#not @ him sleeping with the sherlock holmes book

[wikitpowers]

guys i’m tired and away to go sleepies so here’s a cutie patootie, drooling ty for a good night’s sleep <3

art: @cassandrajean

[sonseulsoleil]

Ghosts don't sleep. They don't even really get tired. At least, not tired in the way sleep would fix. When Charles first dies, he attempts to sleep, but he never can manage it. No matter how many nights he tries. Eventually he gives up.

But he never gives up asking Edwin to read to him at night. Edwin's voice as he reads is warm and steady. Comforting, even. Charles may be dead at sixteen, but he isn't alone. He thinks his best chance at falling asleep is if Edwin is there to read him a bedtime story.

It's probably silly. But Edwin doesn't seem to mind.

Edwin reads him mostly detective stories at first. Sherlock Holmes, anything by Agatha Christie, Nancy Drew and The Hardy Boys, of course—which is where they get the idea for the agency in the first place. But Edwin loves books of all sorts, so it isn't long before he's branching out into other genres.

Usually it's old books. Books from before Edwin was even alive. Books Charles would've avoid reading in school. Pride and Prejudice. Frankenstein. Jane Eyre. Oliver Twist. Somehow hearing them in Edwin's voice makes them much more tolerable.

And some are fun. Treasure Island is one Charles finds himself requesting over and over again. He always liked pirates. Lord of the Rings is another favorite, although maybe Charles is just excited that Edwin finally found a book that was published after he died.

Niko introduces Edwin to much newer literature. Teen romance novels with bright covers and cutesy, wordplay titles. Edwin even reads some of the books about boys kissing boys. An adorable, pink blush creeps across his cheeks every time still, but he's getting more comfortable.

Ghosts don't sleep, or even get tired. But Charles thinks he almost gets drowsy sometimes, late at night, when their living friends are sleeping, and he is curled safely and comfortably into Edwin, listening to him read.

[loveinhawkins]

Eddie is writing new song lyrics. Dustin discovers them on a random Saturday when they’re having pizza at Steve’s; Eddie asks Dustin to get one of his old campaign notes, and Dustin reaches for the wrong journal.

“Oh, not that one,” Eddie says with a shrug, but his eyes go a little thoughtful at the sight of it in Dustin’s hands. For some reason he pauses, and then he says, “You can still read it if you want, man.”

And Dustin stares at him, certain it’s a trick, because Eddie is notorious for ensuring that any potential Hellfire spoilers are kept under lock and key. But then he opens the book and reads.

And he gets it.

The lyrics are clever, because they hide under metaphor, apocalyptic imagery and all that stuff, but it clicks when Dustin gets to a verse about a tune echoing through a mall, ‘and it’s a song you know, you’ve known it all your life,’ and he’s suddenly thrown back to when he explained how Steve worked out the location of the Russian code, and Eddie was taking it all in, eyes as round as pennies.

Dustin sets down the notebook and says, “It’s about us.” It’s not a question.

Eddie nods. “Yeah.”

“You make it sound a lot more poetic than it actually was,” Dustin says.

But Eddie doesn’t tease back, just gives a contemplative little smile and says, “Really? I don’t think so.”

And that’s as far as they get in talking about it, because Eddie suddenly glances away, and his smile changes ever so slightly, gets softer around the edges. He turns back to Dustin and mouths, Look.

Dustin does. Steve has fallen asleep, curled up in the corner of the couch. His head is just barely resting in his hand, nodding forwards precariously every so often.

Dustin hears Eddie give an almost silent tsk, which is funny; he must have picked it up from Steve. He quietly goes over and moves Steve with a gentle touch until Steve’s head is resting comfortably against the cushions.

Steve murmurs wordlessly, eyes closed, then settles back into sleep.

Eddie catches Dustin’s eye; he mimes, Shh with a wink.

And something in the back of Dustin’s mind falls into place. …Huh.

There are days when Eddie has the journal and days when he doesn’t—he cycles through notebooks constantly, most of them having been started with a specific purpose before devolving into chaotic scribbles for anything and everything.

But this one stays consistent.

And whenever he does have the journal, he lets Dustin open it to any random page and read for as long as he likes.

It doesn’t exactly take Sherlock Holmes to figure out that a verse waxing lyrical about a protective soldier finally laying down his armour and resting is about… someone in particular.

And that makes Dustin wonder whether ‘and it’s a song you know, you’ve known it all your life’ isn’t just about a mechanical horse playing Daisy, Daisy. In fact, maybe it’s not about that at all.

He doesn’t mention anything, just says that Eddie’s writing is good when he hands the journal back over. It’s hardly a major compliment, except every time, Eddie says, “Thanks,” in an almost uncertain tone Dustin’s never heard before, like just hearing that’s really touched him.

And then one day Eddie loses the journal. Dustin doesn’t realise what’s wrong at first, just knows that Eddie is agitated, rooting around in the back of the van when Dustin sidles in for a ride home after school.

Dustin sees movement outside, and he looks up to see one of the substitute teachers who’s always got a stick up her ass standing at the school entrance. She’s holding Eddie’s journal.

“Uh, Eddie?”

“What?” Eddie snaps. Then he follows where Dustin is looking. “Oh Jesus fucking Christ.”

But he doesn’t let any of his irritation show when he hops out of the van and heads for the teacher.

Dustin knows Eddie talks a good game when it comes to sticking it to authority, all I’ll flip him the bird and so on, but there’s none of that arrogance now. Dustin can’t hear what they’re saying, but he can read the body language, the teacher’s tight-lipped smile, the way Eddie has crossed an arm over his chest self-defensively; he looks suddenly very young and unsure of himself.

The confrontation ends with the teacher handing Eddie the journal—more shoving it at him, really. Eddie gives her a curt nod before he heads back to the van, slamming the door shut as he gets inside.

He throws the journal in the back, and Dustin, who has carelessly destroyed countless textbooks, somehow finds himself saying, “Watch it, dude! You’ll rip it.”

Eddie doesn’t reply. He reverses out the parking lot and makes a turning for Dustin’s house, grinding his teeth.

The silence goes on until it’s unbearable, and Dustin tentatively asks, “What did she want?”

Eddie laughs, a nasty, thoroughly unconvincing sound. “Oh, ya know. Just returning lost property. Good fucking Samaritan.”

When he gets home, Dustin finds a note from his mom, that she’s over at his aunt’s and there’s some leftover pasta in the fridge. Dustin checks, and there’s easily enough for two.

He runs outside thankfully before Eddie has gone.

“You can’t expect me to be left in the kitchen unsupervised,” Dustin says. “I might burn it down.”

Eddie snorts. “From sticking pasta in the microwave?” Then he seems to hear himself and adds, “Yeah, somehow wouldn’t put it past you, Henderson.”

So they end up eating lasagne straight out of the dish together, playfully battling for the last slice like their forks are swords.

“What did she really want?” Dustin asks eventually. He can’t help but notice that Eddie had brought the journal in with him, keeps tapping his finger on the cover uneasily.

Eddie sighs, rubs a hand down his face. He nods down at the journal. “I’d left it in a classroom that some middle schoolers use for Drama Club. Apparently there’s some concerns about the appropriateness of—”

“That’s bullshit!” Dustin says. “Why would she even—”

“Dustin,” Eddie says very quietly. He closes his eyes. “You know why.”

And Dustin does. That’s why he’s so damn angry.

Because some of the lyrics (not all, but some), are love songs. And a good number of those are unambiguously from the point of view of a boy, speaking to another boy.

Eddie sighs again, presses a thumb into the inner corner of one eye. It looks like he’s warding off a headache. Dustin knows that he isn’t.

He could say I don’t care that you’re gay, but that doesn’t sound quite right; it isn’t about not caring, it’s about…

“You know I like you, right?” Dustin says.

Eddie gives a choked little laugh. He drops his hand, opens his eyes and says, with a faint smile, “No shit? I guessed you wouldn’t share lasagne with your mortal enemy.”

“True,” Dustin concedes. He presses on. “But I meant, like…” He bats Eddie’s hand away from the journal so he can tap it instead. “Like this. It’s all a part of you, and you’re really cool, so that means—like, it’s all cool. It makes you, you. You know?”

For a long moment, Eddie just stares at him. “You said you so many times, I don’t think it’s a word anymore,” he says, but he’s blinking a lot, and Dustin sees his lips quiver. “Um. Thanks.”

He still sounds sad which absolutely will not stand. Dustin gives him a few seconds of reprieve, before he launches at him with a karate style chopping motion.

Eddie chuckles. “You little shit!”

And they tussle until, breathlessly laughing, they’re both stretched out on the couch on their backs, side-by-side.

“You should let Steve read some,” Dustin suggests.

Eddie’s laughter trails off. “Mm,” he says, non-committal.

“I mean it!” Dustin recalls a verse he’d read only a couple of days ago, one that wasn’t dressed up in symbolism.

And you want to tell him you’re enough just like this darling, you always have been

“I don’t know,” Eddie says. “So far that stuff’s had an audience of one, and I think he might be a bit,” Eddie gestures with his thumb and forefinger, “biased. Being family and all.”

Dustin smiles, feels a proud little glow in his chest. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but I’ve seen Steve hiding love poetry books. Like he underlines that shit. It’s embarrassing.”

Eddie cackles. “Well. Some of my shit’s embarrassing so…”

Dustin claps his shoulder gravely. “I mean, I wasn’t gonna be the one to say it.”

Eddie pushes him nearly right off the couch; he pulls him back before he can fall. “Oh, fuck you.”

They’re quiet for a bit, and then Dustin suggests a movie, and when he’s putting the VHS in, he catches Eddie watching him with shiny eyes.

“Hey,” Eddie says. He smiles. “I love you.”

And God, it’s so much better hearing those words like this, with Eddie in front of him, safe and whole.

And Dustin doesn’t need to rush his reply this time. He picks up the journal and passes it to Eddie, careful of the binding.

“I love you, too,” he says, and the proud glow in his chest feels even stronger. “Now get writing, Shakespeare.”

[sherlocksoft]

The Experiment pt. 2

Sherlock Holmes x reader

The Experiment pt. 1 // Masterlist

Summary: Sherlock needs something new to keep him occupied. You have the perfect answer to his problems.

Author’s notes: couldn’t resist writing part 2, which was also requested after I wrote part 1. In my Victorian dirty talk research I discovered that the term ‘blow job’ comes from the Victorian term for cum: ‘blow,’ and how could I not make the most of that information??

Warnings/content: nsfw - smut, f!reader, blow job, hand job, marriage, first times (Sherlock’s first blow job), discussion of safe word, sub!Sherlock vibes if you squint

Upon returning to 221B, you found Sherlock barely out of bed; half-dressed and dropped down onto the nearest armchair, hair mussed from sleep and face sullen.

He hadn’t had a case for over a week, and whilst at first he had taken to spending his free time gladly tending to your desires, you did need to leave the house from time to time to run errands and see to your other commitments.

It was moments such as these that the ennui really set in. Sherlock needed something to occupy him, and if he couldn't have you, he needed something new to excite him, but whatever that would be hadn't yet arrived on his doorstep.

‘Sherlock, darling, I’m home,’ you chimed carefully, not wanting to startle him out of his melancholy.

His eyes lit up for a moment before he saw that you were already busy with the books you’d collected, and he dropped back into the chair.

You were eyeing him, though, surreptitiously as you flicked through one of your new novels pretending to admire the illustrations while really you were admiring him.

‘Remember our wedding night?’ you mused, attempting to sound entirely casual.

‘Fondly,’ he sighed dreamily. If only he could feel the excitement of that night anew, the thrill of learning your exquisite body for the first time.

‘I’ve been doing some research,’ you went on, finally snapping shut your book.

'Oh?' An eyebrow raised, interest piqued.

‘There was something you mentioned that night that I read up on since I’ve been wholly unable to distract my mind away… it's something I rather fancy I’d like to try.’

Your voice had turned sultry, immediately capturing Sherlock’s attention, his head snapping up so that he could examine your current state and gather your precise intentions.

Pupils dilated, cheeks flushed, breath quickening, he thought, and at that, heat stirred in his belly, coursing to his core.

‘You told me you would like to experiment with your own orgasms.’ Shivers crept up your neck, not yet quite used to speaking in such a way in the company of a gentleman. ‘Do you remember? You wondered how it might feel to climax in my hand... or my mouth…’ your tongue advanced slowly around your parted lips rather pointedly, eyes locked on his.

