his ass.

"G-Gon!"

Spluttering, he stumbles back. When had he gotten back over?!

Gon tilts his head, bottom lip jutted out into a pout.

"Welll, you were taking soooooo long! Ah! Plus, I remembered! You don't like slimy things, right?"

Sheesh... he thought Gon only had a pile of bricks for a brain, but the idiot seemed to be pretty perceptive...

"Gon. I'm not scared of a little-AH!"

Gravity is torn from him, and a scream he doesn't want to admit is his escapes from his lips, fingers clawing blindly.

"You're being silly, Kill~u~a! I'll just carry you across!"

He's the one being silly?! Why you...

Ah... carry him...

Reality slowly sets in; he had been clawing at Gon...

Gon... is...

Wading into the water with ease like Killua weighs no more than a feather, a strong arm hooked under his knee, his other hand resting on his back. Humming. God, kill Killua now. Take his heart and plunge it into the sea... his face is on fire, and he can't tell if it's from the sun or Gon... they are basically one and the same.

—

Gon stops his trudge through the water and sand, looking over at the floatie still over his arm and then him... Sheesh, Killua knew this idiot didn't think this through... Killua's fine, though... he can handle a little seaweed. He goes to tell Gon to put him down, but the dumbass has other ideas. He grins, looking over at Killua apologetically.

"Sorry! One sec, Killua!"

"Huh?"

Killua is moved in an instant; he isn't even sure what happened. Just the sudden swirl of the world, the momentum making his head spin. His nose is now almost touching the water. He's over Gon's shoulder.

But... but... this warmth of Gon's hand...

Is. On. His. Ass!

This idiot! Who the hell holds someone over the shoulder by their assets?! He wants to die. His face is burning, and does this idiot even know? Killua can feel him fidgeting around to drop the floatie off.

"Sorry, Killua... I promise that's not what I was aiming for!"

Forgot it! Stop! Don't acknowledge it! This is way worse! He groans, burying his burning face in his hands. Gon sounding sheepish isn't helping how lightheaded he feels either.

"I don't want to drop you now."

Just drop him!

Luckily, he's spared of further embarrassment when Gon swiftly flips him over like he weighs as much as a rag doll, his arm resting under his knees again, the other near his shoulder.

Killua slowly peels his fingers away from his face, refusing to acknowledge the faint pink across Gon's cheeks.

"Up you go!"

Gon gently adjusts his movements, placing Killua up onto the floatie to the best of his given ability.

Killua would be lucky to drown in the water at this point, sinking into the hole in the floatie, his thighs touching the cold water.

God, or should he say, Gon, always has other plans...

He gives Killua a toothy grin, kicking his legs to gain momentum. One hand is placed on each side of the floatie. Killua can only suppress a groan, gritting his teeth and digging his nails into the rubber as Gon starts to move him around on the float with great speed. It's a miracle he doesn't pop the damm thing.

—

The force eventually sends him flying. He's submerged in water with a painful splash, running from his skull to his fingertips and aching in his back. Water runs into his nose, burning, eyes stinging with the salt from the water. It pushes into his lips; the taste is almost as bad as the feel, his limbs pushing against the harsh waves, desperate to reach the surface. A hand snags around his waist before he can collect himself, adjust to the water, and tugs him out.

The air hits his lungs, the light blinding, and his nose still burning. He coughs a few times to dislodge any water from his lungs. Wiping his now wet sleeves over his eyes, slowly tugging his forearm away, staring back at huge concerned puppy dog eyes.

"Killua! Are you okay?"

Killua brings his left arm up, wiping under his nose, sniffing.

"Yeah, I just got water up my nose, don't worry, stupid."

Gon seems to visibly relax, his hand still on Killua's waist, which the younger is desperately trying to ignore.

Gon's other hand touches the water's surface and moves, pausing mid-air for a second. He brushes his fingers near Killua's reddened cheeks, moving up and pushing a wet strand of hair behind the other's ear.

"You're really pretty, Killua."

Killua's breath is snatched right away from his lungs again as if he's being pushed underwater once more. His sunburned cheeks, pale red in hue, changing like the sunset to bright red, his brilliant blue eyes darting down.

"I-"

He isn't. Not at all. He isn't attractive like Gon. Gon with his bright smile, his little dimples, his dumb hair, that looks way too stupidly good down and wet like this. Pretty. That wasn't a word to describe Killua at all... his vampire pale skin, skin marred with scars, his dumb, stupid hair that always poofs up even when he combs it...

Gon's fingers press into the skin near his cheek, lightly, so careful to not touch where he was burnt by the sun. Sunscreen only helped so much with a complexion as fair as his.

"Killua. I meant what I said earlier. You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

He darts his eyes up to stare just a second. Determination, endearment, everything was shinning in those eyes of Gon's... his heart starts to pound in his chest, he's afraid Gon might hear it.

Gon leans in unbearably close; he can feel his breath tickling his skin, Gon may be breathing, but he's forgotten how.

Lips brush up against his gently, the taste salty, the feeling warm, lasting only a mere second but washing away all of Killua's anxieties.

Gon beams at him, tugging his hand away slowly, letting his fingers run through Killua's sopped hair.

"Let's go back. I'll carry you again, so you don't have to walk through the seaweed!"

His face burns, and he splashes Gon with water, averting his eyes.

"S-stupid!"

In an endearingly lovable way... but he doesn't think he has to tell Gon that, the teen's grin as bright as the sun in the sky.

Really... he is... stupid.

[addaellisplaysgames]

((Just something inspired by the new Mysteries of the Lost Gold Trailer. Probably not canon-compliant and at least a little OOC. Luke x MC/ Raven x Rosa.))

WC: 1854

His Rosa was scrutinizing something from a market stall when he found her. Luke watched fondly for a while before softly tapping her and taking her hand, careful now to startle her. She rewarded him with a relaxed smile.

“Look, it’s seaweed!” She showed him the hair clip. At first he thought it was a regular poppy flower, carved out of wire and cloth. But as his Rosa had observed, the texture of the flower, the thin carved veins on the surface, and the way it was folded resembled red seaweed with small silk beads for stamens.

“I didn’t even know red seaweed looked so different,” she mused. “It must have taken a lot of effort to carve the flower like that.” She set the hair clip down and turns to him. “Did Adjudicator get in contact with the dealer?”

“Yeah,” Luke replied. “We’ll talk about the details later.” He pinned the hair clip on her, replacing the usual clip. “It’s cute. You should get it.”

“You always say that,” she said, but her cheeks blushed happily from his compliment.

“Well, you’re always cute.”

“You silly….”

“Excuse me storekeep, how much for the hair clip?”

———

Rifle. Check. Scope. Check. Ghille. Check. Wind. Check. Target…in sights.

Luke carefully tracked the man between his crosshairs as they walked to the meeting point. He looked up and could see Libra and Rosa standing a few feet away, calmly keeping the target in position. He hated that she was so close yet so far away, and he hated that she was in danger again. But he was proud of how calm and brave she was even facing off a notorious criminal who called himself the “God of Death.”

Luke returned his eye to the scope. In the National Security Bureau, snipers were sometimes called gods of death themselves, for being able to rain silent death from afar. He preferred his Sherlock Holmes moniker, but if being a God of Death was what it took to take down this criminal, then that’s what he would have to be.

Luke took a deep breath…And fired.

Luke’s heart jolted when the rifle went off. It wasn’t the recoil or even the dulled bang of the gun. It wasn’t even the prospect of killing another human, even if the shot had been lethal. But just as he’d fired, he could have sworn he’d seen a flash of familiar red through the crosshairs.

———

Artem Wing was having a very surreal day. Raven and Rosa flirting over a hair clip was nothing unusual, and neither was arguing with King or even Adjudicator agreeing to this whole ridiculous plan with a creepy smile. But the sunny beaches and clear waters seemed too idyllic to be hiding a gang of murderers. For the legend of gold to be poison…this whole paradisal island was built on poison and blood.

Still, setting the target up for a sniper’s bullet—even if it was simply a tranquilizing bullet—sounded awfully like an assassination to him. Artem was an attorney after all, a pillar of justice and legal operation. Due process wasn’t just a motto, it was a creed he solemnly swore by. But the dealer this time was a confirmed killer, and had already escaped justice multiple times. Taking him down by normal means was simply out of the option. And if Raven was as good as he was confident, if they got the right suspect immediately…then this could be over in one shot.

The meeting and conversation itself seemed to go smoothly. Too smoothly. It was like he was in a dream world, and he didn’t even have to think to say the right words to placate the dealer. As the interaction was wrapping up, his partner suddenly whispered to him. They had the wrong guy. This had been a set up—They had to let Raven know the right target right away before a potential innocent was hurt in the crossfire—

But when that one shot happened. Artem watched in slow motion as the supposed dealer was flung back, clutching his shoulder and screaming in shock. His partner collapsed on the ground. Her eyes squeezed shut. There was blood in her hair.

Next to her laid the tattered remains of the poppy hair clip. The tiny beads scattered like dark red grains of pepper sunk into the pristine sand. The carefully carved red seaweed folds were torn to mangled shreds of cloth, like another life sacrificed before the golden alter of the God of Death.

———

According to the plan, Artem would be doing most of the talking. She glanced around, noting the dealer’s bodyguards around the space.

The dealer seemed nervous, but that wasn’t itself unusual. They were attorneys after all, and anyone would be hesitant to talk to lawyers, regardless of how many times they had gotten away. But she studied how his too-casual crossed arms contradicted the fidgeting with the cuffs of his sleeves—which were a tad too long for a dealer that could more than afford to have every suit hand-tailored. Yet his head seemed unusually still, as though the hat on it was a crown. Hm…

She kept one ear on the conversation as she studied the bodyguards again surreptitiously. The dealer hesitated. And then she saw one bodyguard shift—his face barely moved, but his neck moved as though he were speaking. He stopped, and the dealer spoke again.

She suddenly remembered how the ex-con had said the dealer was particularly paranoid, and how he continued to avoid capture and death. Calling himself “God of Death”, he seduced his victims with golden poison, and commanded loyalty through fear and an antidote just out of reach. All who voiced complaint would mysteriously vanish….

The conversation was coming to a close. The dealer signaled for his bodyguards to leave, and she knew the way were running out of time. The suspicious bodyguard was turning around to leave, and she noticed he was slightly taller than the dealer. And his shoes—brand new boots, without a scratch.

“This is the wrong man,” she said quietly to Artem. “The real culprit—“

She held her hand up to reveal the decoy, and suspicion and alarm flashed through the fake dealer’s eyes. He dealer grabbed her, pulling her in front of him and shouting for Artem not to move, else he’d snap the pretty girl’s neck. But before anyone could do anything, an invisible force whistled past her head, throwing the fake dealer back. He howled, but all she felt was ringing in her ears and a forceful tug, like someone yanking her braids. The world around her turned black for a moment, and she found herself on the ground, covered in sand.

“The bodyguard!” She called out, pointing. She struggled to move but her legs felt like jelly and her head was spinning like she was thrown into a centrifuge. She tried calling out again, because Artem wasn’t looking—he was kneeling by her side, eyes blown wide with concern and fear. “The bodyguard is the real dealer! He’s getting away!”

The suspicious bodyguard was running without a backwards glance for his decoy, and the groups as quickly collapsing around him. She fought through the throbbing in her head to keep an eye on him. Marius was nearby, she knew, ready to be backup. Her fingers trembled on the phone. “King! The real dealer is reaching the road now, the one on the motorcycle—don’t let him get away!”

———

It was over. Marius had pulled some crazy motor-cross stunts and managed to take down the suspicious bodyguard. The police had arrived to take all involved into custody, and the decoy had joined them once the tranquilizer wore off. As obnoxious as the little brat was, Luke had to give Marius credit for understanding what happened and taking down the target before they could get away.

The real hero though, was perched on the couch talking to him. He handed her a cup of tea, and took the ice pack from her ankle. “Wasn’t this supposed to be for your head? Are you feeling that much better already?” He asked lightly.

Rosa simply nodded, sipping lightly on the tea. Luke had made sure it was cool just enough so she wouldn’t be dangerous even if she did spill it. “The ringing stopped a while ago. I think I twisted my ankle trying to run in the sand though.” She sat up straight. “Are you okay?”

Luke sighed self-deprecatingly. “Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that? You’re the one that nearly got shot.”

She set the tea aside, cupping his cheeks to look her in the eye. “Dr. Ritcher said there doesn’t seem to be any damage, psychological or physical. I guess I was too focused on the case to realize I was nearly shot. You and Artem were the ones that had to watch.”

He nuzzled into her soft touch. “My heart nearly stopped,” he confessed. “He moved so suddenly. I thought I’d accommodated for that, but then I saw you fall….”

“But it was a tranquilizing dart, not a real bullet.”

“But he’s a much bigger person!” Luke exclaimed. “That dose might have been lethal for you. And it wasn’t supposed to be delivered to your head! And then…there was blood in your hair…I’m so sorry.”

His Watson—his brave and clever Watson—was undeterred. She patted him gently as she explained again. “It was just the decoy yanking my hair so suddenly and the sound of the dart so close that startled me. And it was his blood. I’m fine.” She smiled brightly, banishing the dark clouds that had been swirling around his heart with radiant confidence. “I never doubted you’d hit your target precisely. You’re my beloved Sherlock, right?”

He hugged her close, hoping he could shelter her from everything, even himself. “I’m yours.”

———

It had been a few days since they returned to Stellis. The bell of his antique store announced a visitor, and Peanut’s excited chirp announced his girlfriend. “In all the commotion after the case I forgot t give this to you,” she said, approaching the desk. She paused to hold out a finger to Peanut, who landed with a happy trill. “I thought your old keychain could use a well deserved break.”

Luke took the tissue-paper wrapped gift. It was a keychain of a distinctive detective’s hat and pipe, carved out of a seashell and coated in resin. “This was what you had gotten? I thought…I thought you’d gotten yourself a present.”

“A present for you is a present for me, silly,” she replied, entertaining Peanut with a toy. “Do you dislike it?”

“No, it’s amazing,” he said, immediately attaching the keychain to his camera. “Actually, I have a surprise for you too,” Luke said. He set a hair clip in front of her: gentle red cloth and wire, etched to look like red seaweed, but folded like a flower.

“The hair clip! You remade it?”

“Except this time as a rose,” he said shyly.

She pinned it to her hair immediately, twirling to show it off. “How is it?”

“Cute,” he said, wrapping his arms around her gently. “You’re always cute.”

“I think I like this one better,” she murmured against his chest. “You made it for me after all.”

“I do too. Truly, a rose represents you best.”

[i-will-physically-fight-you]

The Tiny Terror

Title:  The Tiny Terror

Summary: (Continuation of this fic) Roman doesn’t understand why a young Virgil would trust him over Patton. With their rivalry that stems all the way to childhood, surely he’s the last one Virgil wants anything to do with. Yet Virgil trusts him, looks up at him in admiration. With Logan away researching a solution and Patton checking up on Thomas, it’s up to Roman to take care of the now kid Anxiety for the day.

Word-Count: 1.9k

Pairings: brotherly prinixety, background platonic lamp

Warnings: de-aging, crying, fear, self-doubt, guilt, bullying mention

This is a birthday fic for @theeternalspace! Happy Birthday Acantha, it’s a little hard to believe we’ve been friends for over a solid year now. You mentioned a while back you’d enjoy a continuation of this AU and well, I hope I’ve delivered :D

-

Roman isn’t scared. Brave, fearless princes like him don’t get scared. They get merely troubled or perplexed when faced with uncertain circumstances. Those emotions don’t last long, mind you. He always overcomes them to save the day and today won’t be an exception. He’s sure of it.

Virgil is tiny. Just a little rain drop compared to his normal gloomy thunderstorm self. He can’t be more than four--maybe five--years old. He’s sound asleep in Roman’s arms, the poor dude tuckered out from his crying. His little hands hold on tightly to Roman’s shirt, as if even unconscious he’s afraid of letting go.

“He’s so little.” Roman whispers, gently stroking Virgil’s hair.

He still doesn’t understand it. Even as children, Roman treated Virgil terribly. He made fun of his fears, teasing young Anxiety relentlessly. Worst yet, the rare occasions he included Virgil in games of make-believe, he always pushed Anxiety into playing the villain. 

So it wasn’t really a surprise that Virgil took that role on full-time. Not even a few years back, Roman thought it’d been only confirmation of Virgil’s true nature. Nowadays he held onto a guilt knowing he forced Virgil into that role.

So why did the Tiny Terror chose him over Patton? Kind, loving Patton who has never cruelly taunted Virgil or shunned him for simply existing? He isn’t deserving of this trust Virgil has placed in him.

Patton and Logan hover nearby, just as perplexed by the situation as Roman. Patton wrings his hands nervously. He looks like he’s seconds away from scooping his anxious kiddo into his arms and never letting go.

