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milknhonies · 3 months

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Wails of Wedded Bliss

Chapter 6 || Masterlist || Chapter 8

Chapter Summary: Upon meeting the Baroness you are enamoured by her devotion.

Pairing: Sherlock Homes x wife!reader

Chapter Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, (No Smut), typical historical misogyny and sexism, mentions and discussion on miscarriages. Implied domestic abuse and infidelity.

Word Count: 9k

Author Notes: This is an important but rather sad chapter. I beseech you all to read the warnings. The details of this chapter are important to the plot of the missing Baron Thaddeus Pennicott.

Inspiring Song: "Flightless Bird American Mouth" by Vitamin String Quartet

8:30am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England.

Sherlock tucked your arm into his side as you three entered the Groveland house foyer. The floor was made of fine marble tile and with ever step a light echo raced down the halls.

The inspector called upon a nearby dusting maid to fetch the head of the house. Who returned was a thin and tall man in a butler’s uniform with a sliver pocket watch hanging from his chest. His hair was the colour of autumn leaves and his face littered in freckles.

He bowed, “I am mister Edward Redmayne, head butler of the Groveland estate, how may I assist you?”

The inspector shook his hand and stated quickly, “We spoke on the telephone yesterday? A telegraph was sent.”

The butler smiled with a relieving gasp, “Detective Holmes?”

Lestrade sheepishly looked over his shoulder to you and your husband. He nodded. His expression wore a emotion of embarrassment mixed with annoyance. Perhaps he was jealous of your husband’s successful published case stories. You wished you could have told the constable not to fret as Sherlock was nothing short of a arrogant mule...yet again- the mark on his face...he probably already knew that.

8:42am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England.

Upon meeting the lady of the house, you stood frigid by your husband. You felt somewhat self conscious by her grey eyes that lingered over your dress. Perhaps you should’ve worn your Sunday best before meeting a woman of such a high status.

The baroness was unmistakably pregnant. Her belly was bold and rounded beneath her maternity gown. She had been sitting calmly on a resting chaise, knitting a small bonnet for her future child. Her hands were covered in fine burgundy velvet gloves to match her modest dress.

Her face was framed by a light brown curls, that appeared almost white in some places, twisted into a bum at the base of her neck. Her pale face was blotchy with pink flecks and slight acne.

“Lady Pennicott, I am Inspector Braydon Lestrade of Scotland Yard,” the British officer proclaimed as he bowed dramatically forward. You withheld a girlish giggle by how low the man had bent his head and presented himself foolishly, and from the corner of your eye you manage to catch the whisp of Sherlock’s smirk.

The inspector waved his arm behind him and moved aside, “-and with me is Detective Sherlock Holmes and his wife, Mrs Holmes.”

You produced the baroness a respectable curtsy, your eyes glued down to the beautifully patterned carpet. You wondered how the servants could keep it so clean and freshly unstained by dirty guests. It must have been new.

The baroness shuffled her knitting needles and ball of woollen yarn into a Whicker basket and disposed of it beside her.

A slow stretching smile graced her thin lips as she spoke to you, “Oh, are you the little dear who solved that factory match girl incident?”

You weren’t sure how to answer her question. You weren’t entirely sure what the baroness was referencing until Sherlock stepped closer with your arm still cradled in his.

“No dear Baroness,” Sherlock pat your hand gently, “That would have been my sister Enola Holmes, she has her own detective office at present moment. My wife is here on my invitation. I wished to gift her a sight of the grand park and estate while I was here upon duty.”

The Baroness cocked her head, from her ears hung pearls that swung and hung like rain drops.

“Come forth dear,” she lifted her hand and beckoned you, “I would like to have better view of you.”

You wondered if she could smell the sweat beginning to drop down the back of your neck. You bit your tongue and tried to refrain from trembling. You were nervous. Her eyes were cold but her smile warm, two conflating details that you couldn’t understand. The last thing you needed now on top of a terrible start to your marriage was to be scrutinized by a haughty pregnant baroness.

She flickered your fingers for you to bend down to her. As you leant down, you swore you could smell copper, a metalic scent. A vein on your scalp pulsed. She scanned your face of its details. You dared to wonder what she was searching for. And then it clicked...the smell...

‘Dear god, you prayed, please don’t let her smell my blood, please let this not be my blood...’

You should have sprits on some perfume before leaving baker street.

She glanced behind you and questioned angelically, “How does it feel having such a clever husband?”

Your lips opened and closed. You resembled a fish. You were stumped to answer quickly.

‘Miserable, infuriating, torturous, pleasurable mixed with a cup of agony...’

She lifted her brows until you hurriedly blurted, “He is...formidable and righteous...” you stood up tall and took a step back, adding with a monetarism of truth, “I am very lucky to have become his bride.”

‘Lucky, while incredibly resentful.’

You reached back, Sherlock adopted your arm back into his hold once more.

Lady Pennicott rubbed her belly, her eyes started to twinkle, “And soon you will have a plethora of children that will look like him I gather.”

Your eyes fluttered. Sherlock’s hand tightened around your glove and his throat bobbed. You felt hot in the face.

Yes that’s right, that’s what normal husband and wife did isn’t it? They have children. That was your role, to be the mother of Sherlock’s offspring...

You couldn’t answer.

And there. That dear girl is when you questioned for the first time. ‘Is this what I want?’ and ‘Do I want Sherlock’s children.’ Because having a knowing of his barbarism conflated a fear in your belly...would Sherlock hurt his own children if he could easily hurt you, his wife?

When you hesitated for too long to answer her again, Sherlock said with a strained tone that was masked in a hopeful joy, “One may only hope, Baroness.”

“Lady Pennicott,” Graydon interrupted, “We have come to ask you on the whereabouts of Lord Pennicott and the evening he was last sighted.”

Her eyes narrowed at the inspector and with an annoyed twinge she muttered and wiped her hands on a nearby blanket, “I already informed the police of what I was informed of by our butler Edward.”

She glanced up next her right. Mister Redmayne observed her, looking down. The pair smiled to each other. She reached out to him. She grabbed his hand and they squeezed.

The inspector laughed nervously, “Indeed but Detective Sherlock Holmes was not presently involved in the case until yesterday.”

Her eyes flickered quickly to your husband and her face flared with confusion quickly to be matched with a impressed smile, “Of course, please sit all of you as I am near a indisposition with my child,” she gestured to the mirroring chaise and a chair beside the fireplace, “Edward, please tell Martha to bring tea and biscuits for our kind service men and Mrs Holmes.”

The butler bowed to you all and left the sitting room.

Lestrade took his place on the lone chair while Sherlock sat you beside him on the chaise. You took your time to lower yourself. Sitting on your bruises was uncomfortable while another cramp hit you. Your fingers dug into his palm.

From Lestrades breast pocket he pulled out a notebook and small pencil.

“Lady Pennicott,” Sherlock softly hummed, “Please, could you tell me what your husband is like as a person?”

The woman who you believed was in her late thirties smiled and stated softly, “My Thaddeus is a noble man, good taste in wine and very devoted to his work. He likes to go hunting and we share a passion for gardening,” she glanced up at the ceiling and paused, “He prefers to plant vegetables to donate to the church and orphans, whereas I have always loved to grow my flowers.”

The way she described him, her devotion was deep and honourable. She touched her round belly.

Sherlock looked over to the fire place behind the baroness. On the mantle was a magnificent portrait twice your height, painted on the canvas was who you recognised as Lord and Lady Pennicott. He was sitting up straight on a fine red cushioned chair with his dirty blonde hair and softened mutton chops while she stood at his right and her ringed hand on his shoulder. The similarities were there but Lady Pennicotts hair had lightened in reality perhaps from all the years that separated her likeness and her reality.

“I was informed Lord Pennicott is a father of five?” Sherlock asked.

The Baroness smiled proudly and pat her tummy softly, “Six soon.”

You couldn’t help notice something was missing from the painting, Sherlock also had a similar thought.

Where were the children in the portrait? Where was a family portrait in the house?

“Forgive me,” a breath of air escaped from him, “are the children away at school?”

“Oh,” her uncanny smile remained while her brows angled down, her throat tightened as she spoke, “I fear they are in the loving embrace of angels now. All of them were taken from us by God,” her eyes glanced to you, “They came out sleeping.”

