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ao3porcelainstorm · 4 years

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poison ivy & stinging nettles 26

On Ao3

Masterlist

Pairing: Sherlock/OFC

Rated: M

Warnings: eventual violence, torture, swears, adult themes (no explicit smut)

Chapter 25 - Chapter 27

Chapter 26 - Fall

The Journal of Amelia Brenner

My therapist suggested I try writing down my thoughts. She said it might help me reflect on all that’s happened, a way to take on the grief.

I don’t really have a lot to say. I don’t think. I’ve never really been a writer, words are hard to come up with. It’s fair easier to throw a bottle of red paint at a wall and call it anger.

So I’ll just write down what I know.

John’s started up with his therapist again. I guess he’d stopped since meeting Sherlock, but since everything- he’s not doing well. I don’t think any of us are.

We moved out of Baker Street. There’s too much there. Everything just radiated Sherlock Holmes and I think the memories are still too fresh for both of us.

Ruthie is letting us rent the apartment above the old flower shop. The whole building was rebuilt and renovated. It’s better than it was before the fire- if I’m being honest. Not to mention, it’s bigger and doesn’t have the distinct smell of human flesh and sulfur.

John’s at work a lot more. When he’s home, he goes straight to bed. Sometimes he’ll come home stumbling from the pub.

I get it. I’d done my fair share of drinking alone, watching Doctor Who reruns all day.

Molly won’t answer my calls. I’m worried she’s not doing well, but I can’t find the energy to get dressed and visit in person. I can’t find the energy to do much anymore.

I tried painting the other day and ended up kicking a hole through the canvas. John came home and found me with a bottle of Merlot, laying in the middle of my room- the walls coated with thrown bottles of paint.

He suggested I get a day job to pass the time. Maybe he’s right.

All of my free time had become Sherlock.

I followed him to crime scenes, talked to him, laughed with him, slept with him. Everything was him. I didn’t mind. It wasn’t bad at all. For once, it was nice to feel important, to help bring happiness to others. I was spending time with the man I love and my best friend, every day.

Who could ask for anything better? I loved my life and now it’s careening off the rails and no matter how long I stare at the cliff I’m headed toward, I refuse to accept the reality for what it is.

Sherlock Holmes is dead, and there’s nothing that will change that.

(--)

Amelia had been through her fair share of no-win scenarios.

It wasn’t missed that the majority of them had happened since Sherlock stumbled into her life, but she wouldn’t have traded the experience for anything. Life lessons and finding love; all that nonsense.

So, when Moriarty wasn’t convicted for his part in the large crimes he’d committed in broad daylight, she realized that once again, they’d fallen into his game. A game where there were never any winners in the end.

Sherlock didn’t handle the news well. He was short-tempered, distracted, and when the little girl screamed as she’d recognized him, Amelia didn’t miss the murmurs and rumors that stirred after he fumed out of Scotland Yard.

She didn’t miss the uneasy look John shot her, or the other officers’ eyes boring into her back- more rumors that connected dots regarding her relationship with the detective.

He’d had a meltdown before they tried to arrest him, ranting about Moriarty making his move.

He was in the spotlight now, John had mentioned so much after the painting had been returned and Sherlock’s photographs peppered the front pages of local papers.

It was a wise time to strike, on Moriarty’s part, even Amelia had to sheepishly agree with the logic.

When Sherlock, and soon John, were arrested, Amelia hurried out to watch the men run off- Sherlock acting like he’d lost his mind.

She sprinted after them, promising Greg she’d calm them down. Figure out what happened.

Clear his name, was the unspoken promise between her and the unnerved inspector.

The boys moved fast, reminding Amelia exactly who she was working with. They were a step ahead of her the whole day.

Sherlock was getting desperate and did his best work in those cases. People tended to underestimate those at the end of their rope, and she’d almost fallen into that trap.

Thankfully, John shot her a text after an hour into her search.

An address tied to some reporter Sherlock had mentioned during the trial.

It was something, and she hoped the detective hadn’t mucked up the whole thing. The media would have a frenzy with his seemingly insane actions of the last twenty-four hours. She already was dreading the newspapers in the morning.

The British media was a brutal, cruel monster.

She arrived at the address, electing to listen to the voices inside bickering when a familiar voice commented behind her.

“You know what I love about a tragedy?” Moriarty purred when Amelia spun around. “It’s always preventable. Some miscalculation, some overzealous emotional decision- but the hero overlooks the obvious solution.”

Something snapped in Amelia. Fueled by a rage she’d ignored in lieu of healing, she shoved him back against the hallway wall.

He seemed genuinely surprised by the outburst, laughing quietly when she pinned his neck under her forearm, cutting off his breathing.

“Why shouldn’t I kill you?” she snarled. “I have every reason to.”

“They’ll think Sherlock did it-,” his face was turning blue, but still he grinned at her. “Fraud.”

Amelia hissed an insult under her breath and pulled away. He was right. Of course, he was right. This was his show, his story, and they were all playing their parts perfectly.

“Keep an eye out for the papers tomorrow, love,” he coughed, grabbing a grocery bag off the ground, humming a familiar tune under his breath.

Something clicked in Amelia’s brain and before he could unlock the door, she whirled around and slammed a fist into his gut.

It wasn’t the most powerful hit, but he still reeled over in pain, and that was enough for her.

“You’re not going to win,” she snarled in a low voice. “I’ll kill you myself if it comes down to it.”

“I don’t doubt that for a second,” he smirked and slipped into the apartment.

(---)

John met up with Amelia at the Diogenes Club.

He was thumbing through paperwork that he’d taken from the reporter when she’d arrived, frowning deeper with every word he read.