 Meanwhile Logan frowns, cupping his chin with one hand. It’s his classic thinking pose. All he needs is a deerstalker hat and a pipe and he’d a spitting image of Sherlock Holmes. Roman pictures a tiny Virgil trailing after Logical Side in too-large clothing as Watson and well...as Logan himself would put it, the image is too precious to process.

“It’s hard to believe we were once as little as him, isn’t it?” Patton breaths in, “he’s so cute I wanna pinch his little cheeks.”

“While he is undeniably, factually adorable, I think we should remain focused on finding out what caused this...change in him.”

“Have any hypotheses, Logan-rithm?” Roman asks.

“A few. However I’d like to do some research just to be certain,” Logan pauses, “It might be also wise for one of us to check up on Thomas and to see if this change is affecting him in any way.”

Roman and Patton glance at one another.

“I can go--” Roman begins, but Patton waves him off.

“No, it’s okay! I can do it! Besides,” He smiles knowingly, “you have your hands full already.”

“Indeed,” Logan adjusts his glasses, “since Virgil seems to inexplicably trust you he might wake up distressed if you are not with him.”

“Then on my word as a knight, I shall keep him safe while you two are off on your own quests.”  Roman vows, forsaking his usual bow since he was holding Virgil. 

“Yes, well, I shall go to my room now to research.” Logan says, sinking out.

“I’m sure you’ll do a terrific job, kiddo!” Patton says as he sinks out, leaving both Roman and Virgil alone in the hallway of the Mindscape.

“Well,” Roman says, looking down at Virgil, “it’s just us, little prince.”

Virgil grumbles in his sleep, shifting slightly. His young face is devoid of the dark eyeshadow Roman is so used to seeing on him. When had he started wearing the eyeshadow? Had it been high school? Roman couldn’t recall. 

He walks to the mindscape common area, careful not to jostle Virgil along the way. He could’ve teleport himself and Kid Fright over there but he was worried that rising up would have a negative effect on Virgil like it did for his adult self.  Once there, he gently lays Virgil down on the couch. Or at least, he attempts to do so. 

“Nooo,” Virgil whimpered, his shrill voice spooking Roman. He nestles his head further into the nook between Roman’s neck and shoulder. He clings to Roman, his grip tighter than any two-headed python that Roman has ever fought.

“You said you wouldn’t let go.” Virgil drowsily mumbles, muffled by Roman’s shirt, “don’t leave  me!”

Oh, Roman thinks as his heart threatens to break, of course Virgil would have separation anxiety. Little kids often had it. He wonders if growing up, Virgil was left alone and terrified because no one wanted to be with him. He tries shaking that thought away. He has to focus on how he can help Virgil now, in the present.

“I am truly sorry for breaking my promise, little raindrop,” Roman says, “I’ll stay with you and protect you from any evil Dragon Witch, knight’s honor.”

Virgil shifts, his little head popping up to look at him.

“Really?” Virgil asks, his eyes so bright and hopeful at the prospect that it hurts Roman’s heart even more.

“Really.” Roman says, booping Virgil’s nose. The kid actually giggles from it. Roman isn’t sure if he’s ever heard Virgil properly laugh before in his life. Usually it’s a dry, sarcastic chuckle or faint muffled laughter from Virgil covering his mouth. When Virgil gets back to normal, Roman decides to make it his mission to get an actual laugh out of the anxious side.

“Hey, wanna help me make a blanket fort?” He asks.

Virgil starts to nod his head before hesitating, “I--I don’t know how!”

“That’s okay, I can show you how if you’d like.”

A small smile slips onto his face, “Okay.”

“Alright,” Roman says, “Let’s get down to business!”

With a single hand, he conjures up the most fluffiest, softest pillows, blankets and stuffed animals imaginable. He looks at Virgil, who has his eyes on the purple bat plushie.  He grins, pleased to know he’d been right to summon that one. He moves toward it, propping Virgil on one hip in order to grab it.

“Here you go.” He says, presenting the bat plushy with the reverence it deserves. 

“I can have it?” Virgil asks, squinting his eyes at Roman, “N-no tricks?” 

Roman wants to throttle whoever dared to hurt young Virgil, himself included, right then and there. No child should be so hesitant about receiving a toy because they’re afraid someone is going to snatch it away last second. However, he doesn’t want to frighten Virgil anymore than he probably is. Instead he takes a deep breath and smiles.

“No tricks, little prince. Her name is Zola and she likes it when you hug her, it helps her feel less scared. You think you can take care of her for me?”

“Y-yeah.” Virgil tentatively nods, and Roman places the bat plushie into his arms.

“Good. Now let’s make the most supercalifragilisticexpialidocious blanket fort!”

“Supercali--super--” Virgil frowns, “what’s that?”

“Why it’s something to say when you have nothing to say!” 

“That’s silly.”

“No it isn’t.”

“It is too!”

The two settle into a lighthearted, childish banter as they set up the blanket fort. It’s a bit difficult, since Virgil continues to koala-cuddle him but Roman makes it work. With the finishing touch of fairy-lights, Roman thinks it’s quite grand. It’s been a while since he’s made a blanket fort. It’s mostly a thing both him and Patton indulge in. Logan sees them as impractical and Virgil, well. For whatever reason, Virgil has never been open to them.

“What now?” The little Imp of Fright asks, still staring at Roman like he holds the entire world in the palm of his hand. Had Virgil always look up at him with such love and admiration when they were kids? How was his younger self so blind to it? How could he take one look at Virgil and decide he was a villain that needed to be slain? 

“Creativity?” Virgil tugs at his sleeve, clutching Zola to his chest with his other hand, “You okay?”

Roman jolts out of his thoughts, “Oh, yes, I’m fine!”

“No you’re not, you’re crying!” 

“Oh,” He touches his wet cheeks, “I suppose I am.”

“Is-is it me?” Virgil hiccups, “Did I do something bad? I’m sorry--please don’t get upset--”

“Anx, take a deep breath,” Roman cuts in, trying to keep the kid from working himself up too much, “You’re okay. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But you were crying. That’s bad!” Virgil exclaims, on the edge of sobbing himself.

Oh dear Hera, Roman thinks. He’s not cut out for this. Patton would know how to calm Virgil down, how to explain things away in a positive, uplifting note. Logan would even be better than him. He could stay calm and rational, diverting Virgil’s attention to some fascinating fact. However they aren’t here and so he must try to do his best without them.

“Not all tears are bad,” Roman says, “sometimes...people get so happy they cry tears of joy. I just got so happy, because we were able to make the best blanket fort I’ve ever seen in my life! And you, little prince, helped. Why, I think it’s even more marvelous than King Arthur’s castle. Surely, you’ve heard of King Arthur?” 

“N-no,” Virgil sniffles.

“Well that won’t do,” Roman declares, “I guess I will have to rectify that by telling you the story of how he became King.”

Somewhere in the midst of his superfluous retelling of Arthurian legends, the two end up in the cozy confines of the blanket fort. Virgil sits on his lap, holding Zola as Roman waves his hands around as he speaks. Slowly, Virgil gets more captivated, asking questions of his own. 

“Wasn’t King Arthur scared?” Virgil asks at one point.

“Oh of course not. The Knights of the Round Table were there with him. He knew with his friends by his side, they’d be able to defeat the dragon together.”

“What do they do?”

“What do they do? Well, of course, dragons are crafty beings, so they had to hatch up a plan that would fool even the smartest of dragons…”

He’s enjoying this a little too much, to be honest. It has been a long, long while since he’s tapped into his core function in such a way. When he was younger, he used to make up stories on the spot all the time. He never cared which direction it went, so long as it ended happily. Nowadays, he doesn’t have time to waste on such needless whimsy. All of his ideas must be dedicated towards Thomas’ career in some way. They must be big and important. They must be perfect or else they don’t matter at all.

Halfway through, his little prince lets out a yawn with Roman following suit. 

“I guess we’re both getting sleepy, huh?” Roman muses. He had stayed up until the devil’s hour to finish a new video idea, so it’s no wonder he’s yawning as well.

“I’m not!” Virgil protests, even as another yawn escapes him, “I wanna know what happens next to Sir Gawain!”

“Alright, alright, I’ll keep going.” Roman says and he holds to that promise. He keeps on going until he asks the Child of the Corn a question and he doesn’t answer. He glances down to see Virgil curled up against him once more, fast asleep. Carefully, he maneuvers himself and Virgil until they are both lying down on the pile of blankets and couch cushions. 

“Sleep well, Virgil,” He whispers, pulling a soft, fuzzy blanket over the kid.

Roman can’t change the past. Virgil will return to his cankerous, worrywart adult self soon, he’s sure of it. For now, Roman will be the prince that the kid Virgil used to be deserved.

< A Little Prince | The Tiny Terror | An Itsy Bitsy Nightmare > 

[inevitably-johnlocked]

hi steph! know of any fics where sherlock dates someone else and john gets jealous and confesses his feelings?

Hi Nonny!

AHHHHHHH Okay, so I have this weird thing where I have a hard time reading fics where Sherlock is dating someone else, LOL, because I’m garbage. I dunno why… the closest I can get is fics with Victor Trevor in them as a “replacement” or “past bf” D: I’m so sorry I’m useless in this regard… Methinks these lists may help you out a bit? :)

MY FIC LISTS:

Jealous John

Jealous John Pt. 2 and Jealous Sherlock Pt 2

Jealous John Pt 3 and Jealous Sherlock Pt 3

Jealous John and Sherlock Pt. 4

ALEXX’S LISTS

John is Jealous of Victor Trevor

Victor Trevor Appears

MORE Victor Trevor/Sherlock (Part 2)

Jealous John

Sherlock with Other Men

John thinks of Sherlock with Other Men

EDIT: ACTUALLY NONNY, I just found an offline list in my folders that I think you will like; I’ve been waiting to post it anyway :P I hope this is good :D

VICTOR TREVOR / VICTOR IS SHERLOCK’S PAST FRIEND (S4)

Unforgiven by 221b_hound (M, 4,721 w., 1 Ch. || Marriage Proposal, Victor Trevor, Jealous / Protective John, Jealous Sherlock, Sherlock’s Past) – Sherlock’s latest case is for his ex boyfriend, the brilliant and handsome Professor Victor Trevor. John is not too happy about that. But things aren’t what they seem, an old friend of John’s is involved in the case, and John has a few surprises up his sleeve. Also - a proposal! Part 16 of Unkissed

Laid Bare by esplanade (T, 6,529 w., 1 Ch. || Romance, Fluff, Pining, Angst) – “I suppose it comes as no surprise that I always rather detested grand romantic gestures. They struck me as unnecessary and contrived, feeble attempts at desperately holding together relationships, most of which should have been allowed to fall apart.”

I can’t pretend by Salambo06 (E, 7,692 w., 1 Ch. || Fake Relationship, Victor Trevor, Jealous John, Miscommunications, Bed Sharing, Love Confessions, First Kiss/Time, Anal, BJs) – They had arrived more than a hour ago, and the moment they had walked inside the hotel reception, John had understood why Sherlock hadn’t wanted to come. Two men, posh suits and expensive watches on their wrists, had come to greet them with sharp remarks and badly hidden mockery, and John had seen red. Sherlock hadn’t said anything, mostly ignoring the two men entirely, and without thinking twice about it, John had slid an arm around Sherlock’s waist and introduced himself as his husband.

My Life for His by QuinnAnderson (E, 8,816 w., 1 Ch. || Guardian/Protector, Greek Mythology || Growing Up, Sex, Religious Themes, Suicide, Minor Character Death) – It began when Sherlock was eight, and he attempted to climb all the way up to the highest branch in the old willow tree in his back garden. He’d thought he was still small enough that it could support him, but the second he’d grabbed hold of it to pull himself up, the branch snapped, and down he went, plummeting a solid twenty metres. The odd thing was, he never actually hit the ground.

Illogical, even. by magikspell (E, 9,119 w., 1 Ch. || Grey-Ace Sherlock, Character Study, Growing Up, Victor Trevor, Romance, First Time/Kiss, Sherlock-centric) – Five reasons Sherlock never believed in love and one reason he does now.

I’m content as we are (but) by inqui (The_Circus) (E, 13,086 w., 1 Ch. || Jealous John, UST/RST, Pining, Victor Trevor, Minor Whump, First Kiss / Time, Misunderstandings) – In which John Watson sees something unusual, becomes jealous, and makes too much of a small thing as an old friend of Sherlock’s shows up in the middle of a case.

Say For Me, Love by MirabileLectu (T, 13,147 w., 1 Ch. || UST, First Kiss, Drama, Pining John, Victor Trevor) – If you had asked John this morning what the result of his quiet afternoon at home would be, discovering a truth about Sherlock’s past startling enough to shift the foundations of their friendship would not have been his first guess. So naturally, that was what was bound to happen.

Let’s Make a Bed Out in the Rain by theimprobable1 (M, 17,664 w., 11 Ch. || Pining Sherlock, Angst & Fluff, First Kiss, Unrequited, Jealous Sherlock, Protective Sherlock) – John is devastated after his long-term girlfriend leaves him. Sherlock helps him through it.

That Partitioning of the Things of Youth by wearitcounts (E, 35,353 w., 7 Ch. || Humour and Angst, Post-TRF, Fake Relationship, UST / RST, Friends to Lovers, Jealous John) – Victor Trevor is in town, and nobody’s happy.

(Never) Turn Your Back to the Sea by DiscordantWords (M, 39,968 w., 7 Ch. || Post S4 Fix It || Grief / Mourning, Victor Trevor, Friendship, Sherlock is Not Okay, Nightmares/Flashbacks/Panic Attacks, Parentlock, Pining Sherlock, Angst with Happy Ending, John Comes Home) – Baker Street is very much the same. Only different. And Sherlock is just trying not to drown.

Resistivity and Relative Charge by liriodendron (E, 41,750 w., 8 Ch. || Synesthesia, Angst, Case Fic, Romance, Est. Rel., Homophobia, Religious Content, Victor Trevor, Mild Jealous John, Mild John Whump) – In which Sherlock Holmes meets an old acquaintance, John Watson doesn’t enjoy a trip to the country quite as much as he thought he would, and the past absolutely refuses to stay where it belongs. Part 3 of Conductivity

Sacré Coeur by Mamaorion (M, 95,236 w., 27 Ch. || S4 Fix It Rewrite, First Kiss, UST / RST, Eventual Happy Ending, Coming Out, Holmes Family, Marriage Proposal, Husbands, Healing, Evil Mary, Beekeeping, Caretaker Sherlock, Mind Palace, Alzheimer’s Disease, Protective / Big Brother Mycroft, TD-12) – In this s4 fixit, John must piece together the gaps in his altered memory if he and Sherlock are to face the terror that has plagued Sherlock since childhood. As they untangle the web, seven years of hidden love ignite. (TO READ)

A Further Sea by i_ship_an_armada & ShinySherlock (E, 125,492 w., 23 Ch. || Historical Pirates AU || Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Doctor John / Pirate Captain Sherlock, Sailing, UST / RST, Masturbation, Action / Adventure, Mild Angst & Peril, Romance, Shaving, Molly/Janine, Bottomlock, Hand / Blow Jobs, Past Drug Use, Slow Burn, Mild Violence, Happy Ending) – Here be a tale of adventure for both body and soul, but beware if ye be not of stout heart, for this be piratelock, ya savvy? Luckless ship’s surgeon John Watson takes a chance, and finds himself eye to eye with The Ghost, the scourge of the seven seas and a definite thorn in the side of the blaggard, James Moriarty. But when John finds there’s more to this most cunning pirate than be meetin’ the eye, he has to choose… is it a pirate’s life for him?

Colors by Quesarasara (E, 140,537 w., 17 Ch. || Pleasantville-Inspired AU || Soulmates, Colour Bonds, Alternating POV, Angst, Fluff, Pining, Case Fic, Medical Procedures) – Everyone on earth is born with eyes that see in black, white, and an endless series of greys. When you meet your soulmate, you finally see the world in color. We’re all searching for the person who brings color to our lives. John and Sherlock are no exception. Part 1 of The Colors ‘Verse

SHERLOCK AND OTHER MEN

Nothing to Make a Song About by emmagrant01 (E, 36,833 w., 10 Ch. || Post-TRF, First Time, Reunion, Jealous John, Pining Sherlock, Romance, Angst with Happy Ending) – When Sherlock returned from his faked death, John could not forgive him for the deception and broke off their friendship. Ten years later, John returns to London in search of yet another new beginning. Sherlock, not surprisingly, is waiting.

Drawn to Stars by Silvergirl (E, 66,392 + w., 42/56 Ch. || WiP || S4 Compliant to TLD / TFP Doesn’t Exist, Sherlock’s Italian Adventure, Jealous John, Mutual Pining, Misunderstandings, First Kiss/Time, Idiots in Love, Angst with Happy Ending) – After the Culverton Smith case Sherlock is clean, working, and looking for a romantic partner—since John has told him that’s what he needs. Shame John didn’t mention he was interested in that role himself, before Sherlock went off to Rome with a gorgeous Italian copper to try to fall in love and become a complete human being. (MARKED FOR LATER / TO READ)

[warriorofdragons]

Costume Contest

This is a limón ;)

You watch Kandomere finish buttoning his vest and then throw his coat over his shoulder, “How do I look?”