Your heart sunk to the pit of your belly with sorrow and pity.

Five babies lost, five babies gone…five pregnancies… four and a half years of pregnancy and for what? Five angels.

A woman had one holy role in life, to bare her husband children, and when a woman was defective or produced a sickly child, it was a symbol of failure in society. But you never saw it that way...you imagined it must’ve been agony to lose so many babies. One or two was a common occurrence but five? Five was a curse to experience and relive over and over.

“Well,” you interrupted Sherlock rudely, cutting him off from his next abrasive question by squeezing his hand a little too hard.

You could see the mourning in the baroness’ face. You saw the classic look of all women made uncomfortable by something a man has said. What the hell would the detective know about a woman’s emotions after how coldly he has treated all women and yourself.

You shuffled on the opposite chaise and smile softly, “I will pray this one will come swiftly and feel the warmth of their mother.”

The baroness’ face lifted and warmed. She smiled happily and nodded, “Thankyou, oh I’m just so excited! This one really is a big one, I can feel it. I hope it’s a boy.”

Sherlock was staring at you intensely as the maid Martha finally delivered a pot of tea and poured the steaming liquid. His brows were knitted and his eyes held suspicion as he kept you in his sight. You politely nodded your head once at him before reaching for a hot cup and lifting it to your lips.

Sherlock sighed and turned back to his questioning, “You would say you liked your marriage?”

The baroness appeared offended by your husband as her face wrinkled and a sneer spread her thin lips, “Of course, any woman who doesn’t like her marriage should not be married in the first place. She is a burden to her husband if she cannot perform her duties as a wife.”

Lady Pennicott leant forward and collected her own cup of tea, she delicately pinched a biscuit and dunked it into the contents.

…you felt Sherlock drag his thumb across your fingers. You felt chilly, could he read your thoughts? Did he know truly how much you already hated him and his ideas of intimacy in your marriage? He clear his throat when both your glancing eyes caught each other.

“Can you tell me what happened,” Sherlock pressed, “The night of your husbands disappearance?”

“Well...after dinner,” the baroness sighed in thought and nibbled on her moist biscuit, “Thaddeus wanted to speak with me in his office about a spending I had made a week ago. You see, I had bought a cradle for the nursery. The one we had originally was broken and beyond repair, we disposed of it a month prior. Thaddeus was not pleased with the price and claimed it was an unnecessary purchase,” she paused and set her cup aside before she touched her belly again; rubbing in soft slow circles, she began to blushed, “He was sorely hurt by my choice. He then became very cross with me and left his office in a huff.”

She looked to the yarn, to the tea pot and then finally to the painting on the mantle, “I deemed that he would find forgiveness in his heart by the morning and brush it off. I returned back to the nursery to tidy up before I went to my rooms and went to bed to sleep in my quarters of the east wing. Thaddeus keeps himself to the west wing most nights.”

The detective nodded, “What time do you believe it was when you went to your bed, Baroness?”

She hummed softly while pursuing her lips, “A quarter to nine in the evening.”

“And how did you realise your husband was missing?” Sherlock stole a scone off the tea tray and lifted it to his lips. He paused amidst chewing it slowly.

The noble woman sighed and recollected, pragmatically, “In the morning Mr Redmayne informed me on how Thaddeus took off into the night astride Arion, our prize stallion Clydesdale. Thaddeus had not returned by the next morning and that is when concern drew near. I sent members of my staff to the factories to investigate his whereabouts and none had come upon him. I knew something had to be wrong so I alerted the authorities by the second morning.”

Your husband took a deep breath and discarded the half bitten scone, he wiped his hand unceremoniously on his jacket and throatily asked, “Do you recall if Lord Pennicott has any potential persons he might be deemed as an enemy towards?”

“Only his company competitors, Detective,” She said saccharinely with her smile, “He was a very loveable man.”

“Do you have a list of the names of staff who were working that evening here in Groveland House?”

The butler stepped forward and cleared his throat, “That would be in Lord Pennicotts office,” he pulled out a pair of keys, “I can you show you gentlemen in and where he keeps his accounts and other paraphernalia to his business if you’d like?”

Both Sherlock and Lestrade smiled and stood up.

“Baroness,” Sherlock gently requested, “Would it be overly bothersome if my beloved wife remained and kept you company while the inspector and I look in your husband’s office.”

Your heart jumped to your throat. What was Sherlock doing leaving you behind with the Baroness by yourself!?....what if you spoke out of turn or said something too presumptuous for your status!?...

“Most certainly not,” she beamed “I will gladly accept such delightful company,” She held out a hand, palm down to her right. The butler speedily stepped to her side and leant her his hand. She winced as she scooted forward on the cushioned lounge before struggling to rise to her feet.

Sherlock leant down and kissed the back of your wrist again, so scantily in front of the baroness. You tried tor refrain from loudly gasped and bringing anymore dangerous attention to yourself. Your husband left your side and followed the butler with Lestrade out of the sitting room.

So the party turned to two married women. The baroness was pleased.

She stepped closer to you and reached for your arm. You were surprised by her familiarity but you would not deny the assistance of a woman so desperately swollen and ready to birth any day.

“My dear, would you care to have a stroll with me in my garden?” She smirked and jerked her chin, “Knowing how dear Thaddie kept his space organised I suspect the gentlemen might be a while.”

You nodded and quickly made the warning assurance, “Are you in a condition to move great feets Lady Pennicott?”

“Fret not,” She giggled girlishly and waved her hand casually, “The physician told me fresh air is delightful for the health of the babe,” she tapped the top of her belly, “I have a month or so before they come.”

Your eyes widened, she looked huge enough to give birth now, surely she wasn’t a month away!! Maybe she was going to be blessed with a pair of twins. You had such a limited knowledge of pregnancy in women. Your grandmother hadn’t given birthed a child in the last forty years before your birth!!!

She pointed the way out of the main mansion to enter the garden paths. The sun was perfect today amongst the clouds. It was neither cold nor hot nor humid and dank...it was pleasant and you could smell the fresh nature of bushels and flowers.

“How long have you been known as, The Mrs Holmes?” She inquired cheerfully with her shining silver eyes.

“...Not very long,” you replied warmly before risking a white lie, “We recently finished our honeymoon.”

She grinned and waddled passed a wooden bench, she took a quick stop to rest and pat the seat for you to join her instead of standing dumbly.

“Shall I share some words of advise?,” She hummed, “From a woman that has been married for twelve years?”

“I would be ever so grateful,” you said rushed and desperate. You wouldve listened to anything she had to say. A woman of her standing must’ve held adequate wisdom.

She warmly cupped both your hands and squeezed them. And yet there was an ice creepy into her gaze. She appeared to dissociate, her voice losing its youthful lilt. Her lip wobbled slightly.

“Men are visual creatures. While you are so young and beautiful, you must become pregnant as soon as possible,” Lady Pennicott ran her palm across your waist, her eyes like razors cut across the yard to a bush of red rose buds, “It is inevitable that our husbands will stray their gazes to other women, it is in their nature,” those grey stones in her face rolled back and weighed you down, “as I said- visual creatures. The sooner you make a babe, the easier his devotion comes,” A joyous grin returned to her thin lips, she playfully tapped the tip of your nose and stated, “Trust me upon this.”

You clenched your hand behind you and strained a smile, “I thankyou for such wise words Baroness. I will endeavour to do what I must to conceive.”

At this moment in time Sherlock had proved himself a monstrous villain. Would it be possible for you to fall pregnant?

You looked out at the divine lush greenery and exhaled softly.

“Do you garden Mrs Holmes?” the baroness queried.

You chuckled softly and removed your gloves, you flashed her a sight of your palm, “I am afraid my hands have never been introduced. My grandmother preferred I focus on mastering piano and embroidery.”

The grey orbs fluttered back at you with a surprised him, “Embroidery is a lovely skill,” she pat your hand and pointed across the field, “Please help me up Mrs Holmes, let us take a look at my lilacs.”

You stood straight up and leant out your arm, she was surprisingly light for a woman her size. She leant against you and took small timid steps to her flower patches.

She stood and admired the flower patches, pointing to different types and explaining the breeds of flowers she hoped to grow in the future.

