#when I watched Sherlock and adventure time

[ellethespaceunicorn]

Sometimes The Silence Guides A Mind

Title: Sometimes The Silence Guides A Mind

Rating: Explicit, 18+, Minors - DNI

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader

Fandom: Enola Holmes series

Word Count: 1.7K

Summary: As you were getting close to Sherlock, he stops visiting. You pop over to Baker Street and share an eye-opening moment.

Warnings: age gap(reader is about 20 in this, Sherlock is mid-30s), slight voyeurism, masturbation (male), handjob, unprotected p-in-v sex (wrap it up y’all), creampie

A/N: I’ve been throwing around this idea about Sherlock for quite some time. I hope you enjoy it. Unbeta’d, we die like people who tried their best.

Dividers by: @firefly-graphics

Support/Reblog banner by me

Cover Art by me

My Masterlist 

You’ve been friends with Enola for a short time, only since the beginning of the year. She’s led you on a few fun adventures, but more often than not, she’s led you on wild goose chases. She has helped you come out of your shell and you are grateful for that. On days that you weren’t exploring the countryside or causing a ruckus in the city, you would lounge around her large house. 

Spending time with her in her large house had its benefits. One of which was 6’1 with a head of unruly curls. The famous Sherlock Holmes was your best friend’s big brother. He lived in the city but came to visit Enola every week. 

You always made sure to be available on those days. If only for the chance to say hello to Sherlock. You wanted more but, truth be told, he made you a bit nervous.

You tried your best to keep calm when he would arrive, but Enola noticed your demeanor change every time. She teased you endlessly about your little crush and you would always bring up Tewkesbury. That would usually shut her up.

In truth, she did not care that you liked her brother, she just didn’t want you to waste your time. The man was not exactly sociable unless he found value in the opinions of others. One opinion he respected was that of his sister. You could sit and watch them talk for hours. She would get him to laugh with her jokes, and he would bring her to annoyance with his riddles.

You would interject a thought here and there and when Sherlock would give his attention to you, you froze. Something about the look in his eyes, it was more than attention. It was intense as if the two of you were the only ones in the world let alone the room.

More than once, Enola had cleared her throat loudly to get you and Sherlock’s attention back on her. But sometimes, she would just listen to you ramble on while Sherlock seemed enthralled in your thoughts. You mused about music and how interesting you thought his cases were. The more you spoke with him, the more comfortable you felt around him. 

Sherlock would show up now and then with little trinkets from his cases. At first, it was just things for Enola, but soon he would start bringing you little gifts as well. He started small with a single flower or a tasty treat from his favorite bakery. But soon, his gifts grew oddly specific. He bought you a brooch you had mentioned seeing at a store in the city. He would learn pieces of music from a composer you talked about and play it for you, much to the chagrin of Enola who wasn’t a fan of the violin.

It was when he didn’t visit for two weeks that you started to realize you were developing feelings for the older detective. You’d come to enjoy his presence and not because of his gifts. You just enjoyed seeing his face light up when he saw you. You relished the power you felt when the normally unflappable and distant man would sit enthralled when you gave voice to your thoughts. 

So, why did it stop so suddenly? Had you done something to offend him? 

You wracked your brain and Enola’s brain for that matter. She gave you his address so you could go and talk to him and she could finally be free of your fretting. 

You arrive at 221 Baker Street, your hands trembling as you knock on the main door. A sweet woman opens the door and introduces herself as Ms. Hudson. When you ask to speak to Sherlock, she sends you up the steps to 221B.

As you’re about to knock, a man opens the door and almost collides with you.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry. May I help you, Miss?” 

“Ehm, I’m here to see Mr. Holmes…but I can come back if that’s–” You are cut off when he speaks again.

“You wouldn’t happen to be friends with Enola, would you?” You nod, giving your name, “Of course, Sherlock mentioned you. I’m Dr. John Watson, and I have to be going but you are more than welcome to come in. Sherlock is just in his room down the hall.” He points around the corner from the door and walks past you before waving goodbye.

So, that’s how you end up in Sherlock’s apartment. It is eerily quiet and you think he might be asleep. That is until you hear soft moans coming from down the hall. Your first thought is it must have been the floorboards creaking under your feet.

What you hear next is the unmistakable sound of your name followed by a whimper. It sounded like Sherlock was calling to you, but how would he know you were here already? You walk down the hallway quietly and see that his bedroom door is slightly ajar.

Peeking in, you are blessed with a sight! Sherlock is laid out on his bed with his shirt and waistcoat open, his hairy chest on full display as it rises and falls quickly. His beautiful face constricted in pain one second, solemn and peaceful in the next. His curls are a sweaty mess on his forehead. One hand is fisting the sheets at his side and the other hand is wrapped around his thick veiny dick. You’re mesmerized watching him stroke himself until you hear him moan your name again.

In a moment of bravery, you step into the room. Your bosom heaves in your bodice as you breathe shallowly, adrenaline coursing through your veins. 

His hand stops its ministrations and he looks to you as you walk towards him. He’s frozen on the spot and can only watch you as you climb atop the bed and lay next to him. You replace his hand with yours and continue to pump his dick. Your hand barely fits around him and you enjoy the feel of his soft uncut length in your hand.

His hands come up to caress your face and pull you down for a kiss. When his tongue begs for entry, you allow it in. Heatedly, you mold your mouth to his, letting your moans and whimpers be consumed by him. Breaking the kiss, he looks into your eyes and you can tell he is close.

You remove your hand from him and stand up from the bed. It is only when you remove your undergarments does Sherlock understand why you stopped. Climbing back on the bed, you settle yourself with your cunt dripping onto him.

“I want you to be certain that you–” You cut him off as you slink down, his velvety smoothness sliding inside your wet heat. You take a moment to get used to the sheer size of him. He stretches you almost painfully. Leaning down, you whisper into his ear.

“Do I seem certain, Mr. Holmes?”

Instead of an answer, Sherlock groans and twitches inside you. His hands travel under your skirt and rest on your hips. You take that as a sign and sit up. With your hands on his chest, you begin to ride him slowly, agonizingly to the point where his hands start to guide you to a quicker pace. 