You smile and bite your lip, “Delicious as usual, Darling,” you coo as you step towards him and run your hands up his torso.

He smiles and tosses his coat onto the bed and grips your hips and he leans towards your ear, “You’re not trying to seduce me are you?” he asks in a low voice.

Your left hand moves down to his crotch and you stroke him and he sighs into your ear, “Whatever would give you that idea, Dear?”

He kisses and nibbles your ear gently, “Quite bold of a witch like you trying to seduce an honest man like myself,” he continues, as his right hand starts to bunch up the fabric of your dress.

You lean towards his ear and lick up to the tip slowly, eliciting a shuddering gasp from your elf. His hand meets your thigh finally and slides up over your stockings and finds the lace edges of the front of your thong. You sigh into his ear as he caresses you through the smooth satin and you do the same with him. His left hand moves to part your hair from your neck and he kisses you tenderly. You both stand there for a moment having forgotten what you were both supposed to be doing.

As he leans back to press his lips to yours, you catch sight of the clock in between kisses.

“Kandomere,” you mutter.

He kisses you again and pulls back briefly, “Yes?”

“Won’t we be late?” you ask kissing him again, he hums against your mouth and then pulls back slowly and stares at the clock.

He sighs, “Yes, we will, but we can still make it in plenty of time,” he says turning back to you with a smile.

You nod and release him and look towards the bathroom, “Just give me a minute to freshen up, we wouldn’t want everyone to know what we’ve been up to,” you whisper turning back to him.

He leans towards you and his lips ghost over yours, “Wouldn’t we though?”

“Not if we want to have some time alone in your office, Sir,” you whisper.

His arm wraps around your waist firmly and he stares deeply into your eyes for a moment before eagerly pressing his lips to yours and you eagerly return the gesture.

When you step out of the car you grab a hold of your boyfriend’s hand and he escorts you into the building and up the elevator. And upon walking into the main room you smile wide as two familiar faces greet you.

You hug Hernández first and then McTavish.

“I love your costumes! You two look so cute together!” Hernández exclaims, “Although I don’t know what you’re supposed to be?” she questions staring at Kandomere askance.

“A witch hunter,” Kandomere states.

Both of their eyes widen in recognition.

“That’s such a great couples costume!” McTavish exclaims.

You’re dressed in a long, black dress with long sleeves, complete with petticoats and heeled boots. And Kandomere is dressed in a light grey, three-piece suit with a white dress shirt.

Kandomere had wanted your costumes to be as accurate as possible, although the two of you did take some liberties with your designs and you added a plain, black pointed hat, and lace to the edges of your sleeves and dress, as well as gave yourself a decent neckline.

While Kandomere had chosen not to include a hat so as not to mess with his hair.

Your clothing was even made out of linen…well most of it anyways….

Gwen is dressed as a 1920s flapper with her hair pulled up into a bun, and a white, faux fur draped over her shoulders and pearls with a red dress with tassels.

Gabriela is dressed in a leather jacket with a dark grey shirt and jeans and fake fangs, and red eye contact lens with a few fake drops of blood going down her chin.

“There’s no way you two won’t win the costume contest,” Hernández says with a smirk.

“I’m hoping we might,” Kandomere says wrapping an arm around you.

“Ah there you are! You’re late!” Saerthon scolds.

You all stare over at the rest of Kandomere’s coworkers and move to join them.

You look at Kandomere and mouth the words ‘told you.’

He rolls his eyes and presses a kiss to your cheek and then discreetly whispers in your ear, “And we’ll be late getting home too.”

You smile and then turn your attention to the party as Saerthon hosts a game of trivia about Halloween.

“And is a pumpkin a fruit or a vegetable?” Saerthon asks.

“A vegetable?” Murphy asks confused by the question.

“No, it’s a fruit,” Arathir corrects.

“Wrong and correct,” Saerthon says pointing at Murphy and then at Arathir.

Kandomere finds Montehugh and guides you over to him to stand next to him.

“Hey, Boss, Happy Halloween,” Montehugh says.

“Happy Almost Halloween, unfortunately it’s one of our busiest days of the year,” Kandomere remarks.

“Yeah,” Montehugh says with a chuckle, “People really need to leave dark magic alone, but especially on nights like Halloween.”

Montehugh is dressed pretty much the same as usual but he does have a brown, fuzzy ear headband on his head and patches of fake fur on his hands.

Ah a wolfman then.

You then stare over at Saerthon who is dressed up as an ancient elven scholar, in what you presume to be a painstaking recreation that cost a few grand. And Agents Murphy and Arathir are dressed as Sherlock Holmes and Watson, and you can’t help but smile at the wooden pipe with bubbles coming out of it in Murphy’s mouth.

“Correct!” Saerthon exclaims as another question is answered, “And we have our winners for the trivia contest!” Saerthon announces as he brings out a trophy and a basket of goodies filled with cheeses. He hands it off to the team that won and then everyone falls back into the routine of idle conversation.

A lot of people still recognize you and greet you both and then you catch up with Hernández, and McTavish, and Montehugh for the better part of thirty minutes.

Until Saerthon walks over to you and Kandomere, “If you don’t mind me interrupting what is it you two are dressed as?”

“We’re a witch and witch hunter,” Kandomere says wrapping an arm around you.

He looks between you both and chuckles, “Splendid! That is, that is quite clever. Not completely historically accurate but I digress, we’ll be voting for best costume soon so don’t forget to cast a vote,” Saerthon adds as he wanders off again.

The two of you grab a few snacks from the table of food set out and quietly make your way down the hall towards Kandomere’s office. You polish off your snacks and Kandomere pulls out the key to his office and gives you a seductive look.

It’s been a while since you’ve had office sex and you’re eager to fuck Kandomere on the desk again.

He kisses you a few times and starts to unlock the door.

“Where are you two off to?” a voice asks.

You freeze and Kandomere turns around in annoyance.

You purse your lips and glance behind you at Saerthon, who’s walking down the hall towards you both.

“I’m just getting something from my office,” Kandomere says.

“This is an office party, you’re supposed to party now come on before you miss this too,” Saerthon scolds.

Kandomere sighs and locks his door again and the two of you head, arm and arm back towards the party.

Once there you write down a name on a piece of paper and place it in a cauldron, and then Saerthon shakes it up and pulls out a piece of paper.

His eyebrows raise in surprise, “Well, it seems we have two winners.”

And then he calls out your’s and Kandomere’s names.

Surprised you both approach to claim your prize and trophy that says ‘best costume’ on it and another basket filled with handmade soaps, some bubble bath, and a little unicorn plushie with a ribbon wrapped around it.

Kandomere takes it from him and you pick up one of the soaps and sniff it and hum at the pleasant aroma. They’re not overpowering in the slightest and you’re actually excited to get to use them. Kandomere takes out the unicorn plushie and boops the unicorn’s nose against yours and you smile. You both continue to hang around the party for another fifteen minutes, but it’s becoming clear that you’re not going to get another opportunity to head for Kandomere’s office so you give up and decide to go home for the evening.

After you finally get home you set the basket of soaps on the bathroom counter and then walk back into your bedroom. You smile when you see Kandomere has placed your trophy on the dresser.

“I didn’t think we’d Both win the contest,” you say.

He chuckles, “Neither did I, but I still wish we had gotten some time alone,” he says wrapping an arm around you and puling your body close to his.

You smile and kiss him.

As you pull back you brush your hands over his suit, “That doesn’t mean we can’t still enjoy our ‘costumes,’” you say softly.

He smiles wide, “I’ve been eager to take that off you all night,” he whispers.

“Then take it off, Darling,” you whisper.

He lifts the hat off of your head and sets it on the dresser, “Gladly,” he whispers before his lips find yours.

Your fingers find his vest buttons and while you undo them he shrugs out of his jacket. When the last button is undone, he pulls it off of him as well as you start to slip your fingers through the knots in his tie next. His lips leave yours as he kneels down and you pull of his tie, and he stares up at you and lifts one of your legs over his shoulder.

His right hand gently trails down your leg and to your high heel, “Let’s get rid of these shall we?”

He undoes your heel strap and slips your shoe off and you let out a sigh.

“Better?” he asks softly.

You nod, “Much.”

He rubs your foot gingerly and then runs his hand across your leg, gently massaging you and then presses a kiss to your stocking covered thigh before lowering your leg and repeating the same process with your left leg.

Once he’s done, he stands and pulls both of his shoes off as well and tosses them aside. Kandomere then wraps his arms around you and moves towards you and you walk backwards until your back touches a wall.

He presses his body against yours and his lips meet yours.

You smile against his mouth as he bunches up the fabric of your dress and petticoats and you gasp as his fingers begin to dance across the fabric of your panties. Your hands run across him and find his dress shirt buttons and undo them, and then you pull apart his shirt and you break apart from his lips to kiss his chest.

You find one of his nipples and suck on it, and he grumbles in pleasure.

With one of your hands you grip his back and scratch lightly.

Then you move to his other nipple and he starts to slip your panties off.

You kiss up his neck and bite tenderly and then kiss his jaw while cupping his face.

He lifts your right leg and you wrap it around him and when he lifts your left leg, you hop into his arms and he adjusts you so he can hold you against the wall. He reaches down with one hand to undo his belt and you intentionally make it difficult for him by kissing him and then licking his right ear. Kandomere lets out a shuddering groan and you hear his pants hit the floor finally. You pull back and smile at him and rub your feet against the bare part of his ass.

“I really love it when you wear thongs for me,” you coo biting your lip.

You run your hands across his chest and under his shirt and he slips off one sleeve at a time. You catch a strap from his thong with your toes from your right foot and start to slide it down.

He pulls down the other side and then lowers you a little.

Kandomere grasps his dick in his hand and lifts it up to rest the underside of it against your clit. He then holds onto you with both of his hands under your ass and you start to rub yourself against him.

You tilt your head back and moan softly.

“Do you like that?” he asks.

“You know I do,” you say as he moves with you.

You wrap an arm around his shoulders and pull him towards you and his lips find yours. He then kisses your neck and you pull the fabric down as he kisses down to your breasts and he latches onto one and you moan.

He pushes against you in his fervor and you hit the wall at an awkward angle.

“Ow,” you mutter.

He detaches from your nipple and looks up at you, “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” you say, “But on second thought can we move to the bed?”

“Of course,” he says and gently lowers you to the floor.

You slip your dress over your head and remove your petticoats and Kandomere undoes your corset for you and you’re left wearing nothing but your stockings. You climb onto the bed as Kandomere relieves himself of his pants and socks and goes to the dresser to pick out a condom.

You lie back against the pillows and spread your legs wide and watch the elf.

Kandomere stares over at you as he pulls a condom out of the drawer.

He exhales slowly and then he glances at your hat on the dresser.

He glances back over at you and smiles and picks it up, “Could you wear this for me?”

You sit up, “Sure, but I’ll have to be on top.”

“That’s perfect considering witches ride broomsticks,” Kandomere says.

“Well, this witch is going to ride your dick,” you giggle.

You move to the side as Kandomere lies down in your place and starts to unwrap the condom. You take the hat from him and set it on top of your head and then grasp his dick in your hand.

He’s immediately distracted by you and stares at you.

You make eye contact and lower yourself to lick up the entire length of him.

He opens his mouth and gasps.

Then you lick the tip of him and then insert him into your mouth and suck.

He closes his eyes and groans.

You release him after a moment and kiss all along him and up to his stomach.

Then you lightly play with the dark blue hair on his abdomen, “I adore your happy trail.”

You lightly grasp his pubic hair next and then sit up finally and rest yourself on his thighs and wait for him expectantly. He remembers the condom in his hand and unwraps it and slides it on. You lift yourself up and over him and his hands grip your thighs as you gently dip his tip in and out of you.

You then slowly settle down on top of him and close your eyes and let out a sigh.

Kandomere always fills you up so nicely.

You circle your hips as his hands massage your thighs and then you gently lift up and slowly start to ride him. His hands move to your hips, and you open your eyes to stare at your elf, and how utterly in awe of you he is.

You smile and rest your hands on his chest and he takes one of your hands in his and brings it to his lips. Kandomere then rubs up and down your arms and you pick up the pace. You start riding him harder and harder and you have to hold on to your hat to keep it from falling off.

“I’m getting close, how about you?” you pant heavily.

Sweat is pouring down his face and body, “I’m almost there,” he breathes.

You nod and continue to ride the elf.

“If you could just…AHHHH!” he exclaims as you begin to ride him as hard as you can, “FUCK! Like that!” he shouts.

You place both of your hands on his chest and the hat falls off as you push Kandomere over the edge.

“OH! AMOR!” he moans.

You cry out as well as you cum right after him and clutch tightly around him.

You slow down as you come down and then you fall forward onto his chest.

You both breathe heavily and you can feel Kandomere bury his fingers in your hair.

“Fuck, Amor, you’re so good,” he breathes.

You huff a little and lift your head to smile at him.

“So are you,” you pant.

You recover enough to lift off of him and then you lay down on your side next to him, and he pulls you closer to him and you rest your head on his shoulder.

You both are quiet as you try to catch your breath.

“I’m spent,” you say.

Kandomere laughs, “Me too, usually I feel like going another round.”

“I know, but this first one was too good,” you whine.

“Don’t worry there’s always tomorrow morning,” he says.

You yawn, “You get to be on top tomorrow.”

He lets out a chuckle and you snuggle closer to him.

And the two of you bask in the warmth of your lovemaking.

[write-place-write-time]

Found It

[ Can be read as a sequel/companion to "Lost It", or as a standalone ]

🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵

“Bit busy, mate.”

“Baker Street. Come at once.”

“Sherlock, I’m trying to -- No, Rosie, no biting! -- change Miss Nibs here--”

“Bring her along. I need you both.”

“For what?!”

Click. 

John Watson pulled the mobile away from his ear with a resigned glare. Young Rosie babbled and grabbed at it, wriggling herself out of the 18 month frock he’d just wrestled her into. John turned his glare to his daughter, who giggled at him unashamedly.

“Between you and your godfather, nudity is trending at an all time high,” he grumbled, though there was no heat in it.

****

Upon arriving at 221b, the Watsons were met with a perturbed Mrs. Hudson, dashing out the door with her brolly and handbag. 

“That boy is a menace, I tell you,” she said in between cooing at Rosie. “Got himself all aflutter and refuses to tell me why.”

John frowned at that. “Aflutter? Is he…?”

“He’s clean, of course, but he’s also cleaning. Sherlock Holmes, cleaning the flat!” She tutted, striding off towards a cab. “Good luck, you two!”

John and Rosie shared a look, making their way in and up to the flat.

The faint scent of lemon cleaner and fresh sugar biscuits wafted down the stairs as the Watsons entered their home away from home. The flat was clean. No sign of newspapers, weaponry, abandoned teacups, nor assorted baby-care items strewn about the space. Any paraphernalia of Rosie’s was organized in a designated area that John was impressed to find both conveniently out of the way and visible from all angles of the living room. 

The yellow chair from the corner was positioned across from his, angled in companionship with Sherlock’s own. There was a soft, cherry red afghan that John had never seen before draped over the back. The mirror above the mantle was clear of any chemical residue or hand-swipes (from clearing off residue to use the mirror for its intended function); even Billy the skull looked especially clean, as though the teeth had been brushed. The bison skull was free of dust, and the headphones had been replaced by a -- “Flower crown?” 

“John, Rosamund, hello!”

John turned from the baffling sight of the bison and its floral corona to where Sherlock’s voice had sounded behind him in the kitchen, and his jaw dropped. 

The consulting detective stood barefoot in jeans -- jeans -- a button-up white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, purple dish-washing gloves, and a flour-powdered green tartan pinny. John gaped, trying to gather and understand the sight before him.

“Lock!” Rosie squirmed until her confused father set her down.

“Yes, hello, Rosie,” Sherlock grinned down at her, shucking his garish gloves and tucking them in the pinafore pocket before reaching out to assist the toddler in her steps toward him. “Your father’s gone quite fish-faced, hasn’t he?”

“And your godfather has gone domestic,” John shot back, fighting a grin. “What’s all this then? Have you finally had one-too-many nicotine patches? Therapist electro-shock you?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he scooped the girl up and brushed a kiss to her chubby cheek. “Shut up, you’re late.”

“Yes well, little Nudist Nancy refused to cooperate with her wardrobe. What’s the urgent business then?”

“I want to have sex with Molly Hooper.”

John sputtered, “Oi! Tiny ears, Sherlock!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but his retort was cut off by John’s second sputter of, “Why the hell do you think Rosie -- a toddler, mind you -- and I would be able to help you with that?”