You finally bent over enough and cupped the petals of purple to hold up to your nose and took in a wiff “They smell lovely,” from the corner of your eye was a line of crimson, “I see your roses will soon be in bloom.”

She pinched a bud that was peaking to bloom soon.

“Oh yes, the soil is rich and healthy,” she giggled, “I can’t wait for Thaddeus to return, he liked the roses. He would stand here for a while and think. I know he will love the red colour. It is his favourite shade you see...” She sighed dreamily with her eyes scanning the bushes of scarlet rose buds, “I miss him terribly. I hope he’s alright. I want him to come home soon before the baby arrives.”

A fly smacked into your eye and you sputtered, battering it away. When you gracelessly composed yourself, you stood back up to your feet beside the Lady of Groveland.

You could see how her eyes puddles with droplets of mournful tears. You felt bad for any woman that did not know where her husband was. Especially if there was a rumour about him fleeing the marriage and abandoning her in her serious pregnant condition.

Taking the chance, you boldly took both your hands into yours and now squeezed them. Another buzzing from a fly sat on your shoulder.

The day was growing warmer and a bead of sweat rolled down your neck. The fly tickled your neck and suckled along your salted skin.

You tried your best to ignore the annoying creature.

“I am sure he will Lady Pennicott,” you soothed with a soft welcoming grin, “And he will be most happy when he returns.”

She sighed solemnly and glanced back at the rose bushes. You felt obligated for her happiness in that moment. Glancing back to the house you felt a opportunity come to you.

“May I visit your nursery Lady Pennicott, so I may have references for my own in the future?”

Her eyes flickered up, her face shine bright and her hand tightened over your wrists excitedly as though she was still as youthful as a school girl.

“Why of course Mrs Holmes,” she spun on her heel and wobbled a slight, she lifted her hand and called to the maid Martha still packing the china set inside, “Please inform the detective that I am taking his wife up to the nursery.”

“Yes Baroness,” she said with a humble curtsey and scurried off while Lady Pennicott took you totally inside the house and up a grand stair case from the foyer.

9:03am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England.

Up, up, up you both climbed the stairs. You noticed how the stairs didn’t bother her ladyship once, she was fit and stridden widely whereas you were breathing a little hard by the top step.

She pulled you down a hallway to a white painted door.

She excitedly opened the door wide and practically skipped inside to show you around her future child’s room.

The walls were covered in light blue and yellow paint. There were small peonies covering the trim of the room. There was no carpet but who needed one when you had a newborn.

“Welcome to the resting nest of my baby,” Lady Pennicott proudly exclaimed, spreading her arms out at the room around you.

There was a tall shelf filled with stuffed animals and teddy bears. There was a rocking horse, a doll house, spinning tops, tin cars and rubber balls all waiting, collecting dust, awaiting the arrival of a playmate. There was a permabulator by the window sill. There was a rocking chair in one corner and against the wall closest to the door- you smiled and swaggered over curiously, “Is this the cradle you bought?”

It was made of fine cream painted wood. You chewed your bottom lip in the thought. It was a lovely crib, why was Lord Pennicott so upset by such a delightful purchase? He didn’t have money issues. You put it down as that you didn’t understand the way men thought and men will never know what women think.

“Yes,” Lady Pennicott chirped, “it is from William Whitely department store in Baywater next to the Howard & Co dress department.”

The Baroness sat down into her rocking chair and slowly moved it back and forth, watching you admire the nursery she spent hours and years consistently curating.

You clenched the edge and looked over the railing down at the empty bedding. There was a teddy lamb in the corner, you pinched it’s fluffy white tail and sighed. For a brief moment you let your eyes close and your imagination wander far.

One day you’d have this...with Sherlock. An empty cradle to be filled. You caught the vision of a tiny hand squeeze around your finger and the sound of soft gurgles with the warm pressure of a hand on your waist...was that Sherlock’s hand? Was that your child?

One day you’d have a baby to care for, to provide these things that meant love...yet, was any child of Sherlock’s capable of love? He certainly wasn’t as far as you were concerned.

You bit down a shudder and opened your eyes, feeling hot tears glide down a cheek. You pushed back and sighed, “I am most confident on one thing Lady Pennicott.”

“And what is that Mrs Holmes?” she said softly, she could see the unspoken pain in your face. You swallowed hard and your face fell into a smile, you flashed her a wink.

You laughed softly, “Your child will be spoilt rotten by the love you give.”

She chuckled with you and nodded.

“Have you thought of a name?” you inquired, waltzing over to the chested drawers of baby knick knacks on display.

“Thaddeus Colin if it’s a boy,” she hummed, “or Theresa Grace if it is a girl.”

“Theresa?”

She giggled gently, “That is my name dear.”

Mrs Theresa Pennicott. It suited her. Her old soul eyes reflected her devout name.

A shine of glass pierced a ray of sun into your eyes, you pinched the glass object carefully. You touched a long black tube pulling out of it. You couldnt understand it’s purpose, your eyes narrowed at the rubber end that was shaped like a thumb or a cows udder. There was a second tube attached to the first with a rubber squeeze ball at the end.

“What is this?” you humoured.

“Oh that? It’s a fantastic invention,” The baroness said, “It’s a pump for breast milk with a tube that syphons the milk into this baby feeding bottle. When babies start to teeth they can scar your breasts. This is an effective and modern method I look forward to trying.”

Your eyes widened, scarring!? Babies teeth could scar a breast!?

You placed the bottle bump back and helped Lady Pennicott when she beckoned to stand back up from the rocking chair.

“Have you ever felt the sensations?” She suddenly, “In which they kick within?”

Your face must’ve looked idiotic as you asked plainly, “Kick?”

She giggled and nodded, “Give me your hand, perhaps you may feel them moving.”

She plucked your palm and pulled your glove off your fingers. She pressed your entire hand intimately to her belly. You felt a sense of taboo shame, she was making you touch such a beloved spot.

“Do you feel it?” she then asked.

Felt what? Confusion flooded your mind. Your hand moved around her belly slowly.

“I am afraid I don’t know what I’m meant to be feeling?”

She moved your hand and again you felt absolutely nothing.

“They are very brutal on my body,” Lady Pennicott sarcastically assured, “trust me there is a kick.”

She made a point to push your hand harder, but all you felt was the hard material of her corsetry beneath her main dressing materials.

“Baby’s kick you inside?” you marvelled with stunned horror. This was the first time you’d ever heard of such a notion of a baby beating it’s mother inside.

“Not out of malicious intent Mrs Holmes,” she reassured, “mostly it is the baby using its limbs to move their cramped bodies inside or excitement at the sound of voices, I truly believe they can hear us while still inside. Fear not, to you it will feel like a faint touch like this-”

Lady Pennicott softly tapped your wrist, “Like that.”

And there again was new knowledge you heard from a woman on matters of pregnancy. You moved your fingers around, seeking the supposed feeling of a kick...

Still nothing. You frowned, was there something wrong with you that the baby was choosing not to reveal itself.

“How interesting...”

A soft knock on wood alerted you both to glance at the door.

“Mrs Holmes,” the butler from earlier politely spoke, “the detective is requesting your return, I believe he intends to depart.”

Your face fell. You couldn’t believe it but you’d found this experience immensely enjoyable. You had surprisingly made a friend of the Baroness.

The fair lady hugged your side and sweetly exhaled, “Then I shall escort you back to your husband, Eddie fetch me my cheque book.”

He nodded and walked ahead of you both. You solemnly shut the nursery door, trying to remember every precious detail as possible. It was a innocent place to escape from the crude world.

You returned to the bottom of the foyer and smiled at your husband that stood by Lestrade at the front doors.

By the bottom step you faced the noble woman and curtsied.

“Thankyou Lady Pennicott for your kind hospitality and agreeable cooperation to the case,” you heard Sherlock’s voice float over your shoulder.

“Of course detective, please,” the Butler returned with her cheque book, “find my beloved Thaddeus.”

She scribbled speedily with a modernised ink pen, a sharp tear of paper flashed to his direction, “Here. Thirty pounds. I am sure you are busy with other clients considering your reputation, but I beseech you to seek out my husband quickly.”

Sherlock bowed his head as he deposited the cheque into his pocket, “We shall try our hardest. Good afternoon Lady Pennicott.”