Using you like a ragdoll, he flips you so he is atop you while you are on your back. He slams into you repeatedly and you are no longer in control. He savors the sounds coming from you as he fucks into you. He urges you on as he kisses and licks and nips at your neck, careful not to leave any marks.

Pulling out, he moves you to your hands and knees before inserting himself again. The angle allows him to go deeper and you thank the Gods for it. As he holds onto you, he hammers into you. The filthy utterances that come from his mouth only serve to solidify the notion that he missed you too.

“I knew you would feel like Heaven, my sweet angel…”

“This pretty pussy belongs to me now…”

“You would look so perfect with my cum dripping out of you…”

“I could fuck you all day and night and still never get enough of you…”

“Be my good angel and come all over my cock,” He reaches down and rubs your clit between two fingers as he plows into you. You never stood a chance, your walls quivering around him within moments, “That’s my good girl. So good…for me. Fuck, so close!”

“Sherlock, please! Need you to fill me with all you have to give!” You surprise yourself and your lover with those words. 

Sherlock’s answering grunts as he makes mincemeat of your pussy are music to your ears. His punishing thrusts falter and he pulls you flush to him. He’s deep enough to kiss your cervix with the tip of his dick. You feel him swell inside you and it’s enough to make you climax again, milking him through his release. 

And the noises he makes when he comes are more intricate than the 24 Caprices. You’re sure that Sherlock would disagree but you don’t even care. You revel in the melody of his moans and surrender to its hold on you.

Sherlock’s hands roam over your back, your hips, your ass, and your thighs. As if he can’t get enough of you. He doesn’t pull out until you wiggle your hips, a sign that your legs are tired. Extricating himself from your sensitive folds allows his spend to escape. He catches what slips free and pushes it all back in before helping you lay down on your front.

He lays down next to you, pulling you close to him with one arm while the other rests behind his head. He looks so peaceful as he closes his eyes and hums. The feminine urge for pillow talk is high, but so is the need to just bask in this moment.

You’re in the arms of the man you care for, who also adores you. You rest your cheek on his shoulder and tangle your fingers in his chest hair. You breathe in his smell, his pheromones are surely on high alert from your activity. When he rests his head against yours, you feel at peace.

You do plan on talking to Sherlock later about everything. But, for now, you can take pleasure in the simplicity of the harmonization of your heartbeats.

A/N: The title of this fic is taken from The Neighborhood’s Sweater Weather. There is an amazing violin version of this song by Joel Sunny. And anything violin makes me think of Sherlock.

A/N: Also, I know Ms. Hudson wasn't featured in Enola Holmes, but I love her as a character and I wanted to use her.

**Tag List**

@brattymum96 @ambinxe @avengersfan25 @kebabgirl67

@astheskycries @enchantedbytomandhenry @rebelangel1102

Let me know if you wanna be added (or removed) 😁

[helloliriels]

One More Time (With Feeling)

"Are you sure?" Sherlock eyed the familiar street with wonder.

"Completely sure." The man behind him in the big blue box smiled. He was leaning over Sherlock's shoulder, trying to get a peek ... "This the moment?" he asked, grinning wider.

"This was ... this was it," Sherlock stammered. His feet betrayed him, already eagerly stepping out of the box and onto the cobblestone pavement.

He made it two steps towards Angelo's before the thought struck him. "What if he doesnt-?"

"-Want you?!" The man mocked incredulity, shaking his head, "trust me ... you're irresistible." Then he shut the doors of the Tardis, and Sherlock had to move or risk being seen.

He took a deep breath, then heard the whir of the machine disappearing behind him.

This was it.

.

Sherlock straightened his suit jacket, running his fingers through his messy curls and ... decided to take the jacket off and make himself appear as much like his younger self as possible.

Next ... he shot a text to himself. Waiting until that Sherlock was out of the way in the loos, he stole into the same seat beside John.

"So ... you have a girlfriend?" John was just asking.

Perfect timing.

. ... God, how much he had missed this John!

. eager, and open, and .... waiting ... ?

.

"Not really my area." he answered, swallowing his fears.

He feigned interest out the window, keeping his minds-eye firmly fixed on John. Trying to capture and record every minute detail of this precious moment.

"Oh," John took a bite, and then looked up again quickly, "Oh? You ... have a boyfriend, then?"

Sherlock's eyes flitted towards John's despite his best efforts.

"Which is fine, of course!" John hurried to add.

"Of course it's fine," Sherlock answered, suddenly needing water. He took a deep drink and caught his eyes drifting back to meet John's.

"So you have a boyfriend?" John asked.

Hurried pulse. Short breaths.

John had even licked at his lips when he spoke, like he was nervous ... afraid to ask? ... how had he not noticed before ... ?

"Nope," Sherlock replied, deepening his voice to a purr. The effect was not lost on John ...

Dilated eyes.

. Cheeks turning rosy.

. Slight shift in his seat ...

"Not unless ... you are applying for the job?" Sherlock asked unconcerned, unbuttoning the top button of his shirt.

John was watching his neck ... his pulse. Licking his lips again. His breathing hitched. Heavy.

This was hardly a fair game.

.

"Maybe we should go?" he asked, extending his hand.

Suddenly John rose with him.

Then hesitated.

"Did we need to-" John looked out the window, "... your murderer?" he asked, genuinely concerned they would let a criminal roam free if they left? It was adorable.

"Oh ... just passing the time," Sherlock reassured him with a dismissing wave of his hand, "it was a long-shot he would appear." Then ... as much as he wanted to stay and enjoy what followed ...

. Decided ...

He'd better go tell his younger, idiotic self .... the chances he was throwing away if he did not continue.

He would be understanding.

"Let me settle the bill," he lied, excusing himself to see John eagerly already out the door pacing back and forth with a smile on his face.

(psst! ... more is beneath cut!) - Liri

"You made it home, love?" John was smiling at him in a knowingly ... achingly ... more-than familiar way ... ?

"Did you ... miss me?" Sherlock asked cautiously, entering 221B. He closed the door behind him and stood with his back pressed against it.

Present Day.

Safely returned from his time-travel adventures.

He hoped.

"Did I miss you ...?!" John laughed. He was already taking Sherlock's hands in his, and sweeping him into the room.

