#both are in marylebone (?)

[faaun]

oh my god ! haha . anyway a bit buzzed perhaps. anyway here's what happened on the date

[losticaruss]

fun fact: portland row is in the same area of london as baker street

[casquecest]

I'm going to be in 🇬🇧London🇬🇧 25-28 April 2025 at the very least =D.

[nothoughtsnomind]

no but like lucy and lockwood from lockwood and co and sherlock and william from moriarty the patriot actually sort of have similar vibes?

[gardenschedule]

just insane mclennon things

John playing his and Yoko's sex tape in a band meeting

As the meeting was drawing to a weary close, John, not this day with Yoko, who hadn’t seemed particularly connected with what was going on, said he wanted to play us a tape he and Yoko had made. He got up and put the cassette into the tape machine and stood beside it as we listened. The soft murmuring voices did not at first signal their purpose. It was a man and a woman but hard to hear, the microphone having been at a distance. I wondered if the lack of clarity was the point. Were we even meant to understand what was going on, was it a kind of artwork where we would not be able to put the voices into a context, and was context important? I felt perhaps this was something John and Yoko were examining. But then, after a few minutes, it became clear. John and Yoko were making love, with endearments, giggles, heavy breathing, both real and satirical, and the occasional more direct sounds of pleasure reaching for climax, all recorded by the faraway microphone. But there was something innocent about it too, as though they were engaged in a sweet serious game. John clicked the off button and turned again to look toward the table, his eyebrows quizzical above his round glasses, seemingly genuinely curious about what reaction his little tape would elicit. However often they’d shared small rooms in Hamburg, whatever they knew of each other’s love and sex lives, this tape seemed to have stopped the other three cold. Perhaps it touched a reserve of residual Northern reticence. After a palpable silence, Paul said, “Well, that’s an interesting one.” The others muttered something and the meeting was over. It occured to me as I was walking down the stairs that what we’d heard could have been an expression of 1960s freedom and openness but was it more likely that it was as if a gauntlet had been thrown down? “You need to understand that this is where she and I are now. I don’t want to hold your hand anymore.”

Paul putting beetles fucking on his album artwork

John hiring a pig and posing with it solely to mock Ram even though he was scared of it

At the end of the day a farmer delivered a huge hog to the mansion [Tittenhurst Park]. It was John’s notion to parody the album jacket photograph of Paul McCartney’s Ram, which showed Paul wrestling with a ram; John would wrestle with a pig. We all went outside and stared at the large surly animal. It was much bigger than any of us had expected. John circled the animal warily. He liked the idea, but he didn’t like the hog. Dan stood poised to snap the picture. “Climb on its back, John, and grab its ears,” he said. John looked doubtful. He stepped closer to the animal. It let out a shrill, strange, sound. John stepped back, but we all urged him on. “You can do it, John,” I said. John approached the animal once again. “I can’t hold the friggin’ pig for too long. You get one shot and one shot alone,” he told Dan.

Loving John: The Untold Story, May Pang

John & Yoko attempting to get revenge married in Paris 2 days after Paul & Linda

“On March 12, Paul married Linda Eastman at Marylebone Register Office in London, amid scenes of hysterical grief from his female fans. None of the other Beatles was present. The news reached John as he and Yoko were driving down to visit Aunt Mimi in Poole. Yoko’s divorce decree had become final a few weeks earlier, and, in a resurgence of Beatle copycat, John told her they, too, must get married as soon as possible”

Philip Norman, John Lennon: The life

We chose Gibraltar because it is quiet, British and friendly. We tried everywhere else first. I set out to get married on the car ferry and we would have arrived in France married, but they wouldn’t do it. We were no more successful with cruise ships. We tried embassies, but three weeks’ residence in Germany or two weeks’ in France were required.

John Lennon

SALEWICZ: Well, I always found it interesting the fact that he got – I mean, it seemed too much like coincidence to me, the fact that he got married a week or month after you. You know what I mean? PAUL: Yeah. I think we spurred each other into marriage. I mean, you know. They were very strong together, which left me out of the picture. So I got together with Linda and then we got strong with our own kind of thing. And I used to listen to a lot of what they said. I remember him saying to me, “You’ve got to work at marriage,” which is something I still remember as a bit of advice. I still remember that. Um… And then yeah, I think they were a little bit peeved that we got married first. Probably. In a little way, you know, just minor jealousies. And so they got married. I don’t know if that’s – I mean, who knows… [inaudible] making it up, anyway.

September, 1986 (MPL Communications, London): journalist Chris Salewicz

Their belief in telepathy & shared dreams

NEIL: I’d just rather not say anything. It’s one of those situations. PAUL: Yeah. [pause] Well, that’s – that’s the trouble you see, there, ‘cause that’s it. It’s like, with our – heightened awareness, the answer is not to say anything, you know. But it isn’t. ‘Cause I mean, we screw each other up totally if we don’t do that. ‘Cause we’re not ready for your heightened… vows of silence. [laughs; hapless] We’re really not! Like, we don’t know what the fuck each other’s talking about, when that – we all just sort of get— NEIL: I think it’s just between the four of you, that get it. That’s what I’d pretend. PAUL: Oh yeah, right, yeah. But you see, that’s it, that’s why John doesn’t say anything. ‘Cause he, you know, he just… There was something the other day, when I said, “Well, what do you think?” And he just stood there and didn’t say anything. And then – and I know exactly why, you know. I mean, I wouldn’t, if… [long pause] Somehow. You know, there’s nothing really much to be said about it. You just – we all just have to do it, and all that, instead of like talking about it. But – but if one of us is talking about it, it’s a drag if the other three aren’t. Because then it sort of throws you off. [inaudible; voice marking tape slate] I mean, we’ve just been talking about it now for a few years, you know. Like this…

From the Get Back sessions (13 January 1969).

HINDLE: What do you think about language? JOHN: I think it’s a bit crummy, you know? It is a drag form of communication, really. We’ll get – we’ll get telepathy. I believe that. HINDLE: You believe that? JOHN: Yeah, sure. Sure. Sure as anything I believe. It’s too… Because now we need it so much. [...] There are – there’s people everywhere of the same mind and it’s just… even amongst ourselves we can’t communicate. Which is the hard bit, you know. HINDLE: Yeah. JOHN: Amongst the people that sort of really agree. HINDLE: Just ’cause of words? JOHN: Just ’cause of words, and upbringing, and attitude, and how you express your… Well, it’s just some – you’ve got to find a mutual sort of language to express yourself, you know? And my language is that— HINDLE: Unless you fall in love it’s impossible to communicate like that. JOHN: I mean, I wasn’t in love last year, but I was communicating quite well with people. Not as well, or maybe not as powerfully. ’Cause now there’s two of us, doing that, brrmmm, whatever it is. Sending out a vibration or whatever. But before it was me and… or me and George, alright, or whatever it was; we weren’t in love, but. You know. There’s enough in you to shove it out. It is just that bit. If you – if somebody comes in a room and he’s uptight and that, he can make the whole room uptight.

John Lennon, interviewed by Maurice Hindle (December 1968).

PAUL: I remember when John and I were first hanging out together, I had a dream about digging in the garden with my hands. I’d dreamt that before but I’d never found anything other than an old tin can. But in this dream I found a gold coin. I kept digging and I found another. And another. The next day I told John about this amazing dream I’d had and he said, ‘That’s funny, I had the same dream’. So both of us had this dream of finding this treasure. And I suppose you could say it came true. I remember years later talking about it – ‘Remember that dream we had?’; ‘Yeah, that was far out’. So the message of that dream was: keep digging lads.

PAUL MCCARTNEY TO THE BIG ISSUE. FEBRUARY 2012.

John climbing the wall to Paul's house because Paul skipped a session for his & Linda's anniversary

(Not confirmed but supposedly)

Paul being utterly convinced that John can't be gay because he didn't try it on when they slept in the same bed

I mean, if John was–the trouble is, see, is he’s not here to fend for himself, and we can’t ask him, “‘Scuse me, John, are you–have you ever been gay?” I mean, he’s the kind— I remember people used to ask that. There were lots of people asking cheeky questions, and they were always saying, “Well, why–have you ever tried homosexuality, John?” You know, they always used to ask all that kind of stuff. I remember John saying to them, “No, I’ve never met a fella I fancy enough.” And that was his kind of opinion. You know, “I may go–I may be gay one day, if some fella really turns me on.” He was–he was that open about it. But as far as I was concerned, I slept in a million hotel rooms–as we all did–slept in a million places with John, and there was never any hint of it.

December 24th, 1983: interview with DJ Roger Scott

“And I say, if he’s homosexual, I thought he’d have made a pass at me in 20 years, darling.”

Paul McCartney talking about John Lennon.

“Brian Epstein, the Beatles’ manager, was a known homosexual. Epstein was always polite and charming. It has been insinuated that John was drawn to Epstein. I believe there was no such relationship between them. John was macho. But if John was a homosexual, it would have made no difference to me. I’ve asked Paul McCartney, who laughed and said: ‘Why not me? I’m handsome.’ Then he said: ‘I was holed up with John in hotel rooms everywhere. There was never a suggestion of anything like that.’ I believe him.”

Julia Baird, in Boston Globe: Lennon’s half-sister remembers… (2 October 1988).

“All I can ever say about it is that I slept with John a lot because you had to, you didn’t have more than one bed - and to my knowledge John was never gay.”

Paul McCartney, The Brian Epstein Story

And maybe he's right to be offended?

Did Lennon have sex with other men? “I think he had a desire to, but I think he was too inhibited,” says Ono. “No, not inhibited. He said, ‘I don’t mind if there’s an incredibly attractive guy.’ It’s very difficult: They would have to be not just physically attractive, but mentally very advanced too. And you can’t find people like that.” So did Lennon ever have sex with men? “No, I don’t think so,” says Ono. “The beginning of the year he was killed, he said to me, ‘I could have done it, but I can’t because I just never found somebody that was that attractive.’ Both John and I were into attractiveness—you know—beauty.”

Yoko Ono: I Still Fear John’s Killer by Tim Teeman for the Daily Beast (13 October 2015).

There was even some discussion, albeit not very serious, of whether he should stick to his own gender. “John said ‘It would hurt you like crazy if I made it with a girl. With a guy, maybe you wouldn’t be hurt, because that’s not competition. But I can’t make it with a guy because I love women too much, and I’d have to fall in love with the guy and I don’t think I can.’”

Yoko on her and John discussing the terms of an open marriage in 1973 (John Lennon: The Life)

On that note, Paul's obsession with sleeping in the same bed as John

Paul McCartney answers questions for Q magazine, 1998

John and I used to hitch-hike places together, it was something that we did together quite a lot; cementing our friendship, getting to know our feelings, our dreams, our ambitions together. It was a very wonderful period. I look back on it with great fondness. I particularly remember John and I would be squeezed in our little single bed, and Mike Robbins, who was a real nice guy, would come in late at night to say good night to us, switching off the lights as we were all going to bed.

Many Years From Now

John and I always liked wordplay. So, the phrase ‘She’s got a ticket to ride’ of course referred to riding on a bus or train, but – if you really want to know – it also referred to Ryde on the Isle of Wight, where my cousin Betty and her husband Mike were running a pub. That’s what they did; they ran pubs. He ended up as an entertainment manager at a Butlin’s holiday resort. Betty and Mike were very showbiz. It was great fun to visit them, so John and I hitchhiked down to Ryde, and when we wrote the song we were referring to the memory of this trip. It’s very cute now to think of me and John in a little single bed, top and tail, and Betty and Mike coming to tuck us in.

Paul McCartney, on ‘Ticket To Ride’. In The Lyrics (2021).

“John and I grew up like twins although he was a year and a half older than me. We grew up literally in the same bed because when we were on holiday, hitchhiking or whatever, we would share a bed. Or when we were writing songs as kids he’d be in my bedroom or I’d be in his. Or he’d be in my front parlour or I’d be in his, although his Aunt Mimi sometimes kicked us out into the vestibule!”

New Statesman, “Paul McCartney - Meet The Beatle,” September 26, 1997

“I wrote all those songs with him so…. what can I say to people?? We were kids! I mean… we slept together, topped and tailed in beds and hitch-hiking and stuff, so,…. I mean, we were just totally you know,….. mates.”

Paul McCartney

John taking matters into his own hand to start rumours about him and Paul

The consensus among John, Paul and Yoko that if J&P could have been together, they would have

“. . . I mean, I think really what it was, really all that happened was that John fell in love. With Yoko. And so, with such a powerful alliance like that, it was difficult for him to still be seeing me. It was as if I was another girlfriend, almost. Our relationship was a strong relationship. And if he was to start a new relationship, he had to put this other one away. And I understood that. I mean, I couldn’t stand in the way of someone who’d fallen in love. You can’t say, “Who’s this?” You can’t really do that. If I was a girl, maybe I could go out and… But you know I mean in this case I just sort of said, right – I mean, I didn’t say anything, but I could see that was the way it was going to go, and that Yoko would be very sort of powerful for him. So um, we all had to get out the way.”

Paul McCartney, interview with German tv program Exclusiv, April 1985.

JOHN: It’s a plus, it’s not a minus. The plus is that your best friend, also, can hold you without… I mean, I’m not a homosexual, or we could have had a homosexual relationship and maybe that would have satisfied it, with working with other male artists. [faltering] An artist – it’s more – it’s much better to be working with another artist of the same energy, and that’s why there’s always been Beatles or Marx Brothers or men, together. Because it’s alright for them to work together or whatever it is. It’s the same except that we sleep together, you know? I mean, not counting love and all the things on the side, just as a working relationship with her, it has all the benefits of working with another male artist and all the joint inspiration, and then we can hold hands too, right?

John Lennon, interview w/ Sandra Shevey. (Mid-June?, 1972)

Y: After the initial embarrassment, that how Paul is being very nice to me, he’s nice and a very, str- on the level, straight, sense, like wherever there’s something like happening at the Apple, he explains to me, as if I should know. And also whenever there’s something like they need a light man, or something like that he asks me if I know of anybody, things like that. And like I can see that he’s just now suddenly changing his attitude, like his being, he’s treating me with respect, not because it’s me, but because I belong to John. I hope that’s what it is because that would be nice. And I feel like he’s my younger brother or something like that. I’m sure that if he had been a woman or something, he would have been a great threat, because there’s something definitely very strong with me, John, and Paul.

Yoko Ono, Revolution Tape, June 4th 1968

"We thought we'd do a number of an old estranged fiancé of mine called Paul.""

As a second choice from the Lennon- McCartney songbook, Elton suggested 'I Saw Her Standing There'. This appealed to John for its antiquity, and because its lead vocal always was sung by Paul. (...) There was a whisper of Royal Variety Show mischief when he announced "a number by an old estranged fiancé of mine called Paul" - no one yet knowing the estranged fiancés were long reconciled.