“He was sold out,” he murmured, handing her the files.

“What?” Amelia blinked in confusion, reading through the intimate details of Sherlock’s life.

A twisted review of the good he’d done, skewed by some distorted story about some actor named Richard.

Richard, whose face belonged to the monster from her nightmares.

The whole thing reeked of Moriarty, but the details...

They involved things only she or John would know and included some things she never knew. Intimate details. Personal details that only family might know.

“You think Mycroft told him?” she whispered, handing the file back to her friend. “When he in custody? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I know he did,” John stated firmly. “Who else? We didn’t.”

The thought sent a chill up Amelia’s spine. His own brother. No wonder Sherlock seemed like he was slipping. The whole world was attacking him at every side.

“Is he on his way then? Mycroft?” she asked and John sighed, shrugging.

“Apparently,” he murmured, shaking his head at something he read. “They said he’s usually here by now.”

Amelia nodded and stood up, hand on her phone in her jacket pocket.

“I... I’m going to wait outside,” she mumbled. “I don’t think I could look Mycroft in the eye if he actually did this. We can... Just let me know when you’re done.”

John wasn’t paying much attention when she slipped out and started dialing Sherlock’s phone.

It rang twice before someone picked up.

“Sherlock?” she inquired quietly into the line.

“Are you safe?” he quickly questioned.

“Yeah I’m- I’m with John,” she replied. “Where are you?”

Amelia swore she heard a breath of relief through the line.

“Hospital,” he answered briskly. “Molly is... She agreed to let me stay out of sight here.”

“What’s your plan?” Amelia asked.

“Not yet,” he replied tersely. “I can’t tell you yet.”

“Then you know whatever it is, I’m here to help,” she stated firmly.

“I know,” he paused. “Just stay with John. I’ll be in touch.”

The line went dead, and Amelia shoved the phone back in her pocket. She paced around the sidewalk in front of the Diogenes Club, head ringing.

Moriarty’s words kept playing in her head. A tragedy.

It was clear what was happening, between the story and the doubt the maniac had sowed in everyone’s heads. The public would slaughter him alive when that bullshit story hit the shelves the next day. Sherlock, while a difficult and moody person, was sensitive to the opinions of others, no matter how he tried to play it off.

This had the potential to break him.

Amelia didn’t like the thought of where this could lead. She didn’t like the thought of losing what little peace she’d cultivated in her life. She was scared shitless and shaking when John found her waiting outside.

“I was right,” was all he said before tucking her under his arm and pulling her into a hug. She sighed, wishing that all her worries could wash away with the brief respite. When John pulled away, he looked at her directly.

“I’m scared too.”

(---)

The trio reunited at the hospital laboratory.

“The computer code,” Sherlock explained, bouncing a ball between cabinets, eyes fixed forward. “Somewhere in Baker Street... on the day of the verdict, he must have hidden it.”

“What did he touch?” John asked, approaching, eyes following the ball as it bounced between the floor and counters.

“An apple, nothing else,” came Sherlock’s response. He stood up, fist-clenching around the rubber ball, eyes scanning the air as if the answer would appear.

John tapped idly on the counter, throwing out ideas when Amelia saw Sherlock suddenly tense.

It was subtle, but she watched him glance at the pair before turning away, fishing his phone from his pocket and quickly typing out a message.

When he turned back around, John had been oblivious to the action, but he met Amelia’s questioning look with a frown.

He wasn’t going to tell them his plan, she realized when he started wordlessly bouncing the ball again.

A few hours passed, with John falling asleep about halfway through their waiting. Amelia sat propped against the cabinets on the ground next to Sherlock while her phone charged in a nearby outlet- just watching him.

She watched him fidget and check his phone from time to time. She watched him pace, eyes searching for something not present.

Occasionally he’d mumbled under his breath or bounce the ball again.

She watched him do everything in his power to avoid looking at her or John.

That deep, unnerving feeling she’d felt at the Diogenes club had re-emerged.

This wasn’t going to end well, she predicted. She didn’t know how or what was going to happen, but she knew Sherlock well enough to understand when he was a dozen paces ahead and he didn’t seem pleased.

He knew the endgame, and he knew she would immediately be able to tell that something was off. That’s why he didn’t say anything about his plan.

John’s phone rang, pulling the doctor out of his brief nap. A few quick words and bolted up, looking to the pair while he threw on his coat.

“Paramedics, Mrs. Hudson they say she’s been shot,” he explained breathlessly, tossing Amelia her coat off a nearby chair.

“What? How?” Sherlock’s response came coolly. Unphased. Unsurprised, even.

“Probably one of the killers you managed to- Jesus, she’s dying, let’s go,” he started for the door, Amelia following behind without question.

“You go, I’m busy,” he stated, staring off in the distance.

That wasn’t the right response. Amelia stared in shock, looking to John then Sherlock, for someone to say something else.

John’s expression shifted in awe- anger, surprise, frustration all bubbling to the surface.

“Busy-?” he choked out, hands shaking at his sides.

“Thinking- I need to think,” came Sherlock’s short reply.

This didn’t read right to Amelia. He wasn’t that heartless-

“You need to- doesn’t she mean anything to you?” John’s voice broke slightly. “You once half-killed a man because he laid a finger on her.”

“She’s my landlady.”

“She’s dying- you machine,” John spat out, hands body shaking. When he realized the truth to his own words, something crossed his features and he backed away “Sod this. Sod this. You stay here if you want, be alone.”

“Alone is what I have. Alone protects me,” Sherlock replied, still unmoving.

“Friends protect people,” John snapped. “C’mon Mia.”