Your mouth might’ve collected flies. Thirty pounds. THIRTY pounds. That was a hefty wage for a year to many men.

Sherlock was granted his coat and walking cane along with Lestrade.

He opened the front door and left slowly, glancing over your shoulder back at the heavily pregnant Baroness.

9:21am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England.

Sherlock and you walked up the gravel path in silence for sometime. You weren’t in much of a mood to speak to him despite well knowing conversation would need to spark eventually.

The three of you slowed down beside the inspectors horse cart.

Thankfully it was Sherlock who destroyed the silence with a stretched sigh. Lestrade grimly smiled at that sigh and rocked on his heels.

“Lestrade, show a useful skill,” Sherlock slapped a coin purse into his chest, “Find my wife and I a decent ride homeward. You still need to return back to the office and finish writing those reports on the Spring heeled Jack sightings....” he snickered.

The mutton chop male grumbled and left you pair alone to walk down the path into the main parklands to hail a cabriolet or another hackney carriage.

Sherlock pulled out his pipe and lit it quickly, he inhaled fast and asked curiously, “Did you learn anything else from our suspect?”

You squinted and felt a gasp pop from your lips, your hand snapped out and dug your nails into his arm with a scolding hiss, “Suspect? Look at the state she is in Sherlock. She clearly loves her husband. How could such a indisposed woman do anything to her husband?”

He smirked, “Perhaps a jealous one?”

Your brows pulled together. Jealousy wasn’t something you would’ve describe Lady Pennicott as especially with such a privileged life. Such an emotion wouldve been beneath her...but.. ‘It is inevitable that our husbands will stray their gazes to other women, it is in their nature.’

Sherlock pinched out a piece of card from his pocket, a business calling card, he flashed it through his fingers and let you carefully pluck it from his hand.

“it is no wonder Thaddeus Pennicotts name was so familiar,” Sherlocks huffed a puff of air, “He visits a like minded establishment.”

On the front of the card was a single image, a dove holding a olive leaf, and when you turned the card around there was a woman modelled in immodest clothing with text and an address in perfect hand writing.

“The Mayfair Row Dove club.”

You almost dropped the card in the mud at your feet.

He tucked the card back into his breast pocket and hooked his arm around yours, walking you closer to Lestrade waving his hands back at you both.

“I’m curious who his go to bird is there,” He chuckled.

You shook your head and scoffed in disbelief, “but she’s pregnant.”

“Men have needs,” Sherlock sighed, “I thought you’d have learnt that from last evening?”

Your nails dug harder into his arm and grit your teeth. Not everyone was as depraved as Sherlock, surely not. You couldn’t imagine Mycroft or your grandfather practicing such atrocities on women, especially women that weren’t their wives.

You noted snootily, “She said her husband liked to stand out by the roses to think. Perhaps he regretted his choice.”

Sherlock laughed cruelly and hard enough to almost drop his pipe from his lips. He plucked it out of his mouth and kissed you hard and squarely in front of Lestrade and any passing people that shook their heads in disgust at such public affection.

The taste of his tobacco filled your cheeks and floated down your throat into your chest. You could feel how his breath became your breath. Your head grew dizzy from it. His release left you trembling and collapsing against him briefly. His arm grabbed around your waist and held you totally against his chest.

“You see too much good in the worst people,” he whispered wetly into your ear.

“Not true,” you panted, you blinked your eyes hard and tried speaking again. You weakly pushed away from him back onto your own two feet. From the corner of your eyes you could see the inspector standing beside another hackney carriage.

“Not true,” you repeated and swallowed hard, “...I don’t see any good in you Sherlock.”

He grinned devilishly and walked you both to the carriage, He ignored Lestrade entirely except for retrieving his own purse.

“None at all?” Sherlock asked as he helped you step up inside of the carriage. It jostled as he plotted himself next to you instead of opposite.

You thought hard on his question for a time. You shouldn’t have ever been as petty as him. So you kept your silence before you could decide on a eloquent response. You did try to find the good in him. The trouble was you barely knew Sherlock and the side that you’d encounter was nothing short of a blagged, insufferable man that happened to be very experienced in the arts of the bedroom. So you tried to think about qualities you hadn’t seen in him but had at least heard of him.

“You help solve cases and even sometimes restitution, these deeds could be counted as decent and beneficial...perhaps good...”

He smirked until you finished hastily, “However your mistreatment and lustful addiction is nothing short of that than a person that suffers in his sin.”

A long annoyed sigh drew from his lips, however the corners jerked up.

He tug out his pipe and tapped it’s contents out the moving window, “Might I ask Mrs Holmes...” he inquired as he tucked in his pipe, and wiped his lips thoughtfully, “Do you think yourself better than me?”

The silence shared between the horses trotting along the cobblestones allowed you a chance to glare long and hard at Sherlock.

It was a jab, a jibe, a joke, a trick, a trap...

He wanted you to say yes... You could see it in his eyes the way they flicked to your lips and almost drooled with anticipation. He wanted to start a fight.

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking at you, you turned your head away and scoffed, “You may have quick wit and a expansive knowledge Sherlock, but I at least carry myself with the fairest morals.”

And that? The reply was granted a omen of Sherlock’s sickly chuckles and his heavy warm hand to sit over your thigh, running his them over the fabric of your skirts.

“We will see how fair a baker street whore morals really are when we arrive home then shall we?”

You leant against the wall of the carriage and chose to ignore him. You closed your eyes and held Sherlock’s hand to prevent it wandering anywhere else. His thumb rubbed along the back of your gloves hands.

You couldn’t understand Sherlock. And feared you never would.

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#dead dove do not eat #dead dove fic #henry cavill x female reader #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill x y/n #henry cavill x you #henry cavill x ofc #sherlock holmes x female reader #sherlock holmes x poc!reader #sherlock holmes x y/n #sherlock holmes x you #sherlock holmes x ofc #sherlock holmes x reader #dark!sherlock holmes #dark!henry cavill

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profeyandere · 5 months

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𝐆𝐀𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐋 ─── ☾ 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐃𝐀𝐘

Masterlist || Good Omens Masterlist || Wattpad

Word Count: 2.9k

Pairing: Archangel Gabriel / Jim x Demon!Reader

Warning: Spoilers from season 2

English is not my native language, so I apologize for any mistake and if you can help me improve it, I will greatly appreciate it. I hope you enjoy it :D

"You can't put the supreme archangel on me because you're going for a walk around Edinburgh!"

Your strong and powerful voice echoed between the enormous and high walls of Aziraphale's bookstore, feeling how a wave of heat ran through your body from the tips of your fingers to the highest hair that decorated your head and settled intermittently on it, causing your face to turn a heavy reddish tone as if that were a sign that you were literally about to explode. It was a strange sensation. You weren't even able to describe it in words, but you knew for sure that it couldn't be good, much less because your face had turned that powerful redness that caught the attention of the angel and the demon who had given you convened at the well-known bookstore in the Soho neighborhood. The idea that you were a 'known' demon to both entities did not make you friends, nor did it make you have a close relationship, much less because of what you really were, and that made you an enemy for at least one of them; With the demon, you had forged nothing more than a relationship of respect, but the angels had always been faithful enemies of your kind and you had to avoid as much as possible showing any type of affection or respect for those of their kind. Perhaps you had known Crowley and Aziraphale for longer than you would care to admit, if you also wanted to count the few years you had been working in Heaven with them before the revolution against the Creator occurred, but while you had been in Hell acting like the demon you were, you had lost any kind of contact with the angel and restricted that belonging to the demon because you considered it quite inappropriate to have a close relationship with anyone of your own species, even if they were nice enough to know even your deepest secrets.

"Please, my dear, this is truly important," Aziraphale said, being the brave one who had dared to take the floor after making sure how your aura, completely distorted by the anger you felt, became clearer to him again. Maybe you wouldn't be full of love, demons couldn't feel that in themselves according to earthly gossip, but at least it wasn't something so bad that you were going to explode. "Take care of Gabriel, of Jim, for a couple of days. It won't be long, and before you know it, we'll be here, and you can go back to your routine demonic tasks."

Your flashing yellowish, golden eyes stopped on the chubby figure of the angel, slowly raising your lower lip while a growl emerged from the back of your throat and came out as a soft sigh that was lost in the air. It was obvious how irritable and sensitive you were at that moment as if at any second you could attack them or yell at them in such a way that you would attract the attention of any living being that was inhabiting the face of the Earth.