John Lennon: The Life, Philip Norman

You know, John loved Paul. No doubt about it. I remember once he said to me, “I’m the only person who’s allowed to say things like that about Paul. I don’t like it when other people do.” He didn’t like if other people said nasty things about Paul. And he always referred to Paul as his estranged fiancé and things like that, like he did on that [live] record ‘I Saw Her Standing There’ with Elton in Madison Square Garden.

1990: Former Beatles publicist Tony King

Married couple signatures

(and the reverse of that postcard...)

John publicly predicting Paul & Linda's divorce

You were right about New York! I do love it; it's the ONLY PLACE TO BE. (Apart from anything else, they leave you alone too!) I see you prefer Scotland! (MM) -- I'll bet you your piece of Apple you'll be living in New York by 1974 (two years is the usual time it takes you right?)

John's letter to Paul in Melody Maker, 1971 Finally, about not telling anyone that I left the Beatles—PAUL and Klein both spent the day persuading me it was better not to say anything—asking me not to say anything because it would 'hurt the Beatles'—and 'let's just let it petre out'—remember? So get that into your petty little perversion of a mind, Mrs. McCartney—the cunts asked me to keep quiet about it. Of course, the money angle is important—to all of us—especially after all the petty shit that came from your insane family/in laws—and GOD HELP YOU OUT, PAUL—see you in two years—I reckon you'll be out then—inspite of it all, love to you both, from us two.

John's personal letter to Linda & Paul, 1971

JOHN: Oh, [Klein]’d love it if Paul would come back. I think he was hoping he would for years and years. He thought that if he did something, to show Paul that he could do it, Paul would come around. But no chance. I mean, I want him to come out of it, too, you know. He will one day. I give him five years, I’ve said that. In five years he’ll wake up. YOKO: And people don’t understand, you know. There’s so many groups that constantly announce they’re going to split, they’re going to split, and they can announce it every year, and it doesn’t mean they’re going to split. But people don’t understand what an extraordinary position the Beatles are in, you know. In every way. They’re in such an extraordinary position that they’re more insecure than other people. And so Klein thinks he’ll give Paul two years Linda-wise, you know. And John said, “No, Paul treasures things like children, things like that. It will be longer.” And of course, John was right.

John Lennon and Yoko Ono, interview w/ Peter McCabe and Robert Schonfeld. (September, 1971)

[ladylaviniya]

Wails of Wedded Bliss

Chapter 1 || Masterlist || Chapter 3

Chapter Summary: After your wedding night, you find Sherlock to be most unusual and confronting in nature.

Pairing: Sherlock Homes x wife!reader

Chapter Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Insults, Rough sex gone too far, internal bleeding, Menstration/Period, Arguing, Typical Victorian Era Sexism,

Word Count: 9k

Author Notes: Hi all!! Here's the next chapter, sorry no smut but lots of tension. Love you all and appreciate those most that have been showing their support through comments or Reblogs or both ★

Inspiring Song: "Caprice N° 24" by Paganini

•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•

12:49pm Monday 5th May 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.

Sherlock, as he paced his own bedroom was frustrated...and furious to say the least...he touched the cut on his bottom lip and hissed.

He was not equipped for this arrangement. He was unprepared for the handling of a wife. He was not aware he would be so much for his new bride to take...no whore in Mayfair Row demonstrated such complaints...however he reminded himself they were experienced women...you were a new lamb.

He hit the side of his bed, hearing your crying through the walls. Guilt became his executioner.

You were so frigid, he just didn’t expect you to struggle so viciously. You were unexpectedly a savage bitch!

He decided to take a deep breath. The deed was done.

He palmed his soft red cock and wrinkles his nose at the blood. There was so much...his throat clenched, mayhaps he was too rough...normally blood excited him...normally tears and sobbing made his member thick and hard...

He eyed the trunk chest at the foot of his bed...you could not survive his flavours. There was no possibility...He was a wicked handler and he knew you couldn’t ever meet that side of him...

•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•

12:55pm Monday 5th May 1890, 221A Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.

The Housekeeper slapped her novel shut. She heard the many thumps and shouts, and now she could hear the horrid sobbing coming up from the floor above...your bedroom.

She sighed...it wasn’t the first time she had heard such things from the apartment 221B. There was single difference...you were his wife...not some perfumed pretender with a pimp expecting a percentage of commission.

Mrs Hudson felt for you. She didn’t leave her apartment until she heard the stomping of Sherlock’s heavy feet going down the stairs.

Her eyes widened, surely he wouldn’t leave you when you were in such a state?

Mrs Hudson was an old woman, she knew it was expected she would ignore it and carry on with her daily activities, Mrs Hudson though knew many married women who had died from that lack of acknowledgement in a violent husband.

She stuck her head out her door and saw him making his way to the front door of the building.

“What have you done?” she scolded him as his hand clenched hard on the door handle.

His face was red. The elder gasped at the line of red rolling down his chin from a cut on his lip...His teeth were pink and set in a vile snarl.

“Nothing that concerns you Mrs Hudson, return back into your hole!” he hissed back as he left with another door slam.

Mrs Hudson tutted greatly and ignored his words all together.

She gathered her skirts and climbed the stairs to Apartment B. She slid the key into the hole and entered the premises speedily.

She heard your weeping in your room and followed to the closed bedroom door.

She wrapped her knuckle on the wood three times, “My dear,” she called, “It’s Mrs Hudson, may I enter?”

When you sobbed harder incoherently, she took it as a sign she should enter. In truth you didn’t know or have enough time to process what she had asked.

The elderly woman pushed the wood open and gasped in horror at what she saw...a naked girl...your bottom half and blankets drenched in crimson red. Your skin was covered in the stench of sweat.

She covered her mouth and tutted, “oh you poor, poor deary.”

You sobbed harder at feeling her cold hands touch your hot shoulder.

•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•

2:12pm Monday 5th May 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.

You hissed and sulked softly as your body sunk deeper in the warm bath water.

Your housekeeper had so kindly spent an hour filling the tub up with hot steamy water. During that time you cried and faded into light sleep before coming back to life with the painful memory of what your holy beloved had done to you

The elderly woman would come back every so often to check the packing of linen rags between your legs. For a honest moment she was afraid you might die. She called for the doctor...one she could trust...Doctor John Watson.

After the bleeding had lessened, she encouraged you to drink a cup of water and come out for the room to enjoy the afternoon bathwater...

You hadn’t said a word to Mrs Hudson this entire time. Too ashamed and shocked to form a word.

You couldn’t even form a ‘Thankyou Mrs Hudson.’ Only quiet tears would melt down your cheek.

The hot waves helped your muscles relax and sooth the anxiety under your skin.

Your head flopped on the lip of the bathtub.

With fluttering eyes... exhaustion took over and you fell asleep in the bath tub listening to the crackling of the wood and flames of the fireplace.

•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•

6:30pm Monday 5th May 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.

A hot hand touched your face and you gasped at the dramatic change in temperature. You were sitting in a freeze tub of water....it had gone cold hours ago...

Your eyes opened and focused on the deep smooth voice of a man. Not just any man however.

“Mrs Holmes...” he purred softly, “The bath is cold, it would be in best interest if you redress.”

Your body was incredibly weak and chilly while also impossibly hot. You were a slight dizzy and confused. Your lips parted and closed again repeatedly like a fish.

When his face met his voice and his nose and eyes came into true focus, you shivered and leant back and flinched away from his touch.

Your husband released a lengthy sigh and rolled his eyes, “Very well,” he murmured before forcing both his arms into the icy bath water and hooked them beneath your back and legs.

As he lifted you out, your stomach dropped and you squeaked, feeling that gravitational pull to which you might fall. Instinctively your arms wrapped around his neck and shoulders. You clung to him savagely digging your nails into his coat.

You felt him walk, your wet body trailing and dripping all over the carpet.

He journeyed back to your bedroom.

As the cold air hit your skin you started to tremble and felt him lay you down on your mattress.

Your mind was a mess.

Another person was in the room you noticed in the corner of your eye. You cowered in your nude state and whimpered. You felt delirious and confused.

You blinked up at the other stranger. Another man.

You didn’t know if he was real at first until his burning hands pulled from his black gloves and gently touched your knees.

“Sherlock, she’s sick.”

“Yes, how eloquently obvious Watson, check her,” you heard your husband hiss.

You tried to move away, roll and crawl but you were flipped once more onto your back, your legs weakly spread.

You groaned and your eyes fluttered. You needed to vomit.

You felt a body climb onto the bed with you. Sherlock. His thumb dabbed and rubbed across your wrinkled forehead, he hushed you softly like you were some weeping babe or startled horse.

You felt the doctors hand touch your intimates and you panicked, your breath hitched and you moaned a soft, “N-no.” You tried pulling your thighs together but Sherlock reached down and spread your knees forcefully.

You didn’t understand what he was doing and the worst thoughts washed over you, was Sherlock sharing you with another man like a sick villain?

You wept tiredly.

A cold hard contraption pierced the hole of your body. A shudder ripped out of you as you felt your vaginal walls expand.

“Minor tearing...what caused the amount of blood is your wife starting her menses.”

Sherlock sighed, “Thank god, I thought I almost killed her.” The metal object pulled out from between your thighs.

The room was lit by candles and kerosene lamps. And so in the low light, Sherlock’s face was softened. The shadows kissed his cheeks and lips.

“Bed rest and warm towels, give her a few days to rest, heal. Usually women finish their blood within a week.”

The doctor pulled away and you heard the snapping of a bag lock. You managed to catch a medical case in his hands in your blurry line of sight.

The doctor fled to your door, before he left, his hand clenched the handle and he turned lightly. He hissed at the detective.

“Be gentle next time you participate in these activities Sherlock,” John snapped, “She is your bloody wife, not your whore.”

Your husband, ever so gently pressed his hot lips to your forehead. You had not predicted such soft kindness after his mistreatment earlier today. He hummed. He held and pissed your back up, he forced you to bend you knees and slipped your naked body beneath the coverings. Your wet body soaked the sheets, your cheek dug into the soft pillows.

“My dear Watson,” you heard him snicker, “I am nothing more than a mere gentleman.” You heard the doctor scoff and shut the door behind him.

Warm hands squeezed your shoulders and rubbed your jawline.

Peaking up at Sherlock, he wore an unreadable expression...he did not appear happy nor angry, rather he appeared tired. Bags beneath his eyes could tell you that much. His bottom lip was slightly swollen, a little red line cut through it, you softly huffed, it was where you’d bitten him hours ago to get him off you.

You couldn’t believe you were back in the same bed he had hurt you in. It made you feel cold and a desire to be distant again...but the warmth of his hand and the blankets had a power over you.

Your chest was sore and a light cough climbed out of your throat.

He did not speak and for that you were grateful. It would’ve been a near impossibility to continue a conversation with him with the state of your being.

The nauseas sickness sweeping of your belly subsided. All you wanted to feel was the warm covers, the goose feather pillows and his warm hand, softly patting your head...it took you back to a happier time...a time where your father and you shared a bed and he held you until you fell asleep...some days it felt like a dream...

You didn’t want to admit it but you dearly missed those times. Sherlock smoked the same tobacco, the scent soaked in his vest. It brought you the tiniest comfort...

You yawned and lazily blinked up at him.

“Try and get some rest wife...should you need anything, knock on my door.”

And with that he climbed off the mattress. Your body flipping lightly as it sprung up. Your nose sniffled softly.

Your heart deflated, ah there it was again. The coldness, the disdain, the reminder...he didn’t want to marry you.

After his foul entrance earlier, you wondered if such a feeling was unanimous at this point.

You shut your eyes and moaned. You tried to roll onto your side...you hissed lightly at the sore stabbing of your pelvis and the stinging stretch inside of you.

As sleep carried you out of reality, Sherlock made his slow departure, quietly sliding his way to your bedroom door.

He looked over the room and shook his head slowly...this once was his friends chambers, and before that a space where he kept his fun tools and artefacts.

Now he had a sick woman in the bed, his wife whom he hadn’t meant to brutalise earlier.

You were finally snoring when he managed to find the courage to leave the room, put out the living room fireplace and finally return to his bed.

As he removed his own clothing, he stared at the wall that separated your rooms. He wondered how badly your sickness might continue and if it was permitted to leave you alone while you bleed so profusely. 

He thought about how these few weeks were in fact meant to be a honeymoon, how he had most furiously refused the ship tickets to France where his brother Mycroft insisted you both go for your romance to blossom.

Sherlock had very little intention to be a romantic for a woman he didn’t desire.

He tore off his shirt and rolled his eyes at the memories that transpired over the last two weeks.

You were nothing but a baby carriage to Mycroft, the future mother to the future Holmes son. So of course Sherlock could not understand his brothers incessant pandering to be a match maker of lovers.

The detective was no small minded idiot either...he knew plenty about you just from today...he knew about you before meeting you... He knew exactly why this marriage occurred on your end.

A bastard daughter of sir Y/L/N, son of the Lord and Lady Y/L/N. This was merely a way to keep your social hierarchy to a suitable and respectable level.

He had heard and read the scandalous rumours.

You were half the soft rose and half a weed in regards to your breeding...which meant you were a weed in the end, an illegitimate, unrecognised bastard.

He sat on his bed and untied his shoes.

Sherlock was not one to participate and discriminate the classes. Many a time it was speculated by John that Sherlock might’ve been a socialist.

The detective might’ve not cared for your breeding, but he didn’t appreciate being used as a climbing ladder of society which he didn’t receive well either way.

He was using you so that Mycroft didn’t cut him off financially, you were using Sherlock so that the people of culture no longer shunned and ignored your existence.

Mycroft was a down right fool if he believed such a union could ever bring together a matrimony of love. So Sherlock accepted it quickly...this would be what it was...a contract...you now needed to complete you aide of the bargain.

You needed to let Sherlock impregnate you...

With your stunt in rebellious adversity, you acknowledged his size and struggled to accommodate him, ergo your fear, pain and bite.

Sherlock huffed, he would need to wait another seven days before he could perform his husbandry duties upon you and press his seed within.

He laid back into his covers still staring at the wall...

He bit his lip. Oh if only he could punish you for such misdirected behaviours...he wondered how willing you really were and what lengths you were prepared to take to remain his Mrs Holmes so that the meek people of the middle and upper class might continue their false smiles your way.

A wicked smirk spread along his lips...

Perhaps a innocent bride was a perfect ingredient for his most filthy pleasurable plans...

Mycroft never stated how quickly it was expected of you to conceive and carry...he just said

“Soon.” And “Before he met the grave.”

He rolled onto his side and imagined you there with him in his bed. He imagined how your body curled up into such a small figure.

He envisioned the likeness of your tear stained face and an exhausted smile...

For now he would let you rest.

•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•

7:00am Tuesday 6th May 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.

The sound of a loud violin cord strong woke you up from your hours of needed sleep. You groaned as your head began to ache....

You drowsily tossed your head to the direction of your door way...your eyes narrowed. Someone was playing a violin very loudly just outside your bedroom.

