#fascinated by the way charles is putting his bracelets on without looking

[yrsonpurpose]

CHARLES LECLERC & ALEX ALBON Sprint Shootout // US GP 2023

[young-dumb-and-vaccinated]

Cult Girl: Doctorate (Hannibal x Female!Reader) pt. 2

Oils

Cult girl socializes at the opera and receives an unexpected call. 

Note: I tagged this as “anti mlm” as in multi-level marketing and not men-loving-men. 

Trigger warnings: Discussions of cults and emotional manipulation

It wasn't until after the opera was over that people began to notice you may have had a little fun during intermission. Hannibal's hair wasn't in its usual perfect side part and his jacket was slightly wrinkled in places. You could cover most of his love bites with your stole, but nothing could hide that post-orgasm glow.

Most opera-goers stayed to socialize for hours after the show concluded, making an already long night even longer. It was like clubbing, but for rich old people.

"So you're the future Mrs. Hannibal Lecter?" A woman with silvery hair said. She dragged her husband into the conversation by the arm. "I've heard so much about you."

You were about to say something witty, but noticed the way she was looking at you. Scanning you up and down. Looking for anything out of place to grill you about.

"Only good things, I hope." Hannibal said in your silence. His voice was vaguely threatening. "She is a doctoral student, in her second year of her graduate studies in clinical psychology."

The husband, who, up to this point, hadn't spoken a word, perked up. "Is that right?"

You smiled, excited for the chance to talk about your passion. "Yes sir. I've still got quite a ways to go, but I love my work."

"You should be proud." The man praised, looking at Hannibal. "You've got yourself an ambitious wife."

"Oh, we're not married yet." You corrected.

"So when can we expect an invitation?" The woman asked.

"Six months from now, isn't it?" Hannibal answered. "Memorial day weekend. Then I'm taking her to Italy for a lengthy honeymoon."

The woman threw her head back and sighed. "That sounds heavenly."

"You young modern girls are always so intuitive." The man commented. "I'll bet you tricked him into marrying you."

You wanted to call this guy out for his sexist bullshit, but he wasn't far off. It was Hannibal who tricked you, though.

Technically, he proposed to you within the first six months. You just didn't know it. It took until shockingly recently to find out.

It was during a ballroom dancing lesson of all places. You were sweaty, but loved the feeling of your lover's hands gently guiding your movements. You stepped away from the lesson to get some water, and innocently asked when he would propose to you.

"I believe I already did." He said with enough conviction to blur the lines of seriousness and sarcasm.

"You pretended to." You corrected. "Remember? We were just pretending to be engaged for Anna's wedding."

"But it didn't end after the wedding, did it?" He observed. "You kept calling me your fiancé long after that weekend passed."

You paused, then threw your head back in exasperation. "Oh my god, Hannibal."

Hannibal laughed. "I told you. Someday it won't be a lie."

"You're a piece of shit, you know that?" You pressed your fingers to your temples. "So we've been engaged this whole time?"

"What can I say?" He said, gently. "I knew you were my one and only even then. It was just a matter of circumventing your inhibitions."

"I'm not complaining." You folded your arms. "But a little notice would have been nice."

"Well, if you insist." He laced his fingers between his own. "[F/N] [L/N]. Will you be my wife?"

Even though the question was truly just a formality, you were still as giddy as a schoolgirl to hear those words.

"Yes, Hannibal Lecter." You said, cheeks stinging from smiling so hard. "I will marry you."

Then you just went back to the dance lesson like nothing happened. It was shockingly in-character for both of you.

"No." You shook your head. "We killed someone together and took a blood oath to never separate."

The couple laughed. Hannibal looked down at you with pride.

“So [F/N].” The man said. “Have you given any thought to your doctoral dissertation?” 

“Oh, Charles.” The woman rolled her eyes. “I’m sure she didn’t come here to be grilled about her studies.” 

“No, it’s okay.” You smiled. As long as you were talking about school, you weren’t being interrogated about the thirty-year age gap between you and Hannibal. “I have been thinking about my dissertation. There are plenty of fascinating topics to choose from, but I can’t not write it about, well, the reason I began to study psychology in the first place.” 

“And that is?” The man raised an eyebrow.

“Cults.” You said, grinning ear to ear. “Understanding them, their leaders, their followers, why people join them. How they evolve and grow more insidious as time passes. What form they’re starting to take in the digital age.” 