Deftly, he danced them both around to the fireplace ... like this was just something they did, and had done ... a million times before?

Sherlock lost himself in the movement. Closing his eyes and enjoying the sensation that was John Watson, held in his arms.

He had only once before been able to steal that pleasure; Beneath the pretense of 'teaching John to dance'.

When at last, dazed, and more than pleasantly bewildered, they stopped swaying ... Sherlock dared to open his eyes.

A happy sigh escaped John's lips. Making him look even more ... irresistible?

"I take it you missed me too?" John teased. Pulling Sherlock down for a soft, delicious kiss. Sherlock melted into his arms. Giving John everything he had pent up inside of him, since leaving his younger self to carry on with the night before them ...

John's eyes opened wide as Sherlock finally released him.

"Where did that come from?" he asked, awed.

His fingers were on Sherlock's lips ... memorizing his face ... and then ... wiping a tear from where it traced down Sherlock's pale cheek.

"You have no idea ... how much I've missed," Sherlock replied at long last. His breath hitching against the words he struggled to free.

John kissed him again. More languid ... more painstaking possessive this time ... and Sherlock felt his knees weaken.

"Take me to bed, John?" he asked.

Genuinely wanting to know ... and to feel ...

. What their first time was like ... for himself ... ?

"Oh God, yes," John whispered.

. Leading the way.

..........................................................................................

For @totallysilvergirl request for the Angelo scene and @calaisreno prompt: Do-Over. Plus tossing in one more Doctor: (couldn't resist, mate)

@johnlocky @chinike @rhasima @raina-at @lisbeth-kk @jrow @khorazir @fluffbyday-smutbynight @topsyturvy-turtely @gaylilsherlock @a-victorian-girl @solarmama-plantsareneat @impalaparkedat221b @chriscalledmesweetie @friday411 @ghostofnuggetspast @sgam76 @janetm74 @peanitbear @masterofhounds @missdeliadili @loki-lock @meetinginsamarra @bs2sjh @gomielka @thetimemoves @thegildedbee @iwlyanmw @jobooksncoffee @amyreadsandstresses @kittenmadnessandtea @naefelldaurk @dragonnan @jolieblack @notjustamumj @jawnn-watson @dinner--starving @safedistancefrombeingsmart @weeesi @gregorovitch-adler @inevitably-johnlocked @dapetty @bewitched-bullet @theofficialinternetloner @keirgreeneyes @dontfuckmylifewtf @strawberrywinter4 @thalialunacy

[calaisreno]

The Case of the Reluctant Bridegroom

1077 words / Prompt: Awkward

John Watson is not a mystery. 

Thirty seconds after he comes through the door, Sherlock knows that he’s not been sleeping well, probably because he’s drinking every night, thinking that will put him out. Mary has a cat which needs to be groomed so it won’t leave hair all over John’s trousers. She’s not a fastidious housekeeper. John’s shoes tell him this: they’re still wearing last night’s mud. She didn’t mind him wearing them into the house, and he was too absent-minded to notice he’d left them on. And he’s lost almost half a stone since Sherlock returned. A happy husband-to-be doesn’t lose weight. Mary might be an awful cook, but John has never been picky about what he eats. 

Absent-minded, not sleeping, weight loss, drinking more than he used to. John is troubled, and Sherlock would like to know why. 

Naturally, he can’t ask. They’ve never done that kind of probing, not since Sherlock deduced his cane and his phone and his haircut. They hadn’t even been introduced at that point, and Sherlock could see who he really was.

The man standing at the door is easily deduced, but none of those deductions explain what’s wrong. Any questions he asks will be awkwardly deflected.

The night Sherlock returned from the dead, John hit him. That’s something he certainly should have seen coming. John is a devoted man, and didn’t like having his devotion (his grief) mocked. 

Sherlock understands that, and regrets it deeply. His adventures in Serbia left him below par, or he wouldn’t have barged into that restaurant, thinking they would have a good laugh about his funeral. 

He understands the John who poured his heart out in the railway car, thinking they were going to die. And the John who was ready to kill him when he realised Sherlock had found the switch. He even understands why John didn’t hit him and walk away again, why he just shook his head when Sherlock said, killing me— that’s so two years ago. 

And this is the knot Sherlock must unwind: John blames himself. Everyone else has accepted Sherlock’s return, gotten past it, and moved on. It’s too long to be holding a grudge, John thinks, so he forgave Sherlock. But he’s troubled.

What does a man like John do with feelings? In that, he’s not so different from Sherlock. He declares them unimportant, non-existent, and pretends all is well. 

“Anything on?” John asks. 

Sherlock shakes his head. “Sorry, no. Dull as ditches. But I’m glad you’re here.”

John raises his eyebrows, frowns sceptically at his old chair. “Right. I suppose we haven’t seen much of each other. Sorry about that. Flu season, you know.”

“Of course. You’re well, though? And Mary?”

John blinks. He still hasn’t sat down. “Yeah. We’re fine. No problems.”

“I’ll make tea,” he says, “unless you’d like something stronger.”

“What’ve you got?”

He remembers the last time he opened the refrigerator. Better not do that while John’s here. “No beer. A half a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black.”

He pours them each a couple fingers, and watches as John settles into his chair. Settles is the wrong word. He ought to look familiar and comfortable sitting there, across from Sherlock. But he looks uneasy, like a man who is doing something that embarrasses him. 

What would embarrass John Watson? He’s an honourable man. He feels honour-bound to forgive Sherlock, but he’s still angry. He’s ashamed of his grief, of his anger. Sherlock was brilliant, as always, fooling everyone into thinking he was dead. Making a fool of John.

Sherlock has apologised. He did that as soon as he realised that John wasn’t just shocked, he was angry. Tricking John into forgiving him was more than a bit not good— but he knew that there had to be some way to get them beyond what neither of them could say. Talking wasn’t something they did; in their case it was useless. They just needed to get to the part where they were chasing criminals again. Back to before.

John refills his glass. Neither of them has thought of anything to say. He can see John’s eyes losing focus. 

“How are things—“ He breaks off, realising they’ve already covered non-specific pleasantries. “The wedding, I mean. The—“ he waves a hand vaguely, “the plans. I suppose there’s a lot to… erm… plan.”