You sniffled unladylike as your runny nose clogged your breath. You lifted your hands to cover your ears. Onto shaking legs you pulled out of your bed and used the canopy wood to steady yourself. You walked slowly to the wardrobe and plucked out a nightgown.

You hobbled to your bedroom door and as you opened the wooden barrier, the buzz of Paganini hit your ears. You wrinkled your nose as you watched your husband play the instrument, leaning over a table covered in papers, maps, receipts and a plate of toast.

As he saw you, his eyes widened slightly...you were not dressed appropriately for the hour of the morning. At any moment he might’ve had a client come inside if it were not for his honeymoon.

“Good morning, Mrs Holmes,” said Sherlock as he placed his instrument down on the table.

You sternly eyed him. Your hands trembled lightly. His face. His handsome evil features upset you. He offered a soft smile and kind eyes. You didn’t dare fall for his trickery. From the moment you had met him he had provided a twisted exchange of false care that twisted quickly to brutal cruelty.

You decided, you did not like your husband and it was not something you would hide from him.

“My grandmother insists that is the devil’s music,” You proclaimed, “It is most wretched to hear of a morning.”

He sucked in a deep breath of air and grounded, “I do not entertain superstitious conversation,

Paganini was gifted and because of this, other composers jealously invented rumours of a pact with Satan to dissuade the public from ever enjoying the expanses of musical differences.”

You glared at him. Of course he would say something so infuriating and liberal in the works. His tone tilted on belittlement and you felt there was absolutely no standing that could allow him to talk to you like this especially after yesterday’s events.

You lightly snorted, “As it may be so, I still urge the request you refrain from playing it so early and while in my presence. It woke me up most fiercely.”

In truth it isn’t what woke you up…You could still feel him there. The memory of his violent embrace haunted the muscles of your lower half. He was like a ghost remaining between your thighs. It made you feel ill to think about.

He looked down. A deep frown on his face. He wouldn’t meet your eyes. He pushed the plate with toast closer to you, “Mrs Hudson bid you a fair morning wife, you should be up earlier from now on to receive her.”

You looked to the softly ticking clock on the fireplace mantel and blinked, “Indeed, I shall need to apologise to her,” demurely you conceded, “I usually rise by six in the morning.”

“You are ill,” Sherlock said now holding the plate out to you for your weak hands to take, “I insist you sit and eat and return back to bed for further rest.”

You wanted to raise your voice at him. You wanted to scream and yell that you were not I’ll but rather hurt and in suffering after his careless mistreatment.

You couldn’t figure out if his gentleness last night was really a delusional dream. This world around you felt like some vicious game.

You chewed the inside of your cheek. You wanted to be a spitfire and tell him he needed to apologise for hurting you yesterday before you take anything from him...yet as your insides tightened at the smell of the warm butter soaking the hot cooked bread, you obeyed his demand.

You glided over to him and lightly pushed some of the papers on the table around. Sitting at the end, Sherlock mirrored your seating and went about picking up a newspaper.

On the front was a illustration of Lord Thaddeus Pennicott, a baron who from the title of the paper had gone missing.

You looked back to your breakfast and pondered on your husband’s work. How the articles written by John Watson had designed Sherlock to be a saviour to the public with a intelligence that might put most scholars to shame. The Sherlock you had come to meet was nothing like the gazette’s description, rather he was rude, ill tempered and coarse in handling any woman.

You chewed the soft delicious toast and swallowed gradually.

It was difficult to accept but not hard to see, you had married a brute.

You glanced at Sherlock again. His face was hidden behind the paper, his thick long fingers cradled and framed the edges of the news securely as he flicked through the gossips.

You nervously fidgeted in your seat as you ate breakfast. You did not see any tea and assumed you slept through any Mrs Hudson might’ve deliver.

It was so unusual waking up in a foreign home, having to accept this would be your place of residence for as long as your husband desired to live here.

You noted the oddities of your surroundings...objects you didn’t much think of as you moved in yesterday. There was a underwater helmet, a skeleton of some type of odd mammal, and even a telescope sitting on top of a piano.

You read over some of the framed newspaper headlines which were the retellings of your husband’s crime and mystery stories.

The will to speak to him again with level head and calm tones was as hard as walking through mud up to your ankles. You squeezed your eyes shut. You couldn’t ignore him nor refuse to speak to him for your entire marriage.

You licked your bottom lip and coughed into a napkin. Looking back to Sherlock’s newspaper you nodded and called across the table, “Are you helping with the Pennicott case, Mr Holmes?”

He flattened the paper on the table and stared at you as if you’d said something obvious.

“Of course not. Clearly he’s a man who ran out from his wife. It happens more often than you think,” he cleared his throat and picked up his cup to his lips, speaking into the cup “Perhaps you should sit pretty rather than voice your false interests in my work which you have no business in.”

You didn’t like the tone he used on you. Condescending. Icy. You wouldn’t allow it to continue. You remembered your grandfather telling you to put your foot down as a new wife or else you would be unattended to. It’s not that you desired the attending after yesterday, but you wouldn’t accept rudeness.

“Sherlock,” you hummed and crossed your arms over your lap as you tongued the inside of your cheek trying to not scream at him, “I am your wife,” you said it sternly, “Not a child, when I inquire on the better part of your interest, do not speak down to me like a dog.”

You jerked your chin dignified, holding your ground despite almost dropping the last crust of your breakfast.

He pursed his lips with narrowed eyes and thought before spoke. It was a chilling moment before announced, “You are my wife, that is true...and so I shall speak to you however you tempt me to, and this very morning you’ve put me in a disagreeable mood.”

Disagreeable mood?! You refrained from rolling your eyes at him.

You sat back and sighed, abandoning the last and tiny piece of bread. He was so foul to think of himself so justified. You expressed a disinterest to his music tastes and that indicated his deflating concern for you.

Not once had he asked in your wellbeing. Perhaps he was clouded with shame? ‘he should be shameful, he hurt an innocent woman.’

“Perhaps, you should practice on controlling and restraining your moods then Sherlock,” you griped, “I do not much care for your habitable outbursts.”

For the first time you caught his face expressing a new design...shock, flabbergasted. His face grew a small hue of pink.

You smirked a little at the small victory.

His chewed his bottom lip, “My habitable outbursts?” he pried, offence costing his words.

You swallowed and nodded curtly you leant back in your chair, “Now here at breakfast, the church flee yesterday, and the marriage bed rage also yesterday.”

An indignant chuckled crawled from his throat.

“You bit me like a wild cat,” he voiced rightfully, pointing hard at the small wound still in his mouth. The redden skin was a symbol of your defiance and escape. Instead of being embarrassed, you surged with pride that you punished him in such a manner.

You quipped back quickly, “and you stabbed me like an merciless villain.”

“A villain, you say?” his brows now raised and his eyes widened.

“Quite,” You glanced down at the plate and muttered, There’s no other term for what you did to me.”

Rape was not in the current vocab for this situation you believed. You were married and he was taking what was rightfully his as husband, he could have been gentler however. Your grandmother never shared that it could be so agonising, surely your grandfather had never inflicted such abuse into her?

Your husband slowly rose from the table and leant across it. You flinched and squeezed your eyes as you feared his sharp hand. Sherlock Holmes had every strength to hurt his weak wife, so why did you feel so mouthy in the sense of easily provoking him to rage or even potential violence?

The handsome detective with hot pale hands ran his knuckle down your cold cheek...it was wet. A tear had escaped. Dear god...you were trembling and clenching your skirts beneath the table.

“I can think of a plethora of words for what I did to you,” Sherlock muttered, he pulled his hand away and scoffed, “I did not think Mycroft to saddle me with such a stupid bride.”

A fresh flow of hot tears flooded your eyes.

A growl of outrage accidentally climbed from your chest, it came out like a needy whine, “I beg your pardon?”

“Granted my dear Mrs Holmes,” he smirked and clapped his hands gesturing to the room you left, “Now off to bed with you, I see your withering state worsen by the moment. Doctor Watson informed me you needed rest during your delicate...situation. Perhaps it has brought you to these hysterical theatrics.”

A light gasp of horror and a written expression of disgust painted your face, “I shall not, nay! I shall sit an disembowel your words,” you sniffled and tried not to fall into a pathetic sob, “D-did you just call me stupid?!”

As his smile widened and you angrily threw the last piece of bread at him, hitting his chest.

“You sir,” your bottom lip wobbled “Are out of place and feverishly I have discovered your lack of empathy most stunning, that or rather the amount of your selfish conceived motion that I am a docile woman who will put up with your conceited arrogance!!”

How dare he hurt you as terribly as he did in humiliation and physical behind that he should also find it acceptable to brandish you with further insults of your intelligence.

Before he could sit back down, you slapped your hands on the table, the china tinkled as you pushed yourself up to your feet. You hissed at him as you wobbled around the wooden furniture, “You may be London’s finest Detective, but I am your wife.”

You mapped your finger harshly into his chest and snarled with great venom dripping from your tongue, “By the lord of heaven, if I had only known the telling’s of our futures, I would announce full heartedly that you Sherlock Holmes would be the very last man I would prevail to marry.”

The room fell silent. His cold eyes burned I to your gullet. He licked his teeth, left slightly speechless and unsure if he should entertain the argument any longer than necessary.

Your belly felt tight. The toast was not sitting well. You were anxiously awaiting his roar, his bite or his strike. Your chest rose and fell with every desperate breath you took as to not fall into a heap of wailing. Breathe through the pain and the fear.

He stared at your lips and fluttered his eyes, shaking his head at you.

“...Good morning Mrs Holmes,” he bid gruffly and bowed his head before leaving the table to head over to the coat rack.

“And where is it you run off to this time?” You raised your voice shakily and waved your hands as if to conjure the words of his locations destination, “The same place you fled to yesterday and yesterday evening? To hide in a bottle?”

Mr Holmes snapped his head back at you, his eyes scowered your poorly glad form beneath the dressing gown. It took everything in him not to fuck your miserable mouth off.

“No...” he swallowed harshly, “I seek the companionship of bearable company.”

Your chest tightened and the whimper left, that could’ve been anyone or no one with how mysterious your husband had proven to be.

You rubbed your hot forehead and grunted softly to remind him, “It is our honeymoon.”  

During the week of a honeymoon it was deemed improper to seek or receive guests and the company of any other than your married partner.

Sherlock leant forward, right down to your cheek, his lips scarcely touching the skin of your love and jaw as he whispered hauntingly, “And your honey is blood. I shall not interrupt your peaceful rest....” he kissed your face gently, and said at a room tempt tone, “Good morning Mrs Holmes.”

Argument over it would seem.

He picked up a walking cane and a hat, leaving the flat to yourself.

You sighed frustratedly and stomped a foot like a feral child. You wouldn’t put up with this, for this is not what was promised by the outline of marriage by every book, paper and word of mouth. You crossed your arms and sniffled. You wiped your eyes again.

Sherlock made you feel more like a child than a wife with how he used his words and the looks he threw at you. It was unfair and cruel.

You were a very smart young lady and practiced the skills of refine ladyship over the years of your teenage hood. You were a paragon of brilliance and etiquette...only for some lout you called a husband to drive you to irritation so unbearable that you felt it necessary to toss your breakfast scraps at him.

You ground your teeth and returned to your rooms to pick out a modest covering wrap over the dressing gown you already wore. It would be most annoying to have to strip your body everytime you vomited or perhaps didn’t reach the bed pan in time.

You shuddered and went about washing your face and fiddling with your hair...

As you stared at your washed out features, you heard your landlady arrive...

You thought about your wifely duties beyond the bedroom. With Sherlock going off to god knows where, you were totally left to your own devices and for the very first time in years, you had freedom to decide your days habits.

You thought half heartedly about calling upon Sherlock’s brother or the Doctor Watson to grant a visit and answer some questions beginning to form in your head.

‘Why is Sherlock so different in person compared to the papers?’

‘What displeases Sherlock into his outbursts and what pleases him to calm those said outbursts to dust?’

You tried to wonder on your marriage contract. You were not entirely privy to it even though you felt you had every right. It was a deal conspired by Mycroft and your grandfather after all. You wondered if Sherlock even caught a glimpse of it.

Why did Sherlock even agree to marry you if it was only to lead to his foul manners and hands to you?

Tapped your lips and shook your head.

What does every contracted marriage consist of? Land? Babes? Livestock? Wealth? Status?

You looked around your room and out the open door to the sitting room.

Sherlock did not strike you as someone in need of money...and yet...many of these items, surely were not affordable on a wavering wage as his alone? His family wealth most likely was directed towards Mycroft as the eldest.

And then you recalled your darling sister in law, her shrieking at the wedding, the words echoed back like a tunnel, ‘I can help pay off your debts when I marry’ she had said.

So it was money...debts...and enough to cause strains that would force him to accept your hand in marriage. You tried not dwelling on being reminded how undesirable you were as a bastard woman. This newly accepted information could be used to your advantage.

A fabulous idea occurred to you. An idea that would prove to Sherlock that you were in fact not a stupid imbecile.

Helplines:

If you are a victim of sexual abuse, assault or domestic violence or know someone who is please reach out to these links that share helpline services, phone numbers or emails. Consent and respect is important in every relationship whether between friends, family or even strangers.

Australian Helpline Services

UK Helpline Services

American Helpline Services

India Helpline Services.

[thefisherqueen]

I was wondering about what the bathroom and toilet situation would likely have been like when Sherlock Holmes and dr Watson moved into Baker Street in 1881 (for fanfic reasons, obviously). An in-house bathroom and toilet have long been luxuries. My own parents have stories of not having a bathroom yet at home when they were young, and both grew up in the '60 in the Netherlands. They either had an iron tub filled or went to a public bathhouse, and the toilet was located in the garden. Both of them grew up working class, however. I imagine that Holmes and Watson's combined income would have made them middle class, so the Baker Street rooms would perhaps have been more luxurious.

Doyle thought it probably not appropriate or relevant to really directly discuss it in the stories, but there have been a few mentions of the possibility of taking a bath at Baker Street in the stories, for example when Holmes asks Watson why he would prefer to go to the Turkish bath over taking a bath at home in The illustrious client. I found this interesting article that discusses the likely bathroom situation at Baker Street!

"After 1870, a system of constant water supply began to be introduced to London, although it took over 20 years and a huge amount of pipe retrofitting to bring the “constant” to all of London. The West Middlesex Water Company supplied water to the Northwest section of London, including Marylebone (and thus Baker Street).  By 1891, 43 percent of the houses supplied by this company were on constant.  The change to the constant system involved the water company reworking its water main system under the street to each house and it required each homeowner to redo almost all of the piping system inside the house. The constant water system involved a much higher pressure of water, which the older pipers connected to a cistern could not handle. New fittings and faucets were also required inside the home when the conversion was made.

Thus, by the time that Holmes and Watson rented their rooms on Baker Street from Mrs. Hudson in January 1881, they almost surely had access to piped, running water and to a water closet in the building. More than likely, a room had been converted to a bathroom by the time they rented, but the “constant” water supply was probably introduced to Baker Street later during their tenancy.  The Canon suggests there was a bathroom on the second floor of 221B.  The precise location of the water closet(s) is not known."