Amelia sent a final look to Sherlock, her expression falling when he wouldn’t break away from his selected spot on the wall in front of him. Avoiding her.

This was wrong. This was all wrong.

Hurrying after John, he was about to slide in the cab when she felt her pockets, realizing her wallet and phone had been left behind in the lab.

“Go ahead,” she called to him, turning back to the hospital. “I’ll be right behind you!”

John took off without a second thought, while Amelia raced back to the lab, stopping when she saw Sherlock in one of the back halls- headed for a staircase.

To her surprise, he didn’t notice her, his expression lost in thought while he marched forward, almost trance-like. She stood and watched until he was out of sight, her heart thrumming against her sternum.

Something wrong. Her mind repeated over and over.

Her gut said to follow him, but against her instincts, she let him be. She slipped back into the lab, spying her phone on the counter with a new message from John.

Mrs. Hudson is fine. Somethings wrong.

She knew it.

Racing up the hall, she could hear a closing door above her when she reached the stairs.

Rooftop, her brained supplied, and she sprinted up the steps two at a time, pausing at the metal door leading to the roof.

“...nice you choose a tall building, nice way to do it.”

James Moriarty.

There was a beat before Sherlock’s voice sounded.

“Do it? Do what?” he asked. “Yes of course... my suicide.”

Amelia’s chest tightened.

“Genius detective proved to be a fraud, I read it in the papers so it must be true. I love newspapers,” Amelia could hear the voices stepping away. “Fairytales... and pretty grim ones too.”

What could she do? What was there to do?

She wasn’t supposed to be here.

She wasn’t supposed to be listening.

She fumbled with her phone, shaking hands trying to type out a coherent message to John.

Sherlock in trouble. Moriarty here.

Anything-! But before she could send, an adrenaline rush sent a hitter through her arms and the phone tumbled out of her hands and down the stairs.

Nononononono

This was like her nightmares. Her inability to save anyone. Her curse being forced to watch while-

A gunshot rattled the door and Amelia decided she’d had enough. She’d face whatever awaited on the other side, regardless of who pulled the trigger.

She didn’t expect to find Moriarty, dead on the ground, Sherlock looking panicked, and a gun in the maniac’s hand.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock was on Amelia in a heartbeat, grabbing her arm and spinning her to face him. “You’re supposed to be with John.”

“My phone-,” she stammered gesturing toward the door, eyes still wide. “Sherlock, what’s happening?”

Moriarty dead. Sherlock on the roof. Suicide.

“No, no, you can’t be here,” he ran a hand through his hair. “Amelia, you need to leave. You can’t see this.”

“He’s dead, what are you talking about? He’s gone,” she tried putting words into sentences that would make sense, but the way he was stumbling around made her second guess her attempts at calming him.

“He’s going to kill all of you, he hired assassins to-” he finally managed, his expression resolved in the information. “Unless...”

“You jump,” she whispered, a hand moving to cover her horrified expression. “Sherlock, think logically, there’s- he’s playing on your emotions. He wants you to think there isn’t another plan- we can call Lestrade or your brother-.”

“There’s no time,” he explained, grabbing her arms. “Please, do this for me. Go downstairs. Forget this, forget all of this.”

“Sherlock you can’t be serious,” tears sprung up in her eyes. “You’re being irrational. Let John and I help, we’re your friends-.”

He cut her off with a frantic kiss.

It was a desperate last kiss that would have normally swept Amelia straight off her feet.

Instead, she clutched into the front of his jacket when he tried to pull away and back toward the edge of the rooftop.

“Please, Sherlock,” she begged. “You can’t- I love you. So many people love and cherish you and I... please.”

He was on the edge of the building, legs wavering slightly when he looked down. He took a breath, pulling his cell phone from his pocket.

“I’m calling John,” he stated, hand holding the phone up for her to see.

Right. John.

John would talk some sense into him. He’d see reason when John-

She didn’t hear much of what was said. Her mind was racing, running through ways of saving him.

Pull him down, stop the jump- anything, but every scenario still ended with him plummeting to his death.

Amelia felt so useless. So pathetic. So helpless.

He was determined to make things right and, in his mind, this was the right path. He’d do what he had to in order to see this through to the end.

She stepped closer while he was distracted, and when he turned to drop the phone, he gave her a final look, a sad smile.

“I love you, Amelia,” he said. “And I beg you, please, don’t watch.”

And before she could reach for him, he jumped.

An inhuman noise escaped her, and though every temptation was there for her to watch his descent, she threw herself to the rooftop and buried her screams in her knees.

Screams filled the street. Onlookers yelled for help.

Her heart felt like it’d been ripped clean of her body. Disbelief danced with the reality of what just happened in front of her own eyes.

Everything felt like a dream after that.

Mycroft ended up being the one to find her, his agents approaching the scene first.

Normally, Amelia would have given him a piece of her mind regarding his place in all of this, but she numbly let him guide her to where John was on the street below.

She caught snippets of conversations. People being interviewed by the police, the random clicks of journalists documenting the famous detectives fall from grace, EMTs murmuring about what it all meant.

Her mind was trying to make sense of it all. Trying to pry some semblance of sanity from the chaos around her.

She found John sitting on the back of an ambulance with a patch on his head.

She didn’t say a word as she approached, instead just wrapping him under her arms and letting him choke out a few tears into her jacket. They’d both been left behind.

The tragedy of Sherlock Holmes wasn’t the unpoetic end he’d faced, it was the guilt and questions he’d left behind in those who cared the most for him.