Sherlock maintained his same passive look, but the creeping pink tinge on his ears gave John insight to his friend’s nerves. “Well, seeing as you have experience -- three continents, was it? -- and the proof of said experience is currently chewing my apron strings, who else would I call upon for aid in such a matter?”

John blinked. “Irene Adler. Your mum. Mycro--”

“Please don’t mention my brother in this context lest I subject myself to eternal celibacy,” Sherlock grimaced. “The Woman is not a wise decision, as it would be ‘not good’ to consult a lesbian dominatrix in love with me about intimacy with another woman. Mummy is right out. She explained the whole ordeal when I was twelve and made Father blush so hard I think he still looks sunburnt. No, it has to be you, John Watson.”

He grinned and made his way back to the kitchen, setting Rosie in her high chair with a freshly baked and cooled biscuit that she immediately set her eight new teeth into. John followed, still baffled.

“Does Molly know you want to… y’know?”

Sherlock shot him an annoyed look. 

“Fine,” John capitulated. “Does Molly know you wanna get off with her?”

Those ears grew pinker as Sherlock busied himself with washing the baking materials like a normal adult human. “I don’t suppose how she’d know. She hasn’t asked.”

“She hasn’t asked? Christ, Sherlock. You two have been dating though, right? Coffee two weeks ago, dinner at Angelo’s last Friday?”

“Yes.”

“Did you by any chance, oh I dunno, kiss her goodnight?”

Ears were now pink to the bottom of their lobes. “Last date, yes.”

John grinned behind his friend’s back, snagging a cooling biscuit. “Did you snog?”

Huffing, Sherlock turned. “What’s the difference?”

Through his biscuit, John said, “Kissing is just kissing. Snogging is a bit more involved.”

Sherlock made a face and crossed his arms. “Juvenile.”

“Which means it wasn’t a snog, then?”

Sherlock shrugged. “It was satisfactory.”

“Oooh, ‘Dear Penthouse Forum’--”

“Oh shut up, John.” Sherlock dropped into one of the kitchen chairs, in a full pout-soon-to-be-sulk as he face-planted into the tabletop.. “It’s pointless and you are deplorably unhelpful.”

Daughter of deplorably unhelpful friend reached out with her tiny hand and patted her godfather’s curly head. “Lock! Okay?”

John sighed and sat opposite Sherlock. “Look, I’m taking the mick. You’re not the sexual deviant Janine crowed about in the tabloids, and you’re not the unwitting virgin that Mycroft and Moriarty claimed you to be.” He paused. “Are you?”

Sherlock’s answer was spoken low and into the tabletop. “No. The Woman once in Karachi. Janine… sort of.”

John blinked, fought off a triumphant I-knew-it grin, and cleared his throat. “Right, well, sex with Molly is a different beast, though. Molly Hooper is a friend. She’s your pathologist. You did say the L-word to her two months ago.”

Sherlock hummed, Rosie still petting his head.

“She’s not like Janine -- you actually want Molly. She’s not Irene -- you trust Molly.”

Sherlock mumbled something.

“What?”

Sherlock’s head popped up. “With my life, my body, my very soul if such a thing should exist. She matters most. She counts.”

John’s lips quirked up in the corner. “Yeah. And then Sherrinford…”

“I am quite wholly aware that I love Molly Hooper, John. It’s why I want this to go further. It’ll-it’ll mean something. For the first time.”

“Have you told her since then?”

The brief silence was answer enough. John nodded. “Well then that’s it.”

“Hmm?”

“You need to find it.”

“It?”

“Your courage,” John smiled softly. “You admitted you loved her under extreme, traumatic duress. Not ideal. But it is what it is. And what it is is terrifying.”

Sherlock held his gaze, not quite understanding.

“Look mate, Mary…” his voice caught on his wife’s name, his eyes sliding to their daughter who was peering at Sherlock in a very uncanny Mary-like way. “Mary said it first. She knew I loved her by our third month anniversary. She beat me to the punch, and what I never expected was the fear in her eyes right before she said it.”

“Fear?” Sherlock frowned. “Out of the two of you, Mary’s penchant for fear was far less likely than yours, army training notwithstanding.”

“Right. But Mary was like you, and affairs of the heart affect psychopathic geniuses differently than us poor mortals.” John fixed him with a knowing grin. “Mary was afraid of rejection, as anyone would be. But she did it anyway, like she always did.”

At this, Rosie slammed her little hands down on the table, demanding both men’s attention. “Mawee!” she crowed, proud to know her mother’s name.

They chuckled at her, Sherlock kissing her pudgy hand. “So I need to just… to just say it?”

“Well, don’t spring it on her like a booby trap or pop out of a cake with it,” John advised. “But yeah. Boiled down to its bare essentials, she’ll either return the sentiment and snog you silly, or she won’t.”

His friend blanched. “And if it’s the latter?” he whispered.

John smiles sadly. “Then you’ll at least know, and can begin to move on. But Sherlock?”

“Mm?”

He reached over, and in his awkward way, patted Sherlock’s hand. “It won’t be the latter.”

The men shared a look that only brother-in-arms and former flatmates would understand.

The look was was broken by Rosie clapping her hands and giggling madly. John tickled her belly. “Yes, all right, Miss Nibs, let’s treat ‘Lock to some chips.” He looked to Sherlock, who smiled gratefully. “This kind of battle needs a well-fed soldier.”

    ****

🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵

Sherlock was playing his violin when Molly arrived that night, a soft melody she had yet to hear. Possibly a new piece for his sister? He looked up as she came into the flat and dropped her bag and scarf on the coffee table. Hmm, she thought, the entire flat is spotless. He definitely wants to impress tonight.

“Hullo, Molly.”

She smiled at him. “Hi.”

He nodded to her yellow chair, still playing that light, tender song. She slid out of her flats and curled up into the chair, her oversized jumper pulled over her bent knees. As she settled in, she looked over the detective. He was so casually dressed, jeans and a white button up with sleeves rolled up, feet bare and warmed by the small fire in the hearth. Molly hugged herself, happy to see him so relaxed. He’d been through a lot since Sherrinford and their phone call. She too was still coming back to life from the ordeal and the knowledge of what happened on that horrible island and at Musgrave Hall. A particularly sweet note rang out, and she watched him feel it. Oh but she loved him. Doomed to, it seemed. Well, doomed might’ve been harsh -- destined sounded better.

The song ended as her ruminations did; she clapped quietly, smiling at him. He gave a small bow and set his violin aside, turning and gazing at her intently.

“Did you want me to order a takeaway?” she asked, curling her toes as he held that same searching gaze. “Maybe Chinese? My treat.”

“I love you.”

Molly froze. “Well, er, you got our cheque at Angelo’s, so this one is on me--”

“Molly Hooper.”

She stopped rambling, tears pricking at her eyes. “Sh-Sherlock Holmes.”

He came to kneel before her chair, his eyes still on hers. “I love you. I’m in love with you.”

She didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Sherlock’s hands, warm and sure, gently grasped hers. His pulse beat erratically under his skin, she could feel it match hers. Her heart was screaming, her mind refusing to remember the last time she’d heard him say it. When it’d been torn from him by his sister and her own pride. She simply stared at him, let his confession wash over her and through her like a sea breeze after a storm.

Sherlock slowly let her hands go, and he stood gingerly. John’s voice, so sure that Molly would requite Sherlock’s affection, taunted him in his mind. He cleared his throat, a curious and unfortunately familiar lump forming, and made for the kitchen, scrounging for the takeaway menus.

“Chinese, yes?” he called back to the quiet pathologist, his mouth working fast to fill the silence and not panic. "I’ll get it ordered. With rain imminent, it’s best to order now. You’re probably craving that house lo mein you like -- always are when you’ve worked in the lab, can’t figure out why though it isn’t exactly a mystery, probably just a chemical reaction to the, well, chemicals you’re working with that have you ravenous and craving sodium and carbohydrates and various proteins--”

He stopped abruptly at the feel of her small hand on his. He looked up and Molly’s cheeks were damp, tears slowly spilling down, but her eyes were kind, dark, and calm. 

“I love you,” she said simply. “I love you, Sherlock.”

She came up on her tiptoes and pressed her mouth to his, taking advantage of his relieved shock to -- as John Watson had predicted -- snog him silly. 

    ****

The takeaway was never ordered, but the fresh-baked biscuits were consumed heartily. 

The imminent rain arrived. 

The tidy flat remained so, save for the shed clothing upon the bedroom floor of a consulting detective and his pathologist.

[dragon-kazansky]

A rose in London - Sherlock Holmes

Notes: This is a rewrite of the first ever fic I ever wrote almost 8 years ago. My skills have improved a lot since then, so here it is. The sequel, which I never finished the first time around, but will complete this time, will be written in the New Year. Enjoy!

Chapter 1 - The great detective

Blackwood.

That was a name that came up in nearly every paper. Sherlock Holmes, a man who could quite easily be called the world's greatest detective, had caught him, stopping him from taking another life. Blackwood had created a great fear in London, so when the papers announced he had been stopped, a huge sigh of relief was released over the city. People started to feel safe once again.

You were glad to not find yourself a victim of such a vile man.

You had seen the paper. The photo on the front was that of Lestrade, Watson in the back and Sherlock in front of him hiding his face from the camera. You expected no less from a man like him.

It was of no surprise that you knew who he was. You, just like everyone else in Britain, had heard of the infamous detective. They say he could tell a lot about you just by looking at you. He had a keen eye that picked up even the slightest bit of detail, which more often than not saved lives.

There was a certain bit of relief to know there was a man like him out there, helping people. Whether he chose to help or not.

John Watson, a man you had only come to know recently, was Sherlock's friend. He worked him on many cases, as you knew from the newspaper articles you saw. You often asked him about the detective, but he never knew what exactly to say. John described him as complicated and unusual. There was no one out there like him, perhaps maybe his brother, who John didn't know very well. You never asked John to introduce you to him, unsure on if it was a good idea or not.

Your first time in Baker Street was not a visit to the detective. John had asked you to come and join him for tea, how could you refuse your new found friend? When you got there he was with a patient. He saw you come up the stairs and gestured for you to wait for him just a moment, smiling at you kindly. The patient gave you a smile also, as he finished up his meeting with John. You waited patently by the door of his office while he finished up.

"This new accommodation of yours, when are you moving in?" The man grabbed his coat.

Ah yes, John was moving out. You had offered to help with anything, but he refused and simply invited you over for tea.

"I should be moving within the week." John replied. "Cavendish place, hmm?"

You chuckled from the doorway. John looked up at you amused.

"Moving on up." You walked further into the room, closer to the desk. The man John was seeing chuckled and adjusted his sleeves as he his coat settled on his shoulders.

"And there will be a woman's touch too." John smiled. The smile of a man in love.

"Well, that's marvellous."

"She's a lucky man." You pointed out, giving John a knowing look.

Suddenly there was a loud sound, actually three loud sounds, like a bang. It made you jump in fright as your eyes darted to the ceiling. You knew who it was that was causing such a sound, John had told you he only ever left that apartment if there was a case. Another reason you had never met him in person.

"Good God! That was gunfire." The man gasped.

"No. Hammer and nail, wasn't it?" John tried to suggest. You knew better than that. He had told you stories of the man in the room next door, after all. "My colleague is probably just putting up a paining." He glanced you way, you gave him a deadpan look.

"Sure. Probably." You muttered.

"I'll go and check, You stay here, Y/N." He gave you a serious look as he asked you wait in his office, moving past you and out the door. You walked over to the door and peeked your head out, watching him approach the  door next to his office.

Mrs. Hudson came running up, tired of the detective and his hobbies. You gave her a sorry look as she passed you.

"I won't go in there by myself." She stated. "Not while he's got a gun in his hand."

"You don't have to go in there at all, give me the paper." She handed it over to John.

"Oh, what will I do when you leave, doctor? He'll have the whole house down."

"He just needs another case." John told her. "That's all."

"Can't you have a longer engagement?" She pleaded lightly.

The man in the office pushed past you lightly and made his way out into the hall. John turned as soon as he heard him come out of the office. You just stood by quietly.

"I smell gunpowder. It's not right, you know, not in a domestic environment." He scolded.

Another bang.

You ducked down with John and the other gentleman. Mrs. Hudson jumped out of her skin, the poor woman.

At this point you really were questioning the sanity of this mysterious man in the other room. He was armed and he was firing. What must be going through his head right now? A part of you was glad you hadn't met him in person. You're not sure knowing someone like him was good for your health.

"Thank you, Captain Phillips." Ah, they were friends. You didn't know many of John's associates. "Perhaps a nice cup pf tea. Same time next week."

Mrs. Hudson took the man downstairs. You remained leaning against the door frame of John's office. He turned to look at you.

"You should go and join them."

"No thank you. I came for tea with you, but this is far more exciting. Your friend is armed and freaking everyone out. What are you going to do, doctor?"

"Talk to him. I'll find him a case to work on. Stay here."

"No promises."

John knocked on the door and opened it just enough to stick his head through. You tried to take a peek, but it was useless. You couldn't see anything, but you heard them talk. John requested permission to enter, which Sherlock granted. You remained standing out in the hall, hoping to listen in on what they were saying.

Sherlock's voice was so smooth and deep. It was a sound you were sure could listen to for hours. It was intriguing and quite honestly made you want to go in and introduce yourself, but then you remembered what happened thirty seconds earlier and remembered he was armed. That made you somewhat nervous about the man upstairs.

There was another shot.

This one sounded louder as the door was left open a crack, but you didn't dare go near it after that.

"Watson, I am in the process of inventing a device that suppresses the sound of gunshots."

"It's not working." John told him. "Can I see that?" You heard John moved across the room.

There was a lot of shuffling going on inside, you waited, listening.

"You know, it's been three months since your last case."

"Gentle, Watson. Gently, be gentle with me." There was a small scream of surprise. You had no idea what was going in there, but the room seemed to be a little lighter now. You assumed John had opened the curtains in there. You wondered how long Sherlock had been sitting in the dark for.

"Don't you think it's time to get another one?" You heard John ask.

They continued on to talk about the need of a case to keep Sherlock's mind busy. The voices grew a little more distant, making you assume they had moved to the other side of the room. You had to strain your hearing a little bit in order to continue listening in on them. Your curiosity was growing with each second.

Sherlock Holmes was an interesting man, and the urge to know him was growing strong.

John began to list cases that Sherlock had received, but it appeared Sherlock had solved them all. He had an answer for every single one of them. John wasn't sure if he was impressed or irritated by this.

"I see you're the leading physician for Blackwood's hanging tomorrow."

"Yes. It was out last case together and I wanted to see it through till the end." John replied solemnly.

Sherlock grew quiet for a moment.

Hoping their conversation wasn't over, you drew nearer to the door.

Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs with a tray of tea. She walked past you, smiling at you softly and knocked on the door. You relaxed as she entered the room and made to move away, returning to John's office to wait for him. Before you could even take a step you heard Sherlock's voice again.

"I heard multiple voices earlier."

"I was with a friend of mine, from the army." John replied.

"And the other?"

"Other?"

"A woman's voice. I heard a woman's voice. I believe she's outside, listening in." Sherlock said nonchalantly. You couldn't see the way he looked up at John as if to tell him not to lie. He knew you were there. "Come in, dear!"

You hesitated.

John never wanted you to meet Sherlock. He was a complicated and, quite frankly, irritating too.

"Don't be shy."

"It's alright, Y/N, you can come in." You heard John call.

You shuffled closer to the door and pushed it slightly as you stepped into the room. Your gaze drifted across the stuffy apartment and landed on the three people who were in it. Mrs. Hudson was organising the tea tray by the small table, John was sitting in an armchair in front of the window and, who you could assume to be, Sherlock was sitting on the floor with a newspaper in hand.

"Ah, there she is." Sherlock gave a smile.

John shifted in his seat.

"You come here often, yet I never actually see you."

"I, uh..."

"I only ever see you leave." He gestured to the window, suggesting that on your visits he always listened out for when you would leave the building and return home, watching you walk away from his window.

"I insisted you never meet her." John sighed.

"I never meet any of your friend's John." Sherlock seemed to pout.

"With good reason."

"The only case I care about is the coming and goings of an absent tea lady." Sherlock changed the topic quickly and looked at Mrs. Hudson who was pouring him a cup. "Is it poisoned, nanny?"

"There's enough of that in you already."

You should there awkwardly, concerned by her remark. Was Sherlock slowly poisoning himself in here?

John moved out of the chair and came over to your side.

"Don't pay him any mind." He whispered.

Sherlock turned his attention back to you, a smile on his face once again.

Mrs. Hudson cleaned up some of the mess Sherlock has made and walked past you, glancing to her left. "Oh, he's killed the dog." She continued to walk out of the apartment.

Startled by that statement you glanced down to see a bulldog, not moving, on the floor. He did this? How could he? You were beginning to think John was doing the right thing before by not having you meet this man.