‘And how do you propose we conduct this experiment?’ he panted, beginning to tremble.

‘Sherlock… I'll need to taste you.’

His heart began to race and his eyelashes fluttered, unsure where to look. Your lust for him often threw him from his place of comfort. To him, it was ever an unexpected thrill to be the object of your desire, but never an unwelcome one.

‘Where… how do I-’ he started, cheeks flushing with shame at how utterly libidinous he felt for you.

‘Lay down for me, here, on the chaise,’ you beamed, thrilled that he was ready for a new experience with you.

As he peeled himself from the little armchair to stretch his long body out, he propped himself up on a cushion so he could observe what you would do to him.

You knelt between his ankles to slide your fingers up past his knees and over his strong thighs. ‘Spread your legs a little more… that’s it,’ you encouraged as he settled into position, one foot landing firmly on the floor, grounding him. From what you'd read, you supposed he may need it.

‘I’m going to unfasten your breeches and take you in my hand first,’ you said softly as your fingers got to work on unfastening the buttons keeping him decent. ‘Only briefly, though, for this time, I would like to suck your manhood and have you spill every last drop of your blow down my throat until you’re left limp.’

Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat.

‘Remember the code word?’ you breathed, eyes growing wide with wonder, ever fascinated with his size as your fingers released his already throbbing arousal and wrapped delicately around him, pumping lazily.

Sherlock nodded quickly, eager to begin. ‘Mycroft,’ he uttered breathily, ‘if I don’t enjoy the sensation, or it becomes too much, I say it once, and you'll stop.’

‘Precisely. And if you do enjoy it?’ you smirked up at him, gripping a little more firmly as you stroked him, lips now so close to the tip of his length he could feel the warmth of your breath against it.

‘Oh-ah-mmh… then I… ah- I will cry your name… over and over until I have- mmh!- no breath left in my… oh!- body.’

‘Understood.’

Your delightfully plump, wet lips finally brushed against the flesh of his tip, parting to suckle at the precum that oozed steadily out onto your lapping tongue.

Sherlock cried out, his body jolting at the overwhelming fever that spread rapidly through his body at the heat of your mouth on him. He tried to think through it, tried to memorise the sensations, but nothing had quite come close to this when it came to his pleasure.

He'd fucked you every which way one could imagine, finding easy release in the depths of your own pleasure just by knowing that he was the one to cause it. But this, entirely focussed on his needs, was a whole other game.

He couldn't grasp any of the thoughts swirling around his pleasure-addled mind, couldn't focus on anything but how you felt, wet and warm around his root, devouring him like a starved woman presented with a delicious meal.

And a delicious meal, he was. His cock swelled within the passion of your mouth as you took him in further still, your massaging fingers at the base, compensating for what you couldn’t fit. Remembering what you’d read in that filthy little book you'd been keeping secret, you bobbed your head and hollowed your cheeks, and you sucked, gently at first but slowly building to something more intense that made it harder and harder for him to find any semblance of focus.

You gazed up at him, eyes sparkling with your own arousal, to see him completely lost in pleasure, one elegant hand pressed to his forehead in delightful despair, the other gripping the edge of the cushion he laid back on so firmly that his knuckles had long since turned white.

You hummed, appreciating his weight of his heavy cock against your tongue as you felt a wetness grow between your thighs. The vibration your dirty little sound sent down his shaft caused him to whine out a string of incomprehensible obscenities, and his hips to buck up involuntarily as he fought to keep his eyes open and his head lifted enough to see you.

He’d never felt so safe with such a lack of control over his body, every nerve alight with passion and every muscle weak with complete pleasure. He couldn't think, but he didn't need to. He knew somewhere in the depths of this rapture that you would take good care of him, think through his pleasure for him, and finish him spectacularly. There was one other thing he knew for certain - one thought that pierced the haze of euphoria clouding his every thought - that his peak would come all too soon.

He couldn't fight it, he felt too week with imminent satisfaction to try to last any longer. He wanted this feeling to last forever, but also to explode between your lips and reach paradise all at once.

He released his grip on the seat cushion, and reached, trembling, for the nape of your neck. If his eyes must insist on clenching shut in unfathomable pleasure, he could at least follow your movements with touch, perhaps that would be just as enjoyable as watching.

It was.

At the exact moment that his fingers connected with your neck and slid up into your hair, he erupted with a shout, emptying his seed into your mouth and down your throat while your tongue circled his sensitive tip each time you moved upwards, and massaged his shaft as you slid back down.

Your name tore from his lips, a guttural cry that rang in your ears as he came down from his climax, breathless and groaning in exertion.

With a final lap to clean up the last traces of his peak, you sat back on your heels and smiled, proud of yourself for getting him off with such excellent results on your first attempt.

Sherlock was still very much floating on another plane of existence as his length twitched with aftershocks and softened upon your palm. You pushed up so settle over him on the chaise, appreciating his post-orgasm glow from a few inches above his handsome face.

‘A success?’ you chuckled, connecting your lips to his so he could taste himself upon them.

He nodded, opening his eyes slightly with an uneven smile meant as a silent thank you. ‘But I… I couldn’t focus on a thing. Nothing, that is, except for your mouth being stuffed full of me. Tell me you-’

Pride swelled in your chest. ‘I memorised every minute reaction.’

‘That’s my girl,’ he breathed. ‘You should write it down.’

‘Oh, I will,’ you promised, ‘in great, explicit detail. But first, another?’

His head fell back as you moved your hand gently over his sex, feeling it grow with arousal once again, and with that, a knock sounded at the door.

Disappointment flooded you. ‘You'll probably want to get that. It could be a case-’

‘They can wait,’ Sherlock whispered, waving his hand lazily. ‘I'm in the middle of a very important experiment for which we need more data...’

[incognit0slut]

Right Kind of Wrong (18)

She never thought she’d be involved in a murder investigation and encounter her one-night-stand again, the awkward guy who isn’t exactly that good in bed—Or is he? Offended by the sentiment, Spencer is determined to prove her wrong… But as he gets tangled with the beautiful stranger, he realizes there is more to her than what meets the eye.

Part Summary: Spencer and Y/n resolve their feelings. wc: 3k A/n: You have no idea how happy I am being able to write fluff after seventeen parts. SEVENTEEN. Only happiness from now on (which isn't much because sadly there are two parts left)

Other parts: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17

THE FIRST THING she became aware of was the constant noise ringing in her ears. The soft hum of the room greeted her as she slowly drifted into consciousness. Feeling slightly disoriented, she blinked her eyes open, adjusting to the muted light filtering through the half-closed curtains as she took in the unfamiliar surroundings.

Hospital. She was in a hospital. The sterile scent of antiseptic lingered in the air as a sudden wave of panic threatened to engulf her, but then a gentle, calm voice cut through her confusion. Her gaze shifted to the side, and relief washed over her as she spotted Spencer sitting on a nearby chair, engrossed in the book he was holding.

For a moment, she observed him—the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, the strands of hair that fell across his forehead, and the intensity in his eyes as they traced the words. His soft-spoken tone was soothing, and after a moment of listening to him, she realized he was reading the book aloud for her.

"...and with that, Sherlock Holmes deduced the mystery, much to the amazement of Dr. Watson," his voice filled the room, and she couldn't help but smile faintly at the choice of literature. She shifted in the bed, and the quiet rustle of sheets prompted him to look up from his book.

"Hey," he greeted softly, placing the book on the bedside table. "You're awake."

She responded with a nod, accompanied by a small, appreciative smile. "Sherlock Holmes, huh?"

"I found a copy in the waiting room. Someone must've left it," he explained. "Thought I'd borrow it before giving it to Lost and Found."

Her gaze lingered on the tired lines across his features. "And you decided to read when you could have slept?"

"I wanted to be here when you woke up again."

A soft smile adorned her face but her brows twisted into a frown as she registered his words. "Again?"

"You've been in and out of consciousness." He ran his fingers through his disheveled hair. "The doctor said it's common among patients suffering from dehydration."

Her frown deepened, and the weight of the situation began to sink in as she processed his words. Her fingers unconsciously traced the edge of the thin hospital blanket for comfort.

"Is Eric..."

"He's injured, although not fatally. My shot wasn't aimed for anywhere vital," he explained, shifting his chair closer. "But he's in custody. You're safe now."

Relief washed over her, but a flicker of fear remained in her eyes. "I don't remember much after what happened."

"That's understandable," he said gently. "Your body and mind went through a lot. It might take some time to process everything."

She managed a weak nod and her eyes traced the outlines of the IV line snaking into her arm. "How long have I been here?"

Spencer glanced at the clock on the wall, his brows furrowing slightly. "About a day."

"A day," she repeated, the concept feeling both distant and immediate. The realization settled in and a pause hung in the air before her gaze shifted to him again, seeking clarification. "As in twenty-four hours?"

His face twisted into a frown, uncertainty clouding his features. "...yes?" he replied, unsure where she was going with this.

"And I've been sleeping for most of the time?"

"Well... yes."

"And you? How much have you slept?" When she was met with silence, her expression softened as her eyes took in his weariness. "Why are you still awake, Spencer?"

He sighed, a conflicted expression crossing his face. "I just... I didn't want to leave your side."

She studied him, her eyes tracing the lines of exhaustion that clung to his face. Deep lines etched across his forehead and the shadows underneath his eyes spoke volumes about everything he endured. The fading bruises, the slouch in his shoulders, and the tousled strands of his hair all painted a picture of someone who had weathered more than their fair share.

It was evident that even the hospital room had taken its toll on him, and the subtle change into a fresh shirt was his small attempt to regain a pretense of normalcy. But who was she to judge? Here she was, lying on the bed, all weak and worn out. She couldn't deny that she, too, must be presenting a less-than-picture-perfect image.

With a gentle sigh, Spencer eased into the chair beside her bed. "How are you feeling?"

She took a moment, assessing the sensations in her weakened body. The dull ache in her limbs, the lingering throbbing in her head.

"Like I've been hit by a truck," she finally responded with a smile, trying to ease the tension. But his head suddenly seemed to be elsewhere. He absentmindedly nodded, and it was clear to her that something was on his mind.

"Hey," she spoke softly. "What's wrong?"

He looked up, meeting her eyes, and she waited for his response. He opened his mouth, closed it again, and finally found the courage to speak.

"I'm sorry."

Confusion clouded her eyes. "For what?"

"For... everything." He let out a sigh. "For hurting you, for not being there when you needed help, for not realizing what was happening sooner. For not seeing the signs."

She shook her head. "You can't blame yourself. You were there when it mattered, and you saved me."

"But I should've protected you from the start," he insisted, his eyes searching hers for understanding. "I should've stayed with you—"

"It's not your fault. Don't apologize for something that he did."

"But I could've prevented it from happening if I didn't leave your house in the first place."

She studied him for a moment before letting out a sigh. "Look, if you're going to keep on apologizing, might as well do it in comfort." She shifted over on the bed, making room between them. "Come here."

His gaze flickered between her and the mattress. "I'm not sure that's allowed."

"What? Do hospitals have a policy against sharing a bed with visitors?"

"Well, technically—"

"Spencer," she interjected. "Just lie down with me. Please."

He hesitated for a moment, but after a brief internal debate, he relented, deciding that being close to her trumped any hospital regulations. Slowly, he settled onto the bed, careful not to disturb any wires or machines. But then she suddenly sat up and Spencer frowned. "Wait, where are you going?"

"Outstretch your arm."

"What?"

"Outstretch your arm," she repeated.

He followed her instructions, and she laid back down, resting on his arm. As she nestled against his side, he couldn't ignore the warmth that spread through him. He simply looked at her, his expression a mix of curiosity and amusement when she kept pressing herself against him. His hand instinctively fell on her waist. "What exactly are you up to?"

"Testing a theory. I read somewhere that lying on someone's arm can regulate their heartbeat and help with stress. And given your guilt-ridden apology, it seems you could use a bit of stress relief." She then settled a hand over his chest. "But it doesn't seem like it's working, your heart is beating really fast."

He felt a blush creeping up his cheeks as her fingers traced gentle circles over his chest, the warmth of her touch sending ripples through him. "Well, you're lying unexpectedly close to me, I wasn't exactly prepared for that."