“That is interesting.” The woman’s voice rose, connoting genuine engagement. “And what form are they taking in the digital age?” 

You looked up at Hannibal, as if to ask for permission. Permission to rip into her and burn that bridge for good. He answered in the affirmative. 

“Ma’am, could I take a look at your bracelet?” You asked, already knowing exactly what she would say. 

Her face lit up. “Oh, do you like it?”

She pulled it off her wrist and handed it to you. You brought it to your nose and took a whiff, confirming your theory. Then you handed it off to Hannibal, whose sense of smell was much more refined. He took one breath, then recoiled. 

Hannibal covered his mouth and nose with his hand and coughed. “That is... quite strong, Mrs. DeMarco.” 

“It’s Affirm, by doTERRA.” She revealed, her voice growing defensive. “It helps you ground yourself and remember your worth.” 

You handed the bracelet back to her. “Do you sell doTERRA, Mrs. DeMarco?” 

“Well, now that you mention it...” A small smile appeared on her lips. “Why? Would you like to buy some?” 

“I hate to be the one to tell you this, ma’am, but...” You lied. “You’re actually in a cult.” 

She had nothing to say to that. She just stared at you with her mouth agape, urging you to explain yourself. 

“Multilevel marketing companies employ a host of cult manipulation tactics to con people out of their savings.” You explained. “Just because the promise is financial independence instead of a spot in paradise, doesn’t mean it’s not a lie. Research conducted by the Federal Trade Commission shows that the vast majority of participants actually lose money. The statistics are just a google search away, yet thousands of people still insist on the legitimacy of the companies they sell for.” 

“Well, I-” She protested, but couldn’t find the words to defend herself. “I’m there for the community, really. For the first time in years, I have a sisterhood of like-minded women who love me!” 

You smiled through a cringe. “That’s another pretty common cult manipulation tactic. They appropriate familial language to make people feel more connected to the group than they really should be.” 

Although you didn’t expect her to, she looked to be genuinely considering it. 

“Next time you see your ‘sisters’,” You began. “Pay attention to how they talk about people who are not in the group. Or, better yet, tell them that you’re considering leaving. You’ll see how conditional their love is.” 

An awkward, deafening silence followed. The woman looked at her husband, as if willing him to do something. To stand up to the evil twenty-something grad student who had the audacity to cite her sources. 

Instead, the husband just burst out in riotous laughter. 

“Miriam!” He nearly shouted, heaving like he was about to collapse. “I told you that oil business was up to no good! No honest company makes their employees pay to work!” 

The woman’s face turned red. You almost felt bad for her. The feeling vanished when the man put his hand on your shoulder. 

“Seriously, Dr. Lecter, you’d better keep this one.” He said, wiping a tear from his eye. “She’s an absolute godsend.” 

“No divine intervention was involved whatsoever, Dr. DeMarco.” Hannibal smiled to himself and brought a glass of champagne to his lips. “She is a woman of her own making."

"Oh, we all know that's not entirely true." The woman snapped, slipping into passive-aggression. She glanced at Hannibal. "How much are you spending on this mouthy little know-it-all? Isn't it about $80k a year?"

You, of course, brought this on yourself. You threw down the gauntlet by going after this girlboss's side hustle, so now nothing was off-limits.

"I wouldn't worry about that, Mrs. DeMarco." Hannibal said, calmly. "My soon-to-be wife's education is a much better investment than that overpriced napalm you wear on your wrist."

You couldn't help but laugh at that. It was a laugh you shared with the man. Hannibal looked down at you, admiring how your face lit up.

"You'll forgive my wife's rudeness." The man requested. "Please, Ms. [F/N], tell me more about your dissertation."

"Well," you laced your fingers together. "I'm planning to write my dissertation on the cult of academic elitism."

"I would tread lightly, dear." The woman warned, eyes darting to Hannibal. "You wouldn't want to bite the hand that feeds you."

You adjusted your stole, giving them a quick glance at the love bites along your neck.

"I assure you." You said. "He quite likes it when I bite."

Your clutch started to aggressively, audibly vibrate. You could have sworn you'd put your phone on silent, but it buzzed nonetheless.

"Probably just, y'know-" you stuttered, embarrassed. "An amber alert or something."