Chapter 27

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crimsonrae · 3 years

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Reckless Intent: Part Two

Summary: When the dance between Sherlock and Delia first began, learning the steps did not come smoothly. But then that would happen when affections haven’t been made clear and a murderer is on the loose.

SherlockXOFC

Rating: M

Warning: Some manhandling, allusions to nudity.

A/N: Set about ten years before the events in Enola. Sherlock has only been away from home for about three years. So this is more from Sherlock’s point of view and I had fun with this, because despite how intelligent he is, I think that he would still be lost to a woman’s way of thinking or reacting. Also there will be a part three. A culmination if you will of all my teasing : )

Reckless Intent: Part Two

It had taken more time than he would have liked to get the bestial efflux that had swarmed his blood to calm.

Sherlock pulled a long-drawn breath through his nose as he silently counted the seconds until a certain menace in the shape of woman appeared by his side. Never had he met someone who could stir his anger so easily. She made him want to rage, to shake her until sense fell into that cob she called a mind. How she could incite him with just a few well-placed words was boggling.

Yet, images of Delia on that stage danced before his eyes as he waited outside the club. The hint of cleavage through the feathers of her fan, the shapely curve of her thigh... Lust had seared his veins at the unexpected display of her womanly assets. His palms had itched with the need to cup her silky flesh, to leave his mark on her unblemished hide, and pull the most melodic notes of pleasure from her dainty throat. His manhood had hardened with a demand that only her tempting hole could satisfy.

And had they been alone?

Had the ravenous stares and drunken jeering of the swine inside not been present... he would have taken her there on that staged. He would have answered her teasing seduction, shown her what happened when such a flag was waved before a bull.

But they hadn’t been alone. He wasn’t the only one to gaze upon her bare flesh and that was unforgivable. Fury still spurned his veins, only the remembrance of their kiss tempered his lingering ire.

Sherlock bit back a groan as he tried to ignore the memory of the delightful contrast of her wired nest against her smooth skin and her heat... his fingers had been brushed by her desirous warmth, had felt the hint of her promising dewy depths. He marveled that he hadn’t sunk into her depths there and then. Her protest to his advances had been meek at best. There was no doubt in his mind that his Delia was a wanton... but she was his wanton. It was high time that he made his claim known.

He would not tolerate another incident such as this.

His fingers flexed and tightened over the head of his cane, releasing the frustrated bur that Delia so expertly pricked in him. It wouldn’t do to walk the streets with an erection like an adolescent boy. As if she knew his struggle, Delia appeared at his elbow only to add oil to his smoldering flame. Her frock covered little more of her chest than her stage attire.

His nostrils flared with annoyance. Even her hair was still unrestrained, her curls falling loose about her shoulders, “That was longer than ten minutes.”

Delia arched a brow at him, unimpressed by his dour reproach, “Yet, you didn’t come back for me. You should be pleased.”

His glare was glacial, but she refused to simper –stubborn mule of a woman.

Sherlock snatched her elbow before she had a chance to send another volley. The firm grip teetered on the edge of impropriety, but it was hardly the most improper act that either one of them had committed so far. He nudged her forward, refusing to speak further until they were away from this infernal club.

Luckily, Delia took the hint as she adjusted her arm in his grip and fell into step. It wasn’t lost on him that she had quickly masked the aggressive undertones of their current meeting. It no longer looked as if he were dragging an unruly woman through the street but had taken to escorting a potential paramour. Strangely, they fell somewhere in between the two paradigms.

They swept down the dimly lit streets with marked silence. He, still simmering, unwilling to vent his anger where it could be heard by the restless populace of London and she – he darted a glance to his companion – she was remarkably stoic. Her features serene as if nothing was amiss, but the darkened hue to her cheeks and the tense set to her jaw belied her discomfort... or perhaps her anticipation.

Sherlock wasn’t sure which beset her and ignored the little voice in his ear that whispered it was the later. He had decided long before he had exited the club that his baser urges would be denied that night. Far more pressing concerns needed to be addressed before he conducted any further intimate explorations of her body.

As if she knew where his thoughts had led, Delia smirked dimly as he prodded her up the steps to his apartments. He wanted nothing more than to steal that smile from her face and it wasn’t until the door clicked firmly shut that he began his attack, “Have you lost your damn mind? Did you even for one minute think about what would happen to you in that place?”

“Sherlock -”

“No.” He continued as if he hadn't heard her, “You didn’t. You’re lucky I was there – that I even had an inkling to show up. Else wise you would’ve ended up like your friend or worse on your back -”

SMACK.

Fire laced up the side of his face as he felt the imprint of her palm reverberate through the bone of his cheek. Glowering he turned back to her and found Delia torn between shock at her actions and indignant.

Her breath came fast as she spat, “You are not my keeper, Sherlock Holmes. If you’re not going to discuss this case, say so now and I will take my leave.”

Sherlock smiled grimly, “Oh, I am taking the case, Delia. I’ve said as much already. And you’re right, I’m not your keeper. I’m far more than that and you will acknowledge it before the night is over.”

“How dare you!” Indignation seemed to have won out in his little menace as she hissed, “To make such assumptions based on one measly kiss... I would think such acts beneath you. Impervious king that you are.”

Volatile.

Rash.

Words that could be used to describe both of them in that moment, Sherlock noted distantly. He fought to keep a hold of his temper. He had pushed her tonight and she had already been walking a tightrope by going undercover in that club. He shouldn’t be surprised that the bewilderment and anger she had carefully kept under lock and key had been released now.

However, he was sure that he had made his intentions clear long before his stolen kiss, in fact he was sure of it. A resounding crack echoed through the foyer, stunning both occupants as the head of Sherlock’s cane fell from its body. He hadn’t realized how tightly he had been gripping the implement or even that he was still holding it.