"Will I also have to babysit the Inspector Constable who has been looking out the window since I entered the bookstore and has followed me here like an abandoned puppy, or will I only have to cover the basic needs of the big guy who is upstairs?" You asked, uncrossing your arms as a heavy sigh escaped between your lips, trying to calm the nerves that both beings had made you. "Furthermore, I cannot perceive him correctly. How am I supposed to take care of him when I can't see him well or my memories are blurred when there's something about him? I didn't even know he was in front of me when I came to tell you about Lord Beelzebub's order."

"Don't worry, my adorable demon, because we have changed a couple of things about the little miracle to make it easier for you to recognize him," Crowley intervened, placing his large hands on your shoulders, squeezing them playfully before gently patting your back to encourage you. "Remember that this is because the little angel has heard some nonsense coming from Gabriel's mouth and has assumed that it has to do with his memory fading."

"It's a clue," the white-haired man stressed as he raised his voice a little more to point out with more force the reason for his early departure from London. "It may seem stupid, but he's been singing that little song all morning, and thanks to my landlord I've discovered that there's a place in Edinburgh that has problems with their jukebox. It seems that, regardless of the song chosen, it always changes to the same one that Gabriel was singing."

You couldn't help but raise a skeptical eyebrow.

"It's not the best clue, but it's something," the redhead murmured, sighing and removing his hands from you, returning to stand next to his friend. "So, we leave you in charge of Gabriel and the bookstore."

"Indeed, prevent people from buying my books, and I will compensate you in some way in the future," the one with blue eyes agreed, making you frown slightly at his words. "Please be very patient with him. He doesn't remember anything."

"I already had patience once in Heaven, I don't promise to be so stupid as to continue being so while I'm on the side of Hell," you murmured, ignoring Aziraphale's look of fear and Crowley's small, amused smile. "Have your adopted child come down, and I'll see what I can do with him."

And what a surprise you were when you finally met up with the missing man shortly after the dynamic duo left the store, who was now Jim, which was short for James, which in turn was short for Gabriel, according to what he said. His appearance was so similar to the one you remembered and, at the same time, so different from the one you had seen him in as if you somehow knew that in front of you was the egocentric and cold supreme archangel who had so often teased you while you were working in Heaven and scolded you as he found you at some point during your stay on Earth, but at the same time you felt like you were inhabiting the library with a completely different person than the one you knew; It was all too strange, you simply didn't have words to explain that. A small beginning of beard had begun to appear on his profiled face, now slightly wider due to the slight weight he had gained in recent days thanks to the large amount of hot chocolate he had been drinking thanks to his repeated requests to Aziraphale since he had tasted that sweet drink, while his clothing was completely opposite to what he had once worn. Now, he seemed homely, a man full of peace and a good angel.

When you saw him, you almost hit him. This happened because you thought he was an evil double twin or something similar, mainly because he was completely identical to his angelic version except for the violet glow in his eyes, which he had not shown even though Aziraphale and Crowley had mentioned that in very moments punctually he seemed to come to his senses when he remembered events in biblical history in which he had been forced to intervene in one way or another; It was as if God communicated with both the angel and the demon through him. Going back to the same point you had mentioned before: Gabriel and Jim seemed to be the same person, only he had no memories of what he once was, and that meant that you now had to take care of a grown man who simply didn't understand how the world, gravity or electricity worked. You didn't understand much about both things either, you had not been in charge of the creation of the planets, and neither had it been in your mind to create the power plants and the distribution of it throughout the houses.

Although your first interactions were quite awkward, Jim made sure of something that he wasn't too happy about, even if it took him a whole day to realize it.

"Why do she keeps avoiding me? If we already know each other."

His voice, low and soft, echoed between the walls of his small room and, although Jim knew that he was with you in that huge store and that it was very unlikely that you would not hear him, he did not understand the reason why you had avoided him so much. It was as if you were afraid of someone or you were seeing a ghost. For him there was no other alternative. Although Aziraphale and Crowley reacted in a similar way upon meeting him, with surprise and slight fear, your gaze on him was different. He could tell by the dull glow in your eyes and your restless fingers that drummed on any nearby surface, as if you had the intention of saying something to him every time you were in the same room. He had seen you before, and not only did he sense it because he had literally done it before, the same day Mr. Fell's friends arrived at the store, but he recognized you from something before. He had seen you before, he had recognized you from somewhere else, and he had had a warm feeling that spread through his chest every time his blue eyes turned towards you as if a wave of sweetness and warmth settled inside him in a very different way than the way hot chocolate did and subsequently exploded in his belly; It was too strange to explain, but he really liked being around you because of the way you made him feel, even if you didn't do anything in particular to make him feel like his body was about to explode into fifty different pieces.

It was such a warm feeling, so nice, that he wanted to have it all day.

Determined to find you and face his thoughts and feelings once and for all, he stood up from the bed with a slight start, twisting his entire body and moving to sit up and finally stand up, ignoring the fact that the sheets that had been around him as he was lying down and fell to the floor with a thud muffled by the carpet. He walked around the upper floor as if the bookstore had been his since he bought it, as if he somehow knew it like the back of his hand and recognized every corner and every step he had to take to avoid knocking over any of the stacks of books that had been piling up as the days went by while Aziraphale and Crowley had been away from London. To his gratifying surprise, a soft, barely perceptible melody seemed to bathe the tent. A male voice overshadowed by a more angelic, sweeter, and more wonderful one caused his heart to jump inside his chest, so he did not take long to walk with impetus and speed towards the place from which said sound came. He knew it was you, deep in his heart he knew it was you. And sure enough, there you were, he hadn't made a mistake. You were sitting in Aziraphale's old chair while one of the books he had been organizing in the morning rested softly in your hands while the time melody coming from the record player made him smile softly knowing that this was the song he had been singing that same day unconsciously.

"Is that the disk that Mr. Fell took this morning?"

The sudden sound of Gabriel's voice made you come to your senses, causing the music on the record to quickly stop and you to close the book in your hands tightly, slowly diverting your golden gaze towards his barely perceptible bluish one. The darkness enveloped him. You could barely make out his masculine features, but you knew that he was there, in that dark corner, watching you. You swallowed hard for an answer, but simply grunted and then gently placed the book on the desk in Aziraphale's office, glancing sideways at the man who had taken a couple of steps for you to see, being as stealthy as the angel had mentioned. He had started thinking about putting a rattle on Jim or something similar so he wouldn't be scared, but you just needed that heavenly and playful sound to be able to disappear from Gabriel's sight as soon as possible; you had no need to see him because of the various feelings he evoked in you and the memories that resurfaced after so many years.

"Mr. Fell took one of the many records that Maggie has," you commented, seeing how his expression changed to one of confusion that deep down caused a feeling of tenderness to appear in you, mainly because she had tilted her head as if a confused puppy would be treated. "Maggie is a woman who has a record store next door. I asked her for a copy so I could listen to it."

"Great, I like it," he murmured before approaching the gramophone to try to find out why nothing was heard if the device was still working. "Why doesn't it sound? Is it broken?"

Your sparkling gaze lingered on his tall, broad Gabriel's body, lingering on the breadth of his shoulders and the scoop of his back, without specifically answering his question. Those had been some of the few words that you had exchanged with him and, although you had noticed his constant need to be close to you to be able to talk or simply be in the same space as you, you were always looking for a way to get out of it, whether it was leaving the bookstore for coffee or hiding in the record store, even transforming into the little bat that your demonic form allowed you and keeping yourself out of his sight by hiding in the darkest and most remote places of the bookstore; It wasn't the best way to act, especially having an amnesiac in your care, but you didn't want to suffer more pain from being around him. Jim, or Gabriel, turned to look at you, and, again, that warm and pleasant feeling settled in his chest. He didn't know what you were doing to him with that look, but he liked it.

"It's not broken. I've just removed the sound," you said before snapping your fingers, and the soft bells that were heard from the song began to flood the room again, causing a smile full of fascination to appear on the man's lips again. "You should be sleeping, Jim."