"We are expecting a snowstorm, I believe. I was warned of it a few minutes ago." Hannibal said, always ready to cover your ass whenever needed. The couple nodded along in understanding.

You pulled your phone from your clutch. Your eyes widened and your face turned sickly pale at the sight of a caller you thought you’d never hear from again. Without thinking, you slid the deny icon across the screen. 

“Right.” You said, tucking your phone and your secrets back into the clutch. “Winter Storm... Theresa is headed this way.” 

Hannibal cleared his throat. “In that case, [F/N] and I must take our leave before we get snowed in. It was very nice catching up with you. I will see to it that [F/N] and I have you for dinner very soon.” 

[statticscribbles]

Babysitting

Summary: With Kurt being able to use his powers from such a young age; babysitting is a nightmare

Mystique isn’t sure why she decided to stay with the brotherhood once she’d found out; but she’s relieved she did. Erik had been supportive offering to help anyway he could; to make up for Azazel seeming to have no interest in the fact he was going to be a father. Of course that had only marginally changed when his son; Kurt had managed to stab his arm with his tail and then teleport back to Mystique’s arms to avoid his wrath. Erik, overjoyed to have another mutant join the ranks reluctantly agrees; against his own judgment that they might need to find somewhere to shelter. Erik, and everyone else who’s come in contact with his opposition can only think of one obnoxiously massive place where they all can stay.

Which is how Charles finds himself suddenly dealing with Erik nervously standing in the hallway surrounded by the members of the brotherhood, the same ones from the beach in Cuba; plus a few other faces. Mystique looks unimpressed as she makes food; Kurt is currently asleep in Azazel’s arms and Charles just turns to Erik. “So you want protection?” “No, just a place to sleep; to stay until Kurt can safely be moved.” Azazel states. “He’s welcome to stay here; you all are; I just ask you don’t harm humans while you’re here; it would reflect badly on the school I’m trying to create.” “School?” “A sanctuary for mutants; somewhere they can exist without prejudice.” Hank interjects and Mystique smiles at him before he offers to show the others to their rooms.

They settle into some stance of normalcy; Hank who helps Charles with his rehab also becomes the go to doctor when Kurt has issues; which usually amount to Hank spending an hour trying to secure some sort of sock or mitten over the sharp point of his tail. Once it had been putting a bandaid over a scraped arm when he’d tried to teleport halfway out of the bath but had just skidded on the carpet instead of giving himself a concrete destination. Hank is relieved Kurt hasn’t managed to stick himself halfway through something and as much as he wants to see what would happen he decides it can wait until Kurt is at least better at teleportation in general. Kurt is fascinated with his tail; which provides relief for the household as Kurt can spend hours waving his tail in his own face and screeching with laughter. Nobody says anything when they catch someone ensnared in Kurt’s glee, usually he ends up with at least two others watching him; amused by how transfixed his own tail makes him.

Mystique is the one that goes out the most often; she can become someone who can safely get groceries and information is equal measure. Azazeal leaves almost two months in on some ‘business trip’ and nobody comments on it beyond a faint good riddance from Hank. Her going out means that Kurt needs to be babysat and while Hank has no problems Mystique doesn’t like bothering him when he’s trying to help Charles figure out the logistics of the school and also his rehab.

Since Charles has his rehab at least every other day and the other members of the brotherhood are newer Erik finds himself taking on the responsibility. It’s not much of a responsibility; besides the occasional panic filled game of hide and seek Kurt seems content to sleep most of the time or continue to hypnotize himself with his tail.

Erik enjoys the rush his powers give him, Kurt seems to enjoy the floating beads of metal as much as he does his tail so Erik counts it as allowed to use Kurt to test the control he has over his powers. He catches Charles watching him more often than not but neither of them say anything. Erik makes each of the brotherhood members bracelets; giving them the options to wear them; a way for them to remain in contact with each other, for him to know where they are. He tries to make shapes or items they like; a pair of wings for Angel is the easiest one to fashion.

Erik makes a point to complain about extra material when he makes one for Hank and Charles, Hank’s feature little beakers and test tubes; something Mystique had suggested as a joke; he told Hank when he gave it to him and Hank hasn’t taken it off since; it probably helps that Kurt loves the jingling sound all the beakers make when he moves his arm. He doesn’t allow himself to dwell on the fact he took three attempts to make one for Charles; that he took almost an hour refining and crafting the chess pieces that he’d melded to the bracelet. He’d also makes a matching one for himself that he keeps hidden under his shirt sleeves.