"Oh my goodness!" You knelt down beside it. "The poor thing."

"What have you done to Gladstone now?" John knelt beside you.

"I was simply testing a new anaesthetic. He doesn't mind." Sherlock stood up.

"The poor darling." You placed a hand over his head gently. You always loved animals, so to see the poor dog like this broke your heart a little bit.

"Holmes, as your doctor..." John stood up and faced the other man.

"He'll be fine."

"As your friend, you've been in this room for two weeks, I insist, you have to get out."

"There is nothing of interest for me, out there, on Earth at all." Sherlock glanced at you as you continued to kneel over the dog. His eyes flicked back up to John quickly as you turned around.

"So, you're free this evening?" John asked, sighing.

"Absolutely."

"Dinner?"

"Wonderful."

"The Royale?"

"My favourite."

"Mary's coming."

John made to leave.

Sherlock looked up instantly.

"Not available."

"You're meeting her Holmes!" John shouted. You stood up startled by the shouting.

"Have you proposed yet?" Sherlock asked him curiously.

"No, I haven't found he right ring."

"Ah well, then it's not official."

"It's happening, whether you like it or not." John spoke softly this time around.

"Not." Sherlock muttered.

"Eight thirty, The Royale. Wear a jacket."

"You wear a jacket." Sherlock tried to argue back.

"Y/N?"

"Yes?" You turned to John who smiled at you.

"Will you come?"

"Oh, uh... I don't want to impose..."

"Nonsense. I want you there. Mary will love you."

"Alright then."

John nodded once and left the apartment.

You shuffled awkwardly on the spot again, realising you had been left alone with the detective. You could feel his gaze on you as you stood there like a lemon. You slowly shifted your gaze to him and gave a small smile, deciding to move closer to the door.

"It was nice meeting you." You heard him say.

You halted at the door and peered over to him.

"You too."

You left the apartment.

You closed the door behind you and stood in the hall for a moment, letting your thoughts wander. You weren't certain about your opinion on the man at the moment. There was something curious about him, but he also intimidated you. You had heard so much about him, but couldn't work out who he really was.

Now you were invited to dinner, to which he was invited.

You gave a big sigh as you finally moved towards the staircase, going down and shouting a goodbye to Mrs. Hudson as you left the flat. You didn't even dare look up at the window to see if he was watching. You knew he was. You could feel his gaze on you as you walked down the street, not looking back.

Sherlock leaned against his window and watched you go.

He finally got to meet you. After so long, a year tops, of wondering who you were when you came to visit John, he finally got to meet you. Watson had always made sure before that your path would never cross with his. He was intent on you never meeting Sherlock and the detective was annoyed by that fact.

He was curious about you.

He could put up with dinner with Mary if you were going to be there. He'd do it for you.

Tags:

@awyr @fandombeehive @charmed-asylum  @sigynbandraoi-blog @procrastinatingmurder

[maiaisbia]

i’ve got you

Raphael babysits Madzie when Catarina is called into work. They make breakfast and go to the library. Using my headcanon of daylighter Raphael in this.

@shadowhunterbingo for “Demon Blood” (because I read it and just thought “downworlder family fluff!” like you do...)

Gen | Words: 1632 | ao3

“Thank you again for coming so short notice,” Catarina said, throwing on her coat and grabbing her work bag.

“It’s really no trouble,” Raphael assured. “I’m not going to begrudge you saving lives.”

“Thank you, dear,” Catarina pressed a kiss to Raphael’s cheek. He grumbled but allowed it, ducking his head to hide his smile.

Madzie was peeking out into the hallway from the living room. Catarina stopped and swept her into a hug, kissing her cheek as well. Madzie giggled and hugged her mom back.

“Now you be good for Raphael,” Catarina instructed. Madzie nodded and Catarina kissed her forehead before standing. “Alright you two, I’ll see you for dinner hopefully.”

“Good-bye!” Madzie said, running over to tuck a drawing in Catarina’s bag. Raphael felt as if his heart still beat watching Catarina and Madzie, the love of the two shared for each other. Catarina had taken to motherhood with joy and dedication, and Raphael was happy to see her family grow.

“Have a good shift,” Raphael said, picking up Madzie and following Catarina to the door. They stood on the front steps of Catarina’s brownstone, Madzie waving until her mom was out of sight. Madzie then rested her head on Raphael’s shoulder yawning. “You need breakfast?”

Madzie nodded, wrapping her arms around his neck. She was very pleased that Raphael didn’t grow tired when he carried her. Raphael took one last deep breath of the morning air, reveling in the weak sunlight, before turning back into Catarina’s home.

“What do you want, waffles?” Raphael asked, walking down the hallway and into the kitchen. The hallway was lined with pictures of Magnus, Ragnor, Dot, and himself, now with many new ones of Madzie and even a few with Alec finding their place. Catarina liked to keep the memories of her family close in mind, and it had always made her house feel homey to Raphael.

“Yes, waffles please!” Madzie said, perking up. Raphael set her down and she hurried to get her little stool so she could see the counter. She had been on a waffle kick after Alec apparently made her some and let her have whipped cream on them. It seemed like far too much sugar for a growing warlock, but a little treat couldn’t hurt... Raphael could put some fresh fruit on them to help.

“Are you going to help me make them?” Raphael asked, as Madzie bounced on her toes, hands gripping the counter so she didn’t fall.

“No, I’m supervising,” Madzie said as she turned big brown eyes up at Raphael.

“Supervising? Where did you pick that one up?” Raphael asked, navigating Catarina’s kitchen with ease. Raphael had found that the good thing with immortals older than him was that they didn’t change their kitchen setups often. Both Magnus and Catarina had been living in the same homes for almost a century, and Raphael knew them well.

“Mom supervises my art when she is too tired to help,” Madzie explained.

“And you’re too tired to help me cook?”

Madzie nodded, and then yawned again. Raphael was uncertain how real that yawn was.

“Alright, but you’ll help me with dinner to surprise your mom, right?” Raphael took out the eggs and butter and set them in front of Madzie.

“Okay!” Madzie started hopping on her toes again and Raphael would point out that wasn’t something that someone who was tired would do, but he let it pass with a smile and a shake of his head.

After breakfast, Madzie carried her plate to the sink and washed it. When she was done, she turned with a worried expression on her face.

Concerned she might have hurt herself, Raphaell hurried to her side. “What’s wrong?”

“We need to take my books back to the library! I don’t want to get in trouble!” Madzie said, in great distress.

“Are they due today?” Raphael asked, crouching down to get closer to eye level with her, resting his hand on her shoulder.

“Yes! And I just got my very own library card!” Madzie explained, her braided pigtails bouncing in her agitation. “I must show them I am responsible.”

“We can go right now if you want,” Raphael assured her. “But first, show me your hands so I know you’re not sticky.” Madzie held her hands out, perfectly clean after washing the plate. “You pass inspection. Why don’t you get your books and library card.”

Madzie nodded, her little face serious, before running out of the kitchen and up to her room. Raphael heard her footsteps above. She reminded him of Rosa in moments like this, with her love of stories. Raphael had admitted to Catarina how nice it was to fill the role of older brother again. Catarina’s response had let been to let Raphael know how much Madzie adored him. And he had found some art folded neatly in his coat pockets as proof of that.

Finishing cleaning the kitchen up after himself and Madzie, and setting out some of what he needed to make dinner that night, he went to find Madzie. He could still hear her, but she seemed to have stopped hurrying. Climbing up the stairs, Raphael passed more photos of family such as: a frame with three different shots from three different time periods of Catarina, Magnus, and Ragnor all in drag; Madzie covered in finger paint; Raphael and Magnus in a serious game of chess; and Ragnor dressed as Sherlock Holmes with Catarina in as Watson from a long-ago Halloween. Raphael reached out to the latter and felt a familiar pang of loss at seeing Ragnor. He was still so woven through Raphael’s, Catarina’s, and Magnus’ lives, it was hard to escape his ghost. And Raphael didn’t want to.

“Ready!” Madzie’s voice announced, and he turned to see her at the top of the stairs, a big bag of books over her shoulder.

“All of these are library books?” Raphael asked, reaching out and taking the bag from her. She didn’t let go at first but then allowed it.

“Yes! And I read them all,” Madzie said, nodding her head. “I’m going to sign up for the summer book program and maybe I can win a prize!”

“A prize? Is it more books?” Raphael asked, heading back down the stairs, Madzie following close behind.

“I hope so!” Madzie beamed, sitting and carefully putting on her shoes. “Or maybe it will be an iPad!”

“I guess you can get books on an iPad,” Raphael said, setting down the bag to take out Madzie’s coat and his own. He didn’t need to wear a coat, because he didn’t feel cold like he used to. But it looked better for appearances. Plus, Magnus had gifted this wool peacoat and matching scarf, and it would be a shame if no one saw them.

-.-.-.-

The librarians knew Madzie by name and greeted her as soon as she came into the kids section. She was very sure to tell them that the books were not overdue, and was given several stickers and bookmarks. Madzie then dove into the stacks of books to look for what she wanted to borrow next.

Raphael followed along behind her, holding books while she searched the shelves. Once Madzie had found all the ones that she might want, she brought them to a table and asked Raphael to spread them out.

“I can only take out 15,” Madzie explained, and took a seat. Raphael settled beside her in a very small chair.

“You have about 26 here,” Raphael said, picking up a graphic novel and examining it.

“I wish I could take them all!”

“You can check them out next time,” Raphael pointed out, trying to stop himself from smiling. Madzie’s eyebrows were scrunched together in concentration. “Libraries are very awesome like that.”

“I want to be a librarian when a grow up!” Madzie said, turning to Raphael and grinning now. “Also a nurse like Mom. Oh! And an author.”

“Those sound like very good ideas,” Raphael told her, handing the book he was holding back. “Take your time, but we can get ice cream after this.”

Madzie giggled. “It’s too cold for ice cream!”

“No such thing,” Raphael assured. “Though I suppose we could get cookies instead.”

“Cupcakes!” Madzie said loudly, then covering her mouth. “Sorry. We have to be quiet in the library.”

“Okay,” Raphael whispered back. He settled in and read while Madzie made her choices. He was brought back to reality by her tugging on his sleeve. “Ready to go?”

Madzie nodded and hurried over to the desk, books balanced in her arms. Raphael put the books she didn’t choose on the proper cart. When they left, Madzie was talking about some of the books she chose and how she was able to read bigger and bigger books on her own. They walked into a nearby park, and Raphael breathed a sigh of relief as the sun warmed his face.

Kneeling to tug on Madzie’s gloves, Raphael asked, “You want to play on the swings before finding lunch? And cupcakes?”

“Only if you push me super high,” Madzie said as if this was a deal to be struck.

“Alright, but you can’t use magic,” Raphael said.

Madzie stuck out her pinky. “Pinky promise!”

Raphael chuckled and wrapped his pinky around hers. “Pinky promise.”

Madzie let his finger go and leaped into his arms. Raphael easily swept her up as she giggled. “I love you.”

“Love you too, sweetpea,” Raphael said. Carrying her to the swings, and then pushing her, Raphael realized he was happier than he had been in many years. Having a family felt much like being able to walk under the sun. And though he mourned and missed those lost, there were so many people he loved and who loved him.

[sherlollyandspoilers]

Here Be Dragons, Chapter Two

Here is chapter one. If you prefer to read on AO3. Thank you for taking the time to read - this is probably one of my favorite things I have ever written for Sherlolly. 

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes!” Molly breathed as she came rushing into his hospital room, tears streaming down her face.

“Molly,” he moaned as he tried to sit up.

“You are in so much trouble!” She slapped his shoulder before wrapping her arms around his neck, trying not to brush the bandage on his chest. “You were supposed to get clean not get shot you idiot!” She grabbed his face and peppered kisses across his skin, leaving a trail of her tears.

“I know…sorry ‘bout that.” He gripped her face and pulled her lips to his, smashing her chest against his wound. “Owe!” he gasped, letting her go. She furrowed her brow in worry as she stepped back. “I’ll be fine.”

“You’re a mess.” She shook her head at him and dropped her coat and purse in the empty chair next to the bed. “I’m a mess,” she gestured to her face and grabbed a tissue to wipe away her tears.

“Just a bit,” he whispered. He moved over on his bed, wincing as he went, and patted the empty space beside him. She slid up on the bed and took his hand in hers, brushing the hair out of his eyes with her free hand. “I’m sorry.” She raised her eyebrow in question. “For worrying you…for the drug test…for doing the job I do.” She looked down at their intertwined hands and nodded.

“You wouldn’t be you if you weren’t the World’s Only Consulting Detective,” she said with a small smile. “I do wish you would be a little more cautious, though.” He gave her a half attempted smile and then winced again. “Do you want me to turn up your mor – ”

“Did John go home?” he asked suddenly, looking at the door.

“He volunteered to pick Mina up from Kathy’s…why?”

“I need to tell you something and we don’t have long.”

“Tell me what?”

“Something about Mary.”

--

JOHN: What have I ever done ... hmm? ... my whole life ... to deserve you?  SHERLOCK: Everything. JOHN: Sherlock, I’ve told you... shut up. SHERLOCK: No, I mean it, seriously. Everything – everything you’ve ever done is what you did. JOHN: Sherlock, one more word and you will not need morphine. SHERLOCK: You were a doctor who went to war….You’re a man who couldn’t stay in the suburbs for more than a month without storming a crack den and beating up a junkie. Your best friend is a sociopath who solves crimes as an alternative to getting high…….John, you are addicted to a certain lifestyle. You’re abnormally attracted to dangerous situations and people ... so is it truly such a surprise that the woman you’ve fallen in love with conforms to that pattern? JOHN: But she wasn’t supposed to be like that…Why is she like that? SHERLOCK: Because you chose her.

 Molly was silent as she watched the scene unfold in front of her. She was sure that John was going to come unglued at any moment or that Sherlock was going to pass out from the pain. Her head was spinning as the three of them talked.

Mary Watson. No, not Mary. Someone else.

She had already had a week to process the information that Sherlock thought he knew. She was sure that when she saw Mary for the first time after the shooting that she would not be able to stand it. That she would go back on her promise to help Sherlock find a way to save her.  That she would hate her for shooting the man she loved.

But when she looked at her all she saw was her best friend. All she saw was Mary Watson, the woman who cared so much about her and Mina. The woman who had been her confidant from the moment they met. The woman who had saved John and kept up with Sherlock.

Not someone else. Just Mary. Mary Watson.

 JOHN: How did she save your life? SHERLOCK: She phoned the ambulance. JOHN: I phoned the ambulance. SHERLOCK: She phoned first…You didn’t find me for another five minutes. Left to you, I would have died. The average arrival time for a London ambulance is ... PARAMEDIC: Did somebody call an ambulance? SHERLOCK: ... eight minutes…Did you bring any morphine? I asked on the phone. PARAMEDIC: We were told there was a shooting. SHERLOCK: There was, last week ...but I believe I’m bleeding internally and my pulse is very erratic…You may need to re-start my heart on the way. JOHN: Sherlock…Sherlock? SHERLOCK: John?...John – Magnussen is all that matters now. You can trust Mary. She saved my life. JOHN: She shot you.

“Mmm, mixed messages, I grant you that…oh!” Sherlock groaned in pain and feel back. John held his shoulders tight as the paramedics grabbed hold and lowered him down. “Molly!”

“I’m here, Sherlock.” She snaked her hands through the limbs of the paramedics and took hold of his hand.

“Trust her…don’t leave her.” He squeezed her hand tighter as he groaned again.

“I won’t. I promise.” She leaned down and kissed his forehead. “Don’t you die on me, Sherlock Holmes. Don’t you dare die…..I love you.”

“I love yo…” he mumbled as an oxygen mask was put on his face. The paramedics pushed them all back and hurried Sherlock down the stairs.

John grabbed his coat and mumbled something about calling them a cab before hurrying down the steps. Molly nodded numbly and picked up her purse. She was half way out the door when she realized Mary was still standing in the corner of the room, not moving.

“Come on.” Molly held her hand out to her, but she didn’t move. “You heard him, Mary. I won’t leave you.”

“Why?” she choked out. Molly walked back to her and wrapped her arms around Mary’s shoulders.

“Because, you’re my best friend,” Molly whispered. Mary started shaking in her arms and clung to her as she broke down. Molly collapsed to the floor with her and rocked her as she cried. “Shh,” she cooed in Mary’s ear as she rubbed her back. “Shhh.”

Mary finally sat back and wiped her face on the sleeve of her coat. Molly stood up and extended her hand out to her, pulling her up to her feet.

“Thank you,” Mary said quietly. Molly gripped her shoulders tightly and gave her a small smile.

“Now, come on…I’m sure John has a cab by now and we don’t want to keep him waiting.”

--

Molly fidgeted in her seat, the anger radiating off of her.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortable in his hospital gown and opened his mouth to talk but Molly shook her head, hushing him. He waited another few minutes before trying again, but she held up a finger and gave him a pointed look.