He cast the ruin staff aside with a barely contained growl, “One measly kiss?”

He prowled forward like a stalking jaguar, “Is that what you think I based my assumptions on?”

Delia, to her credit, did not cower from him as she lifted her chin defiantly, “I think you saw naked flesh and responded as all men do.”

Again, Sherlock wondered if she could read minds. Hadn’t his thoughts dwelled upon her wicked display before she had arrived at his side? But she was very mistaken if she thought that his reaction was merely a result of her dance... No, his interest in Delia Woodson had started long before this night.

“Blue myosotis.”

Delia blinked, her confusion apparent by his pointed delineation, “Pardon?”

“Blue myosotis.” Sherlock repeated definitively, “Or more commonly – forget-me-nots. You pinned them to my lapel three months, one week, and two days ago. After that murdered child was found by the docks. I was upset, but you...you were the only one to notice. You saw through the impassivity that I had carefully cultivated to keep myself detached.”

He refused to use the word impervious.

His voice grew soft, “You pinned the flower to my lapel and said, ‘It’s a small token, Mr. Holmes, but colorful – bright. You need a little of that I think.’ I knew I loved you then.... and the flower you chose? More than appropriate for that realization. I doubt you knew but forgot-me-not's represent true love.”

Stricken with shock, Delia could only gape at the unexpected confession, “I - Sherlock.”

“So, yes, Delia. I am far more than your keeper.” He continued stoutly, daring her to interrupt, to protest his words, “And not yet your lover, but that state will be rectified soon enough I’d wager. And no, our kiss had little to do with your irreverent show, though I do wish it had been under different circumstances, I don’t regret it.”

He could see her floundering. By not hiding from the truth, nor ignoring his earlier actions he had stripped bare any defensive armor she had managed to cobble together in their brief time apart. And he had finally acknowledge the elephant that he had been alluding to all night. He didn’t need to hear the words reciprocated – he knew she felt the same, though she hadn’t realized it until he had accosted her in that club. He had seen the moment she comprehended where her affections laid.

His hand came up to grasp her chin as he made sure that he fully held her attention, “And such antics will not occur ever again. I won’t stand for it and your bottom won’t sit for it, should you attempt such an act.”

Her eyes widened at his pointed threat, knowing he was serious her defiance flickered at him. Sherlock nearly grumbled. Why did he have to fall in love with the most obtuse woman on the bloody planet?

“This...” She drew a calming breath and laced her delicate fingers over the top his that still grasped her chin, “This is not talk of the case.”

Dull amusement laced through him at her poor deflection, but he took his cue and drew back a step, “I garnered several leads while you were performing. I’ll be able to more thoroughly investigate tomorrow. I haven’t forgotten about your Margaret.”

“What leads?”

Sherlock shook his head in the face of her hungry interest. She had taken far too many risks as it were for this case, “No. You want me to take this case and investigate? Then my price is that you stay out of it.”

“But -”

“You were reckless tonight.” Sherlock vented, his anger rising back to the top. She hadn’t seen the men that had watched her – followed her, but he had. Not all of her audience had been lustful brigands. His little menace had made no secret of her inquiry into her friend’s death, “Purposefully, I’m certain.”

Her lip jutted out temptingly and he nearly cracked a smile in the face of her pout, “She’s my friend, Sherlock. Surely, I deserve to know – to help.”

“You will stay out of it. That’s my price – take it or leave it, Delia.” He stated resoundingly, unwilling to budge on this point. He would fill her in once he had solved the crime and the murderer was being carted off by Scotland Yard, but not a second before that occurred.

Delia huffed as she dared ask, “And if I refuse and continue to investigate on my own?”

Sherlock stiffened at her challenge as he raised an unimpressed brow and smiled thinly, “Oh, I dare you to try. You won’t make it out that door, I can promise you that.”

“I have to leave some time; I don’t live here.” She muttered lowly, after all he only had just started his investigation.

“Yet.” Sherlock returned arrogantly as he stepped towards the stairs, “Mrs. Hudson!”

The shadow of his housekeeper appeared at the top of the stairs within seconds. He had no doubt that she had heard every word passed between himself and Delia, but ever discreet the matronly woman had waited until he beckoned. Draped in her robe and bonnet, he felt a stirring of guilt for having disturbed her slumber with his return, but even still as she blandly met his stare – he couldn’t help the mischievous spark that entered his mien.

“Please ready the guestroom. Miss. Woodson will be staying here tonight.” Loathe as he was to have her out of his sight, Sherlock knew they needed space. Too much had occurred in a sort time span and to be perfectly frank he needed a moment away from the weight of her presence. He needed to recoup.

“That’s not necessary.” Delia started softly.

Sherlock barely contained a weary sigh, “It’s late and I’m not in the mood to escort you back to Hoxton.”

She blinked, bemusement once again piercing her features, “How did you know - ?”

Sherlock didn’t deign to answer. To say he wasn’t thrilled that she lived in such a horrid area was a vast understatement, but he had to admit that it was a step above White Chapel and far better than Old Nichol. Another situation he would soon need to rectify.

“I’ll have warm water brought to your room.” He said instead, “Rest. We’ll speak more in the morning when calmer heads prevail.”

Delia stared at him with an expression he couldn’t decipher but found that the calm he had just manage to reclaim was rapidly deteriorating. His heart lurched and the familiar itch to his palms returned as she stepped back into his sphere.

“Delia...”