“Mary’s got it all under control. I’m not sure why it takes nearly a year to plan something that’s twenty minutes of church, and then dinner.” John smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He truly has the most expressive face, but he’s guarded now, uncertain. Troubled. 

“Well, if there’s anything I can do,” Sherlock begins. Again, he waves a hand vaguely.

“You?” John is smiling, but it’s an incredulous smile. “Plan a wedding?”

“I have a very organised mind.”

“And no tolerance for tedium,” John adds. 

“I’ll just… well, let me know if you need to escape. I’ll come up with a case.”

They lapse into silence again, and Sherlock imagines that it’s a slightly more comfortable silence. Not quite like 2010, but fine, in a different way from before. He remembers the silent breakfasts, both of them too sleepy after a late night to say much. Tea, toast, and John half-awake, his hair rumpled…

It’s too bad that a person can’t know in the moment when their lives are perfect.  That’s the tragedy of time, how perspective changes and we don’t realise we’re happy until we’re not. 

The two years he was gone barely seemed like two months. There were nights when he dreamed of Baker Street, wished for John’s company. On the whole, though, he was too busy surviving to think about how long it’d been. Not until he saw John’s picture, the horrible moustache, did it begin to sink in how long it had been. In the mind of John Watson, it must have seemed an eternity.

“I should go.” John stands and walks into the kitchen. Sherlock hears him rinse his glass and place it back in the cupboard. The bottle is empty, and Sherlock still hasn’t finished his first glass.

John stands at the door, looking at him for a moment, then nods and heads out. His feet are slightly unsteady on the stairs, Sherlock thinks. The front door shuts, and he’s alone.

In his mind, he’s opening a new file: The Case of the Reluctant Bridegroom. As always, his mind is already turning over solutions.

---

Maybe this one needs a sequel?

@totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @lisbeth-kk @ninasnakie

[sovietpostcards]

Hey, I just wanted to say I really love your blog! I'm an American university student studying Soviet History (specifically in the area of architecture) and have occasionally talked about some of the things you post with my professors. I would like to know, do you have any Russian movies (Soviet or not) that you'd recommend? Thank you for the good work.

Hi, thank you ❤ It warms my heart knowing that things I post go beyond the screen.

Recommending movies is hard when I don't know what you've seen and what you like! Here are some of my personal favourites:

I Walk Around Moscow (Я шагаю по Москве, 1964) - a feelgood film about being young in 1960s Moscow

Office Romance (Служебный роман, 1977) - a story of an office guy pretending to court his lady boss and falling in love in the process. It's one of the films that's built on cast and dialogue. I've seen it countless times and I will again!

Girls (Девчата, 1961) - a lovely film about young people working in a tiny worker's village in the midst of endless forests of Siberia and building a life there.

Carnival Night (Карнавальная ночь, 1956) - a festive holiday film that has songs, pranks, secret kisses, a broken elevator, and lots of tinsel.

Leonid Gaidai's comedies: the Diamond Arm (Бриллиантовая рука), Shurik's Adventures (Операция «Ы» или приключения Шурика), Kidnapping Caucasian Style (Кавказская пленница). I don't know how well humour translates into English, but they're all very funny.

All of these (and many more) are available with English subtitles on Mosfilm's youtube channel.

And of course please watch Russian Sherlock Holmes series, it's also on youtube.

You're also welcome to browse my Soviet Cinema tag and find something for yourself. :D

[princessaxoxo]

Strangers to lovers Part 3

Sherlock x reader

Summary: Being Enola’s sitter was an adventure, but not as much as falling for her brother, Sherlock.

Warnings: 18+ only, NSFW, Unprotected public sex (p in v), very little fluff, angst as well, kissing, cussing

Word count: 1.9k+

Sherlock has consistently shown up at your house carrying flowers for the past week. You conveyed your appreciation for each of them; they were all beautiful. It started off the same way as usual when he arrived early today with a fresh bouquet of your favorite flowers-lilies.

"Sherlock, all of the flowers are beautiful," you remarked as you opened the door. This, however, will not mend what you broke. You cannot buy my trust with anything."

"Will you kindly give me an idea of sorts? I am really trying my best," he muttered.

"No, you will manage. You are, after all, the notorious Sherlock Holmes. You have probably experienced worse moments."

You shut the door after saying those final words to him. Although doing something like that made you feel terrible, it was a good decision.

Your cousin Miranda made the decision to pay you a visit after sending a letter to your family. "Is everything okay? Your letter sounded worrisome."

Even though you were not very close to Miranda, you reasoned that it might be okay to hear her opinion. She grinned when you told her you had fallen in love.

"Please try not to get too excited. There is no happy ending to this story." When you said that, her face fell. "He left me not too long ago; in the most horrible way, I think it is possible to leave someone you love." You told her everything that had happened in the past. Now that he has returned, he wants me. And, my goodness, I want him too. I just cannot be with him yet, though. I need him to show me because it does not feel quite right. He has not done anything but buy me stuff. Love and trust are not things that can be purchased."

She listened carefully. "I am not sure what to say," she said, leaning her head against her palm and sadly glancing at you. "Do you still love him?" You sighed. “I will always love him more than words can describe. You do not realize how close I was to giving in to his pleas for me to stay with him. How I was able to say no is still beyond me.”

"Though I do agree with you, could you perhaps be a little lenient with him the next time you see him?"

"Be lenient with him? You must be joking. He deserves this. You do not realize how painful it was because you were not present, Miranda.”

"I understand, but if he asks, just go out with him for a day and see how it goes."

You decided to see him after giving her a farewell for the evening and considering what she had said.

When you had not seen or heard from Sherlock for a week, you were taken aback. You were already dressed when he knocked on your door and said, "I have a day prepared for you. Please come." And you had nothing planned for yourself.

He extended his hand for you to grasp.

Gazing upon it, you inhaled deeply and grasped his hand.

The two of you took a carriage to a location of which you were unaware. You asked once, but he wouldn't tell you. “It’s a surprise." You wanted to ask again but decided against it. Not wanting to appear eager.