“Now, I understand that you want to help Mary,” he opened his mouth again, but she ignored him, “But what in the hell possessed you to think it was okay to leave the hospital right after having not one, but TWO SURGERIES!?!?” She was breathing heavily and Sherlock swore that if she tried, she could have shot fire out of her eyes.

“Bit not good?” he asked quietly.

“Just a bit,” she snipped. She huffed in frustration and got up, pacing around his bed. “You are the most infuriating man that I know!”

Sherlock watched as she paced, taking in her appearance. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair was slipping out of her bun, failing over her face and shoulders. She was wearing one of his lounging shirts tied up above her hip with a pair of old jeans that had holes in them.

“Are you even listening to me, Sherlock?” He blinked at her several times trying to replay the words she had just said, but failed. She gave him an expectant look.

“You dressed quickly this morning, not bothering to change your shirt once you realized it was one of mine; instead you tied it up on your way out the door. The hospital must have woken you from a dead sleep when they called this morning because you still had the faint impression of your pillow case on your cheek when you first arrived. You must not have gotten to the laundry yet this week as you are wearing your least favorite jeans, the ones that hug your hips. Also, you must have run out of your shampoo last time you took a shower as you smell like mine.” He stopped his observations and looked up. Her nostrils were flared and her eyes were dark. He swallowed hard.

“And your deductions were leading you where?” she asked, hands on her hips.

“To say that you look sexy as hell right now.” He gave her a knowing smile. She shook her head and dropped her hands, laughing at his ridiculousness. “Come here,” he said, holding out his hand. She obliged and took his hand, sitting on the side of the bed next to him. “I’m sorry for scaring you…again.”

Molly took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“I am just worried that something worse is going to happen.” She gently laid her hand against the bandage on his chest.

“I can’t promise you that it won’t,” he said quietly.

“I know that.” She dropped her eyes from his. He slid his free hand under her chin to bring her eyes back up to meet his.

“But I do promise you that I will always do my best to come home to you.” He pulled her face down to his, capturing her lips with his.

“I know that too,” she said as she rested her forehead against his. Sherlock waited another heart beat before he took her face in both his hands and pulled her back so he could look her in the eyes.

“I won’t abandon Mary.”

“I don’t want you to,” she said, gripping his wrists. “You’re her best chance.” She leaned forward and kissed him again. He lifted his chin, deepening the kiss and sliding his tongue across hers. “Sherlock!” she breathed heavily pulling back from him.

“All you would have to do is unplug my heart monitor,” he said trying hard not to laugh.

“Not a chance!”

--

Over the next several weeks the only way Molly had been able to convince Sherlock to stay in the hospital was by agreeing to let him turn his room into what Wiggins was calling “Head Quarters” – every surface was covered in some kind of newspaper clipping or journal article. Every time she stopped by, the nurses were complaining and threatening to kick Wiggins out and throw everything away.

“Alright,” Molly clapped her hands as she walked into his room. “Doctors say you get to come home tomorrow!” She bounced slightly as she talked, her excitement poring over. “Mina will be so happy – we’ve missed you so much.” She leaned over and planted a kiss on him, but he barely responded. “What’s wrong?” she asked, sitting down next to him on the bed.

“I can’t come home.” He gently placed his hands on hers.

“Your doctor said that he explained everythin –  ”

“He did,” he interrupted her. “I get to leave the hospital, but I’m not coming home…I’m going to Baker Street.”

“What?!” Molly jumped to her feet, irritation and confusion flooding her. “Sherlock, you are still recovering – you need to be home.”

“I’m not putting you two in that kind of danger right now – me going to Baker Street is what is safest for all of us.” He stretched his hand out to her, but she took a step back, tears filling her eyes. “Molly…I need to make sure you two are safe.” He watched as she wrung her hands, tears now falling down her cheeks.

“Do you think that I don’t know the risks that come with being with you?” she asked softly. “Because I do…and I still choose you.” Sherlock sighed and stood up, collecting Molly in his arms. They clung to each other in silence as Molly’s tears dried. “Please, come home.”

“I can’t.”

[overwatch-does-stuff]

The Adventures of McCree Holmes and Sigma Watson- Intermediary 1

You're wondering what my first reactions were to taking the old man under my wing? Y'know, it didn't turn out to be as straightforwards as I thought it would be. I underestimated his title as the "town madman", though calling him mad was a bit of a harsh word. The gentle folks of Ironclad weren't usually the exaggerating type. That should have been my first clue.

-----------------------------------------------------    The road was flat, and made of a smooth dirt that had been beaten down by countless wagons. McCree Holmes never understood some folk's notion of avoiding major roads like this one. The walk was easy, almost too easy, as he kept finding that at his normal pace, he kept leaving his new partner behind in the dust.    "E-excuse me." Sigma called up from behind. "I haven't walked this far in, well, I don't think I've ever walked this far."    McCree Holmes turned around and waited for him to catch up. "Never?"    Then again, judging by the fact that Sigma wore no shoes, he wasn't surprised.    "Well, if I have, I don't remember it." Sigma came up beside him, his fingers twitching. "And, well, you see, I normally don't. . ."    McCree Holmes stopped walking. "It's okay. Spit it out."    "Would it be okay if I float instead?"    McCree Holmes blinked. "Sure?"    It was as if Sigma had just stepped into a warm bath. His shoulders relaxed and he let out a sigh of relief as his feet left the ground. He bobbed up and down for a bit before steadying.    "Ah, that's better!" He smiled. "I was beginning to feel all pent up."    Pent up? McCree Holmes wasn't a magic user. He had never studied in depth any sort of spellbook and tome. But, one thing he did know was that it took effort and concentration to direct magic. There were legends about magic folk who taught themselves to fly, and even they could do it for only a short amount of time.    He took another look at Sigma and decided not to make a deal of it yet. "I'm glad that helps ya'."    "I normally don't do it in front of people. They always look at me funny. Perhaps it scares them?" Sigma went on.    "Well, I can't prevent any funny looks from anyone else, but I don't care if you do it in front of me, pardner." McCree Holmes tapped his shoulder.    Sigma leaned into his touch for a moment, before looking down the road. "Let's keep going, shall we?" ----------------------------------------------------- After that, Sigma's mood improved mightily, and I wasn't about to interrogate him further as to why. For the rest of that day, we walked. Eventually the sun started to set, with no town in sight. I knew the woods we were in, however, and I knew they weren't dangerous. Besides, it wasn't going to be a full moon that night. We were safe to make camp. -----------------------------------------------------    The campsite was a quaint little clearing that was shielded with trees from the road. McCree Holmes set to work gathering firewood, and he had assigned Sigma the task of clearing the ground.    McCree Holmes came back with a good bundle of sticks and moss kindling only to find Sigma simply floating still, and the clearing still full of dead leaves.    "Is there a reason you're waitin'?" The detective asked with a sigh.    Sigma's gaze suddenly flinched over to him. "Shouldn't we be closer to the road? That way, we can flee should something try and capture us."    The paranoia in his tone surprised McCree Holmes, and he paused for a moment before answering. "Well, anything that would be tryin' to capture us would be coming down the road. That's why we're out of sight of it. If something were really coming at us, our goal would be to hide, rather than to run."    "I'm not very good at hiding." Sigma muttered, looking away.    Without another word, or even a gesture, all the leaves on the ground of the campsite were blown to the sides by an invisible force. Sigma hummed something under his breath.     "Well, you made that look easy." McCree Holmes marveled for just a moment before he set the bundle of sticks down and began building a fire.    After setting the kindling, he took out a flint and steel from his pocket. It only took him a few strikes before the kindling caught, and soon they had a decent fire in the center of the clearing. Sigma lowered himself back down to the ground, and sat down next to the fire, gazing into it. McCree Holmes sat down next to him.    He pulled out a small package of jerky from his pocket. "I say we split this."    Sigma shook his head. "No, thanks. I don't need it as much as you do."    McCree Holmes looked him up and down. The orange firelight reflected off his pale skin, and though his shirt was loose, McCree Holmes could tell he was thin. Perhaps too thin.    "You look like you're half starvin' to death." McCree Holmes remarked. "We're splittin' this. You gotta eat. I can buy more supplies in the next town."    Sigma's gaze did not move from the fire. "I suppose my body needs sustenance once in a while. Alright, I'll have some."    McCree Holmes did not reply. What was there to say in response to a statement like that? He decided it was best to simply let it be. He opened the package of jerky and began warming it over the fire. As soon as it started to smoke, he pulled it off and split it into even portions.    "Here's yours, nice and toasty," he handed a chunk of the meet to Sigma.    Sigma stared at it for a moment, before grabbing it and taking a bite. McCree Holmes did the same, and they ate together in silence. Sigma still stared into the fire.    Suddenly, Sigma turned. "Do you hear that music?"    McCree Holmes held his breath and listened around. The only noises were the sound of wind in the trees and crickets chirping in the grass.    He shook his head. "There's no music, partner."    His response caused Sigma's eyes to lose focus, and a look of panic to cross his face. "I'm sorry. I must be. . . imagining things."    The fire began to die down, and McCree Holmes laid his serape down on a flat patch of ground. Sigma, however, still sat in the same position. While McCree Holmes was turned away, he had put his hands over his ears and started to mutter.    "Hey, pardner. What's up?" McCree Holmes approached him again.    "The melody, it's too loud." Sigma's voice was a whisper.    "There's no music. I already told ya' that." He tapped his shoulder.    "It's too much to handle." Sigma responded only by pressing on his ears harder.    McCree Holmes paused. Even if there was no music, it was real enough for Sigma. He tried to think of a solution to block out a melody that didn't exist. Ignoring it wouldn't work. How about distraction?    McCree Holmes searched his pockets until he found the right one. He pulled out a rusty-looking harmonica. The thing had been a joke gift from his last partner, but he had learned to play it well enough.    He started blowing out the tune to a song he had written himself. He called it Route 66. He had composed it thinking of where he grew up, and the melody was peaceful and home-y, at least for him.    Sigma was startled when he began to play, before looking at him with curiosity. The old man slowly uncovered his ears as the song progressed. He began to tap on his own leg along with the slow beat.    After that song ended, McCree Holmes played another couple of songs as the light of the fire slowly disappeared. Soon all that was left were the coals. McCree Holmes brought the harmonica down from his lips and gave a small smile.    "Thank you." Sigma returned the smile. "You're very talented."    "I wouldn't call it talent. More a bit of boredom and plenty of free time on the road." McCree Holmes said with a hint of laughter.    "Don't discredit yourself." Sigma replied. "I meant it."    "You flatter me." McCree Holmes laid down on his serape on the ground. He yawned.    Sigma laid himself similarly across the remains of the campfire from him. "Good night, detective."    "Goodnight, Sigma." ----------------------------------------------------- Every night from then on, Sigma would always encourage me to break out the harmonica and bust out a song or two. It became our nightly routine. That was one thing I noticed about him- he always liked to have his routines. He was a very particular sort of person, though too nervous and polite to exercise his will on anyone else. His temperament was certainly different from my previous partner's, that was for sure. I didn't know what made him that way. I had only known the man for a few days. I wasn't about to go digging up his secrets, as much as my mystery sense told me I should investigate further. Especially because it seemed he was runnin' from them himself. -----------------------------------------------------    McCree Holmes woke up when the sun peeked through the trees, dappling the forest floor with specks of light. He rubbed his eyes and sat up, a little stiff but no worse for wear.    He looked over to find his partner already up, well, floating. Sigma looked down on him. Slight shivers traveled up and down his body.    "Well, somebody's up bright and chipper." McCree Holmes greeted him.    "I-I'm a very l-light sleeper." Sigma wrapped his arms around himself.    The morning was crisp, that was for sure. McCree Holmes wasn't cold, as he had several layers of good clothes on, as part of his detective outfit. But Sigma's clothes, he noticed, were practically threadbare. He wore a loose, patchy long-sleeved shirt, stained brown from its original color from dirt and wear. His pants looked just as thin and were covered in patches. The bottoms were frayed and only came down to just above his ankles. The only thing about him that didn't look completely worn was his long, dark blue scarf.    McCree Holmes stood up. He grabbed his serape from the ground and shook the dirt off of it. He held it out in front of him for a moment, and looked back to Sigma.    "Say, you look cold. Do ya' want my serape?" He asked. The sizing would be about right, he figured.    "No, I couldn't do that. It's yours." Sigma shook his head. "I'll warm up. I'll be fine."    "Nonsense. Come'ere." McCree Holmes walked towards him. "You deserve to have something, at least until we can get you new clothes."    "But I like these clothes. They're comfortable." He protested further.    "They're a little worn, don't you think?" McCree Holmes gestured. "And they don't match my detective look at all. Perhaps we could get you a good uniform-"    "No!" Sigma turned away. "Not a uniform. Not a uniform again. Please."    McCree Holmes took a step towards him, and laid his serape over Sigma's shoulders. "I'm sorry. I won't make you do anything you don't want to."    Sigma paused, before touching the serape. He gently spread out the fabric over his shoulders and down his arms. He turned back to face McCree Holmes.    "Thank you. This is much better." He said quietly. His shivering had stopped.    McCree Holmes smiled. "Keep it. It looks good on you."    Sigma gave a weak smile, his eyes glistening with tears. ----------------------------------------------------- The look on his face was that of a man who had never been given anything by life before. It was a haunting look, a sorrowful look. Sigma had that kind of look a lot. I swore to myself it was a look I would never get used to seeing. I couldn't let it become normal. No one deserved to have that look on their face. That was my job, my self-proclaimed calling to life, after all, to help the desperate people in this world with no one else to turn to. Call it intuition. Call it fate. Call it the universe, if you will, but something tells me that Sigma and I were meant to find each other.

[freshlyjuicedbeetles]

Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century Fanfiction

Meet the Family 

Sherbeth

Holmes meets the Lestrade family.

Sherlock Holmes would admit to rarely feeling nervous. He had stared down James Moriarty numerous times, fallen from great heights and found himself in life-threatening situations on an almost regular basis and never bat an eye at it. The situation he currently found himself in was not like any he had found himself in and he was a bit anxious.

Having been courting Beth for almost a year, it was time to make the trek to meet her family in America. Holmes had spoken to most of her immediate family previously, her parents, her twin brother and her grandfather, the Lestrade family patriarch via holophone but they were not the ones who concerned him. He was being introduced to the entire Lestrade family, aunts and cousins at a family dinner at her grandfather’s house, in Holmes’ honor. Beth explained to him that he was sort of a mythic hero to the family, his cases told to the younger generations like fairytales and how Gregory Lestrade worked right alongside the famous detective.

While he does own the infamous Inverness and deerstalker, that is decidedly ‘country wear’ for him. He had to wonder if he needed to pull out those iconic items just for the family. Holmes always dresses smartly; a finely tailored suit and tie are his staples while conveying an anachronism. His pocket squares always accent the color of his tie and his black leather shoes are always shined to perfection.

“Should I bring these?” Holmes asked as they packed, holding a brown deerstalker and matching Inverness with a gold clasp and buckles on the sleeves.

Beth cackled, “First, you’ll swelter in the heat. Second, they know you’re not the character the world knows. Just be yourself.”

Holmes never felt compelled to live up to his literary caricature, not that he believed that that was what the family was expecting, but when you are meeting your significant other’s family who seem to have a high regard for you, you feel a tad nervous regardless. Not only that, but this was the family he had put in charge of his final wish, to be reanimated. If the process went sideways, he feared that anyone else would not be objective enough to know when it was time to reinter him. He couldn’t express how grateful and indebted he felt. Still waters run deep within the great detective and he steeled his nerves. Sherlock Holmes had other matters to worry about during this holiday.

Inspector Gregory Lestrade’s great-grandson, Andrew left London and moved to America where he started a family. The Lestrade family still resides in the same city Andrew settled in. Policing was a strong tradition in the family, with Beth’s great grandmother, grandfather, father, brother and forefathers and foremothers working with the local police department.

Holmes and Lestrade had flown from London early in the morning. Beth spent most of the flight asleep on his shoulder. He with noise-canceling earbuds, listening to an audiobook. Matt left a car for them at the airport. Once Holmes stepped out of the air-conditioned building, the oppressive heat and humidity of Beth’s home state assaulted him, despite the night air. Beth wasn’t too keen on going back home during the summer months, saying that the weather was one of the reasons she left. This was the only time she could get enough time off work to do so.

“How do you stand such weather? I feel as though I need gills just to breathe!” Holmes complained.

Beth laughed, “You’ll get used to it. Wait until its noon and it's one hundred plus degrees, then you can complain. Ever see a tornado, Holmes?” She teased.

“I’d rather not.”

As Beth drove, she pointed out local interests; this place is where famous so and so got their start, someone of prominence died right there. They left the small metropolis and drove on a dark, rural skyway dotted with houses, cemeteries, farms and the county water tower. After a twisty skylane lined with the tops of trees, a small burg emerged.