Also, look at this victorian contraption! A hip-bath it was called. It just looks so funny

[whencyclopedia]

Eyewitness Accounts of the London Blitz

The London Blitz (September 1940 to May 1941) was a sustained bombing campaign by the German Air Force during the Second World War (1939-45). Londoners were subjected to nightly bombings that killed thousands, destroyed homes, and necessitated long and uncomfortable nights spent in air raid shelters. This article tells the story of the Blitz through the eyes of those who experienced it firsthand.

After the fall of France in the early summer of 1940, the German Air Force (Luftwaffe) set itself the task of destroying the British Royal Air Force (RAF) both in the air and on the ground, a necessary prelude to an invasion. However, as the RAF began to win the Battle of Britain and so maintain air superiority, the Luftwaffe switched objectives to the bombing of cities, particularly London, in the hope of destroying civilian morale. Colonel Adolf Galand of Luftwaffe Jagdgruppe 26 explains this switch:

We didn't know at the time why he changed to London: we had only to obey orders. I believe today that Hitler and Göring wanted to make use of their advantage of having the capital of the enemy in the range of their fighters which could therefore escort the bombers. On the other side Berlin was far out of the effective range of the RAF at this time...Nobody knew at the time how much was needed to destroy a great part of the town. Perhaps Hitler and Göring hoped that they would force England to negotiate after these attacks.

(Holmes, 138)

Peter Stahl, a crew member of a Junkers Ju 88, noted in his diary his experience of bombing London in one of the first raids in early September 1940:

It must be terrible down there. We can see many conflagrations caused by previous bombing raids. The effect of our own attack is an enormous cloud of smoke and dust that shoots up into the sky like a broad moving strip.

(Holland, 731)

On the ground, F. W. Hurd, a member of the Auxiliary Fire Service (AFS), describes the sound of a bomb dropping close to him when fighting a fire in a London gasworks:

Guns started firing, and then I had my first experience of a bomb explosion. A weird whistling sound and I ducked behind the pump with the other two members of the crew. The others, scattered as we were, had thrown themselves down wherever they happened to be. Then a vivid flash of flame, a column of earth and debris flying into the air and the ground heaved. I was thrown violently against the side of the appliance…what a sight. About a mile to our right was the river front. The whole horizon on that side was a sheet of flame. The entire docks were on fire! On all other sides it was much the same. Fire everywhere. The sky was a vivid orange glow…And all the time the whole area was being mercilessly bombed. The road shuddered with explosions. AA shells were bursting overhead…The shrapnel literally rained down. It was now about midnight and still the racket kept on. It surprised me how quickly one got used to sensing whether a bomb was coming our way or not.

(Gardiner, 15-16)

Bombs landed on all sorts of places, but it was local landmarks being destroyed that often shocked the most, as explained by Anthony Heap, a local government official:

I heard that Tussaud's cinema caught a packet last night. So as soon as the All Clear went at 6.25 I dashed along to see. And by gosh it had too. Only the front of it in Marylebone Road and the proscenium was left standing. The rest was completely demolished as were some buildings behind it as well…not a single window in any building in the vicinity remained intact. Huge crowds thronged along the Marylebone Road to see the ruins. It was one of the sights of London today.

(Gardiner, 44)

Londoners went on with their daily lives as best they could, as explained here by Phyllis Warner:

One of the oddest things about our everyday life is its a mixture of ruthless horror and every-day routine. I pick my way to work past the bomb craters and the shattered glass, and sit at my desk in a room with a large hole in the roof (a block of paving stone came through). Next to a house reduced to matchwood, housewives are giving prosaic orders to the baker and the milkman. Of course, ordinary life must go on, but the effect is fantastic. Nobody seems to mind the day raids. It is the nights which are like a continuous nightmare, from which there is no merciful awakening. Yet people won't move away. I know that I'm a fool to go on sleeping in Central London which gets plastered every night, but I feel that if others can stand it, so can I.

(Gardiner, 48)

Sometimes people had no time to seek shelter, as told here by an anonymous East Ender:

The day I was hit was October 13th, 1940. About ten to eight I said to my wife and my in-laws, 'Well, I'll be off now,' and I just walked out the door. Lovely, big three-floor houses they were and I just walked up the approach road about twenty yards from the church which was our air-raid post and suddenly there was – shh – nothing. I heard nothing and I fell flat on my face. I picked myself up, I turned around and all I could see was just a grey curtain hanging down the middle of the road, about twice as wide as this pub. It was just a brownish-grey curtain hanging there and I thought, My God, something's happened. So I staggered down to the post and I said to the post warden, 'Jim, I think something's happened up at the Prince of Wales.' When we went up there and when I saw it I said, 'Christ almighty, the family's down there!' And there it was – we were there, about fourteen of us all on this big row of houses, and it was just one bloody great hole.

(Holmes, 140-1)

The authorities took some months to build communal shelters and then make sure they were not themselves unhealthy death traps. Barbara Nixon, an Air Raid Precaution (ARP) volunteer, describes the poor state of shelters in her district in Finsbury:

They were poorly ventilated, and only two out of nine that came in my province could pretend to be dry. Some leaked through the roof and umbrellas had to be used; in others the mouth of the sump-hole near the door had been made higher than the floor, and on a rainy night it invariably overflowed to a depth of two inches at one end decreasing to a quarter of an inch at the other, and rheumaticky old ladies had to sit upright on their benches for six to twelve hours on end, with their feet propped up on a couple of bricks. four or five times during the night we used to go round with a saucepan and bucket baling out the stinking water…There were chemical closets usually partially screened off by a canvas curtain. But even so, the supervision of the cleaning of these was not adequate. Sometimes they would be left untended for days on end and would overflow on to the floor…Then there was the question of lights…We had one hurricane lamp for about fifty people…The one paraffin light was the only heating that there was in those days. It was bitterly cold that winter.

(Gardiner, 62)

A shelter was not a guarantee of safety. Margaret Turpin recalls the night her shelter was hit by a bomb when she and her family found themselves buried in rubble:

I must have had lots of periods of unconsciousness…I remember seeing an ARP helmet, and it was way, way up, a long way away. And then suddenly it was quite near. I do remember the man saying to me, 'We'll soon have you out.' He said, 'All we've got to do is get your arm out.' And I looked at this arm that was sticking out of the debris, and I said, 'That's not my arm,' and he said, 'Yes it is love, it's got the same coat'…and I don't remember coming out of the shelter. I do remember being in the ambulance, and I think for me that was probably the worst part…I felt somebody's blood was dripping on me from above, and I found that awful - mainly I think because I didn't know whose blood it was, whether it was someone I knew and loved or not. And I tried to move my head, but of course it was a narrow space and I couldn't get my head away from the blood. And I heard a long time afterwards that the man was already dead. But it couldn't have been my father because he was taken out of the shelter and he didn't die till two days later…He died, my mother died, my baby sister died, my younger sister died. I had two aunts and they died, an uncle died…I knew almost immediately because when I came home from hospital…there were milk bottles outside and I just knew then that nobody had come home to take them in…The seven were all buried on the same day. My brother said that they put Union Jacks on the coffins…They sent me to Harefield…But unfortunately the people at Harefield could see the raids on London, and they used to come out to watch, to view it like a spectacle, and I couldn't stand that.

(Gardiner, 64-5)

The stations of the London Underground were a popular refuge, with people sleeping on the platforms in rows. A journalist describes the scene in the Elephant and Castle station:

From the platforms to the entrance the whole station was one incumbent mass of humanity…most of this mass of sleeping humanity slept as though they were between silken sheets. On the platform when the train came in, it had to be stopped in the tunnel while police and porters went along pushing in the feet and arms which overhung the line. The sleepers hardly stirred as the train rumbled slowly in. On the train I sat opposite a pilot on leave. 'It's the same all the way along,' was all he said.

(Gardiner, 84)

Some families preferred to stay near their homes, and so they erected an Anderson shelter in their garden. Made of sheet metal and packed around with soil, they could resist close calls and flying debris but not, of course, a direct hit. A London air raid warden, Mr Butler describes one tragedy where the Anderson shelter survived but not the occupant:

There was an Anderson shelter and apparently there was a little girl inside. Her parents had gone round the corner to visit their friends or relations or something and the shelter was more or less caved in and covered with soil. I got down into the shelter and there was this little girl about fifteen or sixteen and her mouth was full of soil. Naturally, I got hold of her hand, which is our job to console these people and try to quieten them down. She was in a pretty bad state and I cleaned her mouth out; she laid back and as she was catching her breath, sort of breathing heavily, some stupid devil walked over the top of the shelter, soil came down and went back in this girl's throat and as she squeezed my hand like that she just faded out. Now I had the feel of that girl clenching my hand for weeks and weeks and weeks. I could never forget it and I don't forget it now.

(Holmes, 144)

One family that stayed at home was the Royal Family, who earned much respect for remaining at Buckingham Palace. When the palace was slightly damaged on 13 September 1940, Queen Elizabeth was not too distressed:

I'm glad we've been bombed. Now I feel we can look the East End in the face.

(Ziegler, 121)

The government was keen to keep tabs on people down in the shelters and find out if any social unrest could be bubbling under the surface. There was a Mass-Observation unit that sent out secret observers who then compiled reports on the public's behaviour. Mostly there ended up next to nothing to report beyond rumours as to what some couples were getting up to in the darker corners or the existence of a black market in getting the best positions to sleep in. One mundane report is typical, the highlight being a little aggravation between understandably stressed family members:

First was a girl, shouting and screaming at her mother. In the end they were separated by force, and led away from each other, struggling and screaming. The other case was of a man and his wife. The wife wanted him to sit down, the husband wanted to walk about. She became very excited, and a crowd of 'rubberers' formed round them. She bit his ear and tore out his hair. He smacked her face and threw her to the ground.

(Levine, 88).

The number of homeless kept on rising, and the need to look after them inspired such organisations as the Women's Voluntary Service (WVS), as here remembered by an anonymous East Ender:

A big morale booster was the Women's Voluntary Service – the WVS…When the Blitz started they certainly proved their worth. They went out with mobile canteens right in the middle of the Blitz; the following day they had their clothing centres open. People who had lost everything were fitted up with clothes and then taken along by the WVS and be given a cup of tea and a bun, then taken along to the assistance people who doled them out £10 or £20, whatever the size of the family was.

(Holmes, 142)

Tragedies were everywhere as people lost much more than their property. Frances Faviell, a Red Cross nurse in London recalls one woman's grief:

There was a little woman from Dovehouse Street sitting on a bench…Dovehouse Street had had a parachute mine on it and the Chelsea Hospital for Women had dealt with many casualties. Suddenly her control gave way and she began screaming in a frenzy of grief…'He's gone…He's gone and I'm all alone and no home, nothing. No one wants me…Why didn't I go with him, it's cruel, it's cruel, cruel. Why? Why?' Her anguish was terrible.

In the appalled silence with which officialdom treats such outbursts – almost as if she had said or done something obscene – a sleek, well-dressed clergyman…told her sternly to desist – that what had happened was God's will and that she must accept it and thank Him for her own deliverance from death. She looked at him in dazed misery as if he spoke a foreign language and began screaming even more wildly. 'God! There's no God! There's only Hitler and the Devil'

(Gardiner, 317)

A spirit of defiance drove people on, as evidenced by this anecdote from Anthony Eden, then Foreign Secretary, who was with Wendell Wilkie, the US politician sent to determine the mood of Britain during the Blitz:

We were coming out of the Foreign Office and his leadership. But immense credit is also due to the British people, because it was their victory.

(Holmes, 147).

The 'Blitz spirit', the pulling together of strangers from different levels of society to defiantly resist the terrors of the bombing, was, for many, the defining experience of those dark days of 1940 and 1941. Much has been made in recent times of a 'myth' of the Blitz with undue emphasis given to rare incidents of social unrest, looting, and prejudices against perceived outsiders. The vast majority of eyewitnesses speak of people simply getting on with their lives as best they could in terrible circumstances. Another recurring theme in witness accounts is that people had an all too clear sensation that they were playing a role in a drama that would have consequences for the future of Europe. As Caryl Brahms noted in her diary in December 1940:

These are the days to be alive in. These days now. They are hard, unhappy, lonely, wasted, infuriating, terrifying, heartbreaking days. But they are history. And in them we are a part of history. We are lucky to be living now.

(Levine, 313)

Continue reading...

[myemuisemo]

Part 10 of "Letters from Watson" of The Sign of the Four starts with Sherlock Holmes enthusiastically infodumping.

He appeared to be in a state of nervous exaltation. I have never known him so brilliant. He spoke on a quick succession of subjects,—on miracle-plays, on medieval pottery, on Stradivarius violins, on the Buddhism of Ceylon, and on the war-ships of the future,—handling each as though he had made a special study of it. His bright humor marked the reaction from his black depression of the preceding days.

I wondered "why these topics in particular?"

Miracle plays were, in 1890, the subject of a new book by Alfred W. Pollard of the British Museum. It received a positive review in The Spectator.

The Arts & Crafts Exhibition Society had its first exhibition in London in 1888. While handicrafting, the William Morris aesthetic, and such, had been around for a while by then, this was the big organized push for public attention. Not only did the Arts & Crafts movement draw on medieval influences, but many a UK pottery maker was on the site of a medieval kiln and interested in medieval techniques.

Stradivarius violins are, of course, the sought-after antique violin. There were at least two donated to the Musée de la Musique in Paris shortly before the time of this story, as well as a number getting heard by important violinists in important orchestras. Even more interestingly from Holmes' point of view, a factory in Germany had just started making Stradivarius copies.

Buddhism in Sri Lanka had lapsed into torpor in the early 19th century but was, by 1890, well into a resurgence. The kick-off, back in 1866, had been Buddhist monk Mohottivatte Gunananda challenging Christian missionaries to a debate. In 1890, he had just died; but he had founded a political movement.

As for war-ships, in 1889, the Naval Defense Act had passed. It called for the UK Navy to be maintained at least twice as large as the combined navies of the next two largest powers (then France and Russia). War ships -- both quantity and design -- had doubtless been in the news for a while.

These aren't obscure hyperfixations (though I'm all for obscure hyperfixations!). These are conversational topics appropriate for a well-read gentleman of the era: the sort who gets three or four newspapers, reads the book reviews, and then reads the books reviewed. This explains how Dr. Watson and Athelney Jones set him off, or even participated in the conversation.

We also, while on a boat, get the return of Winwood Reade's Martyrdom of Man (making it Chekhov's book reference?). Says Holmes of Reade:

“He remarks that, while the individual man is an insoluble puzzle, in the aggregate he becomes a mathematical certainty. You can, for example, never foretell what any one man will do, but you can say with precision what an average number will be up to. Individuals vary, but percentages remain constant. So says the statistician."