She laughed softly, the sound echoing in the quiet room. "Just... try to relax. You've been through a lot too. You don't have to hold yourself together for my sake."

He slowly nodded, letting himself sink into the moment with her. The rhythmic rise and fall of her chest against his side, the gentle pressure of her hand over his heart. But guilt still rippled through him when he studied the weariness in her eyes, or the IV line sticking into her arm, or the bandage wrapped around her hand. He hated seeing her so weak that he couldn't help but blurt out another apology.

"I really am sorry."

She shifted slightly, turning to look at him. "I know you are."

"I wish I could have done more to protect you," he continued.

She reached up, tenderly brushing a strand of hair from his face. "You did what you could with the information you had. No one could have expected what happened."

He sighed, and she continued to trace gentle lines across his face as they fell into a comfortable silence. But much to her dismay, it didn't last long when he suddenly interrupted their moment. "I... I have another apology."

She was the one who let out a sigh this time. "What is it now?"

"I..." he hesitated, searching for the right words as his eyes wandered around every corner of the room but on her. "I-I want to apologize for being rough on you that day when we... when we—you know."

She raised an eyebrow, amused at where this conversation was heading. "You mean when we had sex?"

He nodded and diverted his gaze away from her, looking slightly embarrassed. She laughed and cupped his face, forcing him to look back in her direction. "Why are you suddenly so embarrassed?"

His cheeks flushed a shade of pink as he met her gaze. "I'm not used to discussing these things so openly, especially when I feel like I mishandled the situation."

Her laughter softened into a warm smile. "Spencer, we were both in a difficult place that day, I wouldn't say you mishandled anything." She leveled her gaze on him. "I trusted you. I knew you weren't going to hurt me, which you didn't, and I can assure you that I enjoyed the sex very, very much."

"But I-I tied you," he insisted. "I used handcuffs on you. Handcuffs."

"Well, did it ever occur to you that I liked being tied? That I like it when you're in control?"

He studied her, and let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding when he fully registered she was being serious. "You do?"

She chuckled at his wide-eyed expression. "Yes, Spencer, I do. I thought it was very obvious." She gave him a smile, fingers tracing soothing patterns on his cheek. "But if it makes you feel any better, we can come up with a safe word."

"What's a safe word?"

His brows furrowed in confusion, prompting her to burst into laughter. She couldn't help but find his innocence endearing.

"It's something you say to stop or slow down during sex, especially if things get uncomfortable or overwhelming," she explained, her laughter subsiding.

"Oh," Spencer said, a hint of realization dawning on his face. "That makes sense."

She nodded, still smiling. "So the next time we explore our sexual needs, we can use our safe word."

There was a pause before he murmured, "Next time?"

Her smile faltered at his question. "Do you not want a next time?"

Noticing her sudden withdrawal, he placed a hand behind her, pulling her closer to him. "I want there to be a next time," he confirmed and sighed in relief when he felt her relaxing again. "You know, I just want to spend more time with you in general."

Her smile returned, warmed by the sincerity in his words. "Yeah?"

He nodded. "I want to take you to dinner."

"Dinner sounds lovely."

"And take you out on a date."

Her smile widened. "What kind of date do you have in mind?"

"Well, I was thinking of the museum. Or maybe the library." Then his eyes lit up with a hint of excitement. "There's also this planetarium I've always wanted to visit. Did you know that the planetarium nearby has one of the most advanced digital projection systems? It's supposedly a state-of-the-art projector that can simulate the night sky with incredible accuracy."

A genuine smile graced her lips. The excitement in his voice brought a sense of relief to her. It wasn't just a reaction to his enthusiasm about their planned date, but also the subtle transformation in his demeanor. He seemed more relaxed.

"That sounds amazing." And just because she couldn't stop herself from flustering him, she added, "But the real question is, will there be sex in this future date?"

Spencer's reaction was immediate, his face flushing with embarrassment. "Stop teasing me."

"I'm serious," she laughed, thoroughly enjoying his momentary discomfort. "I want to know what I'll be expecting."

He cleared his throat, attempting to regain his composure. "I guess... If you want to, then yes."

"Of course, I do, but I want to hear it from you." She grinned when he gave her a pointed look. "Spencer, you've given me more orgasms than I can count, why is it so hard for you to say the word sex?"

Spencer shook his head, attempting to brush off the embarrassment that lingered. "You're unbelievable." 

Despite his attempt to resist, there was a subtle twinkle in his eyes that betrayed the amusement he couldn't fully conceal. A reluctant smile stretched across his lips, and he finally conceded, "Yes, Y/n, we will have sexual intercourse in the future."

She laughed, the sound echoing in the room. "How romantic."

Her teasing expression softened into a warm smile, and Spencer couldn't help but be captivated by the warmth in her eyes. Feeling a surge of affection, he gently pulled her closer. There was a subtle shift in the air. Their eyes locked, and for a moment, she nestled into his embrace. But it was hard to fully linger in his arms when her IV line seemed to be getting in their way.

"Hold on, I think I have to turn around," she said, her fingers tracing the thin tubing connected to the IV. Spencer released his hold. "I should probably get off the bed."

"Don't you dare," she threatened, and turned to the other direction gracefully, adjusting herself without much difficulty. Once settled, she pressed her back against his chest and he instinctively wrapped his arms around her again.

"Better?" he asked, his voice a low murmur.

She nodded, a contented smile on her face. "So much better."

Spencer held her a little tighter, and somehow, his hand found its way to hers, softly intertwining their fingers. He held on to her as if he didn't want to let go, as if the simple act of holding her hand offered a sense of grounding in the aftermath of everything that had happened. And with a contented sigh, she leaned back into him, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest. She reveled in the moment because life had taken them through twists and turns, and yet, here they were—finding solace in each other's company. The warmth of his hold enveloped her like a protective shield, and for a fleeting moment, the worries that had weighed on her seemed to dissipate.

Gratitude swelled within her—a deep, heartfelt acknowledgment of this moment, of being alive, and of the shared embrace that grounded her to the present. 

"Hey, Spence?"

"Hmm?"

Her fingers gently traced over his hand, still intertwined with hers, savoring the connection that seemed to defy the odds. "Thank you for staying with me."

She felt a reassuring squeeze from his hand.

"I'm here for as long as you need me."

"Don't you think this is a little too much?"

Garcia threw Morgan a glare as they walked down the hospital corridor, her heels echoing in the narrowed space. Her eyes then shifted to the balloons in her hand, the container of freshly baked cookies she made in the other hand, and the bouquet of beautifully arranged flowers dangling from Morgan's arms.

"She deserves a warm welcome after what she's been through," she countered. "And it's my first time meeting her in person, I can't come empty-handed. That's so unlike me."

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Well, sure, but we're just visiting. It's not a party."

Garcia huffed. "I believe in spreading happiness wherever I go. And besides, who wouldn't want flowers, balloons, and delicious cookies after being stuck in a hospital bed?" She looked over to the rows of the door down the hallway. "What room did Reid say she was in?"

Morgan glanced down the corridor lined with identical-looking doors. "Room 108."

Garcia led the way, her heels clicking purposefully as she cradled the balloons and cookies with a determined air. Morgan followed, still holding the bouquet, and couldn't help but shake his head at Garcia's unwavering commitment. As they approached the door, she paused to adjust her cookies and then knocked lightly on the door, only to be met with silence.

She turned to Morgan. "Do you think she's asleep?"

"I don't know." He pulled out his phone and tried to dial Spencer's number, only to be met with a constant line of ringing. "He's not answering."

"I think we should just go in."

Morgan hesitated for a moment, then nodded in agreement. Garcia took a deep breath and gently pushed the door open, stepping inside. The room beyond was dimly lit, with the curtains drawn, followed by the soft hum of medical equipment filling the air. It seemed like an ordinary hospital room, but what seemed out of place was the sight before them.

Because Spencer lay on the bed with her, both peacefully sleeping.

"Oh my god," Garcia gushed, stepping further into the room. “Oh my god.”

Morgan couldn't help but wear a surprised smile. "Well, that explains why he wasn't answering his phone."

Garcia carefully placed the balloons at the foot of the bed and Morgan followed behind her, setting the bouquet on the bedside table. She then motioned for him to place the container of cookies there as well before she held her hands together, watching the scene before them. "This is like a scene straight out of a romance movie."

Unable to contain her excitement, she took out her phone and snapped a discreet photo of them. Morgan shot her a disapproving look, but she just waved her hand dismissively and whispered, "It's for the memories."

"Come on," he insisted, grabbing onto her arm. "Let's leave these two to rest."

"One more picture!"

Garcia's voice echoed in the room, and Spencer stirred in his sleep. Morgan and Garcia stilled for a moment, holding their breath. They waited for another second, and thankfully, the couple seemed to be too deep in slumber to hear the commotion in the room.

Morgan gave Garcia a pointed look. "That's enough, Garcia. Let's go."

"Give me a minute,” she lingered. “Let me take one last video."

Morgan shook his head. He took her phone out of her grasp, ignoring her protest, and finally dragged her out of the room—leaving the two lovebirds behind.

>> NEXT PART

a/n: that last scene is kind of a bonus, I just thought it was cute

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Don’t forget to interact with the story!

[dearfandomdiary]

Waiting on your husband

sherlock holmes x wife!reader

Wordcount: 617

Author's note: Well, my first sherlock imagine! It's short but i hope you enjoy! I have a second part in mind — regarding the morning after; what do y'all think? 👀🫰🏻

You have been waiting for Sherlock for a better part of 4 hours.

I will be home at 8 pm. Keep the dinner in the refrigerator, I will eat then. I promise, Y/N.

Those were his words. It was now almost 1 am. You were sitting in his armchair, a book in your hands. His scent was keeping you somewhat calm.

The moment he came home, you would tell him what you thought of such antics. Coming home later than promised, not even letting you know that it would be later than expected. You were worried sick. After all, you had agreed to many things. Be patient with him, not get involved in his cases — he simply wanted to protect you which you understood — but you never agreed to be lied to.

And then you heard it. Heavy steps, slurring of words. He was drunk.

Quickly, you stood and marched towards the entrance, opening the door. “Where have you been?!” you asked, your voice raised. Worry and something akin to anger coursed through your veins.

“Y/N!” he said, blue eyes wide as he stumbled towards you. He reeked of wine and cigar smoke which caused you to take a step back. “ ‘was busy on a case! Missed you!”

You rolled your eyes and grabbed him by his jacket lapels to bring him inside. “On a case? You are intoxicated, Sherlock.” you huffed.

He blinked once, twice, thrice. He let out a low hum, gathering his thoughts. “It was jus’ a … disagreement over wine. And whose wine it was.” A hiccup left his throat. “You know … after a glass of wine, I find it very hard to move my arms and legs.”

You scoffed. “A glass of wine?” you asked, clearly amused. But then you furrowed your brows. “How did you make it up the steps?"

He hummed again, his hands grabbing the edge of the table and your hip. “Dunno…walked. One should always walk after drinking. You should probably write that down.”

Sherlock swayed slightly and your hands tightened on his waist coat, keeping him steady. “Of course, darling.”

The touch to your hip made you shiver. Even the simplest touch calmed you, tamed your anger. You could be mad, uncontrollably angry but when Sherlock brushed his hand along your hip, brushed one of your y/h/c strands out of your face; it immediately calmed you down.

You made quick work of his jacket, brushing it down his arms and taking his scarf with him. As you hung both on the clothes rack he walked over to the chaise lounge. “Sherlock be care—” you began but he had already let himself fall on it. He let out a groan. You chuckled softly.

“Mhm…I love youu.” he said, shifting on the chaise lounge to get comfortable, beginning to fall asleep.

One of these days he is going to break his back, you thought as you grabbed the throw blanket from the armchair you had been sitting in.

“I love you too, Sherlock.” you said softly, tugging a curl behind his hair. Then you turned and took the candle to walk to your, normally shared, bedroom. There was no way you would be sleeping in the armchair or on the chaise lounge.

After all, you loved him. No matter what sort of idiotic and dangerous things he did, you’d love him and you knew he loved you. You had found your way into his heart after all but you wouldn't hurt your back or neck sleeping in old armchairs that were older than you.

In the morning, you two would talk and he would get a stern talking to. You were sure of that.