You hadn’t known how long it took, but the carriage came to a stop. Sherlock stopped you and said, "Cover your eyes.” You gave him a look that told him he was ridiculous for suggesting such a thing.

Still, you tried to get out, but he was blocking you. “Cover your eyes, and I'll help you out."

You huffed but did as such.

Sherlock guided you, telling you where to step and what to watch out for. “Okay, we’re here,” he mumbled under his breath, but you managed to hear what he said.

“Are you ready?” he asked. “Yes, now let me see!"

He removed his hands, and you saw a huge picnic set up for the both of you in a beautiful vineyard covered with tons of flowers.

You’d never seen such a view; you were at a loss for words.

“Sherlock, this is breathtaking. You really did all of this?”

“Of course, I thought you would love it."

He took your hand and led you to sit down on the blanket.

Sherlock sat across from you, curiosity got to you, and you reached to open the basket that was in the middle and started pulling out the produce.

There were various fruits, vegetables, and meats for the afternoon lunch he planned.

Sherlock and you were having a marvelous day together. It was as if nothing had changed; it felt the same as it did four years ago. Just the two of you, enjoying each other and not wanting it to end.

He was eyeing you diligently, especially the way you would reach for a strawberry and how your lips looked when taking a bite.

The sound of your laugh made goosebumps rise on his skin.

He hadn't noticed how much he missed making you laugh, along with your infectious smile.

“Sherlock, this was something that I won’t forget. Thank you for all of this."

“No, don’t thank me. I don’t deserve that, but you deserve this. All for you, y/n."

Sherlock ran a hand through his curly hair that fell in his face, and you gave him a smile.

"Oh, you have,” he said, stopping mid-sentence and reaching his thumb out to wipe away some of the juice that came from one of the many strawberries you had.

His face became eerily close to yours; without thinking, you moved towards him, and his thumb caressed your cheek. You took his thumb in your mouth and sucked on it—the familiar taste of a strawberry on your tongue.

His lips found yours in a slow kiss.

The dress you wore slowly moved upward, and his large hands squeezed your thighs in a needy way.

He kissed and sucked on your neck, causing a moan from you.

His lips grazed your neck up to your mouth, and his nose nudged against yours before going in for another kiss.

He pulled down your underwear and rubbed your clit with his index and middle fingers. “How does that feel, baby? Does that feel good?”

“Mhm, yes, it feels so fucking good; please don’t stop."

His hand started to gently caress your breast, and you moaned into the kiss you two were sharing. You wrapped your arms around his neck, and he laid you down carefully.

He removed his hand from underneath your dress.

You pulled up your dress past your hips, and you helped him unbuckle his trousers. He pulled his cock out and eased his way into your pussy.

Both of you moaned simultaneously, and his movements started to quicken.

Your hands grabbed his buttocks, and your legs wrapped around his waist as he pounded into you.

No words were spoken between the two of you.

Just this moment with him was enough.

Your mouths and tongues moved in sync with one another like they always had. His grunts started to become louder, along with your cries of pleasure.

Your back arched, you were breathless, and you felt Sherlock's hips still with his seed pouring into you.

His head hung low in your neck, and as you started to come out of your sex-filled haze, you realized what had happened.

This wasn’t what you had planned.

This shouldn’t have happened at all.

You scolded yourself for being stupid.

“Sherlock, this was a bad idea.” He looked at you, and you could tell that what you said hurt him.

'What do you mean this was a bad idea?"

“We had sex, and while I enjoyed it, it shouldn't have happened."

He pulled his cock out of you and put it back in his trouser while you pulled your dress down, trying to cover yourself as best as you could. Suddenly, an anxious feeling started within you.

Sherlock lowered and shook his head, and then moved his hand down his face in defeat.

“Would you please take me home?”

"Is that wise?" he asked, looking at you. "You look as if you don’t want me near you again."

You didn't have words for him, although what he said wasn’t true. You wanted him near; you wouldn’t be here with him if that were true.

“Are you going to leave? Again? I know who you are and what you do. Sherlock, you don’t need to explain that to me anymore. I can see you’re trying; you’ve bought me tons of flowers, my favorite ones. Which I’m grateful for, and you planned this whole picnic for me. And sweet gestures like this are what have been meant to earn my trust and get me back. But in the end, is this all worth it if you end up leaving?”

He looked at you and lowered his eyes. “I don’t know what the future holds, but I know I want you, and I’ll want you always. And if one day I must go, then I would hope you’d come with me.”

“You would want me to pack up my life here? Is that what you would want me to do?”

He waved his hand. “No, I would never make you do something you wouldn't want to; we could find common ground, a compromise? If you want this as much as I do",

You did; you wanted it more than life; you wanted him.

But you had nothing left to say to him. “May we go, please?"

He let his shoulders drop in defeat but ultimately said yes.

He packed up the picnic, and the mess that was caused by the sex you had a few moments before

The carriage ride to your home was silent—a silence that could kill. A storm blew over London, which fit the mood of how the day was ending.

You sat picking at your nail beds for the rest of the ride until the carriage reached your home. Sherlock helped you out. “Thank you,” he said, but he still walked you to your front door. “I wish you a good rest of your night,” he said before walking off. You watched as he walked back to his house in the cold, groggy weather instead of the carriage.

Walking back into your house, you aimed straight towards the shower to wash away his scent and the sweat that formed on your skin from the sun earlier, combined with the sex you and Sherlock shared.

The water was hot and refreshing on your skin; you felt renewed once you were dressed in your nightgown and in bed.

You tossed and turned for the rest of the night, Sherlock on your mind and wondering what the future held for the both of you.

Sherlock walked along the pavement, enduring the London rain, as he came upon a pub. He walked in, needing a drink. He sat in an open chair, the barman appearing in front of him. “How many?”

Sherlock got lost in thought about the question he was about to answer the barman when the barman answered for him, “Let’s start you with one, and if you wish for more, let me know."

A few seconds later, a lager was put in front of Sherlock; he analyzed it for a moment before downing the drink.

Without a second thought, he ordered another one to forget the prior events that had taken place; it was going to be a long night ahead.