Statistics was not new -- scholarly sorts had become engaged with statistics during the Enlightenment -- but it was in the early stages of being systematized into the mathematical field we know today. Holmes sounds like he would have been a fan of Francis Ysidro Edgeworth's Metre-like: Or the Method of Measuring Probability and Utility, published in 1887, since it attempted to use probability as the basis of inductive reasoning.

Then we have a boat chase.

I love the boat chase. I feel like the boat chase might have contributed to inspiration for the train chase in Nicholas Meyers' The Seven Percent Solution, though I also feel that a train chase needs no justification other than "we have two trains and a problem."

Our heroes leave from Westminster Wharf, which I'm assuming is roughly today's Westminster Pier, which had not yet received its statue of Boudica. (Westminster is conveniently southeast of Marylebone, where Baker Street is located.) So that long gentle curve is the river past St. Paul's and the Tower of London and under multiple bridges. They pick up the Aurora about where the river heads into that first shallow down-curve and chase it up and down, around the Isle of Dogs, up past Greenwich, and around the down curve at Blackwall. So they must catch it as the river starts to straighten and widen.

A pleasure tour from Westminster Pier to Greenwich today takes about an hour, but those are the boats their launch was passing like they were standing still. The Eva, a Thames Steam Launch of the appropriate era, was one of the speediest of the time and could achieve 16.5 miles/hour.

Then... I really would have preferred an actual monkey. We've now had in this chapter so many reminders of the achievements of European, particularly English, civilization that the avalanche of adjectives framing the Andaman Islander as primitive stands out as a deliberate counterpoint, despite the inclusion of Ceylon and Winwood Reade. Will we ever know what the Andaman Islander Accomplice's motivations were? (If yes, will I wish even more fervently that we'd just stuck with a monkey?)

I love the boat chase, though.

[hailqiqi]

these secrets beneath your fingertips

I'm going to (eventually) post all of my fics over here on tumblr, so here's the next one! Content warning for non-graphic L&O SVU style content in the first part. This fic was originally supposed to be crack. I'm not sorry.

Characters: Lucy, Skull, Sir Rupert Gale, Lockwood.

Words: 6,207

Read in full below or on AO3 here.

>>>>>>>>>⚔︎

Three in the morning was a good time to be out if you didn't want to be seen. It was still dark for a few hours yet, so most of the country was asleep indoors safe behind their ghost wards and lavender smoke. It being the end of the night, most agents were safe at home, too — maybe clean and in pyjamas, or maybe conked out on top of their quilts, still covered in grave dirt and magnesium ash and the other detritus of the profession (as I’d been known to do on particularly hard nights).

The only people on the roads were night cab drivers, DEPRAC workers, and the Night Watch — but few and far between, and all at the ends of their shifts. I’d only seen a single car on the short walk from Marylebone, and it hadn’t seen me. That suited me fine.

Now I crouched outside the front door of a semi-detached townhouse in St James’s. The windows were dark, as they should have been at that hour. The front garden was lovely and well-tended, with luscious fronds and rows of short palm trees celebrating the last vestiges of summer, and offering almost complete privacy from the road. My rucksack — with the ghost jar — was upon my back, my rapier hung at my hip, and my belt was well stocked, though I’d swapped most of the salt bombs for extra flares. I was after human prey tonight.

‘Since you’re picking locks like a cracksman, I assume this isn’t a social call.’

I hushed the skull quietly and turned my wrist a fraction, intent on hearing the tiny ‘click’ as the bolt slid into place. Two more seconds and the lock came free. I caught the door before it could open all the way, but paused.

‘There’s still time to turn back, you know. You haven’t told me what you’re up to but I know it’s a terrible idea.’

He had a point. I thought of the fight on the bridge, when swords had been drawn so quickly I hadn’t seen it happen. Twice Sir Rupert had challenged Lockwood, and twice Lockwood had been hard-pressed to fight him off. And I’d never beaten Lockwood in a proper spar yet, despite my suspicion that he was still going easy on me. I was definitely outmatched here.

But then I thought of George lying in Lockwood’s bed, so small and weak and broken and everything George wasn’t. I slipped inside the house.

The door closed silently behind me, and I took a moment to let my eyes adjust to the darkness. To my left and right were doors; presumably leading to the sitting and dining rooms. Ahead of me was a dark flight of stairs leading to the first floor, and a dim hall that probably led to a kitchen at the back of the house. The decor was surprisingly tasteful, given Sir Rupert’s garish fashion choices, though I couldn’t make out the colours in the dark. The walls were mostly bare save for some classical artwork, and the carpeting and furnishings in the hall both had a luxurious, moneyed look about them. At a glance, it all looked like the type of aesthetic Lockwood would pretend to like.

Out of habit, I closed my eyes and opened my inner ears to Listen. The streets outside were quiet, the area was well-defended, and the house itself had the usual iron and silver ghost charms (along with a costly runnel outside) so I expected it to be quiet. It was. I moved on.

The skull was quiet as I did a quick sweep of the ground floor — the kitchen was a modern, airy room that ran along the back width of the house, with floor to ceiling windows and doors leading straight out into the back garden that made it feel more like a conservatory. An open doorway led back towards a room of thick carpets and white chesterfields, and a matching doorway at the opposite end of the wall led to what appeared to be a library. Another door was set in the side wall close to the library which presumably led to a cellar of some sort.

I’d already decided not to open any unnecessary doors — silence was the name of the game here — but the cellar door gave me pause. The door was wooden, painted white to match the wall, but decorated with silver tracework that ran in thin curves to cover the entire length and width of the door. The handle was small and unobtrusive, but undeniably silver. 

‘Do you feel that, Lucy?’

I stood before it and Listened, one hand on the wood; the only sounds I couldhear were the ticking of the clock on the wall, almost echoing in the quiet, and my own soft, even breathing. Still, the skull was right — there, underneath the darkness, hushed by the expensive carpets, was some sort of disturbance. It was muffled and restrained to the point where I couldn’t tell you anything about it. It didn’t have a discernible sound, there wasn’t an underlying current of distress or fear or anger like many psychic disturbances emanated. All I could recognise was a feeling of wrongness, and it wasn’t malaise.

Two nights ago — or was it three nights ago? I couldn’t remember at this point — Sir Rupert had quite clearly Seen the Clapham Butcher Boy in the pillar at Fittes House. Something told me that, despite the defences, he didn’t fear Visitors as much as most adults. Anything could be behind that door.

Carefully, I re-checked all the pockets on my work belt. Then I stepped away and padded back towards the stairs, keeping my footsteps as silent as I could.

‘Not going to check, Lucy? How very sensible…and un-like you.’

I couldn’t answer, but it didn’t matter. The skull was still acting much more subdued than its usual abrasive self; likely it had realised how tenuous the grip on my sanity was these few days and had wisely opted to cut the snark out of self-preservation. It certainly hadn’t offered any sympathy for George’s condition — but it had made an effort not to twist the knife, and for that I was somewhat grateful. Still, I couldn’t really tell you why I’d brought it with me tonight. Perhaps I just wanted the company.

Boots weren’t the best choice of footwear for this kind of job, but thankfully rich people loved their peace and quiet. The carpet absorbed most of the sound as I crept up the stairs towards the first floor.

The same hushed stillness permeated the first floor landing. Artwork hung on the walls, dimly lit by the moonlight filtering in from the window at one end. To my right, a staircase led to an upper level — likely guest rooms, or rooms that used to serve as servants’ quarters. Only three doors led off this landing, and it was anybody’s guess as to which one I wanted.

Maybe the skull could help. I jostled my rucksack quietly, hoping it would offer some insight. Luckily, it caught on quickly.

‘You’re not alone up here,’ it said, its voice pressing against my mind. ‘I don’t think I want to know what you’re actually planning, but stay quiet.’

I risked a whisper. ‘Is anyone awake?’

A pause, and then: ‘I don’t know. Tread carefully.’

Not very helpful, then.

One out of three, pick a door. It was a game agents often played in the dead of night, one we dreaded. It was a game that was always worse to play alone, of course, but at least I’d grown used to that the year before. I crept towards the door closest to the window and eased it open.

For a moment, I thought I’d found another library, this one more modern in décor and lit by coloured string lights, like my attic was now (George had once called it ‘basic teenage girl lighting’ and I’d immediately stormed out to buy another string). But then my eyes adjusted to the strange light in the room and I began to make out the details.

Thick, dark curtains covered two large windows, blocking out the light from the street and the ghost-lamp outside; the room itself was mostly open space, furnished with a few trophy cabinets and display cases, and the walls were covered in frames clustered around individual wall-mounted boxes. It was a trophy room, like we had back in the basement at home. I turned to leave, then paused.

It was a little too like the trophy room at home, actually. The pale blues, yellows, and lilacs were eerily familiar, as were the shifting glows cast as they shimmered across the floor in swirling ripples. Too familiar.

I walked softly towards the nearest light source, my mission momentarily forgotten. The pale blue light was contained within a small wall-mounted display case, a silver-glass box stuck to the wall at around waist-height. Inside the case was a severed finger, still wearing a ring — and, of course, a ghost.

As an experienced agent, these things shouldn’t affect me anymore. I’d seen worse — just five months prior I’d walked in another world of glittering frost and starless skies, a place where the only living beings were myself and Lockwood beside me. But sometimes the shock still gets to you, even when you were expecting it.

This one wall held at least five similar display cases interspersed between ordinary picture frames, all containing Sources glowing various colours. I counted seven on the long wall — the one with no windows or doors. The other two walls, with their large windows, held only one or two each, and each display cabinet held at least three Sources, scattered amidst dark frames and boxes. Gaping at the sheer scale of it, I shrugged my rucksack onto one shoulder and loosened the top so that the ghost in the jar could see out. 

‘Oh, so now you want my— that’s…unexpected.’ The ghost inside swirled with a green light as the face spun, taking in the vast array of Sources on display. ‘Lucy… Where are we?’

‘Sir Rupert Gale’s house,’ I muttered, transfixed.

‘Marissa’s bodyguard? The bully with the bum-fluff moustache and terrible fashion sense?’

I nodded. Maybe he’d been an agent before, back in the day. Maybe, like Lockwood, he collected trophies from successful cases. He was admittedly an excellent swordsman; likely he’d had a great deal of those. And, I supposed, like many adults past their prime he longed for his glory days — the days before his Talent deserted him, the days when he was still useful in the fight against the Problem — and with all the money at his disposal, he’d decided to create a display room to help him remember.

But Sir Rupert’s glory days weren’t behind him yet — he still had excellent Sight, if the other evening was anything to go by, and it was hard for me to think he might be trying to fight against the Problem, when he seemed so devoted to the person we suspected of causing it. No, whatever this was, it was something else.

With a glance at the open door, I took my torch from my belt, set the light to low and flicked it on.

I expected the frame directly next to the box containing the finger to contain a newspaper cutting or perhaps some information on the Source itself. Instead, it contained a photograph: a simple picture of a slim boy about my age, dressed in an old-fashioned agency uniform and holding a rapier. He was smiling at the camera, all confidence and easy charm.

The next frame contained a newspaper cutting featuring an article about a successful case from the 80s, the sealing of a Dark Spectre that had caused several deaths by a team from the newly-established Sebright Agency. The boy in the first photograph was part of the team, again pictured holding his rapier. His name was James Hynes and he was 16 years old.

Above the article was another photograph of the same James, this time crossing the road with a smaller boy. He seemed unaware of the camera in that one. Next to that one, closer to the case, yet another photograph, this one taken in a shop. Then another of him on a street I didn’t recognise, leaving a building with the DEPRAC logo hanging above the door. There were a few more shots, all clustered to the right of the Source in a haphazard semi-circle — all candid shots where he was seemingly unaware of the camera.

I followed the images round, slowly moving my light up and around, to the frame hanging above the case. This time James was looking at the camera, but that charming smile was nowhere to be seen. His hands were bound behind his back, a gag was around his mouth, and his naked body was bruised and bleeding. He looked terrified.

Heart in my throat, my eyes roved frantically roving over the next few photographs. Clustered around the other half of the case were similar pictures of James naked, beaten, and terrified, his body growing more and more broken as the photographs went on. I didn’t get very far along that terrible journey — three or four more photographs, and then I looked away. I didn’t need to see how it had ended.

Perhaps in response to my turbulent emotions, the blue glow from the Source in front of me brightened, James’ ghost shifting restlessly, swirling and ebbing with new urgency as it tried to escape the confines of the silver-glass. Taking a calming breath, I reached out with my senses, trying to establish some kind of connection, but could only pick up the barest whispers of anger and frustration through the glass. Opening my mind further, I concentrated, trying to pick up a sense of the other Visitors in the room.

The feelings were muffled, but they were there: anger, sadness, and an almost overwhelming sense of frustrated helplessness. And so many of them. The sheer scale of it made my breath catch; for a moment, I was back under Aickmere’s, with the ghosts of those who’d been left to die, forgotten and abandoned until I’d found them — and then they’d been unceremoniously dumped in the fires at Clerkenwell, removed from this world without a shred of justice. Maybe I could do better here.

Determined, I stepped away from James’ display and moved further into the room, towards the next. Before I could take a proper look, however, the skull spoke.

‘Lucy…I think you should leave.’  

I paused, my hand on the hilt of my rapier. ‘Why? Is he coming?’

‘No,’ it replied slowly, as though carefully weighing each word. ‘But I’ve…known people like this before. You don’t want to be at their mercy. They don’t have any.’

I checked my watch; it was half past three. I still had at least two hours before dawn, and likely more than that before Sir Rupert would wake up. I could afford to spend a few moments learning their stories, and I told the skull as much. It grumbled, clearly displeased, but by now it knew me well enough to know when I wouldn’t be dissuaded.

The next case held a human ear and a swirl of lilac plasm. The photographs to the right — all seemingly candid — showed a tall slim boy; the ones to the left showed the same boy, bound and gagged in what appeared to be the same windowless room that James had been in. I didn’t look too hard at those ones. A newspaper article on his disappearance named him Harry Newman, a 15-year-old agent who had worked at Grimble’s in the 90s.

I moved on. The next set of photographs showed an unnamed smiling boy with dark hair and a slender build, dressed in a Rotwell’s uniform. His Source was a rumpled and bloody prayer booklet. Another case contained a ring, like the one Lockwood wore, belonging to a dark-haired 17-year-old called Denis Butler who’d worked for Tendy’s just before I was born. Next to Denis rested Reginald Spencer, a tall 16-year-old Fittes agent in the 70s who was now a Dark Spectre tied to a mummified hand. I kept going.

Josh Murphy, 18, tall, dark-haired, cocky smile. Went missing ten years ago and now resided in what looked like his kneecap. Noel Hart, fifteen with a floof of curly dark hair, was an agent at Sinclair and Soanes eight years prior, now tied to a broken rapier hilt. Smiling Louis Burton, 17, a team leader at Mellingcamp in the 80s before being reduced to yellow light and a couple of teeth.