[thebeesareback]

My good bitches and thots, gather around to learn about more weird moments from the OG Sherlock Holmes books

- several women have their hearts broken and apparently take out their frustration by breaking 221B's doorbell

- someone sends a coded death threat by drawing little pictures of dancers

- Sherlock talks about taking Watson by the hand and flying over London with him

- A couple separates because of the husband's unpleasant habit of eating dinner, removing his false teeth and chucking them at his wife

The most juicy for last

- an old man wants to marry a young woman. She turns him down, so he goes to Prague and gets an anti-aging injectable liquid which makes him super angry, able to climb up the outside of a building to a second story window (he's 62) and means he likes to walk around on all fours, snarling. Weirdest thing I got in Prague was absinthe

Sleep well!

[fancyfeathers]

zainiscompletelydone333 asked a question

omg but imagine william's potential darling to be like agatha christie? a mystery writer whose mysteries are almost impossible to solve. whether or not they are as smart as the masterminds or detectives in her books, her stories do come close to confusing even sherlock or william a bit. if you've read her "and then there were none" SPOILERS its about a judge killing people for being evil and that is so william coded. anyways i'm straying far what I mean is william could be a quiet fan, and as the lord of crime, even replicate some of her stories as part of his crimes. watching his darling's face pale at the unknown criminal doing such a thing.....ASDKSHD an when he finally does officially meet her, he wonders if she'l ever base a character off him. a hero, or perhaps a villain?

For some reason this isn’t showing up in my tumblr inbox but thank god for my email cause this is a gem! Thank you @zainiscompletelydone333 for this!

Okay I love Agatha Christie, an actual icon! Fun fact she actually faked her own disappearance in 1926 and the police couldn’t find her for over a week and she just took a vacation to London after her husband threatened to leave her and she said fuck it and decided to treat herself. Then also Arthur Conan Doyle the author of Sherlock Holmes was hired to find her.

Anyway I am getting so off track but I love this lady so much so here we go!!!

But yes William would absolutely adore a darling like her. Imagine him first finding her works for the first time, perhaps one of his brothers or Sebastian or Fred was reading her work and just out of curiosity he picks up one of her books and is just immediately enthralled. Whenever he is not busy he is reading or even rereading one of her books and even begins to be teased by others for his slight addiction to her works.

Then when he and Sherlock is on the train investigating the murder that is when he gets an idea from both this and one of her books.

Weeks later an aristocrat who had been acting as a loan shark was found dead on a train in his compartment, stabbed a dozen times, his door locked from the inside, just like a murder from one of her most famous book…

But what William did not know is that she was on that same train…

And of course she found the body…

As William was making his way back to his seat to join his brothers, he hears a blood curdling scream and he simply chalks it up to someone finding the body. Then the panicked woman is brought to her seat by the staff and she looks a mess, pale faced, tears rolling down her face, hyperventilating, all things someone should be after seeing a dead body.

She is being asked questions when she finally calms down enough and William’s ears prick up as he hears words he never thought he would hear…

“Oh god… this is my fault…”

He turns his head to the booth next to him and sees her in absolute terror as she speaks to the train conductor.

She is right next to him…

She is terrified, horrified even…

And she is beautiful.

After everything from that incident had settled and she is off at home, trying to work on her next work for the life of her but being horrified by what she just witnessed…

Then more deaths come to surface all with the same pattern…

They are based on her books…

The author is absolutely horrified, she is loosing sleep, not eating as she should, and has rarely left her house in weeks…

Then she gets a knock on her door from a certain detective who was hired to look into one of the deaths, Sherlock Holmes. While he may like her books, he has noticed the pattern like she has and has one request for her…

“I want to help you to solve these cases. Who better to solve murders based on books better than the author herself?”

At first she refuses and dismisses him, but then when she is laying in bed that night she realizes he was right.

Her drawing room becomes a mess of her old notes that she had tucked away from when she wrote her book, copies of her her books with dozens bookmarks in them, newspaper clippings all around, and evidence she had Sherlock get access to with his connections that she doesn’t have.

After days of pure investigation and nights of no sleep she finally was able to figure out where the next murder will be, just by what books are left…

But that’s the thing…

There is not a single work of hers left that this murderer has not take inspiration from…

The only thing left is the author, and she can only assume that she is the next target. So without telling Sherlock, she packs up her bags and fakes her own disappearance, to fool both the police and the murderer.

She spends so much time in the shadows, watching and waiting to see who looks into her disappearance, seeing how people react to it, but nothing, not a thing…

It frustrates her even further…

Then she finally decides to return home, feeling like a failure. Her house if just how she left it, even the papers in the drawing room that look like the work of a madman that she will have to clean up after her failure so she can go back to what she is good at, fictional murders not really ones…

No she can’t do that, that would only give the murderer ideas…

So she quits.

No one hears from her for months as she nods herself taking up a librarian position at a local library, at least she is doing something with her literature. She says goodbye to Mr. Holmes and tucks away all her old books and works in progress that will never be finished on the shelves to collect dust for the rest of her life.

At her time working there she gets a frequent visitor at the library, a Mr. William James Moriarty. He had a fascination with murder mystery novels and the two form a quick friendship over their shared love of them. Everything feels like a new start, a clean slate but then he had to ask…

“Will you ever write again?”

That question has her heart hurt because she adores writing, but to sacrifice lives just for what she enjoys, she would never. She shuts down his question quickly and excuses herself, but then avoids the scarlet eyed man as to not be asked that question again.

But as she is laying in bed one night…

She hears the sound of footsteps in her study downstairs…

She feels her heart stop…

She closes her eyes and prays whoever is there will just go away, but they do not. So she musters whatever courage she has left and slips out of bed to see who is there in her study that has been collecting dust for almost a year…

And she approaches the closed door she realizes whoever is behind them must be the person behind the murders that gave plagued her and-

“William?”

The pangs of shock she feels in her chest when she sees the face of William Jane Moriarty looking through her unfinished works that she shelved away what felt like years ago. She must have looked like a deer in headlights as the Lord of Crime looking up at her with a smile, his red eyes staring into her soul…

She is terrified, horrified even…

And she is beautiful.

“Your unfinished work, will it have an ending? Or perhaps will we have to write one ourselves? What do you think, darling?”

The weeks go by and the next time the author is seen in public again she has an engagement ring on her finger and the announcement is being made about their upcoming wedding. The talk of the aristocracy says that she finally has a husband who is willing to deal with her crazied ideas that ended up killing so many people, not knowing that she is on the arm of the man who killed them…

Just for her.

(I could kinda imagine it ending up as a situation like the book Misery by Stephen King where he has her finish her work even if she doesn’t want to, but what differs is that while he doesn’t necessarily keep her locked up physically he does mentally. Sure go run off, he isn’t going to stop his darling, but just watch the bodies stack up pin ways she imagined, he is using her own mind against her which is the most terrifying of prisons. Then soon fear turns into dependency, she becomes terrified of him leaving her because now she has no where else to go but him so he has no need to hide her away when she clings to his arm like a terrified and wounded animal.)

[downthe-f4ndom-rabbith0le]

The Way Back Home (Spencer Reid x Reader) - Prologue

The Way Back Home (Spencer Reid x Reader) - The Prologue Word Count: 4001 Reader Insert: she/her pronouns Warnings: major angst, major fluff, mentions of murder, crime scenes, near-death experiences, slow-burnish romance, death, canon violence, rape, swearing, guns, knives, prostitution, canon cuteness of the team. Spoilers: Maeve's death, mentions of previous cases or canon events from seasons 1-10.

Spencer and you have an unspoken connection with one another. Nothing has ever happened between you two, especially since everything went down with Maeve, but your love has grown and overcome and is now clear as day to everyone. However, just when Spencer builds up enough courage to ask you out officially, you're requested on an undercover mission that halts your budding relationship in its tracks.

Months go by without a word from you until bodies of prostitutes start showing up in New York and the BAU is brought in to help. Spencer and you finally reunite as both your cases collide, but your lives and your love are both on the line now.

Will you and Spencer be able to find the way back home this time?

Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Epilogue

~~~

You released a tired, relieved sigh as you and the rest of the team exited the elevator and walked back into the bullpen. You'd just landed back after a week in Utah chasing a serial killer who turned out to be a mormon. He killed in the name of burning out the false children of God from humanity - literally. The Unsub managed to burn six innocent people alive before they apprehended him.

'I cannot wait to go home for a hot bath and a good glass of scotch,' Rossi said, rubbing at the kink in his neck from the sleep home on the plane.

'Ditto,' Alex said. 'James is home for the weekend, and he has promised me some home made pie that I am very much looking forward to.'

You smiled as you reached your desk, the echo of the others adding to the conversation of what they were looking forward to when they got home warming the usually busy room as they passed you. A sense of comfort and relief washed over you as you placed your go-bag on your desk. Hearing all your friends' voices back in the office after a mission was never a guarantee, so you relished every time you heard them, regardless of the conversation.

You looked up when a figure entered your peripheral vision, and that comfort and warm feeling spread further through you when you saw who it was.

'What about you, Y/N?' Spencer said by way of greeting, a soft smile gracing his own tired features. 'What is waiting for you at home on this fine Friday evening?'

You paused to think about it for a second, a content smile tugging at your lips at the thought. 'Well, unless I've been robbed in the last few days, I will be enjoying a nice glass of moscato while I order pasta from the restaurant below my apartment, and snuggle in with my book that I've spent literally months trying to finish,' you said dreamily, the thought of good food and good wine and a good book sounding almost too good to be true. But Garcia had informed the team before landing that no new cases had been submitted and so you had the weekend to yourselves.

'That all?' he asked, amusement dancing on his lips.

You chuckled, shaking your head. 'I know. First Friday night home in DC in a while and I am choosing to stay at home instead. The utter shame of it all.'

You both laughed, and it pleased you to see his amber eyes light up after the long week you'd had.

'I didn't mean that as a bad thing,' Spencer said, brushing a stray curl from out of his eyes. Even though it was the shortest length it'd ever been, some rogue curls still managed to dangle out of confinement every once in a while. 'What book are you reading?'

'Don't laugh at me, but... The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.'

Spencer's brow furrowed curiously. 'Why would I laugh? I love Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's work.'

You shrugged, casually leaning against your desk as you crossed your arms. 'I know, it just seems a little silly that a federal agent is reading some old detective stories.'

'Actually, Doyle was one of the forefathers of detective fiction, as he brought in the concept that the science of deduction isn't just physical evidence but psychological observations. He created a space where all the sciences we know today can help in solving crime, and actually paved the way for more psychological avenues to be taken more seriously in academia and law enforcement. If you think about it, without Sherlock, you and I may not have our jobs as profilers right now.' Spencer paused when he realised he was rambling, and despite your soft, encouraging smile, he saw the tired blankness in your eyes.

Spencer licked his lips before speaking again. 'What I'm trying to say is... I don't think it's silly at all.'

You nodded your thanks although you knew you didn't need to. 'So what about you?', you asked in return. 'What will entertain Dr. Spencer Reid on this "fine Friday evening"?'

His words repeated back to him kept the smile on his face, more importantly the life in his eyes. But he began to fiddle with the strap of his satchel bag, and you couldn't help but notice he slightly swayed. Like he was nervous or something. It was cute.

He was cute.

You forced the rising heat in your cheeks to stay underneath the surface to not give away your embarrassment or your inner thoughts. Thoughts you'd been having since the day you'd met him six years ago. Thoughts that you'd suppressed so as to not interfere with your work, and then later so it wouldn't ruin your hard-built friendship.

When he told you about Maeve, you'd had mixed feelings. Of course, you'd been ecstatic for him that he'd found someone he could be himself with, and even more so when he disclosed to you that no one else knew about her - just you. But you couldn't deny the twinge of sadness that pulled at your heart knowing that that someone he could be himself with wasn't you.

But you hadn't hesitated, hadn't faltered when he'd needed a shoulder to cry on when Maeve was killed. Once he decided to open up and accept help, you were first in line to help keep the young doctor afloat in his sea of grief and loss.

It's been over a year since Maeve's death now, and while she would always remain important in his heart, he had, for the most part, moved on, slowly getting back to be his usual, quirky, logical self.

The past year and a bit has only brought you two closer together, and as much as you have tried to hide how amazing that makes you feel, you've had plenty of conversations with Penelope and others on the team about finally asking the boy wonder out. It's not like you didn't want to, but if Maeve was his type of girl, you just weren't sure you were what Spencer was looking for in a romantic partner. Besides, you were happy with your friendship.

It was by far the most precious relationship you had aside from your family - why ruin it?

You quickly realised you'd both been silent for a while, Spencer still not having answered your question yet. 'Spence?' you prompted gently.

The cute doctor managed to grasp his satchel strap fiercely and ground himself back in the present. 'R-Right. I too have a book at home. The one you got me for my birthday, actually.'

'Oh yes!' The Shining Girls by Lauren Beukes. You'd been hooked from the first line, and by the time you finished, all you could think about was how much you thought Spencer would enjoy it. So you instantly wrapped up your own personal copy and waited for Spencer's birthday to roll around. You never told him it was yours, you just hoped he didn't notice the slight bend in the spine or minuscule tears in some pages from you flipping them too quickly. 'I've been meaning to ask you if you enjoyed it or not. I just assumed you'd read it already.'

'We've just been so busy with cases lately. I haven't had time to even consider picking it up.'

You rolled your eyes. 'Come on, we both know you could've finished that book on one of our plane rides.'

He shrugged, eyes dipping for a moment before landing back on you. 'I know. I guess... I just wanted to give it the time and attention it deserved,' he settled on, and the honesty in both his words and his eyes threatened to steal your breath.

A silence that rested between comfortable and awkward settled upon you two. This had happened many times in recent weeks although you weren't quite sure why. Regardless of your hidden feelings and the tragedy of Maeve, neither of you lost your comfortability with one another.

'So... we've both got book dates tonight,' you said in an attempt to break the silence. The rest of the team was still chatting just a little away from them, but it felt like it was just the two of you sometimes when you talked.

'Well, actually, maybe...' Spencer started, and his fingers were twitching again. 'I was wondering if maybe you'd want t-to bring your book over and... join me, tonight.'

The request wasn't an unusual one. In fact, you'd conducted your own mini book club between the two of you on plenty of occasions. Mainly because you both found out you were the kind of people that liked your personal time and space, but didn't like the thought of being completely alone. This wasn't new, but it warmed your heart all the same at the gesture.

'That sounds great, Spence!' you said heartily. 'Give me half an hour and I'll be around at yours-'

'Actually,' Spencer interrupted, 'I was thinking we could grab some dinner together first. You know, like at a restaurant or some place you can sit in at.'

'...Like a date?' you asked softly, breathlessly. The words just kind of slipped from you before you even contemplated how they would affect Spencer. It just felt natural and right.

Your heart pounded like a jackhammer between your ribs, but you were more concerned at what expression Spencer would pull in the next five seconds.

To your relief, he smiled that small little smile of his that spoke volumes of his insecurity but also of his genuine intentions. 'Yeah. I guess it is like a date,' he finally replied.

Oh my goodness. He was nervous. His words were rushed and higher-pitched in tone. but you still managed to understand him, as well as what dinner implied.

A half-smile pulled at your lips. 'Dr. Spencer Reid,' you began softly, half-scared, half-excited to speak the words you'd been holding back for so long. 'Are you asking me out on a date right now?'

At your words, his anxiety seemed to disappear, as he stopped fidgeting with the satchel strap and took a daring step closer to you. 'I guess I am.'

You couldn't stop it now, the smile of pure joy you'd been holding back from splitting your face open. After years of suffering silently, of repressing the truth, it was all worth it for that one question.

'So what do you say, SSA Y/N L/N,' he quipped cheekily. 'Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?'

The answer was right there in the tip of your tongue, almost spewing from you, when your name was called out across the bullpen for all to hear.

The globe of silence and serenity that had built around Spencer and yourself suddenly shattered as you both, alongside the rest of the team, turned to Hotch standing in his office doorway. But while you all looked at him, his hard gaze was honed in on you.

'L/N,' he called again, having your attention now. 'Can I see you in my office, please?'

You looked between him and Spencer, unsure who to answer first. In the end, you were still technically on the clock so you nodded at your boss and said, 'Sure, I'll be in there shortly.'

'This can't wait, I'm sorry.'

It was the seriousness and discomfort in his voice that caused you to throw aside your personal agenda, giving Spencer an apologetic look before quickly making your way through the bullpen, up the stairs and into his office. You tried not to look at your team too much as you did, but you felt their gazes on the back of your head nevertheless.

They were just as confused as you were, then.

'Close the door,' Hotch instructed gently, to which you obliged. He pointed to the seat on the other side of his desk. 'Have a seat.'

'Everything okay, Hotch?' you asked, taking a seat in the chair. 'Oh no. Did I make an error in one of my reports again?'

'No, nothing like that,' he reassured you, which didn't help your already built up worry. For a moment, it was just you two sitting in his office in silence; you waited for him to explain his mysterious actions, while he seemed to struggle to find the right words.

He never struggled to find the right words.

You leaned forward in your seat, worry furrowing your brow. 'Hotch. What's wrong?'

'Nothing is wrong, so to say,' he insisted, but his frown remained. 'I've just been in contact with your old unit chief from Organised Crime. They believe there is an underground operation being conducted by gang leaders in Manhattan that involves the transporting, selling and purchasing of girls and women in the prostitute industry.'

'Okay,' you drawled out, more confused than ever. 'What has this got to do with us?'

'It doesn't,' Hotch answered immediately. 'Just you. Your old unit chief wants you back to go undercover in the case.'

'What?' You stood up from your seat instead of shouting, but goodness it took all your strength not to. 'Why do they need me? They have a whole squadron of agents to choose from.'

'They want a profiler to help them find out who these people are first, then go undercover and become part of the operation's inner circle and report back to them,' Hotch explained, although his tone displayed his displeasure in saying so. 'Y/N, you have more experience in undercover missions than anyone else on this team, even before you joined us as a profiler.'

You knew his words to be true, but the reality of it all was an ever-growing weight on your chest. 'What they are asking, Hotch, could take weeks, months even. Those kind of people will not trust so easily,' you tried reasoning with him.

You couldn't help but look through the blinds to your team still standing and talking outside in the bullpen. To Spencer, who had joined the team since you had left, but just looked at the window as if he could find out what was going on behind the glass and blinds if he looked long enough. It broke your heart to think you wouldn't see him for months, maybe even years.

Because that was the thing with undercover missions. Once you assumed the life of someone else, your old life became non-existent. That meant no contact with anyone outside of the case as a safety precaution.

That meant no talking to Spencer, or anyone in the BAU, until the case ended. Or unless you were killed, in which case you wouldn't be able to do a lot of talking anyways.

You turned back around at the sound of Hotch standing from his seat and coming around the desk to speak directly in front of you, no walls to hide behind. 'You know I wouldn't be asking if I hadn't tried to change their mind first. But even I can't argue that you are the best agent for the job.'

You nodded your understanding even if you hated to admit he was right. 'I guess it's not one of those jobs that I can decline, is it?'

Hotch shook his head regrettably. 'Head Chief requested for you personally. You've already been taken off the roster here at the BAU so you're not disturbed by other cases.'

Hearing that was just rubbing salt in the wound, and you hated the burning feeling of tears rising at the back of your eyes. You were already gone from here, like a ghost that didn't realise she was one to begin with.

Hotch's hand rested heavy on your shoulder as he comforted you. 'We can discuss your return to work when your mission is over. You will always have a place with us, Y/N.'

You attempted a smile, but it was strained as you tried to force back tears. You wiped at the strays that dribbled down your cheeks, pulling yourself back together before speaking again. 'All right. How long do I have before I am expected in the Big Apple?'

'There's someone waiting for you at your apartment already. They'll take you to their headquarters when you're done packing tonight.'

You sucked in air as you felt your whole world tilt unstably. Tonight. You had to leave tonight. Again, you found yourself seeking out Spencer through the half-closed blinds.

'So what do you say, SSA Y/N L/N? Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?'

You bit your lip as you blinked your tears away, trying but failing to ignore the cry of your heart as its strings were pulled harshly. 'Tonight?' you asked in the hope you'd misheard.

But no such hope existed, unfortunately.

'Yes,' Hotch said, that one word the final nail in the coffin of your impending suffering. 'I'm sorry. This goes without saying, but don't mention any of this to the team as you leave. Only myself and Section Chief Cruz will know where you are and the details of your mission.'

You huffed out a joyless laugh. 'Hiding truths from a team of profilers is like playing poker with a mirror attached to your face,' you said, and you didn't bother to hide your displeasure and sadness when you did. 'They're going to ask questions, and they will find out the truth eventually.'