As Charles grows stronger and the Brotherhood grow restless Mystique makes the suggestion for them to begin thoughts of moving on. Both she and Erik seem more somber but they all agree it’s for the best and Charles and Hank make sure they’re both well supplied before they leave assuring them that any of the brotherhood will be welcomed back if they need to stay.

Charles refused to take the bracelet off but he’ll unhook the chess piece and use it as the opposition’s king piece to remind him of his friend. He’s playing against himself because he knows Hank doesn’t care for chess as much as he lets on; and with Erik gone it doesn’t feel right to have anyone in his chair; the other chair Charles corrects himself confused when he hears a faint BAMF and a close brush of a familiar warm mind.

“Erik?” Charles turns from the chess game surprised to see Erik standing looking unimpressed to be there with Kurt in his arms grinning. “He missed you.” “Just him?” Charles grins and Erik looks exasperated. “I’m not the one with influence over people’s minds now am I?” “You’re not, it’s good to see you.” “We’ve been gone for only five months Charles.”

“Yes; and look how much Kurt has grown; he’s able to transport you; unharmed; both of you. He’s very strong.” “Stubborn is the word I’d use.” Erik steps forward as Kurt reaches out squealing and tail thrashing. Charles nods reaching for Kurt as he turns from his current game. “Enjoying playing yourself?” “Yes.” Charles answers trying to reach for the king piece that’s usually on his wrist. “Do you want to finish yourself off or should I do it for you?” Erik grins as he sits down not waiting for a response as Kurt is happily sitting in Charles’ lap. “Are you going to help me win?” Charles mumbles and Kurt giggles picking one of the discarded pawns to chew on.

The game continues on and both of them are focused on their upcoming moves. Kurt has fallen asleep, unconcerned with the battle raging in front of him. Charles can see an opening and he takes it, enjoying the challenge of Erik not backing down from the tight spot he’s stuck him with. Charles is a little more than shocked to find Erik managing to come back from the spot he’d been trapped in. The shock morphs into embarrassment when Erik moves the king simply by hovering the piece over the board. “It’s nice to see you missed me. Do you play yourself often?” “Only when I have the time. The school is keeping me busy.”

“You plan to keep mutants together in one place, to contain them?” Erik’s voice is bitter like all the other times Charles had tried to talk to him about the school. “No it is optional; a safe space; this is why I want you here, with me; to reassure everyone; but mostly yourself. I don’t want to harm you my friend.” “You’d sooner harm yourself by creating this place. While I do like the idea of mutants together; of one side; I can’t imagine those against us would see this;” He waves his hand up towards the rest of the building and Charles can feel the bracelet he wears tugging his wrist.

“And think it a safe space; gathering so many mutants in one place.” “There’s no one talking about gathering everyone in one place.” “It’s optional at first; but it will come; it will.” Charles reaches across the board, making a move for the chess piece but Erik hovers it; pulling it back instead Charles grabs his hand. “It seems like you might need me here after all.” Erik grins and Charles is about to nod; slightly confused until Hank walks in, Kurt hanging off his arm. “So; Are you two going back? Or should I let Raven know her son’s been adopted by her brother?”

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[rhinkthreeways]

Manbun (angsty version)

This is a Never Met Before Au, college!rhink with a twist. 

(drug use mentioned briefly)

(note: Aspen is Rhett, he’s just changed his name because this Rhett totally would...)

---

From the first moment, Link laid eyes on his college roommate he hated the guy with a fiery passion. Everything about Aspen—who the hell named their child Aspen?!—made Link either roll his eyes or brought his blood to a simmering boil.

Link considered himself a modern man. He’d grown up in the South, yes, but he was educated and open-minded. Even though someone might consider him a bit high-strung, he’d had a nice, little group of friends in high school and had even moved to L.A. to pursue a degree in film studies. Not an intolerant red-neck hick by anyone’s standards. But Aspen was way more than he could handle. 

It was clear from the beginning, that they were different. The other side of the room was filled with all kinds of new-age stuff—crystals, amulets, dream catchers, and psychedelic tapestries. The first night they shared the room, Aspen lit a wooden stick that made the whole room smell like something that to Link was a gag-inducing mix of old socks and something sickly sweet. When Link politely asked him to put it out, his roommate refused on the grounds that he needed to “purify” the room from the energies of the previous residents. After a heated argument, Link spent his first night as a college student on the common room couch.  