"I couldn't sleep," he indicated, walking slowly towards the sofa that was in front of the chair you were sitting on, letting himself fall heavily on the furniture before leaning forward slightly and staring at you as if trying to figure out what you were thinking. Thanks to the light of the moon, the stars, and the street lamps, he could see your expression full of confusion and slight irritation. "Why do you avoid me so much? Mr. Fell looks after me, Mr. Anthony looks after me, but you avoid me. Why?" “

I think Crowley does anything but worry about you,” you murmured in slight confusion at his statement. You really didn't expect him to confuse something as different as care and protection from hatred and irritation.

"Why do you avoid me so much? I just want you to answer that question for me."

His tone of voice seemed to be louder and more desperate than before, surprising you for it. For a second, you almost thought that Jim was truly Gabriel, as if from one moment to the next he had completely recovered his memory, but seeing his blue eyes only made you see that he was not there; Whatever Jim was, he wasn't Gabriel.

"Because you're just like someone I knew," you began, swallowing without really believing that you were willing to confess everything to him. "He was the dumbest, most self-centered, and ruthless being he could have ever met, but deep down, he was loving, tender, and caring."

Jim stared at you while you talked about that person he reminded you so much of. The soft smile that rested on your face while you talked about that man, whom you insulted every few seconds but then flattered as if he were the most beautiful creature in the entire galaxy, caused a smile to also settle on his face. He noticed how your shoulders loosened and relaxed as you talked about him, about Gabriel, about how you had met in a place very far from London, where for minutes it seemed only you existed in the immensity of the universe, observing with fascination the stars while others around you saw your close relationship as something disastrous that no creature beyond humans could feel; You described him with so much zeal, with so much affection, that he felt jealous deep down in his heart. "And does this song remind you of him?" Jim asked as he gently tilted his head, watching as you nodded gently and stretched your long legs towards him.

"I like it a lot. I think it is ideal for you."

“Yes,” you stated softly. "Every day, it's a gettin' closer."

"Going faster than a roller coaster," he continued, following the rhythm of the song as it resonated, gently extending his legs on the carpet to touch your completely black shoe with his slipper.

« And a love like yours would surely come their way, » thought an adorable fly fluttering gently above your heads.

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dyns33 · 1 year

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The Surgeon

Not proud of this one but I wanted to do one last Nigel Colbie x female reader.

Maybe he's a surgeon ?

The sentence had awakened Y/N in the middle of the night.

One of her colleagues had said this several hours ago, when the entire police station brigade had gathered to talk about the new murder attributed to the serial killer whom journalists had dubbed "The Fanatic" and who eluded the police for more than ten years.

Reports had long since established that the individual was definitely a white male, between thirty and forty, educated, socially well off, smart, and well versed in human anatomy.

There had been mortgages concerning an autodidact, a medical student or a butcher, in any case someone who had never managed to obtain the career he had always dreamed of.

But the track had quickly seemed absurd, because the psychologists who had been interested in the killer had all decreed that there was neither anger nor revenge in his crimes. They couldn't really determine what drove him to kill, there was obviously a ritual they didn't understand, and probably an impulse, but it wasn't related to frustration.

As they started over from scratch, a young policeman innocently asked why it couldn't be a surgeon. Even though it was a respectable, time-consuming job that involved a series of tests to make sure the doctor was fit for the job, if the serial killer they were looking for was really smart, he could look perfectly normal, live a trouble-free life, and find time to kill.

So maybe he was a surgeon.

The phrase echoed in Y/N's mind as she opened her eyes, before looking up at Nigel, still peacefully asleep beneath her.

Nigel Colbie, her husband, a thirty-five-year-old white man, surgeon, the best in his school, coming from a wealthy family, his parents having tragically died in a boating accident and their bodies never having been found. Her husband, calm, charming, normal, except perhaps his passion for the history of the Templars and the religious rites of ancient civilizations.

They had met when Y/N had just gotten her police constable badge and Nigel was still a surgical intern. A totally unexpected encounter, on a bus, because Nigel's car was broken and Y/N didn't feel like walking to work when it was raining.

Sitting side by side, she had liked that he was reading a collection of poetry and he had found the music she was listening quite pleasant. They had talked the whole way, very unhappy when it was time to part ways.

It was Nigel who had asked her for her number. It was also Nigel who had called her first to ask if she wanted to have dinner with him. Two years later, it was he who proposed to her.

Everything had always gone perfectly between them. Normal, since Nigel was perfect. The best at his job, the best husband, the best lover. Despite all the work he had, he found time to cook for her, he was there to massage her feet asking her how her day had gone and he told her all the time that he was proud of his inspector-wife.

The only thing that might have seemed strange was the few details he gave about his past. About his parents' accident, which he spoke about without the slightest sign of sadness. There had been suspicious deaths at his school, but that didn't seem to bother him. The fact that his best friend was accused of these murders, before disappearing.

"I don't know what to tell you." Nigel replied when she asked him about it. "What happened to my parents is tragic but there is nothing I can do about it. I did not know the two students who died, and regarding Jack, even though I considered him a brother, I cannot condone what he did, so I'd rather forget about him."

"Jack ? I read in the report that his name was Alex."

"That was his nickname. My dear Jack, totally mad and clueless. But let's stop talking about him. You didn't tell me if you caught any bad guys today."

"There was another murder. The Fanatic, obviously. The victim suffered a lot... Yet it could not be seen at all on his face, he looked peaceful. The killer placed the body as a work of art, it was as beautiful as it was disturbing. Of course, no fingerprint, no witness, nothing. We will never catch him."

"Don't say that." purred her husband, kissing her. "You're the best. If anyone can catch him, it's you. Even though you sometimes seem to admire him a lot. Maybe you can't catch him because you don't really want to."

Trembling, moving slowly so as not to wake him, Y/N slipped out of bed into the kitchen, where she drank some water before splashing water on her face to try to calm herself down.

It might have been nothing. A coincidence. Her tired and wary mind. But if his parents had not had an accident. If Alex Forbes hadn't killed those two students and run away. If in addition to finding time for her, Nigel had time to walk around, meet people he didn't know, and whom he quietly killed before returning home or going to work.

He asked a lot of questions about the Fanatic case, especially since Y/N had been put on the investigation, so he knew absolutely everything the police knew. Meaning that they didn't know anything.

Besides this curiosity, Nigel seemed happy when Y/N complimented the killer. They weren't exactly compliments, but she admitted that he was gifted, very intelligent, and that there was something artistic about these murders. If it hadn't been for the murders, she might have considered him an artist.

And now she was in her kitchen, at two in the morning, wondering if she had married a serial killer. No, it was madness, a nightmare, a ridiculous idea. But then why was she staring at Nigel's phone so insistently ? Why did she text one of her co-workers asking him to check her husband's schedule and whereabouts ?

There was nothing to check. She wouldn't find anything, because there was nothing to find, because Nigel was innocent.

However, since he was innocent, there was no reason for her to be afraid to look.

"My love ?" a voice asked behind her, startling her slightly.

"I woke you up ? Excuse me."

"No, but I sensed that you weren't with me anymore. Someone called ? A case ?"

"Just a nightmare."

"My poor darling." Nigel sighed as he took her in his arms, kissing her forehead. "Come back to bed, you must be exhausted."

Y/N followed him, lay down against him again, her ear against his heart and she didn't sleep until the next day.

It was impossible to explain to her colleagues why she wanted information about her husband. When they asked her if she thought he was cheating on her, she replied that it was something like that. If she said she thought he was the Fanatic, either they'd think she'd lost her mind, or they'd go and arrest Nigel, when there was still a good chance he hadn't done anything.

It was better if she checked on her own first.

For several weeks she studied the times he had been in the hospital, with witnesses, with her, and the times when it was impossible to know what he had done.

And she had the unpleasant surprise to discover that each time there was a slight gap in his schedule, it left him enough time to kill one of the victims.

But that wasn't really proof. It could only be a coincidence. Because for the rest, there was nothing. No connection between him and the victims. No clues to the crime scene, the bodies, or their home.

Y/N wanted to believe that she was totally wrong. Because she loved Nigel, her Nigel, the best husband in the world who made her terribly happy. But her instinct was telling her to keep looking.

So she continued to track his actions, tapping his phone and being suspicious of everything.

Until the evening when he woke her up with a tender kiss, apologizing because there had been a road accident and he had to go to the hospital quickly.