'Let me worry about that,' Hotch said gently, letting go of you and leaving a cold mark where his hand once was. 'You've got bags to pack.'

'Right.' You sucked in a few deep breaths before making your way to the door. tears burned at your eyes again but you couldn't let the team see you like this. You couldn't let Spencer see you like this.

Because you had a job to do. And you always finished a job.

Before you could open the door handle, however, Hotch stopped you once more. 'Y/N.'

You looked at him, forcing an expression of blankness and indifference. 'Yes, sir?'

He must've seen your inner struggle, as he offered one of those genuine smiles of his that were oh so rare. 'We'll see you when you get back,' he said.

It wasn't a promise or a done deal, but it was the most hope you could ask for right now. So you smiled your thanks, nodded your goodbye, and opened the door back into the bullpen.

Immediately, all eyes set upon you and the room grew quiet. Your first instinct was to cry, then to run, then to blurt everything out because you hated keeping secrets. But you remembered what had just been said, and you whipped a bright smile onto your face to hide your despair.

'Don't you guys have homes to go to?' you asked cheerily, walking down the stairs as casually as possibly. You would've bee-lined for your bag, but if you moved too quickly they would suspect something. 'I recall hot baths and scotch were awaiting most of us, are they not?'

Thankfully Rossi took the bait, and picked up his go-bag in a huge huff. 'The lady is right. I spend enough time with you people as is, I am not wasting anymore not drinking and soaking.'

'Soaking in what? The bath or scotch?' JJ asked, also picking up her go-bag to make her way back to the elevator.

The group devolved into laughs and other jests, and you breathed a sigh of relief as you picked up your go-bag and followed them. Before you could though, a gentle call of your name halted you in your tracks, out of both politeness and frozen fear.

'Hey,' Spencer started, looking between you and Hotch's office. 'What was all that about?'

'Oh, uh, nothing super important,' you said, scrambled as you words were. 'Just a paperwork issue. Again.'

He broke out in smile that set your heart aflutter despite your inner turmoil. 'You know, you really shouldn't do paperwork on the plane when you're tired if you're just going to make a mistake. You're better off leaving it to the morning when your brain and body has rested enough to comprehend what the paperwork is asking of you.'

'Well sorry if I don't want to do a mountain of paperwork when I come back into the office,' you countered, grateful for the playful distraction as you made it over to the elevator. The others were just piling in when Spencer halted you again.

'So...' he dragged out, eyes flickering between you and teh floor nervously, '...what do you say?'

'To what?' you asked.

'To dinner. You didn't have time to give me an answer before.'

Shit. Your voice failed you now as you grasped at words - any words - to tell him. Your heart screamed yes, but there was someone waiting for you back home. A home you wouldn't be visiting for who knows how long.

Capitalising on your gaping mouth, you forced out a yawn and feigned covering it up out of embarrassment. 'Oh my goodness, sorry about that. Um, actually, now that you mention it, I am pretty beat. I'm just... going to go home and sleep it off if that's all right.'

It pained you to see his smile drop at your words, to see the hope leave his beautiful eyes at your rejection. And you knew you shouldn't say anything or make promises you couldn't keep, but you couldn't just leave him with no hope.

'Maybe next week sometime,' you offered, hoping your smile could bring some of that light back. 'You know, you've never tried the Italian Restaurant under my apartment before. We could go there. On me.'

Instinctively, you reached for his hand, relishing in the warmth it held and brought into you. To your relief, he didn't pull away. Instead, you got your smile back, and a little light returned to his eyes. You were kind of glad you wouldn't be around when the light left him completely.

'Okay,' he said softly, surprising you with a gentle squeeze of your hand in his. 'It's a date.'

'Yeah,' you replied, trying and failing to push aside the fluttering sensation his words gave your heart. You were only prolonging not only your pain, but his.

Selfish. So selfish.

'Come on, you two,' Derek called out from the elevator. 'I can't hold these doors open forever. Savannah will kill me if I miss our dinner reservations.'

You both quickly made it in to the elevator before Derek let them close on you, and then you were caught up in the chaos that was your team. You weren't sure how you got onto the topic of what scotch goes best with what foods, but you didn't care. It made you happy to know they never let the weight of a dark case get in the way of living their own lives to them fullest.

You all reached the car park and before you could make a run for your car, Spencer called out to you. 'See you Monday, Y/N!'

You turned back around to face not only him, but Derek, JJ, Penelope, Alex, and David as they all slowly went for their cars too.

You caught yourself staring at them, taking their happy faces in one last time before you left them behind. Hotch said you'd always have a place with the BAU, but you weren't sure how long this mission would take. And if you'd be replaced by then.

You forced a smile onto your face and waved them farewell. 'Yeah, see you then.'

You hated the bitter taste the lie brought to your mouth, but you managed to keep it together long enough that you got in your car and drove out of the car park without any more issues. That's when the tears came.

You wouldn't be there next Monday, and were not getting that date with Spencer next week.

It hurt you more to think that you may not get that date at all.

[hauntedwitch04]

HALLOWEEN PARTY

Hi and welcome for the second edition of my halloween party. The first one was very liked, so I thought of making a new one this year. Hope you enjoy it.

Requests are open I Ask

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DAY 1: “Take my sweater, I love you and i don’t want you to transform into a popsicle” with Remus Lupin 

DAY 2: “You really did this for me?” "I made one for every single person I love, but your is the one I did first because you were the first I thought about." with Steve Harrington 

DAY 3: “Please kill that fucking spider” “Love, you know it’s fake right?” with Cassian 

DAY 4: “Eat some more soup, it will make you feel better. This is my James mother’s recipe.” “Fuck, love this is delicious.” with Sirius Black 

DAY 5: “I don’t need paradise, mine is right here with you, cooking a pie while you dance and sing an old rock song, dreaming about our future” with Dean Winchester 

DAY 6: “I got some leaves on my way here for you, they are really pretty” with Andrew Garfield 

DAY 7: “Love I swear if you light another candle our house may go on fire.” with Nyx Acheron 

DAY 8: “I have a skeleton in my closet.” “Everyone have them, love.” “No I mean literally” with James Potter 

DAY 9: “Did you really gift me an owl?” “You love the little one from Harry Potter, so i thought it would be a good gift.” with modern!Rhys 

DAY 10:  “Sweety, we are too old to play trick-or-treating.” “That’s a lie, you are never too old for it.” with Regulus Black 

DAY 11: “Look what I got from the shop down the street” “Another coat, seriously?” with Sam Winchester 

DAY 12:  “Your pumpkin is making heart eyes to mine.” with Eris Vanserra 

DAY 13:  “Oh my God, please save me from this ghost” “Love your Ghostbuster is coming” with Ben Barnes 

DAY 14: “Some friendships are like candles: they burn bright for a while and then they die because of a little wind.” with Azriel 

DAY 15: “There is someone there, you think we have to help him” “It’s a scarecrow” “I think I just had a heartache.” with Sirius Black 

DAY 16: “I love this oil lamp. How did you know it?” “I love you, and I know you, so I know you are into witchy things.” with Dean Winchester 

DAY 17: “Look mommy, a fox. Why are you crying mommy?” “Because it reminds me of your daddy.” with Eris Vanserra 

DAY 18: “You know we are not in a crime book right.” “Don’t ruin my moment. My time to be Sherlock Holmes has arrived.” with Sam Winchester 

DAY 19: “I’m not gonna watch another fucking horror movie with you” “Don’t worry darling, you have your hero by your side.” “Love, I don’t have to remind you that you are the one screaming the most right?” with Remus Lupin

DAY 20: “We are not gonna bring that black cat home.And don’t even try to make me the puppy eyes, this time won’t work. I’m over your spell witch.” with Nyx Acheron 

DAY 21: “What are these rocks?” “They are runes stones.” “Babe, since when you are a witch.” with Timothee Chamalet 

DAY 22: “We are not gonna watch Bride Corpse another time.” “You love that movie too, dont’ lie to me moose.” “Love, we already watched it like five times in two days!” with Sam Winchester 

DAY 23: “I never saw someone loving the moon like you do.” “You know what I love most about the moon? It reminds me of you, of your eyes.” with Rhys 

DAY 24: “Why are there three pumpkins? We always make pumpkin, one for you and one for me.” “Well I want to practice since, from next year we are gonna be three.” with Steve Harrington 

DAY 25: “Wow, what is that on your neck? Oh my god, it’s a bite! Did a vampire bite you? Are you going to be like Dracula? Oh my god, oh my God! That’s so cool!” “No man, another animal bit me: my girlfriend.” with Regulus Black 

DAY 26: “You are never gonna touch another drop of alcohol in front of me, you look possessed.” with James Potter

DAY 27: “Tell me a spooky story” “Love, if you don’t sleep another night because I scared you, your mum is gonna kill me.” with Cassian 

DAY 28: “Oh my god, you are bleeding!” “Love calms down, it's fake.” “You are a horrible person.” with Azriel 

DAY 29: “Boo!” “Fuck you” with Dean Winchester 

DAY 30: "Love, why are you crying?” “Neil didn’t deserve it.” “We already talked about this: you can’t watch that movie alone.” “But it’s one of my favorites.” with Remus Lupin

DAY 31: Halloween Party with College AU!Every fandom

[gregorovitch-adler]

Clock

John stifled a yawn with the back of his hand as he checked the time on the classroom clock. Half past twelve. Fifteen more minutes of this dreadful lecture till the afternoon break.

The topic going on in the class was not so hard, besides Year 13 meant you had to cover up most of the topics on your own, anyway. John could not bring himself to listen to the lecture today.

John looked around at the other students instead. To be honest, he was looking for one specific person in that room.

There he was. Sitting in the last row, but paying full attention - staring at the teacher like a hawk. John had been admiring this guy's looks - dense, black curls; sea-green eyes, and those sharp cheekbones - and his intelligence for quite some time.

The name was Sherlock Holmes.

John had not stopped thinking about that bloke ever since he'd guessed some other student's personal life correctly in an attempt to tell them off. Deduction, as he would rather call it.

He had been trying to get to know Sherlock in person and to talk to him properly - instead of just nodding in his direction as a greeting like he used to do, every morning.

John was not sure what he would even talk about. Sherlock seemed so closed off, heading straight to the library during the afternoon break every day. John did not want to make an arse of himself trying to talk to him.

He realised he was staring, so he looked away quickly and pretended to pay attention again.

After a few minutes, the bell rang, followed by the teacher muttering some words to the TA before leaving the class.

The class began to chatter, as everyone slowly made their way to leave.

Suddenly, someone across the room turned around to face Sherlock in the last row. "Hey, Holmes!"

Sherlock looked up from his book at that guy.

"Nobody gives a shit about your Tobacco ash list," he said, and his friends burst out laughing. "Seriously, quit blogging. Your website is embarrassing enough already." Another fit of laughter from his group.

John furrowed his brows and clenched his fist on his left side. Strange that he did not know much about Sherlock, but felt like standing up for him anyway.

"At least I don't have to juggle three girlfriends every single day."

A complete silence erupted among that friend group.

"What's he talking about?" asked a girl from the group to that arse. Probably one of the girlfriends.

He ignored her as he marched his way to the last row to approach Sherlock. "Say that again." The guy slammed his massive fists on the desk.

John turned around and went to that row too.

"I think he was loud and clear the first time," said John as he stood beside Sherlock, staring daggers at the other guy.

"Oh, so the fake genius has got himself a pet!" the bloke exclaimed and walked up close to John, practically towering over him.

John was waiting for one move from the side of that guy. Just one. This would all be over in a minute.

"I haven't," said Sherlock and walked close to the guy, invading his personal space. "Though I would think twice before doing anything I regret if I were you." His low voice had dropped even more to a dangerous tone. "Especially if I were sleeping with one of the teachers for a better score like you are, currently."

This made the guy back off. "You didn't - you can't possibly know that!"

"You didn't even bother changing your perfume," said Sherlock and brushed past that guy, his long legs taking him to the classroom door swiftly. He stopped short in the doorway and turned around to look at John with his eyebrows raised.

John quickly collected his things and left the room; ignoring the other guy and leaving him behind.

Sherlock and John walked out of the class, and John tried to suppress a smile.

"Where are we going?" John asked, trying to match Sherlock's pace.

"I am going to the library."

"I can join you."

"Why?"

"You can tell me about the Tobacco ash."

Sherlock stopped in the tracks to face John properly. John had slowed down as well.

Sherlock gave John an intense look as if trying to look into his soul.

John was physically unable to look away.

"In that case, I expect you to listen to every single thing I have to say. Try to react properly instead of just staring at me." The corner of his heart-shaped mouth quirked up.

John cleared his throat and nodded before looking away for a moment. "Let's go, shall we? We don't have much time."

"Come on, then," said Sherlock, and they began to walk again in the direction of the library.

Not sure why, but John felt as if his day had become at least a hundred times better.

***

Sherlock September Challenge.

Prompt Clock by @onesmallfamily

Tags: @helloliriels @topsyturvy-turtely @keirgreeneyes @lisbeth-kk @gaylilsherlock @missdeliadili @curlyjohnlock @lookingforlifeoutthere @calaisreno @a-victorian-girl @peanitbear .

[softestqueeen]

let the light in

pairing: sherlock holmes x reader

summary: After a particularly frustrating case, all the consulting detective needs, is closeness.

warnings: just pure teeth rotting fluff

wordcount: 904 words

a/n: just a cute little one shot with my favourite detective. the name is inspired by the song “let the light in” by Lana Del Rey, cuz I feel like it fits the vibe I was going for in the end. and now enjoy <3

His last case was one of the hardest he ever had the solve. Even though Sherlock Holmes loves the thrill of a case that really challenges him, it also frustrates him to no end if he can’t find the culprit the moment, he has all the evidence.