Taglist: @mysticwitchcraftco

Part 4

[milknhonies]

Sir Sherlock Holmes & The Indian Princess

शर्लक बाबू और भारतीय राजकुमारी

Chapter 1 || Masterlist || Chapter 2

Chapter Summary: In England, Sherlock Holmes receives an alarm letter from his dear friend Doctor John Watson. In Delhi, You don't mind being a teacher, but with new building plans, you reflect on your circumstances and opportunities.

Pairing: Sherlock Homes x Desi!reader

Chapter Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Slow burn, generational trauma, colonisation, implied murder, death of a parent, classism & caste.

Word Count: 6k

Author Notes:

★ Everything written in bold is being said in Hindustani

★The Reader character goes by the last name Newalkar and is the daughter of Damodar Rao Newalkar → the adopted son of Rani Laxmibai. I must advise this story is pure fiction but based in the occupation of the British Raj that invaded and Colonised India.

★I am a White European/Australian woman, I apologise for any cultural or historical inaccuracies. I am receiving help from online sources and desi Tumblr mutual @livesinfantasyland and I heavily encourage other Indian/South Asian/Desi readers to share their thoughts, constructive criticism and help as I write this story.

Inspiring Song: "Paint it Black" by Ciara

11:35pm Thursday 26th June 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.

This story begins and ends with the sound of rain.

Tink!

The roof had begun a leak. And when this leak came to play it had a habit of landing directly on the head of a disgruntled and lonely fellow.  The greatest detective in London who could not find a friend. Granted I must inform you, Mr Sherlock Holmes did in fact have some friends, but by misfortunes, none were presently in the country.

Tink!

He angrily sighed. Another drop of rain hit his head.

He launched from his arm chair and grumbling moved an empty teapot to sit on the cushion he previously sat. The drops thus made a small tinkling as they landed inside the empty pot.

Plonk!

He rubbed his eyes and checked the time on the mantle piece clock. He had lost weeks of his life. Hours squeezed down to into unknown days or months, he could not tell. It did not help how he consistently drew the curtains closed to design total darkness other than the fireplace and his candles to light up his home.

A light shiver ran up his spine. The weather was dangerously cold today. His fingertips upon inspection grew from pale white to a dark pink.

Plonk!

He wandered if perhaps it was time to have a holiday in sunny Spain.

A knock on his door broke his imagined vacation like a hammer to glass.

His pesky landlady Mrs Hudson intruded on his stuffy dust filled space. She grumbled nonsense about the filth of her apartment she’s rented out to the famous Detective before handing him a thick envelope.

Plonk!

And the moment he could see and recognised the handwriting he snatched the Letter from her wrinkly fingers and banished her with a bellowing shout. The woman fluttered out and muttered her further disgusts of his treatment.

Plonk!

But Sherlock did not care for her opinion or rather anyone’s for that matter, Sherlock only cares about the stamp he tore opened the parchment he eagerly unfolded.

John Watson. Doctor, soldier and dear friend. He was Sherlock’s greatest companion to note. He had never felt such brotherly love until he met the very man seeking a roommate here in baker street.

Doctor and detective used to comb London for clues to solve crimes and very noticeably took an interest at the sports of pleasure. The luxurious brothels of London welcomed him and his friend with open arms and spread legs. Doctor Watson was the easy victim of sex while Sherlock was one to enjoy his opium pipe and watch his friend succumb to the mouths of half-pound harlots.

And among these adventures of interesting women did the doctor find himself in a savage tussle with another jealous male patron...

Sherlock recalled the evening with mirth. His dear friend, brother in arms had been pummelled to a pulp and drunk as a daisy. So when Sherlock escorted him to a hospital, the imbecile had declared that he was doctor of the ward and did not need any stitches. It is a grand thing perhaps Doctor Watson could not fathom the memory of yelling too proudly that his medicine could be only found in the elixir of a woman’s warm cunny.

His nurse, a dirty bird at heart had giggled at this...that nurses name was Mary Mortenson. And she became the very enamoured Mrs Mary Watson.

Sherlock was not fond of his friend becoming so besotted with his bride. He tolerated the woman’s presences at best. Unspokenly, the detective saw competition to gain the doctors attention and it was becoming far too obvious that Mrs Watson would win. Every. Single. Time.

After a month of young love the married pair had decided their honey-moon should be experienced back in John’s birth land...Delhi, a city in India. Mary was to meet the senior Mr and Mrs Watson. Coincidently, the English rose was not averse to the foreign lands…she so happened to have been born in Agra. Happy and married, they boarded and sailed across the sea.

Sherlock had high hopes their ship would run scarce of supplies so they might return quickly. He missed his dear friend and even his annoying wife.

The letter in between if thumbs and fingers were the first words from them he had gotten in nearly three months. The letter read as followed...

“Dear Sherlock,

Mary and I have come to my home I grew up in as a boy. I was blessed with my parents merry welcome. However, unfortunate circumstances have designed two coffins. For merely a week into our visit my beloved parents have passed. I have yet to decide whether to bury them in the English tradition or burn them in the Hindi ritual. My predicted return back to Baker Street may appear futile and non-existent. Please. Come visit us as soon as it is convenient.

13, 25, 27, 16, 1, 18, 5, 14, 20, 19, 27, 8, 23, 5, 27, 2, 5, 5, 14, 27, 13, 21, 18, 4, 5, 18, 5, 4.

Your sincere faithful friend, Doctor John H. Watson.”

Plonk!

Sherlock’s eyes raced over the page, and cupped his mouth staring at the plethora of numbers. They were not any numbers. John was a simple man, he wasn’t the smartest being but Sherlock appreciated his humble attitudes, he liked the doctor admitting he wasn’t a world genius, just a man who knew his medicines.

So when an enigmatic set of numbers was written at random Sherlock thought of the most simplistic cypher.

For every number was a letter. 1 being A and 26 being Z, leaving 27 to be a space between a word.

His brows lifted. The message was clear and alarming.

Plonk!

“My Parents Have Been Murdered.”

He determined his dear doctor had written this cryptic message under the desire of secrecy. His eyes lit up. It meant John needed Sherlock’s help. A case. Something was amiss. John did not know the killers name. If he did, he would’ve written it or not bothered to write asking Sherlock to visit at all.