On and on it went, boy after boy after boy. My head was spinning, but somehow I managed to keep it together as I swiftly worked my way through the room. The last one made the bile rise in my throat: Lachlan Thomson, a tall, friendly Scottish Listener from Staines that I’d worked with over the Black Winter. One of the astonishingly few agents I’d enjoyed working with during those cold, dark nights, I’d been upset to hear of his disappearance five months back. I stared at the shifting maroon hues of his ghost with sorrow, remembering how he’d put himself between me and the Spitalfields Horror with zero hesitation, holding the Changer back while I broke free of the ghost-lock and gathered my wits. He’d been brave, and kind, and competent (which was shockingly rare), and he’d talked me into meeting him for coffee as thanks for a job well done. I’d had hopes that I’d made my first new friend as a freelance agent, but we’d never found the time to meet up.

‘Lucy! Lucy, look at this!’

The urgency in the skull’s voice pulled me from my reverie, and I glanced quickly at the door, hand on my rapier. The landing was quiet.

The case next to Lachlan’s was dark — I’d initially suspected another Dark Spectre, but a brief inspection showed it to be empty. There were, however, photographs, and the first one stole my breath in an instant.

It was Lockwood. I knew the photograph well, as it was one of my favourite images of him in our album back home: a mid-air shot of him leaping between two floats at the doomed ‘Take Back the Night’ Carnival last year, sword in hand, coat billowing behind him, the thrill of the chase clear on his face. George had cut it out of the Times and pasted it on the inside cover of our album.

But this wasn’t our album, and it wasn’t our cut-out. And it shouldn’t be here. In a panic, I checked the case, but of course it was empty; Lockwood was safe at home, hopefully still asleep on the library sofa. The frame hanging above the case — the one that would show the initial stages of the torture — was empty too. I stared at it, breathing hard. It seemed to me as though it were waiting.

‘Lucy, isn’t that you?’

Wrenching myself away from the empty frame, I shone my torch on the other frames to the right. It was a collection of candid photographs — Lockwood at Arif’s, Lockwood and Holly outside The Times offices in town, Lockwood sweeping the steps at home, Lockwood at Satchell’s. And there, as the skull had said, a picture of Lockwood and myself, though my back was to the camera. We were standing by the penguin enclosure at London Zoo, on a day last summer after the business with the Bone Glass — I’d mentioned that I’d never been to a zoo before, and Lockwood had managed to scrounge up a pair of tickets a week or so later, so we’d gone. It had been odd, walking around with Lockwood in the daylight without the excuse of work to distract us, but pleasant, too, in ways I wouldn’t have wanted to admit to anybody else.

He’d bought a flower from a passing vendor and presented it to me, and the photographer had captured the moment he’d tucked it behind my ear. It had been a sweet, unexpected gesture, a private moment between friends that cemented our closeness…but now it was here, hanging on the wall in a serial killer’s house.

I was horrified. ‘He’s been following him for over a year…’

‘Yes, well, he has proven rather difficult to pin down.’

The skull at my back let out a litany of profanity and I whirled around, drawing my sword in one fluid motion and dropping into a defensive stance. Sir Rupert Gale leant against the doorframe, sword held casually at his side, dressed in garish purple silk pyjamas that reflected the shimmering lights of the Sources in the room. For once, his arrival wasn’t heralded by a cloud of aftershave — I suppose that was his one concession to the late hour — and the smile he bestowed upon me was polite and genial, his eyes glittering with a benign amusement like a jolly old grandfather at a family dinner who had caught the children hiding their vegetables. He terrified me.

‘I rarely have guests, Miss Carlyle,’ he said, pushing away from the doorway and slowly moving into the room. I took a step back and strengthened my stance. ‘And when I do receive visitors, they tend to stay downstairs.’ His smile grew. ‘Only very special visitors get to lay eyes on this room, and unfortunately you don’t meet the qualifications yet.’

‘You mean I’m not dead,’ I spat, my heart pounding. I kept my eyes on his hips — after the chase at the carnival he’d attacked so fast I hadn’t even seen him move.

‘Lucy!’

He paused by one of the display cases in the middle of the room and raised a hand, as though to greet the Visitors on the shelves within. For a moment, his face took on a curious expression, something blank and almost gentle. An instant and then it was gone, his posture taking on a predatory air as he turned to me again. ‘I rather think, Miss Carlyle, that they failed to teach you proper manners in that hovel you hail from. I can fix that, if you accompany me to the cellar.’

I’d seen enough photographs of the cellar to know what that meant. My lip curled. ‘Fuck you.’

‘Are you sure? I’m a rather good teacher.’ He tapped lightly on one of the wall-mounted display cases as he prowled closer. ‘This young man was rather polite by the time I was finished with him. Used all his P’s and Q’s perfectly.’

‘And look at where that got him,’ the skull interjected. ‘Lucy, you have to get out of here.’

‘I know,’ I answered, gritting my teeth.

The problem was, there was nowhere to go. We were trapped in this strange dance, him slowly prowling closer, me slowly edging backwards, trying to keep up the niceties when in reality we were circling each other like two tigers waiting to strike. Only I didn’t feel like a tiger. I felt like the prey.

I’d never been foolish enough to believe I could beat him in a fair fight; the plan had been to slit his throat while he slept. But it seemed that, in all my hurt and fury, I’d forgotten something: I was an agent, not a killer. God, why hadn’t I listened to Lockwood? He’d said he had a plan. For once, couldn’t I have just listened? 

Sir Rupert moved closer, regarding me appraisingly. ‘While it’s unfortunate that you’re nothing like my usual preference, I suspect I’m going to rather enjoy your extended stay.’ His smile was all teeth, like a shark. ‘At the very least, you’ll make excellent bait.’

A wave of fury rushed through me. ‘Never!’

‘I think you’ll find you don’t have much say in the matter,’ he said calmly, and in the same breath he lunged.

I parried the blow, barely dancing away from his follow-up in time to avoid having my thighs sliced open. He pressed the attack, and even as I tried to counter he caught my rapier with his own and tried to push it to one side. I only just managed to disengage before he twisted his wrist, scarcely avoiding the attempted disarm.

‘Lucy, let me out!’

‘How?!’ I cried, whirling out of the way of another swipe and letting the momentum carry me, futilely trying to put more distance between us. Even if I’d wanted to, I didn’t have the hands to do it; Sir Rupert was relentless.

Yellow light flared at my elbow and on impulse I feinted high, then used the split second of time that bought me to fling myself to the side and smash the hilt of my sword down hard on the display case. At once I was engulfed by a wave of fury, a desperate need for freedom and revenge that was abruptly cut off as Sir Rupert dispatched the Visitor with a swipe of his sword.

But the distraction had already served its purpose and before he could turn on me again I threw a flare at the display cabinet behind him. In an instant, it all changed: glass shattered, bright light burst against my tightly-closed eyelids, and a freezing cold wave of psychic energy slammed me back against the wall. My inner senses were immediately bombarded with a cacophony of sound and I winced, blinking away the last of the flare-light to see three or four Visitors converge on Sir Rupert.

He burst into movement with a roar of fury, his blade flashing as he whirled to defend against the advancing ghosts. Two were already rematerializing as I scrambled upright.

‘Oh, you’ll let them out, but not me,’ the skull groused.

‘Shut up,’ I answered, ripping another flare from my belt and lobbing it at where two cabinets stood close together. ‘You’re not as accessible.’

‘I’m also less likely to turn on you.’

‘Or more likely, depending on your mood.’

I braced myself and covered my face as the second flare exploded and more glass flew. Sir Rupert was — in a feat of particularly impressive rapier work — somehow holding his own, though I doubted it would last as the numbers grew. The most important thing was that he was no longer after me.

The ghosts weren’t after me, either. The first ghost I’d freed had rematerialised less than a foot away and completely ignored me, instead moving towards where a wild-eyed Sir Rupert fought for his life with a single-mindedness reminiscent of George with a new book. I moved along the wall towards the door, smashing cases as I went for good measure.

‘Are you going to let them all out? What’s the plan for when they’re done with their revenge?’

‘No idea,’ I huffed, ducking as the Dark Spectre floated to hang overhead. ‘He’s making a good go of it, hopefully I'll be out by then.’

The skull grumbled a response, something about a lack of planning. Part of me wanted to point out that I had no other choice, but as usual: it had a point. Annie Ward had moved on once she’d exacted her revenge on her killer, but there was no guarantee these spirits would. And there were so many of them — Spectres, Wraiths, a Raw-Bones, plus a few Type Ones. Leaving would be the smart option.

But I had one thing I wanted to do first. I spun around, carefully avoiding a Shade hanging at the edges of the fray as I cut the corner and flung myself at Lachlan’s display case, driving the hilt of my sword into it with my full body weight. The maroon glow flared brightly then disappeared, reforming right where I’d stood a moment before into the shape of a boy. His naked torso was covered in bloody gashes and bruises, the skin hanging off in places, the bones twisted and broken. I blinked back a tear.

The Wraith regarded me silently, and I held its gaze, my breath fogging in the frigid air.  There was no trace of Lachlan’s confident smile on its visage, only a deep, hollow exhaustion. Then Sir Rupert screamed, and it turned and glided away towards the centre of the room.

I didn’t see him hit the ground but I felt it all the same when he lost the fight; the energy in the room suddenly shifted, expanding as the frenzied, focused rage lost some of its strength. Whether he was dead yet or not didn’t really matter; he would be soon.

‘Time to go, Lucy.’

‘I know.’ I stopped in front of the empty case beside Lachlan’s and snatched the photo from the zoo off the wall.  Then I got the hell out.

⚔⚔⚔

The dawn chorus was in full swing when I slipped into the front hall at home. Quietly, very quietly, I placed my rapier in the umbrella stand, removed my boots, then tiptoed towards the library where Lockwood slept.

He’d shut the door.

‘You’d think he’d at least leave it open so you could watch him sleep.’ The skull sighed dramatically. ‘How short-sighted of him to deny you one of the few simple pleasures in your miserable existence.’

I scoffed and turned for the stairs. It was past four-thirty in the morning; I didn’t need to see him to know that Lockwood was fast asleep on the sofa, long legs slung over one end. George’s harsh breathing was audible on the landing, so I knew he was safe too. All was well.

Still, twenty minutes later I stood outside the library door, my hair damp from the shower. The skull’s derisive laughter echoed in my ears. It was irrational, and it was stupid, but…I just needed to be sure. I couldn’t rest until I’d checked.

The door opened with a soft creak and my entire being sagged with relief: there lay Lockwood, one arm thrown up above his head, his too-long legs hanging off the opposite end of the sofa, the spare blanket he’d taken from my room cutting out at his shins. I drank him in for a moment, studying the way his fringe flopped over his brow and the way his expression was relaxed and serene. Tomorrow he’d be a force of nature, a tornado of sharp focus and purpose as he rallied the troops for the next great challenge. Right now, he was just a boy.

The clock in the hallway chimed five, and he stirred.

‘Luce?’

‘Go back to sleep, Lockwood,’ I said gently. ‘I’m sorry for waking you up.’

‘S’okay,’ he mumbled, blearily rubbing his eyes. ‘Did you have a nightmare?’

I thought of the photographs covering the walls, of breaking glass and the smell of magnesium smoke. I thought of Sir Rupert’s shark-like smile as he moved towards me and found I couldn’t quite dismiss it. ‘Something like that.’

‘C’mere then,’ he said, shifting and lifting the blanket with a yawn. ‘There’s room for two if we squish.’

On any other night, I would have declined. I’m sure my face would have turned scarlet at the offer alone — surely only made because he was half-asleep — and I would have insisted that I was fine, that all I needed was a bit of warm milk and a book and then I’d be out like a light, all by myself. But tonight? Tonight I was haunted by images of an unaware Lockwood on the street, by wide, terrified eyes and horror and gore and cruelty too great to name. Tonight I had no strength to resist.

I crawled under the cover and he shifted to accommodate me, arms coming around to press me to his bare chest and keep me from falling off. Our legs tangled together, and I pulled the blanket up to my shoulders before wrapping my free arm around his back. Somewhere, at the back of my mind, time dipped and whirred; the clock on the bookshelf ticked softly, but my world was spinning with the way my face fit perfectly in the hollow of his throat, the way his breath tickled my ear, the way his hand felt so warm on the skin of my back where he’d slipped it underneath my top. We’d never been so close before, not even when we’d sheltered under the same spirit cape. And the circumstances had been quite different.

Eventually, though, I relaxed, the tension gradually drawn out of me like a slow sigh by the warmth of his body, his steady heartbeat, and the rise and fall of his chest. This was new, but this was Lockwood. I’d wanted to reassure myself he was alive, and really: how much more alive could he get? Neither of us had spoken since I’d lain down with him, but I could feel the lines of his muscles relaxing as I melted into his embrace.

‘Do you want to talk about it?’ The question was soft, murmured into my hair. I shook my head. ‘Okay then,’ he whispered. ‘Go to sleep, Lucy.’ His hand brushed a strand of hair behind my ear, and the gesture sparked a memory.

‘Lockwood?’

‘Mm?’

‘Do you remember that day we went to the zoo?’

‘Yes?’

If I hadn’t been safely ensconced in his warmth, my face hidden in his neck, I would never have asked. But it turns out certain things are easier to voice when you’re snuggled up in the dark, and the way he’d looked at me in that photo…it was making me connect all kinds of dots. I needed to know, so I asked.

‘Was that a date?’

‘...Yes?’ His voice was laced with sleepy confusion, but the answer still made my heart skip a beat. ‘Wait, Lucy, did you not know that was a date?’

He tried to shift away, probably to get a look at my face, but I stubbornly pressed closer and shook my head.

‘Lucy, I gave you a flower!’

‘I thought it was just…you know, a flower,’ I said, my voice a strangled whisper. ‘You never said—’

‘I’m quite sure I did,’ he replied, his tone incredulous. ‘Even George knew.’

‘Oh.’ That explained why George had given me such an odd look when I’d invited him to join.

‘Did you really not know?’

‘I really didn’t know,’ I said, shaking my head again. My cheeks were burning, and I was very glad for the darkness. ‘Um…Do you think, maybe, when all this is over, we can go on a second date?’

Lockwood was silent for a moment, then his chest began to rumble with laughter. ‘Lucy,’ he began, ‘what did you think that day at the fair was?’

‘Oh!’

‘Oh,’ he agreed, burying his face in my hair as he laughed softly. ‘Oh my god, Luce. This explains so much.’

I was starting to laugh now, too, embarrassed though I was. ‘Like what?’

‘Like why you were always so hot and cold. One day I’d feel like we were doing great, and the next day I’d be wondering where I stood with you.’

‘Oh my god. Wait, so how long were we dating for?’

His arm around me tightened. ‘Well, you broke up with me when you left—’

‘I wouldn’t have if I’d known!’

 ‘—but if we ignore that, about a year?’

‘Wait, really?’ I finally pulled back so I could look at him. He looked as exhausted as I remembered from earlier — his smooth face lined and weary, the bags under his eyes prominent even in the dim dawn — but his eyes glittered with amusement. ‘Did you think we were dating now, too?’