This case had involved multiple chases with no success, countless sleepless nights, and even more nights that he didn’t get to spend with you.

Countless nights sitting in his chair thinking, while he could hear your soft snores from down the hall.

He missed you even though he saw you every day. He saw you when you told him to eat something, when you told him to take a break, when you told him to go to sleep. But it wasn’t the same when he couldn’t really spend some quality time with you. When he couldn’t have deep conversations with you, when he couldn’t look at you, when he couldn’t hold you and really feel you.

To say he ached for you was putting it lightly.

The start of your relationship was not easy. Suddenly Sherlock had someone he really trusted. Someone who always listened to him and always cared about him. Someone who would wait and be there for him when he came home at night. Those were not things that were easy for him to get used to, especially since he had never really loved someone.

But for you he tried, and, in the end, it worked out. Still sometimes your relationship has to come second. He doesn’t like that, but he has to get his cases done, especially since he doesn’t take on that many cases anymore. He found a new thrill.

You.

When Sherlock finally entered your shared flat in the middle of the night, he didn’t expect you to be up.

But here you were, sitting in his chair, wearing on of his robes and reading what seems to be one of your way too cheesy romcoms. In the background a jazz record could be heard, one of your favourites. He couldn’t even begin to explain how relieved he was to see you.

But unfortunately, the one he thing Sherlock Holmes was horrible at asking for was the one thing he now desperately needed most.

All he wanted to do right now was hold you close and hear your voice. He wanted to really feel you with his whole being and not just feel your hand grazing his when handing him a cuppa.

He lightly knocked on the door, not wanting to startle you. You looked up from your book and immediately saw your boyfriend looking back at you. A smile now adorned your face, which caused a warm feeling to spread through the detective.

“Case solved?”, was the first question you could voice, even though a hundred more were currently going through your mind. You really hoped it was solved, because that would mean you could finally spend some time with your boyfriend again.

“Finally!”, he answered, a smile now starting to appear on his face too.

At hearing his answer, you immediately got up and hugged him for what felt like the first time in weeks, even though it could have been only a week at most.

You nuzzled into his chest while he tucked his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling the smell of your body wash. 

“Why are you still up, my love?” It was not a question of importance but more one to break the silence and to finally hear more of your voice.

“Well, I couldn’t sleep and thought I would wait up for you. I’ve missed you.” Your words made Sherlock think. These days he often considered your feelings, especially when he’s doing something that could make you mad. But he never considered that not only did he miss you, but you also missed him the same. He was not the only one deprived of your touch, you couldn’t touch him either.

He unconsciously pulled you closer while he got lost in his thoughts.

“How about we go to bed, huh?” Your voice immediately put him back to reality.

“Theres nothing, I want more right now.”, he answered truthfully. You pulled away from him and took his hand in yours, already on the way to your shared bedroom.

You were already wearing your pyjamas, only wearing one of Sherlocks dressing gowns on top of them.

While you got under the covers Sherlock took off his suit before carefully placing it on a nearby chair. He also got into his pyjamas before joining you under the covers.

He immediately took a hold of your waist before pulling you into him. You were now both laying on your sides, legs intertwined, facing each other. You had one of your hands on his chest, feeling his steady and now relaxed heartbeat, while your other hand slowly drew shapes on his back.

All the while Sherlock just held you close, happy to have you close to him again.

While holding you, he wondered how he went on with life before he met you. Before you were there for him, held him close and showed him what love felt like, or that love could feel so incredibly good. But when he kissed you now, just before you fell asleep in his arms, he knew that he doesn’t need to worry about having to live without you ever again.

a/n: i hope you enjoyed this little drabble, please consider giving me feedback and leaving some notes (likes, comments, reposts). please also consider checking out my ao3!

taglist: @silvermagnolias @milywatermelon

[tangle-twer]

Ta-Da! Id like to finally present Detective Henry Hyedway Esq, my first real Detective Grimoire oc and the culmination of my headcanon that Grimoire mentored under another detective. I would like to give my massive thanks to @itsty1err ; Henry would not look nearly this good without his phenomenal second pass (Which i will include under the cut, after his bio and a small bonus)

Detective Henry Hyedway Esq. is one of, if not the most famous private detective in the country. Over his long tenure, he's solved every case he's ever been hired on with dignity and flourish, charming everyone he meets with his sensitive, inquisitive manner. His exploits became the focus of many bestselling books, and Hyedway makes massive donations to worthy causes across the globe with the royalties.

However, if you asked him what his greatest achievement was, Hyedway would tell you all about his faithful apprentice, Detective Grimoire. As soon as he saw him at the Academy, he knew that the young boy had potential to become a great sleuth on par with himself, and immediately took the young flatfoot under his wing. The two became close, and Hyedway considers Grimorie himself to be his most impactful and important work- and he makes sure his work is nothing short of Perfection!

"My greatest dream, my life's wish, is that one day everyone will look upon Grimoire's face- in a newspaper, on a broadcast, in a book- they'll look at him and say... that's Hyedway's boy." -Detective Henry Hyedway Esq.

Bonus!!!

And now, the process!

My initial drawing, done approximately 9 o'clock at night. I had a basic idea of who I wanted Grimoire's mentor to be and what he'd look like-That caplet, top hat, and mustache werent going anywhere!- and I wanted to illicit the same tone as Sherlock Holmes and Professor Layton, someone with decades of detectiving experience for Grimoire to look up to.

Razz's second pass! When I shared my first draft with the discord server we were in (10pm ish) and mentioned I would need to take another whack at the design, Razz asked if he could draw out a sketch of his ideas. I said yes, and even included some notes I wrote out for myself. I had gone to sleep shortly after, and woke up to Razz telling me he was finished. Little did I know that when Razz said "sketch" he really meant "Colored turnaround"! I was floored when I saw this, and I owe the quality of Hyedway's incredible design to Razz going above and beyond and I couldn't be happier with what we did together!

[anonymousewrites]

A Study of the Heart and Brain (Book 3) Chapter One

Father Figure! Sherlock x Teen! Reader

Chapter One: Surprise Return

Summary: Sherlock returns to London and sees John once more.

In Serbia…

            A man, long-haired and straggled, ran through the forest. A helicopter searched for him from above, and it shone its giant beam of light down onto the trees in search of the man. Infrared cameras caught his position, and gunshots rang out. The man was forced to stop and panted in exhaustion as the ache in his bones caught up to him at the same time as the men. Unable to go on any longer, he slumped to the ground.

l

            The man’s body swayed from chains embedded in the ceiling. His wrists were twisted above his head at an uncomfortable angle. His shirt was gone, and his skin was bruised by repeated blows from his captors.

            One of the men struck the captive again, and he gritted his teeth. The other man in the room remained at a desk with his feet up, simply watching the proceedings closely.

            “You broke in here for a reason. Just tell us why and you can sleep. Remember sleep?” sneered the torturer, pulling his captive’s hair back. He drew his hand back to strike with his metal pipe again, but he paused as the prisoner spoke quietly. “What?” he said in confusion, leaning in. The man whispered again.

            “Well? What did he say?” asked the other soldier.

            “He said that I used to work in the navy where I had an unhappy love affair,” said the torturer in bewilderment. The man continued to whisper.

            “What?” said the other soldier.

            “…The electricity isn’t working in my bathroom, and my wife is sleeping with our next-door neighbor,” exclaimed the torturer, but the captive was still going.

            “And?” asked the other.

            “The coffee maker! And? And? If I go home now, I’ll catch them at it! I knew there was something going on!” shouted the torturer angrily, abandoning his charge to storm out of the room as his rage took over his rational thought.

            The prisoner was left hanging from the chains.

            The other soldier stood. “So, my friend. Now it’s just you and me.” He tutted. “You have no idea the trouble it took to find you.” He pulled the captive’s head up and whispered to him in English. “Now listen to me: there’s an underground terrorist network active in London and attack is imminent. Sorry, but the holiday is over, brother dear.” Mycroft let the man’s head fall back. “Back to Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes.”

l

In London, in Mycroft’s office…

            Sherlock leaned back in the barber’s chair as his hair was cut and his scraggy beard was shaved. He held the paper open before him, but he wasn’t paying attention to it. It had taken a glance to get any information he needed, anyways.

            “You have been busy, haven’t you?” remarked Mycroft. “Quite the busy little bee.”

            “Moriarty’s network—took me two years to dismantle it,” said Sherlock. “You know I couldn’t leave anything still going.” Not when (Y/N) could be threatened by any remnant of Moriarty and his influence.

            “And you’re confident you have?” said Mycroft.

            “The Serbian side was the last piece of the puzzle,” said Sherlock. He glanced back at Mycroft. “And you know I wouldn’t leave this to chance. I made sure I took care of everything.”

            “Yes, yes, for (Y/N)’s sake,” said Mycroft, but despite his disdain for sentimentality, they were part of the Holmes family, so he understood what Sherlock meant. “And by doing so, you got yourself in deep there with Baron Maupertuis. Quite a scheme.”

            “Colossal. But worth it,” said Sherlock simply.

            “Anyway, you’re safe now.” Mycroft folded his hands together. “A small ‘thank you’ wouldn’t go amiss.”

            “What for?” said Sherlock casually.

            “For wading in,” said Mycroft. He wouldn’t ask for thanks for looking out for (Y/N) over the last two years. That was family. But going into Serbia personally? Mycroft would hold that over Sherlock until he figured out this terrorist business (and a bit after). “In case you’d forgotten, fieldwork is not my natural milieu.”

            The barber, having finished, left the room. Sherlock stood and faced Mycroft angrily.

            “Wading in?” he said sharply. “You sat there and watched me being beaten to a pulp!”

            “I got you out,” said Mycroft indignantly.

            “No, I got me out,” said Sherlock. “Why didn’t you intervene sooner?”

            “Well, I couldn’t risk giving myself away, could I? It would have ruined everything,” said Mycroft as if it was obvious.

            Sherlock glowered. “You were enjoying it.”

            “Nonsense,” said Mycroft.

            “Definitely enjoying it,” muttered Sherlock.

            “Listen, do you have any idea what it was like, Sherlock, going undercover and smuggling my way into their ranks like that?” Mycroft tsked. “The noise, the people…” He had a clear disgust for it all.

            Sherlock just crossed his arms and decided to let that part slide since Mycroft wasn’t going to apologize (Sherlock would be shocked if his brother did). “I didn’t know you spoke Serbian.”

            “I didn’t, but the language has a Slavic root with frequent Turkish and German loan words. Took me a couple hours,” said Mycroft.

            “You’re slipping,” said Sherlock, happy to have something to poke Mycroft with.

            “Middle age, brother mine. It comes to us all,” said Mycroft, turning around so Sherlock could change into fresh clothes. “Now, I need you to give this matter your full attention, Sherlock. Is that quite clear?”

            Sherlock turned around and let Mycroft look at him. Pointedly, all he said was: “What do you think of this shirt?”

            “Sherlock,” said Mycroft in exasperation, and Anthea walked in beside him.

            “I will find your terrorist cell,” said Sherlock. “Just put me back in London.” Let me go back to (Y/N). “I need to get to know the place again, breathe it in, feel every quiver of its beating heart.”

            “One of our men died getting this information,” said Anthea, pulling out a folder. “All the chatter, all the traffic, concurs there’s going to be a terror strike on London—a big one.”

            “And what about John and (Y/N)?” said Sherlock, finally asking the question on his mind.

            “I’ve kept an eye on them, of course,” said Mycroft, gesturing to Anthea. She procured two more folders and handed them to Sherlock.

            Too nervous to open (Y/N)’s, Sherlock opted to look at John’s first. He found that John had gone greyer and grown a mustache. Sherlock disapproved. “Well, we’ll have to get rid of that.”

            “We?” said Mycroft.

            “He looks ancient. I can’t be seen wandering around with an old man,” said Sherlock, tossing John’s file to the side. He held (Y/N)’s and gazed at the name printed on it. (Y/N) (L/N). Not (Y/N) Moriarty. Good. Sherlock summoned his courage and flipped open the file.

            He looked at a picture of (Y/N)’s face dated the previous week. They were older. They’d been fifteen when he’d left, and now he was looking at a seventeen-year-old. (Y/N) was almost an adult. But there was something wrong about the picture. Sherlock recognized it immediately—their expression.

            It was the same as his when he relapsed and lost himself to drugs before he pulled himself out of addiction and properly took care of himself and his boredom. (Y/N) had an empty look in their eyes.

            Sherlock’s gaze snapped up to Mycroft’s. “I thought you were going to take care of them.”

            Mycroft didn’t respond and just looked at Anthea. She took her cue and left to leave the brothers to discuss family matters.

            “(Y/N) did not take your…absence well,” said Mycroft.

            “I saw them at the grave after my funeral,” said Sherlock. “I know.”

            “They have not moved on at all,” said Mycroft. He sighed, and though his sighs were usually those of exasperation, this was one of worry and tiredness. “Sherlock, after your ‘death,’ they wouldn’t eat. They barely slept. It took Dr. Watson and I quite some time to get them to do so. And even then, they often forget.”

            Sherlock’s heart clenched. (Y/N) wasn’t alright. They were suffering, and it was his fault. Even if he’d left to deal with Moriarty’s network—to protect them—it had still hurt them. “It’s been two years.”