Their shared existence got even worse from then on. Link had no idea what Aspen was studying since it seemed that he didn’t own any textbooks. He was practically always in their room. Link asked him once whether he attended any lectures and was accosted with a half-an-hour monologue about the beauty of independent study and self-discovery and college being first and foremost a social experience. And Aspen was definitely social; he had a group of like-minded friends he had over almost every night. They listened to music—not that Link would call it music; it was more like chest-pounding beats and incomprehensible mumbling and chants—and more often than not, got high. After a couple of what Aspen called “bursts of negative energy he could help Link get rid of if Link just let him cleanse his heart chakra”, Link invested into a nice pair of noise-canceling headphones and tried to spend most of his nights in the library or in a cafe.  

The worst part, by a long shot, was how Aspen looked. He was impossibly tall, a head taller than Link and Link wasn’t exactly a pip-squeak himself. He had bushy eyebrows and mossy-green eyes that always looked at Link with rage-inducing amusement. His long, curly hair was usually pulled on top of his head into a man bun, and he was clearly trying to grow a beard—with not that much success. And his wardrobe? When he left the room he wore tie-dyed shirts and weird loose pants made of colorful, shiny fabrics. He wrapped multiple scarfs around his neck, explaining something about color energies and mood-altering fabrics. His wrists were heavy with bands and woven bracelets and one of his ears was pierced in three places. Inside their room, he opted for something more low-key. When he didn’t parade around the room naked—those were the worst days for poor Link—he wore tight, black boxer briefs and extra-large t-shirts he’d “customized” by ripping them so that they barely covered anything. 

Everything about Aspen made Link uncomfortable. And he thought that things couldn’t get any worse. Until the day when he got back to the dorm from a sit-down with a professor about the essay he’d written. 

Link burst into the room, threw his bag on the floor, and himself on his bed, burrowing his head under his pillow. For once, Aspen was alone in the room even though it was a Friday night.  

“I’m sensing a lot of negative energy radiating from you, Charles,” Aspen noted after a couple of minutes. Link groaned.

“Leave me alone,” he mumbled, without moving the pillow.

“I simply can’t do that. You know how susceptible I am to other people’s moods.”

Link’s disappointment and embarrassment morphed into anger—an easy switch when in the presence of his nut-job roommate. 

“You know what?!” Link snapped, throwing the pillow on the floor and sitting up. “I am not responsible for your feelings! I can be upset. I can feel whatever the fuck I want to feel and it’s not my job to manage my moods to your benefit!”

Aspen rose slowly from his own bed. 

“I simply meant—” he started.

“I simply meant.” Link repeated in a mocking voice. “I know what you simply meant. Relax, Charles. Take a breath, Charles. Have a pot brownie, Charles, live a little!”

Now he was up, standing in the middle of their small room, yelling. “I don’t need to relax! I feel just fucking fine. You need to get a grip! You just lounge here all day long with your buddies and alter your mind as if nothing you do has consequences. And you think, I have to reel in my negative feelings so that you’re not inconvenienced?!”

Aspen’s eyes grew wider and wider as Link spewed out every thought that had plagued him ever since they started college.

“I’ve had enough of this shit! I am a good person! You look at me like I’m the freak! But I am a normal, goddamn person. I am respectful and punctual and dutiful and kind. And I am more than devoted to my studies! I am a fucking model student for Christ’s sake! And he said I have no soul!”

Link drew in a ragged breath and stared at Aspen in horror. He hadn’t actually meant to say that last bit.

“What?” Aspen asked hesitantly. Link’s head dropped between his shoulders and he slammed his palms over his eyes, trying desperately to push back the tears that threatened to overflow.

“H-he said— Professor McIntyre s-said my essay had no soul. That I sounded like a textbook. That I was boring and robotic. But I-I’ve— Fuck!” There was no stopping the tears anymore. A pathetic, whimpering sob wracked Link’s body and he almost felt nauseous from the embarrassment.