“I wrecked my first car there. Totaled it. Wasn’t my fault.”

“That place has the best cheesecake.”

“That’s Grandpa’s house,”

“I had my prom here,”

Beth dropped the speed as they pulled into a neighborhood and a home at the center of the cul-de-sac. Matt’s car was in the driveway, no less too excited to meet the great detective to wait until the dinner.

“Ready?” Beth asked.

Holmes beamed confidently, “My dear, you make it sound as though I am meeting my judge, jury, and executioner.”

Beth made a face that cast doubt on that logic. He may be Sherlock Holmes, but he was still the man dating their daughter/sister/niece. He needed to live up to their standards.

They walked in and the sleeping home sprung to life. Matt and her father David, previously asleep on the couch and recliner in front of the tv jolted awake at the sound of the door opening.

“Beth?!” Tresa Lestrade called from the hall, eager to see her daughter. Tresa was a sprite of a woman, short and petite with brown hair and warm brown eyes.

An old brown, greying boxer with floppy jowls named Stewart hid conspicuously behind the couch, warily watching this new human. His stranger danger alarms were going off.

Matt scrambled from the couch to Holmes and Lestrade. “Oh my god, you’re really him! Holy shit, dude!” he gushed, “I mean, yeah, I’ve talked to you on the phone but gah! You’re really here! Can I get a selfie, an autograph? Oh my god, this is so cool! Hey, so about that Red-Headed League plot hole…”

“Matt, calm down. You’re going to have a heart attack,” Beth chided, “Sorry about him, I think that cage training isn’t working,” She teased her twin. He was so awestruck by Holmes that he let it slide.

Holmes smiled good-naturedly, shaking Matt’s hand, “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person.”

“Out of the way, out of the way, shoo!” Tresa urged, trying to get to her daughter, pushing her son and the 250-year-old detective.

She hugged Beth tightly, showering her with kisses, “You need to come around more! I can’t go so long without seeing you!”

“I know, mom, I know.”

David Lestrade joined his family at the door. David was a tall, burly man with more salt than pepper hair and beard, “It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Holmes. I’d never thought I’d ever get to see you standing, let alone in my own doorway.” He said, offering his hand.

Holmes took it, “Yes, I do owe your family an abundance of gratitude. I would not be here today without you all. I simply cannot express it.” Holmes was struck by how much David looked like a larger Gregory Lestrade.

Tresa turned to Holmes, “I’m speechless. It’s really you.”

“You have a lovely home, madam.”

“She’s cleaned, like, all day for you guys,” Matt said.

Tresa laughed, “Well, on that note, I’m going back to bed. Matt, can you grab their bags, please? Put them in Beth’s old room. Beth, I’m sure you can show Mr. Holmes around from here?”

“Please, call me Sherlock.”

“You’ll have to give them time, something about showing proper respect and whatnot,”                Beth said.

“Why do you still call him Holmes?” Matt argued.

Beth shrugged, “Force of habit. Hafta on the job though.”

“Whatever,” Matt said dismissively as he and David carried in the luggage.

Matt stretched and groaned like a Yeti, “Yeah, I’m going to bed, too. Night.”

“Don’t you have a place of your own?” Beth jeered.

“Yeah, I don’t feel like driving back only to come back in a few hours,” Matt answered simply.

“You live, like, five miles from here. You just want to hang out with Sherlock, you nerd!”

“I’m a nerd!? You’re dating him! What does that make you?”

“Kids!” David barked.

Holmes was enjoying the comedic scene in front of him. The Lestrade residence was so different than his own growing up. It felt like a library where you couldn’t speak. Here, it was lively. It truly was a home.

Matt grumbled as he stalked off down the hall. David turned to his daughter. David hugged Beth, their foreheads touching, “Oh how I missed you.”

“I missed you, too, Dad.”

David regarded his daughter for a moment, then Holmes and followed Tresa to bed.

“I’m sure you noticed the elephant in the room; Stewart over there trying to hide. He’s a few bulbs short of a full Christmas tree. He’s friendly but a doofus.”

Holmes slowly approached the dog. When he was at a respectful distance, he offered his hand. Stewart sniffed it and promptly sneezed into his hand.

Beth howled with laughter as Holmes cleaned his hand with a kerchief.

“C’mon, I’m beat.” Beth said, leading Holmes to their room for their stay.

It wasn’t lost on Beth that her childhood idol was now sharing her childhood bedroom with her. Most of her things had long since been packed away and sent to London, leaving little trace of a young Beth Lestrade who spent hours reading Watson’s journals, the published casebooks or watching anything Holmes related. Now, it was simply a guest bedroom with neutral bedding and accents. The garish red walls that Beth begged to be painted when she was fourteen was covered up by Tresa as soon as possible.

Pictures of the family dotted the room; on the desk was a replica of a daguerreotype of Inspector Gregory Lestrade himself. The senior pictures of Matt and Beth framed the window; Matt with an aw-shucks grin in blue jeans and his letterman’s jacket and Beth, her hair and makeup expertly done, in a blue dress. Her eyes, even then, soul-piercing, could make you confess your mortal sins.

Matt and Beth’s childhood and teenage trophies remained. Countless awards of varying sizes, colors and shapes stood on a bookcase by the door; Beth’s for karate and gymnastics, Matt’s for American football.

In the dark room, the lovers turned to face each other in bed, legs intertwining under the sheets. They whispered as to not wake the family.

“You’ve never told me what your parents were like.”

Holmes shrugged, caressing Lestrade’s arm with the tips of his fingers, watching goosebumps arise. “There’s nothing much to say, really. They were both teachers and strict authoritarians. They were firm believers in the ‘spare the rod, spoil the child’ method. Once, when I was a young lad, eight or nine years of age or so, I punched Mycroft in the face, knocking out one of his teeth. Mother shut me in a closet and promptly forgot about me until morning.”

“Jeez, Holmes, I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about, my dear. I bear no resentment for them. Mycroft and I both knew we were loved, though the sentiment was rarely uttered. We were not abused and rarely went without. Our parents simply had their own way of doing things.”

“I once punched a boy who had been teasing me and Dad took me out for ice cream as a reward. Okay, what about Mycroft?” Lestrade asked.

“I suppose you can say we had the typical older brother/younger brother relationship. He found me annoying and to be a burden. I do not wholly disagree with this assessment. When he went out with friends or to buy candy, Mother would insist he take me. I was a curious child and had to examine anything I found interesting, rocks, dirt, discarded newspapers. I would follow people I found interesting, wanting to learn about them. I most certainly slowed him down. My turn. Why did you leave?” Holmes asked, admiring how the moonlight cast its glow on her face.

“I wanted to make my family proud and join the Yard.” She replied, toying with and caressing his hand and arm. She locked eyes with him, a mischievous glint sparkling in her eyes. “Besides, someone had to take care of your wrinkly ass while you were in that honey.”

Holmes drew her close, Lestrade giving a startled yelp, “I didn’t hear any complaints from you about it before we left London,” he husked in her ear, kissing her neck.

~*~

Morning came far too early for the weary travelers. All Beth wanted to do was stay under the covers with Sherlock and sleep until dinner. The way Beth’s warm body was curled into his own was divine. Holmes, usually hating inactivity, was thinking along the same lines until he heard sniffing at the door.

“Stewart!” Beth exclaimed, not moving or opening her eyes, “Chill out. It’s just a new person, not a pox upon the house.”

The old boxer sighed and laid down, his tags clanking on the wood floor as he did. The world stilled once more for several moments. Eventually, Beth sighed and sat up, “Well, I’m awake.”

Taking Beth’s cue, Holmes got up and dressed for the day as Beth played on her phone. The sounds of a home waking up could be heard; running water, a coffee maker, the opening and closing of cabinets.

Holmes offered his hand to Beth as encouragement to start the day. She took it and groaned as she was pulled from the comfy bed.

As they passed Matt’s room, Beth used her best ‘cop knock,’, yelling, “Get up loser!”

They could hear Matt startle awake and a flood of profanities aimed at his sister. Beth giggled.

The scene in front of them in the kitchen was an utterly domestic one. Beth’s parents in their robes and pajamas, the morning news on as they started breakfast. The table was already laden with syrup, butter, jams and steaming coffee. Though Stewart sitting on a chair at said table was a bit out of place.

“Don’t ask,” Beth said. “It’s his chair.”

“Good morning!” Tresa said cheerfully in a singsong voice, “I hope you’re hungry!”

“Because it’s waffle time!” David announced excitedly as though he was a sports commentator.

“Dad makes the best waffles. I have literal dreams about them.” Beth did like her carbs.

“It’s the nutmeg,” David said proudly, grinning ear to ear.

Matt shuffled tiredly in the kitchen and plopped down. Holmes noticed how Beth and Matt both sat, their legs on the chair curled into their bodies. Beth only sat that way when she had just woken up.

Stewart visibly avoided looking at Holmes.

“Beth, Matt, will you take Stewart out please?” Tresa asked.

The twins groaned and complained, but ultimately acquiesced, taking Stewart out the backyard.

Holmes was left inside with Tresa and David. He knew what was coming, the ‘if you hurt my daughter’ speech. Holmes’s mind was divided if he should ask David first while they were on the subject, but he doubted Beth would like that.

David wasted no time and Tresa leaned in. “Now, man to man, I need to know that you have Beth’s best interests in mind. I’m in an awkward position here. I feel like I’m speaking to an elder and I’ve only read how you were characterized. I don’t know exactly what was truth and what was fiction. You have been described as cold and had an utter apathy towards the law. Gregory always complained that you were hard to work with and to be blunt, utterly misogynistic. However, from the few times I have spoken to you, you don’t seem anything of the sort. You certainly respect and care for Beth, and I haven’t seen anything troubling. Basically, I’m asking, what’s true?”

“Shall I say I have softened in my old age?” Holmes countered. He took a drink of his coffee, strong coffee only a police officer could brew. “What you have read was about a proud man. Later in my life, I was humbled by my own mistakes, namely the case of Ann Kelmot, my friendship with the Munro boy and my own defects; my deteriorating brain. I have always strived to not look at myself as the character Dr. Watson has portrayed me to be, but I will admit, that fame got to me at times. I have what a precious few have received and what many more pray for; a second chance. While morals and values fluctuate from person to person and pious will never be an accurate descriptor of my person, I do intend to do better this time around.”

David listened intently and nodded. He took a drink of his own coffee, “Well, in that case, welcome to the family, Holmes,” he said holding out his hand to the elder.

Holmes shook David’s hand. David looked to Tresa and nodded. She agreed.

A peaceful silence settled for several moments.

“Beth leave Matt alone!” Tresa chided, “a bunch of wild animals they are. Can’t say a nice thing about the other! Knock! It! Off!” She said as she tapped on the window, getting their attention.

Both men stood up from the table. Beth had tackled Matt to the ground and were wrestling over an unknown argument, Stewart running and jumping around them as though he were a part of the game he thought they were playing.

“You sure you want her?” Tresa asked Holmes, sighing.

The twins trudged in, Stewart rushing ahead of them, their heads down, ready for a lecture.

Tresa put her hands on her hips. “Well?”

“Beth said – “

“Matt said – “

They said simultaneously, pointing at each other.

Tresa held her hands up, “I don’t even want to know anymore. You’re both adults. Just keep it out of the hospital, okay?”

The twins muttered affirmatives. Matt started to walk off, but Beth feigned a lunge at him, startling him for a second, before heading to the living room.

Beth looked back and forth towards both men at the table, “Dad…why do I feel like I just walked in on something? Oh zed, you didn’t give him the ‘I’m not afraid to go back to prison and to chop you into a million tiny pieces’ talk? Do you know how many boyfriends you’ve scared away?”

“No need to fret, my dear,” Holmes said standing up and taking Beth’s hand in reassurance, “It was a simple talk between a father and his daughter’s suitor. I am no worse for the ware, though I do believe we all agree that I have passed the test, at least the preliminaries?”

David winked in response. “You should thank me for scaring away those boys, Beth, you would have never met Holmes!”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Beth muttered as she skulked off to change.

Beth emerged in a pair of denim shorts, a tank top and a simple grey shrug with three-quarter sleeves. Around her neck, she wore the delicate gold locket Holmes had given her. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, revealing the geometric tattoo of a sigil long thought to bring protection. Simple studs in each piercing of her ears complimented the gold necklace.

At first, it had been a bit jarring to see the modern fashions women wore, so uncovered. In Holmes’s time, their bodies were hidden and shapes altered. Now, women were encouraged to wear what they pleased. Though Holmes couldn’t deny the benefits of being able to regard Beth’s beauty without having to account for layers and layers of fabric and boning. Beth wasn’t much of a girly girl, but she endeavored to always look nice and put together.

“Hey, Sherlock, let’s take a walk around the block before it gets too hot,” Beth said after breakfast.

Holmes nodded and followed Beth outside.

Though the pavement was cracked and pitted, the neighborhood was a nice one with well-maintained homes and mature trees and gardens. There was just enough shade and a breeze to keep the walk enjoyable.

“I kinda need to tell you what went down right before you were resurrected,” Beth said once they were a few houses down.

Holmes nodded, listening.

“Obviously, I had to get my family involved ‘cause dad had the code to the lockbox that had all your papers in it. We basically had a big family meeting to discuss if this was a good idea.”

“Someone was against my reappearance,” Holmes stated.

“Kinda. It’s my Aunt Maggie. We won her over. She was very against the idea while she was your caretaker. She worried that you may not have been able to take all the stress. If you were on her watch, you wouldn’t be here. Look, the last thing I want to do is to put drama between you two, but I know she may say something, and I just wanted you to be aware of that.  Just give her time, give her space. Everyone else is really excited to meet you.”

“Yes, a formerly dead man is a great party guest.” Beth wasn’t sure if he was joking until she saw the grin on his face. She matched his but knew this was a symptom of a bigger issue, it just wasn’t the right time to talk about it.

“Oh, and my cousin Luke thinks you’re Jack the Ripper.”

Holmes stopped in his tracks, “Excuse me?”

Beth laughed, “I mean, the evidence lines up…I bet the only person in the world who can get away with murder is you.” She teased.

Holmes huffed, “I know you think you’re complimenting me, but you’re really not.”

By the time the couple made it back, Tresa was scurrying around the kitchen, her arms laden with groceries and utensils, “I’m heading to Grandpa’s early to start cooking with Jett, Mag, and Kas. We don’t want Grandpa trying to cook for all of us by himself.” She explained. She gave Beth a peck on the cheek and flew out the door.

While David puttered around the garage and Matt played a loud video game, Beth and Holmes went back to their room for a nap. Travel may have advanced since Holmes’ time, but jetlag was still a thing. Beth sat an alarm for ten minutes before dinner.  

~*~

They pulled into an older neighborhood and landed in a driveway littered with cars and a blossoming magnolia tree to the side, partially obscured by a fence. Beth led him into the open garage and opened the door to the home without knocking. Inside the Lestrade clan was scattered around the living room, on the sofa, loveseat, recliner and the younger generation sitting on the floor. The house was already smelling of a delicious dinner cooking. They were in the midst of conversation when they heard the door open and the room fell silent.

“My word, it’s actually him.” Grandpa Adam said.

“Hey everyone,” Beth greeted, “Holmes, let me introduce you; that’s my grandpa, Adam, next to him is my Aunt Jett and Maggie. Maggie’s daughter Kassie, her kids Brittany and Wesley. Jett’s son Luke and his daughter Lucy and son Ben.” Matt and David had arrived a little before Beth and Holmes.

“Hello,” Holmes nodded.

Holmes and Beth took an empty seat.

“How are you finding the 22nd Century, Mr. Holmes?” Adam asked, not taking his eyes off the man.

“I am adjusting well, thank you. Without all of you, I may not be here. I truly thank you all for the care you have provided. I know it was a hard and inconvenient task, one you did not volunteer for.” Holmes knew that the now American based Lestrade family would make regular trips to London to check on him before his return.

“It was my pleasure,” Adam said.

“Think nothing of it,” David said.

“Can you deduce anything about me!?” Brittany, a young girl with long brown hair asked excitedly, running up to the detective.

Holmes examined the girl for a few seconds, rubbing his chin as he took inventory. He wasn’t one to use his talents as parlor tricks, but he did want to show off a bit.

“You are an artist and a quite good one at that. Before Beth and I arrived, you were helping your great grandfather in the garden and lastly, you were given the unfortunate task of giving Spike the pug his medication.”

Brittany gawked. “How did you do that?” She asked, as though she had just seen a magic trick.