He couldn’t have run faster to his rooms to start backing as soon as possible.

Plonk!

Sherlock Holmes had know idea what he was going to find in a land he had only heard stories from Watson’s childhood. He was eager to see his friend, to help him and to finally have an adventure.

01:35pm Friday 11th July 1890, Anglo Arabic Secondary School, Desh Bandhu Gupta Rd, Ajmeri Gate, Delhi.

You dragged the piece of white chalk across a black board and sketched a simple phrase in the English language. You smiled to the young faces that filled the room, sitting in long benches and desks. Their eyes wide and curious, eager to learn.

You waved your hands, “Now, clean your chalk slates students, you are going to learn how to spell good afternoon in English.”

They wipe them down with their small damp clothes and tucked them away in the groove at the top of their slanted desk. You waited patiently until they all sat with their hands resting flat on the wooden desks, mouths shut, eyes seeking knowledge.

You underlined each letter of the first word, “Gee, ouw, ouw, dee, this spells ‘Good’ and now ‘Afternoon’ is Aya, eff, tee, Ee, Ara, eynnn, ouw, ouw, eynn.”

The young boys sounded it out with you. Their sweet pubescent voices unionised. You smiled. They were so advanced at such a young age, most of the boys had come from average and wealthy families that could afford them to come to such a fine school. Many were Muslim, others Hindu, it was a good sign of peace. The youth coming together despite their differences. And on odd days you would teach the white children, boys and girls of British and French families who wanted their children to learn Hindi, Arabic and Urdu.

You didn’t mind teaching white children, some of the boys could be very disrespectful but you gathered it was behaviour picked up from their arrogant fathers. It wasn’t the young boys who had pillaged these lands, it was their fathers and grandfathers.

“The gee,” you circled the G, “Remember in English is also pronounced like Guh and,” you tapped the double o’s, “Ouw ouw in english together when two is said ‘oooowa’. Followed by dee being said as Dah. So, let’s say it together?”

You dragged a white line under the word and sounded it out with your students.

“Guh-oooow-dah.”

You smiled.

You repeated, “Good.”

“Now let’s look at the word ‘afternoon’,” you announced.

You cleaned the board and looked back at your students. One of the little boys who sat in the front was rubbing his eyes. You smiled softly. He was only six years old. His older brother, a young man now would most likely be the one to collect his brother from school and carry him sleeping back home. You looked at the bell tower just outside the window. It was nearly time for your students to go home and you to return back to your lodgings.

“Aye and eff is said as AAaff, then tee is a quick Tuh! And what is Ee and Arrra sound together children?”

“Errr,” they all purred.

You sounded out half of the word with them, “Aafftuherrr.”

You rubbed your chalk dust covered fingers together and further explained as you pointed to each important letter, “eynnn makes a Na, sound. And we just practiced double ouw, so sound it out.”

Like a symphony of speech, you all said together, “Guh-oooow-dah Aafftuherrr, Na-ooow-na. Good Afternoon.”

The deep bowing clang of the bells outside rang through the yard and open window shutters. The children looked eager to leave. Their hands were readily holding their slates, ready to put them inside the empty wooden box in the corner of the classroom where they kept all their slates and dusters and the bucket for where they kept their chalk.

“Good afternoon students,” You bided.

“Good afternoon Teacher Madam,” They called back.

“You may go back home now. Practise your English alphabet song.”

The boys were fast as rabbits, leaping from their desks and fleeing the classroom out the hall and down the stairs. But some at least saluted you as they left. It was a habit they’d picked up from the white boys who saluted their male teachers. You smiled to yourself as you waved them out. Each left with beaming smiles and playful chatter among themselves.

As you went about sweeping the floor after wiping the chalk from the board, you wondered if you should go to the temple and pray for your students successful education or if you should consider washing your clothing today. It had been very dry today, any moment and you knew the wet season and humid rain would arrive to flood the streets clean of dust and fill the forests with life of green goodness.

As you put away the English education books on the small shelves by the door, a familiar face came rushing in, flushed and excited

If it wasn’t her jingling anklet and bangle that announced her To your classroom, it was her shrill cry of your name that did.  

“Y/N! Quick!” Miss Anjuli Paraiyars exclaimed, “You need to come with me.”

Her dark ink hair was peaking out from her sun patterned veil. The wispy curls stuck to her sweaty forehead and framed her dazzling walnut eyes. They were flooded with mischief that matched her biting lip. Her brows wriggled lightly.

Placing the last book onto the shelf you turned to acknowledge your dear friend.

“Anjuli,” you happily sighed, “Whatever is the matter?”

She waved her hands about, hoping to quicken you along and out the door, “It is the Watson son, Doctor Watson, he wants to speak with you with important news.”

Your eyes widened. ‘What on earth does that poor soul wish to say to me? After the death of the good Mr and Mrs Watson, I would assume he was still in mourning, why would he call upon me?’

Following your friend outside into the scorching sun, you lifted your saree over your head. She had her family Ox and cart waiting outside the school gates.

“What important news Anjuli?” You said a little standoffishly.

“He’s offering you a job,” She said giddily. She climbed up into the cart and leant down offering her hand to you.  Once in the cart side by side she sighed, “That’s all he would tell me,” She grabbed the reigns and cane and tapped the Ox to start moving out onto the dirt road, “But we all know how very generous he can be like his dear parents.”

Anjuli was right. The late Victoria and Hamish Watson’s were angelic to the local community. Victoria had been the very soul to teach your late mother English and she was the one to encourage you to attain education enough to become one of the very few first female Indian teachers. She was a well known philanthropist, often aiding the sick and homeless and funding the Indian hospitals. Hamish was a local accountant, financial advisor and lawyer. He was known to be good to the children particularly. He would often hand out sweets as he walked down the street with his briefcase bag. He often aided the locals find new homes when the British planned to evict them and replace white families in their place. The English couple had lived in the country for many decades, long before you were even born. They spoke fluently enough and mimicked the culture so well that you could’ve believed they were born here themselves.

You sat back and nodded, “May their souls attain moksha.”

02:45pm Friday 11th July 1890, Willingdon Crescent, Central Ridge Forest, Delhi, India.