            “They’ve improved somewhat, but they relapse into dangerous bouts of depression frequently,” admitted Mycroft. He laced his fingers. “I even ensure they had cases—safe, of course—to work on, but it didn’t seem to help.” He looked at Sherlock. “I’m sorry, Sherlock.” He wouldn’t apologize for anything he did to Sherlock, but (Y/N) was younger family, and just as he was protective of Sherlock from behind the curtain, he was the same way with (Y/N). He was sorry he couldn’t help them. “The doctor and I did the best we could.”

            “Then it’s good that I’m coming back,” said Sherlock, trying to keep his usual pragmatism, but he was worried now.

            (Y/N)’s mental health had always been fragile—the curse of being a genius in a world of idiots. They had been wary of people in the orphanage, pushed aside by adults who wanted to ignore their mind looking through them. Then, of course, the cases they and Sherlock had ended up on were…traumatizing, to put it lightly. But (Y/N) had always had Sherlock. He had watched for any serious signs of danger and taken care of them. But he hadn’t been there this time. It had been his absence that caused them this pain.

            “Have you done anything to prepare (Y/N) or John for your return?” said Mycroft.

            He sincerely hoped that (Y/N) found some stability again now that Sherlock was coming back, but he also knew that Sherlock coming back after so long being dead could also cause problems (and Mycroft didn’t want (Y/N)’s mental health to be any worse than it was).

            “Where’s John going to be tonight?” said Sherlock, ignoring Mycroft. His brother knew Sherlock had kept silent on his status being alive and not dead. It had been for John and (Y/N)’s safety.

            Mycroft looked at Sherlock disapprovingly. He knew Sherlock was going to go to John first because he was scared to see (Y/N) unwell because it was partly his fault. But he also knew he couldn’t stop his brother form doing what he wanted (and it wasn’t as if he wouldn’t go to (Y/N). Sherlock cared too much to leave them like this for long now knowing how they were.)

            “How would I know?” said Mycroft, deciding to be obtuse as ever.

            “You always know,” said Sherlock, knowing Mycroft as well as his brother knew him.

            “He has a dinner reservation in Marylebone Road. Nice little spot. They have a few bottles of the 2000 Saint-Emilion, though I prefer the 2001,” said Mycroft. “And there is also a sweets shop that sells lollipops there.”

            “I know,” said Sherlock. He had bought (Y/N) their favorite lollipops from there many times.

            Anthea reentered and held out Sherlock’s Belstaff coat. He took it and slid it on.

            “Welcome back, Mr. Holmes,” she said.

            “Thank you,” said Sherlock sarcastically, facing his brother. “Marylebone Road, was it? I trust you can spare a car for me?”

            Mycroft tutted. “Anthea will escort you there. But then you’re on your own.”

            His brother could face John and (Y/N)’s reactions on his own. John’s reaction was easy enough to guess—anger. But Mycroft knew Sherlock could take a punch. However, he wanted (Y/N) and Sherlock to be alright soon. Neither was quite right without the other. Mycroft wasn’t one for guessing or hoping, but he did wish for everything to return to being as it should be.

            Sherlock followed Anthea to the car. And while he watched the streets go by to take him to John, all he could think of was (Y/N). His kid. Soon, everything would be as it should be. Him, John, and (Y/N)—family.

l

            “If you’ll have me, Mary, could you see your way, um…” John cleared his throat nervously. Trying to propose to the woman he loved was scarier than anything he’d ever done. “If you could see your way to—”

            “Sit, I think you’ll this vintage exceptionally to your liking,” said Sherlock, disguised with just a drawn-on mustache. He expertly interrupted John and Mary. “It has all of the qualities of the old with some of the color of the new.”

            John didn’t even look at Sherlock the Waiter and gritted his teeth. “No, sorry, not now, please.”

            “Like a gaze from a crowd of strangers, suddenly one is aware of staring into the face of an old friend,” said Sherlock, trying to prompt John to see him.

            “No, look, seriously, could you just…” John looked up, and his face fell.

            “Interesting thing, a tuxedo,” said Sherlock nonchalantly as if he wasn’t suddenly back from the dead. “Lends distinction to friends and anonymity to waiters.” John stood silently.

            “John?” said Mary in confusion as John tried to take deeps breaths. “John, what is it?”

            Sherlock cleared his throat and intelligently tried to defuse John. “Well, the short version is…not dead.” Or maybe not try to defuse anything. He coughed. “Bit mean springing it on you like that, I know. Could have given you a heart attack, probably still will. But in my defense, it was very funny.” John stared angrily. “Okay, not a great defense.”

            Mary’s eyes widened. “Oh, no, you’re—”

            “Oh, yeah,” said Sherlock.

            “Oh, my god,” said Mary.

            “Not quite,” said Sherlock.

            “You died, you jumped off a roof,” said Mary.

            “No,” said Sherlock.

            “You’re dead,” said Mary.

            “No, I’m quite sure, I checked,” said Sherlock. “Excuse me.” He dipped a napkin in their wine glasses and wiped away his mustache as John glowered. “Does yours rub off, too?”

            “Oh my god, oh my god,” exclaimed Mary. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

            Sherlock cleared his throat. “Okay, John, I’m suddenly realizing I probably owe you some sort of an apology.” John slammed his hand down on the table.

            Mary tried to soothe John. “Alright, John, just keep—”

            “Two years,” snapped John. He took a deep breath, but he didn’t calm down. “Two years! Hm? I thought—Mm…I thought you were dead. Now, you let me grieve. You let (Y/N) grieve. How could you do that?” Sherlock winced at the mention of (Y/N). “How?!”

            Sherlock coughed and tried to collect himself. “Wait, before you do anything that you might regret, one question, just let me ask one question.” He pointed to John’s mustache. “Are you really going to keep that?”

            John took a deep breath and chose violence. He grabbed Sherlock’s collar and pushed him to the ground roughly. Onlookers gasped, and Mary shot up from her seat. John didn’t care and just continued to throttle Sherlock.

l

            In a dingy little diner (they had gotten kicked out of the fancier restaurant for fighting), Sherlock attempted to explain himself to John without getting punched again. “I calculated—”

            “You know, for a genius, you can be remarkably thick,” snapped John, just cutting him off.

            “What?” said Sherlock.

            “No one cares how you faked it, Sherlock. I want to know why. For God’s sake, why?!” snapped John.

            “Because Moriarty had to be stopped. I had to protect (Y/N),” said Sherlock simply. “I needed to get rid of his network to protect them.”

            John relaxed slightly. “Fine, fine. Did anyone know?”

            “My brother, of course. And then Molly Hooper had to fake the documents for my death…and maybe a few people in my homeless network,” said Sherlock.

            “So just your bother, Molly Hooper, and a hundred tramps,” snapped John, back to being angry since he suspected Mycroft would know, but others knew before him and (Y/N)?

            “No, twenty-five at most,” said Sherlock, thinking he was fixing something.

            John launched across the table and grabbed Sherlock’s throat.

l

            In a shabby ice cream parlor, Mary crossed her arms and tapped her foot as John just glared at Sherlock as he dabbed a napkin on his broken lip. The night was just getting worse and worse.

            “Seriously, it’s not a joke? You’re keeping that?” said Sherlock, glancing at John’s mustache.

            John cleared his throat. “Yeah.”

            “Sure?” said Sherlock, questioning John.

            “Mary likes it,” said John.

            “Mmm…no she doesn’t,” said Sherlock.

            “She does,” said John.

            “She doesn’t.”

            John glanced at Mary, and she coughed.

            “Oh, don’t,” she said.

            “Oh, brilliant,” sighed John.

            “Look, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t know how to tell you,” said Mary.

            “Right, no, no, this is charming. I’ve really missed this!” snapped John. He groaned. “I’m surprised it’s not you and (Y/N) back at this.” He glanced at Sherlock. “Actually, I’m surprised (Y/N) isn’t here at all.” He frowned. “Where are they?”

            Sherlock was silent.

            “Sherlock,” said John. “Where’s (Y/N)?”

            “I haven’t seen them yet,” said Sherlock slowly.

            “What!” shouted John.

            “I haven’t told them yet,” said Sherlock guiltily.

            John reared back and punched Sherlock.

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[sunchaserwings]

Incoming rant about The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, Herlock Sholmes from The Great Ace Attorney, and the BBC Sherlock (no major spoilers ahead I promise).

A preface before I begin; I was never a big fan of Sherlock Holmes or any adaptation of the stories. I've seen Elementary although I was very young so I only have the vaguest of memories of enjoying it, and my roommate had me watch a couple BBC Sherlock episodes when I was a tween/young teen. My mother claims she tried to get me into Sherlock Holmes but I'm rather skeptical. Anyhow, onto the story.

Back in March my boyfriend bought me the Ace Attorney games for my birthday which included the Great Ace Attorney Chronicles (or Dai Gyakuten Saiban for those who are still stuck on the pre-localization names ;p). I was on my flight home from my birthday trip after I got the news my manager fired my brother while I was out of the state and figured why not, I'd start playing the first TGAA game on the flight. I'd probably enjoy myself and I couldn't sleep.

Second biggest mistake of the year (first biggest was trusting Les Schwab to do my brake job). I. Was. Hooked. I played the first case and fell in love with Kazuma instantly (he's so Zero shaped!). I played the second case and realized that calling him Zero shaped was way too accurate. We all know what happened there. Most important to this rant, I met Herlock Sholmes (more on my opinions on him later). I could barely put the game down but I had to take a break due to finding a new job and getting adjusted. I ended up finishing the game in June or July, one of the two. I finished the final case of the first game in one long 12 hour gaming session it was that good (my back didn't thank me though).

Now, the man of the hour: Herlock Sholmes. I didn't think much of him initially. He was simultaneously charming and annoying in the second case but as I played more he grew on me. I cried when the start of 1-5 happened. He clawed his way up into like the top 7 favorite characters at the time. The ending of the game with him playing his violin made me bawl my eyes out. I. Loved. This. Game.

It took a few more months to start and finish the second game. In between Adventures and Resolve I played Skyward Sword, Minish Cap, and some others so I had a healthy break. I came back to play Resolve and finished it like two months ago. It hit me in the gut just as hard as the first game did although there are a great many things I'd tweak and do differently. But Herlock Sholmes... man, he's not my favorite but he's up there underneath Kazuma and Van Zieks.

Anyhow, I finished the game but the hyperfixation had started and would not let me go. I've never been one to go out and seek fanfiction due to... personal stuff but I had a feeling I didn't want to go probe the depths of AO3 yet for fear of crying. I started a graveyard shift at my job which severely limited my ability to talk with people about stuff and also there's so many major spoilers but very few people I knew had played the game. A thought occurred to me, however. What about Sherlock Holmes audiobooks? I have an auditory processing issue which has made listening to audiobooks hard but I decided to give it a go. Perhaps it would satiate the TGAA hyperfixation hunger.

I found the ones produced by Magpie Audio, expertly narrated by Greg Wagland. Go check him out, he has over 77 videos of Sherlock Holmes audiobook recordings and all of them are a minimum of 40 minutes, often times far more. I went through over 30 hours of audiobook in a few weeks listening to these. Sherlock Holmes is such a good character and I can understand how and why he took late Victorian England by storm. And you know what the best part is?

Herlock Sholmes is the most faithful adaptation I have personally seen as a character of the original Sherlock Holmes.

They got so many of Sherlock's little idiosyncrasies right and you can tell the entire team were genuine fans of the books. I listened to Mr. Wagland's narration *and I saw 221B Baker of the games*. Especially the jack knife impaling the communications to the mantle being referenced in the game? The sheer mess of the flat? It's so good!

My roommate (whom is also a Sherlock Holmes fan) noticed my newest hyper fixation that spawned off of TGAA and that reignited his Sherlock Holmes obsession. He was a fan of the BBC Sherlock and now recognizes it was not a very great show but it's a comfort media for him nonetheless. He just dragged me into rewatching it and... okay, it's playing into a lot of inaccurate Sherlock tropes I don't like but goddamn Martin Freeman carries the whole show. I love his John Watson because it feels like a reasonable version of a modern, younger Watson. He feels real in a way. I do like the fact that even in the first episode, it's established that John and Sherlock can make each other laugh and smile just like in the books. I don't forgive them calling Sherlock a sociopath, however (speaking as someone with a brother that has been diagnosed with being a high-fuctioning sociopath). He's AuDHD to the max and deserves recognition in that department.

All of this to say, I can trace my current Sherlock hyperfixation back to Mega Man. Finding Mega Man in 4th grade led to watching the Ace Attorney anime in late 2021 which led to playing The Great Ace Attorney and that led to listening to Sherlock Holmes. I don't know why I decided to make this post but maybe I might start live blogging this shit? All in all, this is going to be a wild ride.

[virtues-of-artemis]

I'm re-reading A Study in Scarlet and I can't believe how petulant, annoying and child-like Holmes is when compared to his personality in the later stories. Instead of being the noble, selfless dude who lets Scotland Yard take all the credit, in the first book he seriously considers not solving the murder because he doubts he'll be acknowledged. Peak example of character development, or a deliberate continuity error to make the public like him more?

ALSO, another change I notice is that in A Study in Scarlet, Holmes is described as being a very early riser, yet in The Hound of the Baskervilles the first line is "Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who was usually very late in the mornings, save upon those not infrequent occasions when he stayed up all night, was seated at the breakfast table."

Was Watson's first impression of Holmes just that he rose early because he'd only ever witnessed the occasions in which Holmes didn't sleep? Or did Holmes just get hit hard by his growing age?? Or, could it possibly be that this is just another example of Doyle's absolutely shocking continuity???

Find out next week, when we answer all of your questions, and more (queue dramatic reality show outro).