“You followed me. You accosted me. Kissed me. Protected me. Took a case that is boring just to make me happy -”

“Keep you out of trouble -”

“Told me that you love me.” She continued as if he hadn’t spoken and soundly shut him up.

Delia smiled then. A small smile, but so bright before she leant up on her toes and claimed a kiss so gentle that it stole his breath.

Unconsciously, his fingers latched into the folds of her gown as he pulled her closer and deepened the kiss. The supple swell of her lips felt like silk under the brush of his tongue. She tasted sweet, like honey and tea. She moaned lowly and a pleased growl rumbled through his chest at the sound.

They must have stood like that for only a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity.

Delia, as tenderly as she had approached him, broke away again and started up the stairs. Sherlock could only watch after her dazed.

She paused halfway up and glanced at him over her shoulder, “And you send me to the guestroom? You’re an odd man, Sherlock Holmes.”

She disappeared over the landing and Sherlock was left in stunned amusement. He had half a mind to go after her. Her teasing knew no bounds it seemed... but despite her words, he knew she was virginal, and he planned to take his time divesting her of that chaste state.

However, he should have known that Delia had no such patience...

Damn her.

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#Sherlock Holmes #sherlock holmesxofc #enola holmes #henry cavill #fanfiction #fanfic

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fandomrendezvous · 8 years

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FOR HIM WE DIE (on Wattpad) http://my.w.tt/UiNb/UVKJZfHoOz

"The higher you go, the further you have to fall."

Sherlock Holmes, 36, is a high-functioning sociopath and the only consulting detective in the world. He, along with his old friend and companion John Watson, solves cases across the city of London to drown his boredom and stop the evil from rising.

Elisa Barrow is a single mother of 34 who works herself to death in the retailing company Arcadea Group in Westminster City while she struggles to keep her son William, who is only 12, from getting expelled from St Augustine's High School.

A great explosion on New Year's hides a crime, only to return as a whole new case. The mysterious disappearance of Elisa and William Barrow spins into a dangerous game when Moriarty's final problem involves Sherlock's unknown past.

Sanity might not be all that is in jeopardy for Sherlock when the Moriarty's final problem is revealed and it becomes the consulting detective's early grave.

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fanfictionlive · 5 years

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Another one of those ‘lovely review’ posts

No one in my real life knows I write fanfic. Absolutely no one. So when I get nice feedback I just kind of celebrate inside my head, kind of like when you accept your Oscar in the shower. But I’ve seen others on here share reviews that have made their day, so I wanted to do the same.

My story is a (BBC) SherlockxOFC. He’s a difficult ass character to write, and even more difficult to write a convincing romance for considering he’s basically void of all emotion (hi, same). So in my latest chapter, I received a review that (amongst other lovely things) said this: “No one writes Sherlock in love as well as you- oh my word!” And I pretty much hit the deck in work from being so blown away by the compliment.

I just wanted to share this with people who would somewhat understand why this review meant so much to me. And also encourage anyone who secretly writes fanfic to share a time they received an amazing comment but couldn’t tell a soul.

submitted by /u/DaydreamtoFiction [link] [comments] from FanFiction: Where Magical Ponies battle Imperial Titans https://ift.tt/32s6jAw

#fan fiction #writing #fanfiction #tv show #series #movie #fan #write

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crimsonrae · 4 years

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Reckless Intent: Part One

SherlockXOFC

Rating: M

Warning: Mentions of Prostitution and some minor nudity

A/N: I couldn’t leave the thought of Sherlock and Delia alone and this was how I picture them finally acknowledging the attraction between them. Set about ten years before the events in Enola. Sherlock has only been away from home for about three years.

It hadn’t taken much effort.

Far less than Delia had anticipated when she had visited with the proprietor of the gentlemen's club, but then she wasn’t surprised by the notion that a group of men who spent their private time ogling scantily clad women, would hire her so quickly to do the same. Her stomach churned with mild disgust while her nerves threatened to undo her.

Large dusky pink feathers danced and skimmed playfully over her delicate slippers, teasing the curve of her calf as she drew the large fan up her body.

Being in the club was a risk, but it had been the last place her dear friend, Margaret, had visited before her untimely death and the police were making little headway in finding her killer.

She bent sanguinely back in time with the dulcet chords from the piano, allowing a glimpse of the swell of her bosom to the leering crowd below.

Part of their sloth had much to do with the other women's reticence in speaking with the coppers. Their livelihood depended on them being able to keep a secret, after all.

She winked and tossed her leg up receiving a loud cheer as the men tried to glimpse her coveted virtue.

The other part had much to do with the fact that Margaret had been a former pickpocket and flower-girl, now tobacco-girl. Her death meant little to the constables and even less to the detectives.

What was one more dead urchin after all?

It both saddened and enraged Delia, for that had been her life for so very long too. Still was to a certain degree, but she had found employment for her particular skill set... even if it did bring her into contact with the police and an up and coming young detective far too often for her tastes.

She twirled. The fans just barely hid her assets from the audience as she swayed across the stage.

Unruly fire twisted in her veins as she thought of that arrogant young man. How his cerulean orbs twinkled with dark intrigue with their every encounter... as if she were some mystery for him to puzzle out. She didn’t care for his stares or the odd fluttering he caused her.

The clip in her hair fell loose as she pirouetted more vigorously than she had intended. Her hair cascaded in soft luscious waves down her back much to the appreciation of her gentleman viewers.

Those flames licked angrily at her throat as she recalled their last meeting. How she had all but begged for his help and he... Humiliated tears burned at her eyes as she tried and failed not to think of his uncaring words.

Her friend’s death wasn’t interesting. She was likely caught in one of her scams and it ended badly for her. She forced the tears down.