“Hey,” Aspen’s low voice said from much closer than Link had anticipated. Long, surprisingly strong arms wrapped around Link and guided his pliant, trembling body to sit on the bed. Link couldn’t help himself. Aspen was so warm. So big and solid. Link curled up in his arms, wrapping himself around him and cried his frustration into his ripped t-shirt. Aspen pet his hair slowly for a little while. Then he slipped his finger under Link’s chin and lifted it so he could look right into Link’s teary eyes.

“I don’t think you’re boring. Far from it. I think you’re fascinating. I think you’re smart and funny—in a kind of sarcastic way. I do think you are a bit reserved, but that’s fine. Not everyone has to be the life of the party. You’re perfect just the way you are.”

Link stared at him, stared at the kind and earnest eyes and something shifted inside him. Without thinking about it, he reached up and pressed his lips softly against Aspen’s. After a moment of pure terror, thinking that he was about to be rejected, Link felt Aspen’s mouth open slightly in invitation. Link’s tongue slipped past his own lips, tasting Aspen’s berry lip balm before meeting his tongue with a sweeping brush. There was a low moan. Link wasn’t sure which one of them had made it, but he didn’t care. His hand rose to Aspen’s hair, pulling off the hair-band that was holding his bun together. Aspen’s hair billowed around his face and Link threaded his fingers into it, tugging him closer.

“Can’t deal with this goddamn bun of yours,” he whispered breathlessly against Aspen’s lips. “It’s been driving me insane ever since we met.”

“I’ll cut it off if it means I get to keep kissing you,” Aspen answered, voice just as affected, his palm sneaking under Link’s shirt and palming his bare back.

“Please, don’t,” Link muttered, before diving into another kiss, this one more heated.

[stattic-writes]

Babysitting

https://statticscribbles.tumblr.com/post/639099629845233664/masterlist

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[holmesoverture]

The Telegraph Boy, Chapter 7

Last chapter at last!  Thanks for reading, all <3

Chapter 1 Be Here Chapter 6 Be Here

Although the case had ended happily it had awakened in me an unease which I had until then succeeded in eluding.  My relationship with Holmes no doubt differed from Lord Walmsley’s with Lord Kendall but it would take only an overheard word or an ill-timed embrace for the fate he had so narrowly escaped to ensnare the two of us.  If Holmes shared my concerns they did not express themselves in his face or his mannerisms.  As for myself, the threat of exposure pushed all other thoughts from my mind and thwarted my attempts to sleep on the train ride home.

When we returned to London, we at once delivered Lord Walmsley’s letter to Shrewsbury House.  Lady Walmsley read it quickly, then she softly smiled and promised to contact the Yard at once.  Holmes smiled as well, no doubt imagining Lestrade’s face when he was told to abandon the case.

Back at Baker Street at last, Holmes settled into his favourite chair and clapped his hands together.  “Now!  Previous experience tells me you will be wanting to know more of the particulars of this case.”

“If you are in the mood for it, and I know you are, perhaps you’d care to start with how Sally Farrier came to know of Lord Walmsley’s association with her brother?”

“Mrs Deacon provided the answer to that.  The gold bracelet Sally wore upon her return to Shrewsbury House was a gift from her brother, which he purchased with money he earned at Cleveland Street.  Naturally, she would have been quite eager to know how a poor telegraph boy could afford such jewellery.  Being close to his sister, Alfred could not hold up under such her scrutiny and told her everything, including his sighting of Lord Walmsley in the entryway.  This was the point upon which they argued at their last meeting three days before the robbery.”

“And the carriage?  When did you realise it had not been stolen?”

“I have often spoken of the wealth of information that may be gleaned from the examination of footprints, including the length of the stride, the weight placed upon each foot, and other particulars. Although Lestrade and his fellow elephants did their best to obliterate the evidence, I could see that there were two sets of older prints, one created by a man’s boots and the other by a woman’s, leading to the stables and occasionally overlapping each other. This indicated that Sally Farrier had not been alone when she made her escape.”

“That makes sense.  What of the letter Lord Walmsley left for his wife?  And what of her ring?  You said she had thrown it away.”

“I knew something had recently been written at the desk.  As I said in Gravesend, there was blotting paper in the waste paper basket, though it had been shredded into such small and numerous pieces that reconstruction was impossible.  The only thing I was unsure of was where the letter ultimately got to, but Lord Walmsley’s testimony cleared up that point.  I am sure you noted there were quite a few papers still remaining in the strong-box.  I can only hypothesise that Lady Walmsley was so overcome with panic at the prospect of a robbery that she failed to see it when first she entered the room.  Mrs Deacon remarked upon how calmly she received the news of the missing carriage.  It seems very likely that Lady Walmsley subjected the study to a second, more careful search at this juncture and found the letter, disposing of it before Mrs Deacon’s return.  