“Easy. There are paint stains on your shoes. While inexpensive paint nowadays washes off easily, allowing for a novice painter to make mistakes, the more costly products do not, due to the ingredients that give them their quality. Your parents would not buy you such costly paint if you were not any good. There is also dirt clumped on your shoes, as well as your great grandfather’s, and no one else’s. Notice the color and consistency of the dirt, red, almost clay-like that is common in these parts. You do not just pick up the clumps from walking around, but from working in the garden where the soil has been tilled and the red clay dirt exposed, from the garden I saw as Beth and I came in overhead. There is also fresh produce on the counter. As for the pug family,” Holmes said, looking past the young girl to the family of snorting pugs itching to come inside, staring at the human family through a nose smudged glass door. He returned his attention to her, plucking off several white hairs from her shirt, showing her. “You are positively covered in dog hair. From what your cousin tells me, Spike puts up a fuss when it’s time for his medication.”

The room clapped. Oh yes, Holmes was going to enjoy this night. He regaled the family in the tales of his adventures, new and old, with Gregory and with Beth. Soon dinner needed to be tended to. Most of the older Lestrade family had gathered in the kitchen, preparing dinner as the younger generation showed Holmes around. Beth sat on the counter with a can of soda.

“What’s he doing?” Kassie asked. The family soon gathered round the window, watching the famous detective.

“It looks like he’s hunting for something?”

“Did he drop something?”

“He’s probably looking for bees. He’s been wanting to diversify his colony that he keeps in Sussex, part of his original brood.” Beth answered, with the mild interest of someone who has heard enough about bees.

“He’s gonna get stung!”

“He can tell you how many times he’s been stung, in both lives.”

Aunt Jett shivered, “’ Both lives’, ooh that gives me the heebiest of jeebies. He seems so…calm. Acclimated? How did he take when he was first…revived?”

“He took it in stride. He knew what he was doing. He really misses Watson, the real one.”

“Does he talk about it…y’know death?” Matt asked.

Beth shrugged, “He says that all he remembers is going to sleep in 1947 and waking up in 2103 as though it were the next day.”

“What about the depressive episodes? Dr. Watson said he could starve himself for days!”

“He does have his issues, I’ll give you that, but he made first chair violin in the London Symphony Orchestra. He’s already gotten music to learn. That should keep him occupied enough. I’ve never seen anything alarming when cases were scarce. I think he’s figured out how to actually live with himself. If he gets freaky, well, I’ll get Matt’s pea shooter and shoot a Valium down his throat.” Beth said, mimicking a slingshot as Matt grabbed his throat and pretended to choke.

“And what about his other vices?” David asked, his large arms crossed over his chest.

“Not a thing. He barely drinks.” Beth answered, shaking her head.

“He could be hiding it,” Maggie said, stirring at the stove.

“He could, but I would have seen evidence or track marks. We’ve been having sex for quite a while. Pretty sure I would have noticed.” Beth replied casually. The family stared. “Hey, you asked. All he wants to do is play the violin, solve cases, play with his bees and occasionally box and fence. He’s doing great, I promise.”

Matt took the opportunity to change the subject, “So has he got a new batch of Irregulars?”

Beth took a drink and nodded, “Yeah, they’re pretty good kids. They’re getting close to graduating. They’re almost always over after school. Guess it helps when you have homework about the Victorian Era, and you know someone who lived through it. He’s teaching one of the kids, Daniel Wiggins, how to box actually. The resident computer whiz, Joshua Tennyson manages Holmes’ social media presence. Deidre Owens keeps him up to date on the new slang which is absolutely hilarious. It’s like a foreign language to him!”

“They aren’t homeless, are they?” Luke asked.

“Oh no, not at all. They all have decent enough families. I ran a background check on all of them long ago. Though Deidre and Wiggins aren’t above exploiting tourists for cash.”

“So,” Grandpa Adam said, “What’s it like working with him, the Master?” Pride and joy swelled in his voice.

The family listened as though they were about to hear the conclusion to a long-awaited saga.

Beth smiled, “It’s pretty great actually. Well, afterward, during the matter it’s like pulling teeth. He does what he wants which temporarily puts me in an awkward position with Greyson but who cares, Greyson can go fly a kite. He’s gotten too comfortable behind that desk, which he promptly forgets about once Sherlock closes the case.

“He comes on strong when excited about a case, asking questions and making deductions in rapid-fire,” Lestrade said, snapping her fingers in time, “He’ll rarely tell you what his plan is and you’re just caught up in his storm, along for the ride.”

By then, the kids and Holmes had settled in the living room and were giving Holmes a crash course on all the incarnations of his persona. They were hanging on to every word.

“In this one, they made Watson a girl and you have a lot of tattoos!” Lucy said.

“Tattoos? Me? Heavens!”

“You’re a mouse in this one!” Ben said, showing Holmes the character on his tablet.

“And a dog in this one!” Brittany said.

“Where’s Watson now? The robot, I mean?” Wesley asked.

“Probably playing mother hen to the Irregulars, watching too many soap operas and American baseball with Wiggins,” Holmes answered.

“Did you really shoot words into the walls of Baker Street, Mr. Holmes?” Ben asked, his eyes wide.

“Unfortunately, I did. I never got the deposit back from Mrs. Hudson either. I wouldn’t suggest it.”

The kids laughed, awestruck at the man.

“Do you really go in disguise, Mr. Holmes?” Lucy asked.

“I do! My closet is comprised mostly of costumes and disguises rather than my everyday clothes.”

“I bet you’re a really good actor, Mr. Holmes. Can you do an American accent?”

The question and answer session turned into the kids asking Holmes to do various accents and nailing them.

“I’m surprised at how well he’s taken to them,” Kassie said.

“Well, they are flattering him. He’s peacocking if anything.” Beth replied.

“So, he’s normal now?” Luke asked, continuing the conversation from earlier.

Beth snorted, “Normal isn’t even a setting on the washer at Baker Street. He still argues with the Yard and he’s still arrogant as can be. He still gets up close and personal with the crime scenes. He’s still Holmes, but maybe a better version of him.”

By then, the kids had lost interest in Holmes and had wandered off or to play with the dogs. Holmes found a large assortment of family photos on a shelf.

“That’s my mom,” Maggie said, noticing Holmes was looking at a certain picture.

“She’s beautiful,” Holmes remarked. Beth had that same bright grin as the woman in the photo.

“She was something else. She could drink coffee, crochet and watch tv at the same time. Those fish on the wall? Dad didn’t catch them, she did.”

There was a pause.

“Mr. Holmes, there are things you may not be aware of in this family, some past trauma if you will. My mom died of Alzheimer’s right before your return. It was an ugly battle, unfortunately, Beth and Matt saw a lot of it. I don’t want to see a repeat performance.” She said, looking squarely at the detective, almost accusatory.

“And you have my word that neither do I. Sir Hargreaves has ran my genome backward and forwards. He has seen no mutations in any of the genes pertaining to my memory. While he cannot prove that I will succumb to senility once more, he can neither do the opposite. I must remind you, as bizarre as the sentence sounds on my lips, that I died of old age. Far before any more distressing symptoms or more dramatic memory loss could occur.”

“Sir, I saw you dead. I saw your corpse. You scare me, a little bit. I vouched for your return, but it’s different seeing you, standing there. I don’t mean to put pressure on you, but you don’t know how much you mean to this family. We grew up hearing your stories. Do you know the impact you made on the world? Modern forensic science would literally not exist without you. When Beth was in the Yard’s academy, there was a mandatory class on your deduction techniques. Dad, David and I certainly used what we learned from you when we wore our badges. There are countless other ways you were remembered.”

“Yes, there is quite an ugly statue of my likeness far too close to Baker Street.” Holmes knew there was no logic behind this meeting. It was merely an aunt, traumatized by the prolonged death of her mother, trying to shroud her niece from another round. There was nothing either of them could do but Holmes knew that she had to get it off her chest.

“Just please, Mr. Holmes, take care of yourself, for Beth?”

“It is my every intention,” Holmes loved Beth dearly, more than he thought he could love a woman, anyone. At times, he felt in his past he was a robot, cold and analytical but now, he was alive, human. He wanted to do right by Beth and even the Irregulars.

“Dinner’s ready!” Adam called from the kitchen, a welcome reprieve for both Maggie and Holmes.

The meal was set out on the dining room table and everyone took a seat.

Adam carefully stood up, his aged knees slightly shaking as he did so. He raised his glass in the air, “I would like to raise a toast to our guest, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. It is truly an honor having you at this table. Your visage is a sight I thought I’d never see in my lifetime. You, alive and well, is the culmination of generations of hard work for this family. We also must raise a toast to Beth, for it was her tenacity to finally go through with it. We were so very proud of her before our guest was resurrected, and we are just as proud that she continues to work with you. You may be adding our Beth to the Holmes family, but we can assure you, you are a part of the Lestrade family as well.”

“And good luck with Beth, you’ll need it,” Matt said behind his glass.

The table laughed as Beth slugged him in his arm, teasingly.

“Kids…” Tresa warned.

“Sorry mom,” The twins muttered, the smirks on their faces saying it wasn’t over.

“And Beth, let’s keep Holmes from heights, whaddaya say?” David teased after the toast.

“Can I just point out that one of his latest batch of Irregulars speaks only in Binary and only Holmes can understand him without looking at his readout?”

“I merely recognized the pattern over time,” Holmes replied, simply.

The dinner was a jovial and warm one. Holmes had been welcomed into the Lestrade clan. Family stories were told, old cases were discussed, and laughter was all around.

After dinner, the couple slipped out the back door.

“As you can see, Grandpa Adam and Grandma Hannah had a bit of a green thumb,” Beth said. Along the edge of the fence and property line that dipped off into a shallow creek were several tall pear trees that provided a shaded path. There was a blossoming dogwood tree in the corner and off to the side of the house was a produce garden.

Holmes and Lestrade walked hand in hand under the grove of pear trees. A mighty oak, stories tall dominated the back corner of the backyard, a rope swing swaying in the breeze hung from a low, sturdy branch.

Beth sat down on the old piece of wood that made up the seat, “Grandpa made this for me and Matt when we were little. I spent a lot of time out here. Push me.” She said as she kicked off.

He pushed her for several minutes before he could wait no longer. Holmes caught the ropes as it came back towards him and steadied Lestrade. He moved to face her.

“Know that I do not take this proposal lightly. I may have caught up with times in some ways, but in others, I have not. I do not care for this so-called serial monogamy for myself. Forgive me if I do not have a flowery speech made up, but I never thought I’d meet a woman like you, who has enraptured me since day one. Will you marry me?”

Sherlock Holmes for the first time, dropped to one knee for a woman, not caring about the dirt below him. From his pocket, he pulled out a velvet ring box and opened it, revealing a Marquise cut diamond on a gold band, flanked by a dainty round diamond on each side.

Tears of joy welled in the Inspector's eyes, “Do you need to deduce my answer?” She said, pulling Holmes in for a kiss.

[thebeethathums]

Home - 4

Pairings: John Watson x HolmesTwin!Reader

Warnings: The reader in this fic is a TWIN to Sherlock Holmes and as such shares some physical features to him.

A/N: Bolded text indicates John’s Blog Posts.

A Set Back

I haven’t seen (F/n) since Mycroft came to visit and that was nearly a week ago. I know she’s been out of his room since she sometimes cooks and leaves me a plate or the shower is wet from someone using it recently but it seems she’s careful not to do so when I’m around. I think it’s finally sinking in for her that he’s gone. A couple of times I went to check on her and heard her crying through the door… I know she doesn’t want to see me or anyone but I wish there was something I could do. She seems nice enough and I hardly think she deserves all this- none of us did.

I’m not sure which is worse- having her shut herself away and dealing with worry that comes with it or having her out and dealing with pain that rips through my chest over just how much she reminds me of him. Part of me wishes she’d never come here. It brings up so many feelings I’d rather not deal with but my therapist says it will be good for me to get to know her… to share the grieving experience with her. Whatever that means.

You needed to get out. It had been a week since Mycroft had come to visit and you had hardly left his room and certainly never when John was around. The longer you stayed inside the dark cave of Sherlock’s room the more you hated everything and while you would gladly just wallow in grief for the rest of eternity, you knew John wouldn’t allow it and neither would Mycroft. It was for the best if you went out on your own accord.

You stared at yourself in the floor length mirror, tricking yourself for a moment that he was behind you- resting his chin on the top of your head as he often had when he wanted you to hurry up. A pang of grief struck your chest and you turned away for a moment to let it pass before looking back at yourself with a new resolve. Shaking out your waist length hair, you did what you had to do before pulling on some black jeans and a white button-down shirt over a pair of black converse, stepping in front of the mirror again. This time you were satisfied with what looked back at you and slipped out of the room, startling John in more ways than one, “(F/n)… What happened to your hair?”

You continued on your path to the door, grabbing your deep purple trench coat that looked black when the light wasn’t on it, flatly offering, “I needed a change and I’m not in the service anymore, so I figured why not?”

He bounced up from his chair when you pulled the coat on, examining your new jaw length hair as he asked, “Are you going out?”

You turned to face him and he stopped breathing, the shortened hair and your piercing eyes making him feel like he’d just seen a ghost as you pulled a lavender scarf around your neck and announced, “I’m going to the Yard. Mycroft has that case and I need to get out. You are welcome to join me if you’d like.”

He stood frozen as you popped your collar with a small thoughtful smile, remembering your brother doing the same, before your face twisted into a pained frown and you spun to stalk out of the apartment. As soon as you were out of his sight, he recovered, bounding down the stairs after you just as a cab pulled up for the two of you to slide into.

You walked into the Yard like you owned the place despite the sneers and jeers accompanying the whispers over your ‘fraud genius’ brother- the only sign that it bothered you was a clenched jaw and the way your fingers discreetly fiddled with the edge of your sleeve. You weren’t going to have a breakdown in front of these people, hiding your tumultuous emotions away expertly just like your brother had always done. John braced himself when you got to the correct floor and literally almost ran into Anderson but it turned out to be unwarranted as you offered the man a weak half smile, “I see you’re still running around with that tramp partner of yours… I’ve told you time and time again she’s no good for you, Phil.”

He seemed startled to see you at first but a wide grin soon spread across his face, “I didn’t know you were back, (F/n)!”

His face fell when you didn’t flash him your usual grin and he remembered that you’d lost your brother, “…Oh. I-I’m sorry about- you know-“

You shook your head, quickly cutting him off, “Don’t. Just... don’t. I’m not ready for that yet.”

He rubbed at the back of his neck as he nodded, “Well when you are… We can grab coffee or something.”

You flashed him a limp smile, letting it fall after only a second, “Sure.”

He shuffled away awkwardly and you moved to continue your path just as Donavan strode over, opening her mouth with a smirk, but you were quick to cut her off, “I suggest you rethink what you are about to say as I am not above breaking your nose in front of all these people before explaining to Lestrade where you were last night when you were supposed to be on a stakeout.”

Anger flashed in her eyes but her mouth snapped shut as you calmly strode past her and into Lestrade’s office, stopping in front of his desk as he wearily sighed, “What is it?” without looking up.

“An umbrella carrying birdie told me you could use a hand.”

Lestrade’s eyes snapped up at the sound of your voice, paling when he caught sight of you as his jaw dropped, “(F/n)?”

Leaning your palms on his desk, you gave a small, sad smile and sighed, “Hey Lessy.”

John had never seen the man move so fast, practically leaping over his desk to envelop you in a hug, “When did you get back? Are you- how are you?”

Glad for something familiar, you leaned into him without actually returning the hug as you mumbled, “I’ve been better.”

He pulled back from you slightly to give you a confused look, “I thought you still had another year before you were to be discharged. What happened?”

“Short version-I got myself shot like an idiot.”  

He frowned at you, pushing you back to look you over a little more carefully before looking over at John, “I see you’ve met Watson.”

You rolled your eyes in annoyance, “My brother has deemed him my babysitter. I suppose it’s fitting… but hardly ideal for either of us. No offense, John.”

He shook his head, “None taken.”

Lestrade toyed with a piece of your hair, noticing that it was shorter than you’d ever had it in all the time that he'd known you, as he asked, “Are you sure you’re up for this, (F/n)?”

Sherlock would have never admitted it but you both had liked Lestrade, you viewed him as sort of an older brother after having worked with him for so long and he came to you for advice when things had started to go south with his wife. You were close but right now you didn’t care about his concerns as you firmly nodded, “I need a distraction.”

He pursed his lips and handed you a folder, watching you sigh as you looked it over for a split second and then glared at him, “The wife did it but you already knew that. Stop testing me, Greg.”

John gaped, you’d barely even looked at the file’s contents before coming to that conclusion, and Lestrade traded you for another file as he sheepishly offered, “I had to be sure.”

You flipped this one over, taking your time, and then softly hummed, “I need to see the bodies… St. Bart’s?”

“Yes but-“ Lestrade started but you had already turned on your heel to stalk off like your brother had often done and he sighed, “That’s new.”

John tilted his head at him, “What do you mean?”

“She’s not normally so brusque. She and Sherlock were each other’s counterparts… He was cold and she was warm but they were bound together with the same level of intelligence. It made them the perfect crime-solving duo… where one would lack the other made up for it.”

John just nodded and Lestrade waved a hand, “Better catch up to her. She’ll be waiting.”