‘Didn’t we just go out for lunch last month?’

‘That was a date?’

‘Lucy.’ He threaded a hand through my hair, drawing me closer. ‘It was a fancy restaurant. You wore a dress. Remember?’

His breath ghosted across my lips, and my laughter died away as we gazed at each other. Dark hair fell across his eyes, that floof I always wanted to reach out and push back, and I suddenly realised that he definitely wouldn’t mind if I did.

His hair was soft and silky beneath my fingertips. ‘Have there been others?’ I whispered, searching his gaze. ‘Since I came back, I mean.’

‘A few,’ he breathed, gently touching his nose to mine. ‘How did you not know?’

‘You never kissed me.’

His eyes darkened. ‘I could fix that.’

‘Please do,’ I replied.

His lips met mine — soft, gentle, tentative — just for a moment, and then he pulled back. I closed the distance for a second one, laughing as our noses bumped, pulling back just as quickly. But we were fast learners, Lockwood and I, and years of living and working together had us pretty in sync; it didn’t take long to find our bearings, to figure out how to melt against each other as what had always been between us deepened into something slow and warm and perfect.

Outside the window the first rays of sunlight spilled across the street, chasing away the last remnants of the night; here, inside, I held my own piece of sunlight safe in my arms, and let his warmth melt away the remnants of mine. Later, I’d have to tell him what I’d done, but for now? I’d let him help me forget it.

Thanks for reading! If you got this far, please reblog.

[edwinspaynes]

HI! 💖 I love your blog! Do you have any headcanons for Matthew and Alastair's friendship?

HI! Thanks so much for the ask because OF COURSE I DO. These are two of the three characters who've been spinning around and around in my head like a frozen pretzel in the microwave, how could I not have headcanons!? Here are a few!

So, first: the nature of their friendship. I think they're going to have one of those super candid/honest friendships where they tell the other the stuff that they need to hear, even when they don't necessarily want to hear it. Like, I think that the backbone of their friendship will be honesty that goes in both directions, and I don't think they're going to sugarcoat what they have to say to each other. I think they're going to play the (very important) role in each other's lives of friends that are always pushing each other to be better and challenging each other's worldviews, but in the best possible way.

But the other side of this is that they're always the first person that the other goes to in a pinch (besides Thomas and Matthew's Blurry Wife, obviously). They know they can trust each other to provide kind but honest and firm input.

Both of them have a wonderful time playing harmless pranks on each other. Sometimes they enlist others to help create and execute more elaborate ones.

One of Alastair's funniest pranks was breaking into the Fairchild house while Matthew was staying there and leaving random gifts on his bed. He moved furniture around and convinced Matthew that there was a ghost there until he finally revealed himself. Matthew made him give back the key that he was using, a key that he just had because he never returned it to Charles. No one lets either of them live that down. Yes, this is a fic I have in the works.

Matthew plans Thomas and Alastair's wedding. Full stop. I've written this in a fic before, but I think Matthew's a fucking amazing party planner and really, really brings it. Decorates a garden with flowers, hires musicians, deals with clothing, the whole 9 yards. Matthew loves it and Thomastair get to enjoy the leadup to their big day with minimal stress.

When Matthew has depressive episodes, Alastair will come to his flat in Marylebone and force him to eat and have water. He'll also clean up the flat if it seems messy and drag him outside (often swearing and struggling) so he can get fresh air. Matthew hates it in the moment, and maybe hates Alastair in the moment a bit, but it helps him get back on his feet and get both his mental and physical health up. He's grateful later.

Besides Thomas, Charles (Past), Sona, and Cordelia, Matthew is the only person that Alastair has actively allowed to see him cry. Matthew was very empathetic and kind.

They eventually have a frank conversation about PTSD, though of course they don't use the term since it didn't exist in the 1900s. Thomas likely orchestrates this conversation because he sees some similarities between the two of them. They figure out that they have similar responses in many situations and bond over it. It helps both of them feel a little less alone.

When Alastair tells Matthew a little more about what happened between him and Charles, Matthew confronts his brother. He tells Charles how disgusting the whole situation was and insists that he leave his friend alone forever. Alastair never found out that Matthew did this, but Charles did in fact never bother him again.

The entire group gets together to play games (specifically James/Cordelia/Thomas/Alastair/Matthew/Matthew's Blurry Wife). When Matthew and Alastair are on opposing teams, the competition gets ridiculously heated because they refuse to lose to each other. Eventually, the others have enough and force them to be on the same team. HUGE mistake. They work together and completely decimate everyone else. They are no longer allowed to team up.

Matthew gets Alastair 2-3 interesting musical instruments from various parts of the world while on his travels. They come with sheet music as well.

Alastair secretly reads some Oscar Wilde plays and essays. He doesn't love them, but he sees why Matthew does, and that's enough. He goes to the theatre with him (along with the James/Cordelia/Thomas/Alastair/Matthew/Matthew's Blurry Wife group). They see Lady Windermere's Fan and Alastair begrudgingly admits he had a good time.

I have a ton more, but don't want to go on all day! Thanks again for the ask. :)

[womaninwinter]

Nos. 11 (1096: Year 2) and 19. Holly. Curious about both of these!

1096: Year two: oh God, so. This is the second part of my unhinged post-canon fic where Lockwood and Lucy break up and she goes to college to ✨find herself✨ and he becomes a fencing star and she's seeing his face everywhere all the time and dating guys who look like him and hey maybe she's not so over him after all!! And there's also a whole subplot about how agents are treated post-canon (spoiler: not well).

Holly: answered here, but ask and ye shall receive (a snippet)!

Switching jobs had brought Holly a fifty percent reduction in salary and a fifty percent increase in commute time. Instead of a palatial office suite on the penthouse floor, her desk was now located in the dusty basement of a teenager’s Marylebone townhouse and her view had gone from glossy high-rise buildings in the business district to some sad and frost-bitten potted plants in the front yard of 35 Portland Row. However, in his three weeks as her employer, Anthony Lockwood had never once raised his voice to Holly in anger, and she had been blissfully migraine free in all that time.

[sarcaasmic]

@lockwd liked for a song-based starter and got [Heavy in the Morning by KAWALA]

The house was quiet. It was a gloomy morning in Marylebone, evident in both the gray sky and in Ellie's lack of energy. A little before nine she made her way down to the kitchen of 35 Portland Row. Always a time that felt too early in the morning for the blonde, yet she couldn't sleep anyways. Holding the source had been her worst mistake yesterday, the dread and anger was something hard to shake off.

There'd been a case yesterday, one that turned out to be more dangerous than they had anticipated. A type two visitor when they'd been expecting a type one. They'd barely made it out. Plus, George was away visiting family this week, so their research wasn't nearly as thorough, and it showed. Lucy had been there last night, but Ellie was sure she heard the girl leave earlier this morning.

That left her and Lockwood.

She rubbed some sleep from her eyes as she walked into the kitchen. She'd hoped putting on her glasses would push away at least the physical fatigue. It did not. Just like brushing her teeth and splashing some water on her face had failed to do so too.

[ladylaviniya]

Wails of Wedded Bliss

Chapter 5 || Masterlist || Chapter 7

Chapter Summary: A carriage ride to Groveland parks leaves you and Sherlock in a snippy mood.

Pairing: Sherlock Homes x wife!reader

Chapter Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, domestic abuse, No sex, (mentions of past events) .

Word Count: 9k

Author Notes: This took a while. I'll be posting chapter 7 very soon.

Inspiring Song: "Achillies" by Gang of Youth

7:01am Wednesday 7th May 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England

Early day on the street of London was a thick blanket of fog and horse cabs awaiting their clients. People in uniforms marched the streets, servants and servicemen that did not have lodgings with their employers.

Sherlock and you avoided the mud and horseshit on the cobblestones, stepping carefully. His hand was strong, cupping yours as you lifted your skirts above the stench. The floor path was filthy and the boy who usually scrapped the dung of the road was not to be seen so early in the day.

You shivered slightly at the cold breeze. Your jacket was not as warm as you had believed. You felt a pity for the sight of maids passing you both without even a shawl to protect them, their faces were flushed and pink, they cupped their bare hands and blew hot breath into them. You were grateful for your gloves.

You wondered if anyone down here in the street could’ve heard your shrieking up in the 221B apartment. You weren’t particularly quiet not holding back your screams. Your warm flesh was a fresh reminder that your detective husband walking so nobly and leading you was in fact a sexual deviant.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and was careful not to plant his walking cane into any muck.

As you stepped closer to a hansom cabriolet, Sherlock pinched your elbow and walked you both closer to a hackney coach behind the latter.

“Jarv! I dare say! Jarvey!” Sherlock called up to the driver sitting on top. The man fixed his uniform cap and peered down at you both from the height.

“Where are you off to sir?” the driver called down.

Your husband smiled and opened his coat, his fingers slid into his pocket as he stated, “To Groveland Park, Southgate.”

Your eyes widened, from baker street it was a feet of travel one normally wouldn’t take. You were sure your own husband had to have been mistaken.

“Sherlock,” you softly informed while gently touching his arm “that’s over an hour away.”

He ignored you. His thumb skated across your back softly.

“Of course sir,” the driver nodded, “that should cost you one crown and a tanner.”

Your lips tightened, it was such a large expense. Now you really started to regret using your dowry to pay of Sherlock’s selfish debts. Why the hell was he taking you both across country side!?

The detective saw your disapproval and smiled, patting your hand he exclaimed, “Fret not wife, the expense is reimbursed by Scotland Yard.”

He gave the driver half the require costs from his pocketbook before he opened the door of the carriage for you. As you climbed inside, you jumped with a noise feeling his hand squeeze your backside.

You hissed as you sat on the leather seat. You tried to maneuverer your body to sit mostly on your hip. As he climbed in and sat across from you after shutting the carriage door, you pinned him down coldly with your gaze.

He returned an expression beaming in smirtle and tapped the roof with his cane, “Drive on Jarvey!”

You felt the carriage move with a jolt and sighed as the horse carried you through London’s different roads and pathways. You looked out the window and sighed as the carriage circled down the Regent Park and past the Zoo. You had never been to a zoo in your life, your grandmother stated it was too filthy and uncouth to stroll in pens merely to gaze at queer animals from different countries.

You tried not to stick your head out the window as you kept your eyes on the entrance gates you passed. Now that you lived so close and were a married woman with free time...you pondered if Sherlock would permit you a visit.

He was watching you the entire time. A soft smile came to his face. He took a glance out the window with you.

“I presume you’ve never been?”

Your eyes flickered between him at the steel zoo fencing and you timidly nodded, “I have always wondered what a lion looks like to the real gaze, my father promised to take me when I was a girl but-” you drifted off into silence and looked away from the window.

But he abandoned you for a cold woman in a opportunistic marriage...you hadn’t seen him for years.

“My grandparents would never approve,” You stuttered.

He nodded slowly with his silent thoughts and did not question you further.

You sighed, if you had known the journey would be to Groveland Park, you would’ve brought a novel with you to read. You cupped your hands and leant your head back.

As the cobblestones turned to soft mud and dewy grasslands you heard Sherlock finally clear his throat.

“Dear wife,” he said leaning back, racing his eyes all over your body, “What do you actually know of the Pennicott case? What details have come to light for you?” He spoke with balance.

You pursed your lips and blowed slowly. You didn’t want this to be another test of Sherlock in which he might insult you. You pinched your gloved finger and stated factually, “I recall hearing the Baron went missing a week or two ago. He took a ride on a horse in the middle of the night from his home and then sighted on a ship in Limehouse headed supposedly to France. That’s what the papers say. Then the information you shared with me this morning. You said he made a profit in his company?”

Sherlock nodded and shut the carriage windows. The light darkened the pair of you. Now your eyes adjusted to watch his face as he retold in secrecy, “Yesterday, while at the New Scotland Yard office building I decided to investigate his warehouse expenses. He was making a profit, he was destined to achieve a beating record.”

Lord Pennicott owned the largest suppliers of metal works and machinery parts, ranging from trains, to ships to food cans, to weapons.

“He partakes business often with the Vanderbilt family, very new money in the past thirty years, yes?” you noted aloud. American royalty.

There was talk of Vanderbilts heirs coming to marry English society members, Pennicott was a frequent mention in business.

Sherlock nodded and huffed, “His consultants were blithering idiots however who had barely any insight to his personal life. He was quoted being a private man...what they knew of him was that he was about to have his sixth child. I believe it is time his wife to be questioned. She has given a small testimony to the police already, but I have been offered to consult in this case by Scotland yard...and it is you that officially provoked my interest.”

Your eyes narrowed, “Me?” you exclaimed with disbelief.

He had been so hot headed the last time the topic was even mentioned. You hadn’t dared ask about it again.

“Yes,” he rubbed his hands together, “you.”

You looked at him with apparent annoyance, “Shall you elaborate how it is I that provoked you?”

He chuckled sheepishly, “because you made a an inquiry and berated me when I told you to pay attention on other matters...” His eyes glanced to the floor of the carriage before meeting yours, “I may have...reflected...and deemed it the necessary duty to follow up on the imbeciles of England’s detective division. You are perhaps not as dim as I took you for originally...”

You felt a strange buzz at the bottom of your spine with a tiny seed of smugness blooming upward.

A flutter of pride filled you from his praise until he snorted, “You’re still rather stupid, but with a value of insight.”

Your spark of light blew out. You tried to not roll your eyes.

With most of your diverse self, you desired to throttle him and argue. Instead you took your turn at observing what you could in the dim carriage.

Sherlock was not like the average gentleman. In fact, he was very abnormal to what you had gotten to know... He was incredibly unorthodox. He didn’t adhere to social norms and behaved in contradictions. Therefore you took a moment to hear his words and accept them as a hidden message. A riddle.

You smugly smiled.

“Was that an attempt to...apologise, Mr Holmes?” you finally mused.

Sherlock smirked, “That would require me to be have a sense of regret my dear wife, and I do not account such a folly.”

You smirked back and said sassily, “The words you seek, are ‘Sorry’ and ‘please forgive me.’”

Your toe nudged his ankle playfully.

He glared reliving the warm humiliation you inflicted to him this morning over Mrs Hudson. His grim look was contagious.

He shot back, “And pray tell, how does your backside feel Mrs Holmes?” he chewed his bottom lip. His brows lifted, "Mayhaps you've forgotten and in need of a firm reminder?"

When your smile fell and his grew. He had won this small battle of wits. You looked away from him, your face felt incredibly warm like your bottom.

“Come now,” he purred and lean forward to pat your knees, “Don’t be so bashful. Deep down, I know you just want to be run through...” Your eyes narrowed as he continued confidently stating, “You put on this coy little show last night.” Your lips parted, your teeth bared, yet he kept running his mouth further, “I have intuition like no other man my dear and you...you are scared I will find out all those lustful secrets inside your mind-“

You didn’t let him finish his words before you ripped off your glove and delivered a sharp ringing blow to his cheek. It was a foul sting that ricocheted into your own delicate palm. You huffed angrily.