“As for the ring, that too had landed in the waste paper basket.  There, sitting among the other refuse was a balled-up handkerchief.  Although wrinkled, it was clearly too fine an item for a servant, and the letter H had been embroidered in green thread in one corner, indicating that it belonged to Lady Helen Walmsley.  Further, the handkerchief appeared to be in splendid condition without a single tear or blemish, eliminating the possibility that a defect had led to its disposal.  What other motive could lead a woman to toss away her handkerchief?  As I considered this problem, I noticed an odd indentation in the material in the shape of a half-circle.  It was rather small, about the size of a woman’s ring, which led me to conclude that she had placed a ring within her handkerchief and held it very tightly, leaving the impression of the ring upon the cloth itself.  When we passed Lady Walmsley on the stair and I saw her bare left hand, I knew the ring she had discarded was her wedding band.”

“Lord Walmsley was certainly correct about there being no love lost between them,” I said.  “In any event, I’m glad to put that sordid business behind us.  What on earth are you laughing at?”

“I beg your pardon, my dear boy,” said Holmes, still smiling broadly, “but has it slipped your mind that the establishment shrouded within 19 Cleveland Street is still in perfect working order?  Alfred Farrier very nearly brought it all down and was saved only by our discretion.  That another of Mr Hammond’s boys eventually will fumble in the company of one less sympathetic is beyond doubt.  Would you be good enough to answer the door?  Mrs Hudson has gone to the chemist’s.”

I had known of neither our imminent visitor nor of Mrs Hudson’s absence, but I went to the door nonetheless and was greeted with the sight of a lanky errand boy, his hair slightly windblown and his clothes covered in dust.  All of this was partially obscured by yet another of those damnable ferns.  Was there to be no end of them?

“Delivery for Mr Holmes,” said the errand boy.

No good would come of my raging at an innocent errand boy, so I grudgingly paid him and took the offending plant into the sitting-room.  Holmes sat a little straighter as the fern and I entered.

“Ah, good!” he said.  “I was starting to think they had forgotten me.”

“When did you find the time to purchase a houseplant?”

“Did you not wonder why we stopped at the telegraph office before leaving for Gravesend?”

“I had assumed you were contacting Lord Kendall.”

“If I had done such a thing, I should immediately thereafter have shuttered my business and become a cheap-jack.  Regardless of how implicitly Lord Walmsley trusted his lover, the latter’s suspicions would surely have been aroused due to the abrupt and unexpected nature of his visit, and any odd news reaching Lord Kendall’s ears would not be long in reaching Lord Walmsley’s.  No, the telegraph I sent was not for Lord Kendall but for Clifton Nurseries, whence came this superbly healthy specimen of the adiantum aethiopicum, the common maidenhair fern. It will look most attractive in your room, don’t you agree?”

“I am sure you have a most brilliant rationale for this rapid acquisition of a houseplant, but as I am still quite tired and am unlikely to disentangle it for myself, would you be kind enough to elucidate?”

“It is simplicity itself.  Now if ever you feel the urge to indulge your fascination for botany, you need travel no further than your own window.”

“I suppose this is your graceful way of stating that if I dare coerce you into setting foot in the National Gallery, I shall come home to find a Bellini at the door.”

“Now you deliberately try my patience.  You know I find Bellini’s work the embodiment of tedium.  I will not, however, answer for any Moronis which may happen to find their way into your room.”

-

Notes of Interest

19 Cleveland Street – In July 1889, nine months after this story takes place, telegraph boy Charles Swinscow was caught with way more money than a telegraph boy could reasonably be expected to have.  He confessed that he and several other telegraph boys were also sex workers at Charles Hammond’s brothel at 19 Cleveland Street.  Hammond fled abroad, and the boys were all fired from the post office, which doesn’t seem terribly unfair or anything.

One hundred pounds – The equivalent of a little over £11,600 ($16,990) in 2014 money

Chemist – Brit speak for pharmacist

Cheap-jack – A peddler, particularly one who sells (duh) cheap stuff