After a quick check, no accident to report. No surgery scheduled for Doctor Colbie that night. Y/N therefore decided to follow him, tracking his car, in which she had placed a beacon, in case he turned off his phone.

She found him in a small cabin in the middle of the woods.

Slowly, she entered, discovering her husband who was cutting a man, while talking alone. Or rather talking to a skull.

"See, Jack ? It's really not complicated. You could have done it very easily if you had made an effort, but I was wrong about you. You were not the right one. I think I found my Malaclea, but she's not ready yet. I won't make the same mistakes as with you, I'm not going to rush. She understands my art, I see the admiration in her eyes, something that wasn't in yours, or that you were ashamed of. She just has to understand that it's not bad, and then nothing can stop us."

"Hands behind your head."

"... My love ?" he whispered without looking back.

"Nigel, put your hands behind your head." Y/N sighed, pointing her gun at him. "Please."

He first put down his scalpel before obeying her and turning to her. Nigel didn't seem angry. On the contrary, he was smiling, as if he were really proud of her.

"I knew you would find me. You don't know how long I've been waiting for this moment."

"You wanted me to arrest you ? It might help you in front of the judge. Besides the fact that you're talking to a skull."

"Jack hears me, even though he can't answer. We're linked in death. I was hoping we'd be linked in life too, but he disappointed me, he wasn't like I imagined. It saddened me so much that I wanted to die, but he didn't even have the courage to shoot me, so I took care of him, before resuming my journey, alone. I had always been alone and after him I thought I'd never find anyone else. Then I met you, my love. And I knew it would be you."

"Turn around so I can handcuff you."

"Think of how much we can accomplish together." he continued while still obeying her, letting her tie his hands without resisting. "It would be magnificent and no one could ever suspect us."

"Please shut up."

"I know you won't disappoint me, not like him. My heart, my sweet, sweet heart. In the end, I was only killing for you. To see your bright expression when you told me about the case. Do you remember when you asked me about the Templars, because you were wondering if one of the rites had something to do with them ? I thought you had guessed, that I was going to be able to tell you everything. But no, you had seen the design, not the designer. Not yet. But we're finally there !"

He looked so happy, so calm, like the whole situation was normal, that he hadn't just killed someone, that he wasn't talking with a skull, and that Y/N wasn't sobbing, realizing that her beloved husband was mad.

A cry a little louder than the others seemed to wake him up. Nigel was suddenly sad, asking her why she was crying, approaching as if he didn't see the gun, to kiss her like he did whenever his wife was sad.

Y/N let him, too confused to react, and remembering all the good times they had spent together. A hand on her cheek, and another on the hand that held her weapon brings her back to realization.

"Hush." Nigel muttered, taking the gun, hugging her. "It's okay, love. I know you're a bit lost. It's normal. But I'm going to help you. Come, you'll see, it's simple and wonderful. Jack never got it."

Too scared to refuse, Y/N watched him put the gun in his back pocket, before retrieving the scalpel, which he placed in her hand, before positioning it in front of the corpse. Slowly but firmly, he guided her to open the chest.

Y/N didn't want to look, and at the same time she was fascinated, as Nigel placed his hands in the opening, rummaging inside before pulling out the heart.

"Normally I do this well, taking the time. But I'm too excited tonight. Look, Y/N, my maraclea. Here is a heart for you, as an offering. A heart that we took together, symbol of our eternal love .Oh, you don't know how happy I am right now !"

He kissed her again, still holding the heart. Y/N let him, while twirling the scalpel between her fingers, considering the options available to her. Kill him and hide his body to avoid scandal. Hurt him and take him to the police station. Follow him in his delirium and continue to live with the man she loved, even if he was sick and he was going to want them to kill together.

A glance at the skull reminded her of the existence of Jack, Axel Forbes, whom Nigel had loved, and who had disappointed him, and whose remained were now on this table. If she didn't make the right decision, she might join him.

So Nigel continued to kiss her, whispering that he loved her, and Y/N continued to play with the scalpel, praying that the last option was that this was all just a bad dream, and that her husband was just an innocent surgeon who was sleeping peacefully next to her and who would laugh when she told him about this nightmare.

#like minds #murderous intent #nigel colbie #nigel colbie x reader #nigel colbie fanfiction #nigel colbie imagine

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crabtreee · 1 month

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I am deeply disappointed that Watts wasn't even mention in either of the last two episodes, and Mrs Hart had barely any involvement. It truly felt as if the writers forgot about them. Overall this season finale felt very directionless to me. It's only saving grace is that it does seem like it was setting up for another season

nonnie I feel your pain and sadness as well.

Going in I had negative expectations for the finale it’s been seasonsss since we’ve had a good season finale / season premiere. PM really strives for these intense plot lines and cliff hangers but forget the key to the show — the MYSTERY!

Also disappointed not to see my boy watts & hart in the episodes. I will give PM a minor thumbs-up however for not including 78 different plot lines with different characters in the finale for once.

I will have to contradict you about setting up for next season I do think they’ve put in some subtle plots to carry through next season, like the “blank hand” vibe with Constable Tuckers black mailing / working with the enemy plot. But it’s definitely not a true cliffhanger ending like usual.

Heartbreaking to see Julia & William split- still not fully sure why William couldn’t go with Julia to London. Like imo a much better finale (maybe even series finale) would be having Julia & William start their new lives together in London, having Brackenreid be Chief Constable and having Crabtree & Watts take over Station House 4 as inspector & detective. I think that could wrap up the series nicely.

Anyways I’m not terribly mad at the season finale but wasn’t an interesting finale at all. I did enjoy the parallels to early show Julia x Murdoch relationship.

#ask crabtreee #nonnie #murdoch mysteries #murdoch mysteries series #that meme ‘so no head’ *smashes phone* that’s me everytime watts doesn’t appear

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askingrayla-leone · 3 months

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do you ship any inspector/constable duos

I know everyone likes the Inspector x Reggie but honestly I prefer the platonic nature. Just something about this lonely lonely man NEEDING his friends that just gets me

#nbc community #gimmick blog #greendale or whatever #inspector spacetime #sucker for 11 #ooc: actually love doctor who to bits #ooc; latest seasons fell off though

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ren-and-co · 3 months

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BTD Mystery Room AU: DC Oleander's Little Secret

Summary of the AU: Despite his protest, Lawrence Oleander became a newly promoted detective constable. He loathed the promotion because he was comfortable being an officer and had much spare time to visit many flower shops during his patrol. He was assigned to be an assistant to an infamously feared inspector in the whole unit, with near-perfect records of catching the culprits, and many assistants kept asking to be moved out due to the harsh working conditions. And when Lawrence entered his new office, he was met with a pair of fox ears peeking out of the table, a voice grumbling about where he had put his case file, and a fluffy tail gently waving towards him. That's how he found out his boss is a childish, short fox beastkin with a knack for misplacing his things and the alter he has due to his CDD. [This AU is mainly Lawrence x Ren]

Ren is a very observant man despite his hyperactive nature.

Ever since he had Detective Constable Oleander—or as he often called him, “Law”—as his assistant to help with his overspilling case problem, his eyes always watched the taller man’s habit during all their constant visits to multiple crime scenes. Something that made his eyes glistening in the dark, full of amazement.

The first thing that Law always does during their investigation is to go straight to the place where the corpse was found, stare at the body for a couple of minutes, put his hands together, and quietly mutter words while closing his eyes before ending the routine with a slight nod towards the corpse and continuing the investigation.

Fox deduced it was just a tiny prayer to respect the dead, but Ren wanted to know the truth straight from the assistant’s mouth.

So here he was, doing paperwork related to his last case quietly in his office, with orange eyes sometimes wandering to the taller man across him, also filling up reports for The Commissioner on his desk.

You have the chance, kid. Ren could feel Fox’s voice on his head, prompting him to put down the pen and entirely focus on the conversation inside his mind.

C’mon, he’s busy, Fox! His gaze is now positioned directly towards Lawrence. Look at him, hunching his back like a giraffe trying to fit into this room. Tall and cute, and I would hug him—

Fox let out a gagging noise. God, you have a crush on him.

Wha— no!! No, I am NOT!!!