“What I did last night was not a show,” you spat, uncontrollably hot tears touched the back of your eyes, “What you did was wrong and cruel. You threatened our marriage unless I debased myself. I did what I had to,” you jabbed his chest with your finger, “and I will continue to as long as you remain faithful...”

‘or I will kill you Sherlock Holmes.’

Your words echoed both in his and your memory. He didn’t really believe you were capable of murder, and yet he also knew not to press his thumb against the sharpened knife.

His rubbed his hand on the pink print you left on his pale cheek. He plucked his cane leaning on the seat beside him and hooked it into your collar, tugging you unceremoniously forward into his lap. You were forced to sit directly over his right thigh from the awkwardness of the carriage size. He curled his walking stick behind you and trapped you on top of him.

You could feel the heat between his legs. Oh how Sherlock really was just a animal.

“I find you may come to regret those words...” he panted and licked the spot under your ear, “You think me cruel now? Just you bloody wait until you feel the thrash of my cane.”

You fluttered your eyes shut, squeezing the tears away as you regained your breath and whispered icily back into his seeking mouth, “I look forward to it.”

He pulled back to gaze at your entire face. His eyes were full of confusion. He looked like he was lost on a foreign road with know knowledge on where to go. His lips twitched, unsure to smile or frown.

“I see,” he swallowed, “You can play martyr all you want then, my future masochist...and then we will see whether you truly are a slut...or a saint...but I doubt you’ll like either result...”

You would never describe yourself as a masochist. You didn’t particularly like pain...but after a period of time when he struck your bare bottom this morning you felt warm and floating. Your belly buzzed like last night. It was wrong and you knew it was. A spanking was a punishment not a entrance for pleasure.

Sherlock set aside his cane and cupped your waist. His thumbs ran up and down your torso. He pressed his nose to yours.

“Definitely stupid,” he whispered over your lips hotly before he gently pushed you back until you sat on your side of the carriage.

You felt a slight dizziness. You couldn’t understand Sherlock no matter how much you tried. You slumped in your seat and rubbed your forehead. You pulled back the curtains and watched as the many houses turned into more trees.

Sherlock in the meantime pulled out his pipe and began stuffing it with tobacco for his pocket tin.

The bright luminous shine of the match flame filled the dark carriage as he lit his pipe and puffed. He stared you down as his gums sucked and smacked the thin mouthpiece. A swirl of grey and white smoke tails snaked from his lips and nose. His eyes held no colour, only darkness. You wondered what urged him so drastically to hate and disrespect you.

His cheek was a huge darker in this lighting.

You shut your eyes and controlled your breathing. You tried to stare at your glove that you’d dropped on the carriage flooring.

You sat both in silence for the rest of the lengthy roads to your destination. You pinched the curtains and opened them.

    8:23am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England. 

The forestry and gardens of Groveland Park were magnificent. Giant trees replaced tall buildings. Bird chirp washed out the gossip and clatter of people.

You sighed as you breathed the clear air hunted with the earthy dew scent on the wind.

Your husband finished his pipe and tucked it back into his pocket.

The carriage rocked and creaked to a stop. You felt the driver climb down and opened the door. Sherlock climbed out first, he cleared his throat and hugged his walking stick to his side. He held out his hand for you.

“Come along Mrs Holmes.”

As you reached for him, the both of you matched eyes. Your hand was trembling.

You stepped down to the gravelled path and Sherlock released your hand to pay the remaining wage of the journey to the driver.

You quickly ducked back through its little door to retrieve your lost glove. And when you grasped it you felt a warmth behind you.

Sherlock’s hands with his cane cupped your waist and pulled you back against him slowly. There was something cruel and intimate about it... He stole your glove from your covered hand and slid your naked palm through the material but not before pressing his lips against the inside of your wrist.

Your eyes flickered and your heart thrashed. What the hell was he doing? The driver saw it all and smirked. He climbed back to the top of the carriage and clicked his tongue, fleeing slowly away. Sherlocks eyes were full of obsession.

You crossed your brows and tore yourself from his arms.

“No,” you whispered. You didn’t truly know what you were saying ‘no’ towards. It wasnt right of your husband to play a angered beast to rise fear in you only to transform into an adoring dove.

His false softness reverted back to his smirking wickedness.

His eyes glance back over your shoulder and he chuckled.

“Good morning Inspector Lestrade,” he purred.

You turned around to take in the sight of a short gentleman who was the owner of a thick black friendly mutton chops.

He wore a happy and surprised expression.

He was also carrying on his forearm a walking stick. He nodded his head and tipped his top hat to the both of you. He wore no gloves and to the private eye you could see the darkened yellowing skin of his knuckles and back of his palm.

“Good morning Detective and-“ he paused glancing you up and down.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock cleared his throat, and turned to wave a hand in regards to your presence, “Meet my wife, Y/N.”

The officers whiskers twitched. He bowed his head briefly, acknowledging, “Mrs Holmes.”

You granted a small polite curtsy, repeating back with a soft tone, “Inspector.”

You graced him with a small smile and he flashed you a nervous grin.

He scratched the back of his head and said with a strain in his voice to your husband, “Sir, this is a matter of professional business, your wife present I fear might be deemed....” he grimaced, “irresponsible?” he shook his head at the thoughts, “I must insist she returns to home,” he waved out his arm to direct you to a buggy and horse besides the entrance gates, his vehicle no doubt, he smiled, “Madam.”

Inspector Lestrade was a clear average man with common decency and a good sense of propriety. Sherlock was bring you into his space of work fit for men, you had no place here...nonetheless you willingly came along...he didn’t need to spank that out of you at least.

But before he could take grasp of your delicate hand, Sherlock reached forward and lowered your reaching wrist with an annoyed sigh, “I invited her. She has valued skills I need. It’s the least you can do after yesterday.”

Sherlock lightly tapped to the dark spot growing along his own jawline.

“Mrs Holmes,” The inspector flushed and nervously smiled, “I apologise greatly for the deformation of your husbands face.”

You looked between the two men. From Sherlock’s jaw to the Inspectors knuckles. The dots connected within seconds.. A light noise mixed with amusement, shock and horror slipped out of your tongue as you exclaimed, “You struck my husband?”

“In my defence Mrs Holmes,” Lestrade leaned against his walking stick and glanced to the gravel unable to meet your eyes, “One might argue he deserved it. And he returned a brightful force himself...”

Sherlock deserving a punch? Noooo surely not! After all the pair of you had experienced these two or three days, you understood entirely. For you wished to do nothing more than the same as Inspector Lestrade.

Sherlock snickered, and you released a bubbling giggle, “That does not surprise me. I’m curious what drove you to such lengths as to strike him.”

It wouldn’t take a lot you suspected, Sherlock already proved his habit on making more than one person uncomfortable and offended.

But instead of a confident man of the law, he was still sheepishly pushing the gravel around with his walking cane.

“Oh yes, Lestrade,” Sherlock barked in amusement, “Regale to my wife what I did to provoke your fist...”

Sherlock slapped his cane against Lestrades forcing the inspector to lose his balance and fall on one knee.

“Blast!” the inspector cried as he wobbled to stand back up.

You smacked a hand against Sherlock’s chest and shook your head at him and for that he discreetly tapped your backside with the head of his cane. You bit back the gasp and clenched your fingers on his coat. You didn’t like witnessing your husband behave so openly as a bully. It was very unsightly.

“Your husband, Mrs Holmes,” Lestrade winced and dusted dirt off his knee, “decided to elude to that which I am incompetent in my work therefore in other things.”

You accusingly turned your attention back to Sherlock, “Other things?”

“I think the inspector has trouble,” he smirked, “getting it up.”

‘Getting it up? What up?...oh!’ your eyes flashed wide

“Sherlock you didn’t!”

Your husband cackled meanly and rubbed soft circles into your back with his thumb.

“I’d rather say he started it,” Sherlock claimed fluttering his eyes at you before he snarled in the inspectors direction, “Go on Lestrade...now, you tell her what you said to me before I insulted your virility?”

You turned your attention back to the officer.

The mutton chop cop sputtered embarrassingly. His hands straightened his jacket and lifted his hat to smooth back his hair.

He licked his dry lips and hastily muttered, “I dare not repeat the words I so indecisively chose especially in front of such a fine and polite lady.”

Sherlocks mouth was close to your ear as he whispered, “I think he’s rather scared.”

“Of what?” you snipped back still crossed with Sherlock’s behaviour.

“What you’ll do to him...after what he called you.”

‘After what he called me? What was said? When was it said?...’

You softly hummed, “Did he insult me?”

“Detective Holmes,” the inspectors face turned a darker shade as he tensely pressed, “This really isn’t professional.”

Your husband moved his hand and lightly guided you to stand behind him as if to be a protective wall between you and the inspector. He stood a full foot above the inspector.

He glared down and sneered, “Then why bother saying it yesterday when you can’t even say it today in front of the woman herself?”

You saw how his hand squeezed his cane furiously. It was that action alone that sent an icy stream of fear down your spine. You weren’t sure of it, but you couldn’t put it passed Sherlock to start a brawl, particularly since the two men had clearly tussled fearsomely yesterday.

You sighed obnoxiously loud and very unladylike. You clapped your hands to snap both their attentions your way.

“Listening to a pair of men bicker is tiresome and leaves my learning brain in wanting,” you rolled your eyes and walked ahead of them both, calling over your shoulder, “Let us put aside what frivolous nonsense occurred yesterday and perform our duty instilled by the righteousness of God and the Queen herself, yes?”

You were stepping towards the main large house where you were confident was the Pennicott Estate. The gravel crunched beneath your striding walk.

Sherlock and Lestrade appeared gobsmacked by the sight of your leading March.

“Very well,” the inspector relented and walked ahead.

Sherlock caught up with both of you and squeezed your elbow, he gestured forward with his cane, “Lead the way Lestrade.”

And as the gentleman walked ahead of you, Sherlock sucked his head back to your ear with a smug tone, “Nicely done, dear wife.”

You rolled your eyes and shook him off, as if he wasn’t the reason you performed such a song and dance if tell them to return to their work over his foul demonstrating behaviour.

    HELPLINES:

If you are a victim of sexual abuse, assault or domestic violence or know someone who is please reach out to these links that share helpline services, phone numbers or emails. Consent and respect is important in every relationship whether between friends, family or even strangers.

Australian Helpline Services

UK Helpline Services

American Helpline Services

India Helpline Services.

[maedhrus]

Joplittle kids AU Edward, while Tom is pregnant, taking his face in both hands: Thomas. My love. I understand that you are nauseous. But if you keep being stubborn about it you are going to get scurvy again

on any given day during the pregnancy, edward is having seven consecutive panic attacks as thomas attempts to go about his usual tasks and habits. thomas "i grew up in marylebone slum housing and survived the arctic, i can survive morning sickness" jopson vs edward "i had to carry you home from the arctic and am not above doing so again if you refuse to eat this soup" little

[deeisace]

Alright @invisible-goats let's see how many Joe Bloggs there are!

Not many, as it turns out, tbh

There was one who died in Cleveland in 1982, and one who lived in Sussex in 2003 - and this guy! Who got married in King's Lynn in 1785

He was from Chelmsford apparently, per the record, and the reason why there's two of them, probably, is. Well they just postponed the wedding, it could be any reason, but the rules were you had to have banns published for three weeks before the wedding, see, so people know it's going on an stuff, I guess, idk - and, have the chance to object, like Ann Rutledge's dad, there - so Joe and Jane here, they had two weeks' banns, and then got it republished for some reason or other - so the next document is their three-sundays-in-a-row - they basically just postponed for two weeks, really

Oh! Possibly because Joe was moving house! In the first, both him and Jane are "of this parish", and then the second one, he's "of Chelmsford" and only Jane is "of this parish". I wonder why he/they moved, there's no record of his job or anything like that.

Hmm.

Apart from them, there's not any, really - but we can check for "Joe Blogg", singular, I spose, let's see

We can jump back a bit, now - a marriage record from 1714 - 6th of May, in Tower Hamlets, I hope it was a nice day for them

Joseph Blogg, and here we see he's a Spitalfields weaver, marrying Elizabeth Clark.

Oh dear, no, but look, he died in 1722, October of that year

He's listed as still living in Spitalfields, but he's a pensioner now, I think that says, so either something's happened for him to stop work, or otherwise he's elderly - I'm not sure, cs there's no ages listed basically ever until the later-1700s, depending on where you're looking at

Ah, I think I might see

Elizabeth died in July 1722, and our Joe is still a weaver then.

Oh how sad that is

Alright, I'm going to jump forward to census times, I want to see people living please

The very very first Joe Bloggs we find is on the 1841 census, and because it's the first one that was done it's pretty shit, basically

But, we can see he's 11 years old, and his mum's called Jane, and she's a charwoman (like a cleaner, basically), and he's got at least 6 siblings - in age order, it goes Edward, John, William, Joseph, Elizabeth, Henry and Jane. And they are all from Marylebone.

Let's see we can't find out what happened to this Joe!

He's a waiter! He's mid-20s, here, marrying Amelia, with his brother Henry as witness

And here they are a bit later, on the 1861 census -

He's swapped jobs, he's now a greengrocer! And here is how I know that Henry above is his brother, because here's our Jane, his sister - it doesn't say so on the 1841 census, because of course, but Joe must be from his mum's first marriage and Henry and Jane from her second, or something like that - or else, Amelia also has a relative and half-sister each called Henry and Jane, I don't know, tho Jane is the same age as our Jane Blogg, above.

The 70s show he's at the same address with the same job, but a bit more of a rabble -

Amelia, there, named for her mum, then Avies (???), Josephine, Elen, and another Joseph

I jumped forward to 1881, to try and read Avies's name better, if I could, but she's already moved out by that point - 18, she's either got a job or a husband, generally

Instead, they've moved to Hanover Square, Ellen is now called Susan, and there's another son, Thomas Charles age 7. And, Joe's swapped jobs again! He's a turkey carriage driver!

What's a one-a-them, let's have a look. Well, I can't find anything on "Turkey carriage" specifically, but I am imagining something like a hansom, a two-wheeler like this one

Here, let's see 1891 -

Cor, that girl doesn't half go through names - here she is Louisa, now!

Amelia has died, unfortunately, in the time since, so Joe is now a widower - but here we can see he's still a cabbie, look, and a groom - maybe he stables other cabbie's horses, I wonder - and helpfully, his neighbour who's name I've cut off there (it's John Higley) is a coachpainter! Extraordinarily helpful with horsedrawn coaches and cabs, I imagine

He died in 1899, this one, and it's only in death we find out his middle name is Henry, but I went back and found his baptism -

Joseph, born to John and Jane Blogg, Great Barlough, 11th Jan 1831. John is/was a coachman, so I suppose Joe followed in his footsteps, in the end

Oh dear me I'm going to have "Following in Father's Footsteps" stuck in my head for an age, now