She tried not to think of why his usual dismissive behavior had wounded her so...

What did Sherlock Bloody Holmes know anyway?

A playful smile curled at the edges of her painted lips as she slid down into a vertical -legged split to roars of delight. Never noticing the lone note of remonstrating silence from the back.

Delia glided from the stage feeling flushed and exhilarated as she was greeted by the knowing chuckles of the other women. There was a strange excitement that came from being so daring and vulnerable before that crowd... she understood now why Margaret had sought it out. She felt almost... powerful.

“You look just like her.” One of the girls murmured, a sad glint tinting her gaze.

Delia arched a questioning brow, surprised when the other woman continued, “Your friend, Maggie... She had that same dazzled look, Luv.”

A few of the women dispersed, heading for the stage – other's the crowd, but the intent was the same to get away from the coming conversation.

The woman sighed and adjusted the garter on her thigh as she critically eyed the tight lacing of her silk corset, “We’re not fools, ya know? We know why you’re here. Maggie was a good ‘un. Real riot. Shame, what happened to her.”

Delia’s heart skipped a beat, unsure how to react to being found out so soon – she wasn’t used to others seeing through her disguise. It was foolish on her part; she had visited Margaret here on a few occasions. Hesitantly, she queried, “And do you know what happened to her?”

The other woman sighed and finished tethering her skirt to her hip before turning to her, “’ Course not. She ran into trouble, didn’t she? Word of advice, avoid the red room, else you’ll run into trouble, too.”

The woman spurned Delia with a pointed look before she sauntered off to join another girl on a secondary stage. There was no missing the hint behind her comment.

If Delia’s heart had skipped a beat before, it thrummed with desperate need now. Warily, her eyes darted to the stairs in the back of the club as she pinned a faux skirt over the lacey French drawers that teased her nethers. The private rooms resided above, and Delia shivered to think of what occurred inside. Many of the women sold more than dances, and despite her earlier bravado, such carnality was foreign to her. It saddened her to realize that perhaps it wasn’t foreign to Margaret.

Steeling herself, she pasted a coy smile to her lips and forced mischief to dance in her gaze as she picked up a tobacco tray. She mingled in the crowd. Trading her pouches of dried leaf for coin as she steadily made her way to the stairs. She dumped the tray once she passed the smirking usher at the bottom... now she just needed to find this red room.

Footsteps and giggling voices interrupted her search before she could even begin. Panic choked at her throat as she sought an open room to duck into, uncertain if her presence would be questioned. She didn’t make it far when a warm hand wrapped around her elbow and yanked her into a darkened room. She yelped, her fist flying at her assailant before she consciously noted it moving, but this too was thwarted.

Her wrist was captured, and her body pressed firmly back into the closed door to prevent any further attack when she caught sight of a familiar pair of cerulean eyes.

“You!” Delia spat, her fear forgotten in the face of her arrogant detective, “Unhand me!”

Momentarily allied that no harm would befall his person, Sherlock stepped back with an arched brow as he faced her ire, “Kindly keep your screeching to a minimum. It wouldn’t do to have us discovered so soon.”

Delia’s mouth dropped open indignantly and her hand tingled with the dark desire to slap his smarmy face. She barely kept hold of her temper as she berated him lowly, “You accosted me, Mr. Holmes. If anything, I should be screaming the building down on you.”

“That would be foolish and counterintuitive to your goals.” Sherlock stated mildly as his gaze deliberately skimmed over her meager dressage. His mouth tightened distastefully, “Though you’ve already proved how foolish you’re willing to be tonight.”

She resisted the urge to cover herself as her gaze darkened almost ferally, “I beg your pardon -”

“You’ll beg for a lot more than that before this night is through.” Sherlock murmured softly, a hint of danger coating his tone that raised the hairs on the nape of her neck and sent heat to her cheeks.

It was then that Delia realized there was no trace of his usual mocking humor. His eyes didn’t twinkle with that thoughtful light but gleamed with dark intent. The passive non-smile that usually painted his maw was now replaced by a tense jaw and a twitching cheek. To anyone unfamiliar with the detective they would merely see an impassive visage, but Delia had encountered him often enough this past year to know he was displeased. In fact... he seemed livid.

The realization sent an untoward shiver down her spine. Vainly, she ignored the embarrassed fluttering he induced in her as she held her scowl, “Why are you here, Mr. Holmes? I didn’t take you for the type to buy his pleasure.”

“Nor did I take you for the type to sell hers.” Sherlock retorted impatiently – even this was unlike him. He was not usually prone to such emotional responses. It made her leery, “I seemed to recall my assistance being required in solving the murder of a one Margaret Harris, Miss. Woodson.”

Delia blanched, her uncertainty growing as she stared bemused, “You said the case wasn’t interesting or worth your time.”

“It’s not.” Sherlock iterated stonily, “But since you seemed intent on running headfirst into trouble, I thought it best to intervene before you did something reckless. Though I see I’m already too late on that account.”

Acidic words danced on the tip of her tongue, but by some odd strength, she kept them at bay. Her attention soundly stuck upon his anger. Delia didn’t understand it, was galled by it... she hated it, “You’re angry.”

“I’m aware.” He answered quietly, making her huff.

Her lips pursed as barely kept reign of her irritation, “Why?”

The air in the room seemed to chill with her question and she had to bite back a gasp as his full attention bore down on her like a malevolent cloud. Incredulity shined like a stray beacon against his ferocious storm of muted fury. He stared at her as if she should already know why he was upset, and Delia had never felt more out to sea. For a wild moment, she wasn’t sure she wanted to be brought back to shore.