Look at your face right now, kiddo. Ren could feel his face internally gripped by Fox and was forced to look at the version of his older alter. Flush across your face, slight cold sweat, hands fidgeting absentmindedly, pupils dilating, and— Fox jabbed his knees lightly, but somehow it’s making him lose balance. —wobbly, weak knees. I’m 92,7% sure you’re lovesick.

The migraine slowly set in the more he’s trying to argue, making the current fronter groan in discomfort, breathing getting shallower. He blinked a couple of times and slowly counted to ten internally.

This is why he doesn’t like focusing too much on the innerworld of his mind; it’d make him feel terrible physically.

“Ren?” His fox ears perked up, picking up his assistant's familiar, gentle voice. Right before him, Law stared at him, bright blue eyes seemingly glowing under the shadow cast by the sunlight against his back. The other tilted his head slightly, leaning forward, tips of their noses almost touching. “Are you alright? Did something happen?”

Ren could feel his face heating up, but he was trying to ignore the bubbling euphoria in his chest and more of Fox’s pestering inside his mind. “Sorry, just been thinking hard.” He let out a small laugh, grinning as per usual. “Actually, I wanna ask ya somethin’, Law.”

“Hm?” One of his eyebrows raised.

“I’ve been wondering about your…” Prayer? Routine? “...habit, with the victims of our cases.” He still remembered the first time he saw how the other did his thing.

The lack of light in his eyes, devoid of any life. Yet he still chanted those words like an ancient magic spell.

Law straightened up his back, the corner of his lips tugging upwards slowly. “My mother.” He inhaled. “Most of my family members work in the medical background. My mother is a heart surgeon, and both of my older sisters are nurses in a local community hospital.” The memories of the inspector’s hospital days rushed over him, and he couldn’t help but brush his thumb over his wrist, tracing the faded scars staining his tanned skin. “My family used to pray for the ones who didn’t make it to the emergency room or those who succumbed to their illnesses. A prayer to let the souls be in peace.”

(Ren couldn’t imagine Lawrence in a doctor’s coat nor a medical scrub worn by nurses and doctors alike. The man was so obsessed with death that he’d probably be waiting for multiple people to die patiently, in Ren’s honest opinion.)

Something was lacking in the statement, and Ren could feel Fox nudged him aside to give him room to front together. “Your father, Oleander?” It was Fox’s turn to ask now. Fingers carded his hair backwards, pushing away Ren’s signature messy bangs. A sign of the appearance of another alter.

The smile on Law’s face faded, and the lifeless eyes came staring back into his soul. “In jail. Attempted murder on drowning his son.”He growled, hands quickly grabbing the more petite figure’s shoulders, making him yelp in pain. His grip was like something a machine would produce; hard and wouldn’t be able to come off no matter how hard he tried to pry himself off.

“When I was little, I never believed in those prayers. I was so foolish at that time. Those prayers sounded like a nuisance.” The grip tightened, and Ren was sure it’d leave some awful bruise. “I was foolish. My father showed me the truth behind those prayers. He threw me off the boat in the middle of the lake and prayed to The River. I’ve seen The River, Ren. They are real. It almost carried me away to the other side. But it didn’t carry me to the light, Ren. It made me stay in the darkness—.”

The beastkin couldn’t catch the rest of the frantic mumbles without ignoring the evergrowing pain. The River? Is that the name of a place? A symbol of the afterlife? He couldn’t care less as he could feel the panic bubbling up his chest violently and ready to spill out.

Dangerdangerdangerdangerhelphelphelp—

I’ll handle this. Stay back and rest.

Then, the last thing he saw was the flickering light of life in the eyes of his assistant before the darkness set in, and someone took his position fully.

It was Fox’s time to come in full force, baring his fangs and snarling aloud. “DETECTIVE CONSTABLE OLEANDER, UNHAND ME AT ONCE, OR I’LL RIP OFF YOUR LIMBS AND EAT YOUR HEART!!!”

As soon as Lawrence loosened his grip, the beastkin pushed him away as far as he could and sat back down, cold gaze and fangs baring, and low growls emanated. His tail looked a lot puffier, an attempt to look large, compensating for his smaller stature.

A form of intimidation, the nature of many carnivorous beastkins.

The light of life finally came back to Lawrence, slowly processing what just happened in a short time. Fox couldn’t help but huff in relief. “Finally, you’re getting your senses back.” His lips pressed together tightly to form a slight grimace. “I thought something possessed you, and I almost tore your throat apart right there.”

“I…” Lawrence was about to speak but then averted his eyes. His body hunched forward, staring down at the ground. “I’m sorry, Inspector Hana…” He croaked, voice cracked. The way he folded his arms, fingers rubbing both of his elbows. It felt like he was smaller than what he usually looked like.

His assistant now looked like a wounded doe, silently waiting for death to arrive.

Very contrasting to him minutes ago. A raging buck that was about to stab him with his antlers.

Fox couldn’t stay angry for long. Despite his violent outbursts, this man is still a valuable department member. He is a fast learner, aware of his surroundings, and has good instincts and critical thinking skills under pressure. If he let this man go, he wouldn’t get the same mindpower no matter how many future assistants the Mystery Room gets.

“It’s alright.” He tried to raise his arm to hold the other’s hand, but the sharp pain on his shoulder made him wince. He almost forgot about the marks from the iron grip this beast had. “Get me an icepack. It should be in the breakroom’s fridge.”

The taller man quickly rushed outside for some moments before returning with the mentioned item, wrapped in a thin towel. It was a considerate small gesture that the inspector appreciated the most.

“May I…?” Lawrence gestured the towel bundle towards the shoulder, and Fox nodded, letting his assistant press the cold pack onto one of his shoulders, biting his lip to hold back the pained noises. He could even see the reddish handprint marks peeking from under his short-sleeved shirt and grimaced once more.

Silence finally settled in comfortably between the two of them. Only their breathing could be heard. Occasionally, small gasps escaped from the beastkin’s lips, holding back the pain of the bruise being pressed a bit too hard for his liking.

A beastkin often follows their instincts, even when the human side suppresses the beast’s nature. And Fox couldn’t help but lean closer to the taller man, gently sniffing his skin and inhaling the natural scent. Many humans don’t realise that most of their scents carry distinct aromas other than the stink of sweat, and Ren uses this knowledge to solve crimes that even the homicide department couldn’t solve.

Fox could detect whiffs of wet soil and grass, rotten wood, and burnt pinewood tar. Something you would smell during a camping trip in the middle of a mountainside. Hints of the smell of rain and rotting flesh started to appear the longer he sniffed the other, now scrunching his nose and leaning away.

“You stink.” No clarification of the scent, just him being blunt about it while not oversharing the information. “You showered every morning, I’m sure. You should invest in essential oils dabbed in your uniform if you hate those artificially mass-produced men's body sprays.”

“How do you-”

“Your hair is always slightly damp whenever you come into the office. I can smell soap from it, but none of the other scents, unlike many shampoos from convenience stores or body shops.” Lawrence slowly carded his hair, eyes widened, and now leaning closer towards his face. “And when the Commissioner visits the office, you always put up a good distance between you and him with a scrunching-up nose and holding a finger under it, possibly to block out the overwhelming smell from that bastard’s cologne. You would do the same thing whenever anyone with a strong perfume smell comes into our office— hey, you’re too close, Oleander.”

His response only got a small sheepish grin from the other. “Sorry, you sound very alive whenever you’re deducing.”

Fox narrowed his eyes, ignoring his own slightly heated face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I can hear it. The unwavering confidence in every sentence of yours.” Lawrence moved his hand from his hair to cup Fox’s face gently. “Not skipping a beat, nor stuttering. Ren did all of his analysis without any doubts. He’s a warm figure, like a sunshine in a field of sunflowers.”

A light slap is enough to swat away the hand from the beastkin’s now reddened face. “Stop seducing me, Detective Constable Oleander.” He sneered, pushing out the other’s face with his palm. “Unless you’re gonna tell me about the prayer, go fuck yourself.”

“I will when you’re nearing your deathbed, Inspector.”

“Is that your way of telling me you don’t want to tell me?”

The small, knowing smile from the assistant answered his question.

#btd #btd au #btd2 ren #ren hana #btd lawrence #lawrence oleander #tpof fox #minors dni #Yeah the ending is rushed I was stumped for DAYS

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