“Why?” He growled.

Delia refused to acknowledge the thrill that hard tone sent through her body as she fought to remember she had been the one wronged in this scenario. Not him.

“Perhaps Miss. Woodson, you are more naïve than I thought. After all, it does take a certain amount of oblivion or perhaps ignorance to not realize where exactly you are standing.” Sherlock lectured crisply as he loomed over her small form, “Is it completely lost on you that you stand in what is essentially a high-caliber bordello? That you are before me in your undergarments? That you are very much at risk of being accosted by far worse characters than myself?”

None of those questions truly answered hers about his motives but rather danced around it. He reminded Delia of a boy she had known as a child. He had had a toy train that he adored more than anything. Strangely, he never played with it, but always had it in hand. He would never let another child play with it and was quite protective of this train. It was his toy. No one else's.

An inexplicable dawning began to light her mind as if she were seeing the stars in the night sky for the first time.

Quietly, she prodded him, “I am quite aware, Mr. Holmes. Otherwise, I would not have attempted to defend myself when you did accost me. I understood the risk I took. I also understand that I am not your ward – in any sense of the word. You are not my husband, nor my kin. Your concern for my well being while touching is -”

“Delia.” He barked, making her jump, “Do not insult your intelligence and myself by finishing that sentence.”

Just as quickly as he had lost grip of his temper, he regained it. She blinked at him wide-eyed as she watched him resume his guarded mask. His control was frightening, but also frustrating. So much went on beneath his prickly surface that to see his countenance crumble was... simply illuminating.

Her heart beat a frantic staccato in her chest... she wasn’t ready for such illumination, however. Not now. And most certainly not here. She nearly wanted to cry, especially once she realized that to want it otherwise meant she returned his sentiment.

It simply wasn’t to be born. She did not hold affection for Sherlock Bloody Holmes.

And yet...

A quiet strangled question left her lips before she could stop herself, “Why are you here, Sherlock?”

His mouth opened to answer before swiftly shutting as he studied her – his head tilted to the side and while she could still make out the fury burning in his bright orbs a strange vulnerability winked like a passing star at her before his visage fell into careful neutrality, “You already know the answer, Miss. Woodson. To speak it would simply be redundant, but I will enact upon that sentiment once we have departed this place. Go and get your things.”

A faint battle ensued within her at his words – Delia wanted so badly to push at him. He dragged her before a truth that she was not ready to face, it seemed only fair that he confirmed her suspicions by admitting his care. But the knowledge that Sherlock was present while Margaret was not, weighed heavily on the battle tides.

She found her back stiffening and chin tilting up as she declared, “I’m not going anywhere, Mr. Holmes. Least of all with you. I came here for answers, I’m not leaving until I have them.”

That thin veil of danger descended upon her again as Sherlock glowered at her. Goosepimples shivered down her arms under his silent predation, as her belly swam with anticipation. She suddenly felt very much like a lamb lost to a wolf.

Unbidden, a small plea came to her tongue, “Sherlo-”

Abruptly, she found herself pinned to the wall and shock thundered through her veins as she distantly perceived the clips of her skirt yank apart before the flimsy fabric fluttered to the ground. Sherlock’s long fingers delved beneath the hem of her undergarments as his mouth claimed hers in a furious kiss that awoke a tempest in her heart.

Delia squealed, melting into his embrace even as she latched her fingers to his woolen coat to push him away. She barely managed to budge him, when the door swung open admitting a giggling showgirl and her John.

Sherlock growled, his body covering hers effectively from sight as he glowered at the intruding couple, “Room’s taken.”

The man grumbled an apology as he tugged his conquest back out and shut the door behind him. Then and only then did Sherlock return his attention to her. He raised an innocuous brow as he took in her flushed face and gaping expression.

Pleasure twinkled at Delia through his stern visage and she was torn between the need to slap him and a need to taste his lips again. Quietly, he slipped his hand from her drawers and stepped back enough to give her room to breathe. His hungry gaze drifted along her body for a second time as he took in the long expanse of her curved legs.

He swallowed tightly before returning his stormy glare to her face. He left no room for argument as he quietly ordered, “Get your things.”

Yet argue she did, “I’m not -”

His finger came up in warning as he silently dared her to finish that sentence, “You’ll get your answers once I’ve found them. You will not be staying here any longer than it takes for you to find your clothes. Do not test me.”

Still, Delia hesitated, part of her wanted to demand an explanation. Her heart and her mind were of two battles and the sea he had swept her out to, now raged with drowning swells. She didn’t like this confusion, this uncertainty within herself... she wanted answers and not just about Margaret’s murder.

She bit her lip as she fought not to wilt under his demanding stare, “You’re taking the case.”

“If only to keep you out of trouble, yes.” Sherlock intoned almost impatiently. He bent swiping up her skirt and deftly pinned it back in place, “We’ll discuss the matter of your payment, amongst other things once we depart from here – that man was not here to use this room. I don’t know what ears are in the place. So be quick.”

“Sherlock.” She pushed even as he grasped her elbow and ushered her out the door.

He paid her no mind, “Ten minutes, Delia, meet me outside. If I have to come back for you, I will not be pleased.”

He gave her a small nudge towards the stairs, and she couldn’t help but mutter, “You’re not pleased now.”

“Ten minutes.”

The steel in his tone had her scampering for the back as her stomach clenched. She ignored the wave of arousal coursing through her but raised a hand to her still tingling lips as she bit back a smile.

Sherlock Bloody Holmes.

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#Sherlock Holmes #Enola Holmes #henry cavill #fanfiction #fanfic #Sherlock HolmesXOFC

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