The sun baked down on the streets of Dehli. The Ox cart rolled along, it’s tail flicking the flies circling it’s flank every so often.

You pinches your saree scarf and covered your face before a bug could fly into your mouth.

Anjuli had to hold the reigns and cane, she leant closer to you and giggled as she nodded to the khaki covered soldiers. Walking by in many small groups.

Anjuli had a terrible habit, she fell in love too easily. For some ungodly reason Anjuli admired the foreigners that had come so long ago and invaded your beautiful country. Maybe she liked how different they looked. The flaxen hair and ice blue gazes in the faces of pale freaks were so opposite to the raven manes and hairy russet warmth of Indian men. It was erotic for her. You just didn't understand how she could so easily find infatuation with the people you considered an enemy, and so should she.

“Oh look at them,” she giggled girlishly.

You rolled your eyes, “I’m looking.” There was a timid strain in your voice. You had no real interest to entertain Anjuli’s fascination.

When Anjuli noticed how you in fact we’re not looking but rather looking ahead on the road path she playfully smacked your arm.

“Look!” She sucked her teeth and teasingly scolded, “Do you not know delight at the sight of men?” She reached forward and abruptly touched the front of your blouse, squeezing around for the softness of your breasts, “Are you sure you’re a full grown woman?” she smiled wickedly and prodded her finger in between your legs covered by your top petticoat.

You squeaked loudly and batted her hand. She howled with laughter and kept giggling even as you scowled at her beneath your veil.

You turned your head away from her and scoffed, “I am not as easily swayed by British soldiers. They look so sickly as pale as they are,” your nose wrinkled, “How could I righteously take a husband in front of beloved Lakshmi and her Vishnu when they look like they tempt Yama too take them at any moment?”

Your friend rolled her eyes, “Oh nonsense,” she tapped your hand and waved her fingers into a crowd of soldiers, “See there that one, his hair the colour of wheat, he is a handsome man. He would make a fine husband.”

And as the cart rolled passed, you couldn’t help gag at the smell of the same man Anjuli proclaimed would make a fine husband.

‘A fine swine perhaps. Many sow in heat could come trotting to him from miles with such a putrid scent.’

Your head wobbled and your flat palm waved at her, “A husbands good qualities are not to stand on his appearance alone. One day he will grow old, fat, bald and ugly.”

A long dragging sigh came out from the woman beside you. She managed to move both reigns into one hand and playfully tugged your saree away from your face

“You’re no fun, come on,” she jerked her chin out to the same street as the ox was about to pass another group, “Tell me you don’t find any of them a little attractive?”

You stared at the oncoming group and now sucked your teeth. You crudely stated, “They’d be far more attractive if they left. Went back to their lands, leave our villages and the people of Bharat in peace.”

Anjuli stared blankly at you. Before she could pinch and prod you again you relented and noticed one of the men in the crowd so different from the others.

He was tall, his hair a dark chestnut that matched the shade of his suit. His face was bare and clean in comparison to the soldiers who all adorned moustaches and muttonchop beards on their faces. He was carrying a rather large brief case and walking stick.

“Fine...that one,” you nodded, “In the brown English clothes.”

“The one wearing a suit?” Anjuli snickered, “He’s not a soldier though?”

You giggled,“And it is for such a reason I find he is most handsome among them.”

You both gazed at him as the ox fully passed by. Anjuli smiled at you.

“He is rather tall. Strong. What do you think he does?” She asked, “Maybe he is a farmer, or a bricklayer?”

You shook your head. ‘No. He couldn’t be.’

“He dresses too finely. It is not their Christian Sunday Sabbath today. He probably is a rich businessman, with a wife and children.”

You looked back to the path as the dusty road became thicker in trees and travel further away from the street. You thought about that strangers wife, what she might look like, probably some English rose with a house full of servants at her command, surrounded by maids and wet nurses for her children. She would live in a grand house and hold soiree’s, welcoming guests from all around to celebrate life. She would have a massive library and a place of worship. It was the life you should’ve had, the life you were owed and denied merely by the changing events of history and the extinguish of your father’s birthright.

Your soft smile faded; you felt a twinge of repulsion mixed with a hint of anger. You’d think after all these years you would’ve chosen to forget this, ignore this, let go and accept your circumstances in this life.... You didn’t live with your father anymore who would remind you practically daily why not to trust the English or any white man, as if you didn’t witness their subjecting abuse and consistent disrespect.

Your eyes fluttered shut, you reached to your side and touched Anjuli’s wrist. She was your truest friend despite her differences and low status. Anjuli came from a Shudra family, and you? You were the daughter, the descendant of Brahims and Kshatriyas...now lowered to the Shudra caste class…You never knew the lavish life of the Jhansi palace, nor tasted the rich foods served on golden plates and surrounded by pretty creatures of the palace menagerie. You would never know the joys of running through the gardens with other children in the royal family.

Everyone was gone, everything was gone. All that was left was your father who scarcely remembered that life but shared all he remembered so his memories would live on through you and bring you hope that one day it would be yours. It was a cruel false hope…

Eighteen years ago, you had been born inside of a nice house in Indore to the daughter of a prestige painter Vasudeoraobhau Bhatavdekar. As far as you knew, your father loved your mother very much for the incredibly brief time that they were married. A rare jewel in beauty is how he described her often. A marriage of love and choice. Your father said she was softly spoken and obedient, but it was her unconditional love for him and his dreams that held his heart in appreciation.

It was by unfortunate command that she would fall ill to childbed fevers after you were born. After you…a girl...not a son. You were nothing in the eyes of the British raj and had no chance of being installed as an heir for any restoration…you were the last hope and failed before your first breath. And that was something you’d never forget.

For a small time, you were raised in that home and then it was decided by your father that you would learn English. His tutors were not available, so he cut your hair short and shipped you off to Delhi with your young uncle Save to the Anglo Arabic Secondary School…It did not take the teachers and headmaster long to discover you were a girl. Before you were to receive the beating of a lifetime it was Mr Hamish Watson who so happened to be accounting the school costs to save you. He took you to his wife who taught you English and then set you to live with his maid servants, Anjuli’s mother.

Your friend spoke after some time of silence, “Oh, I’m meant to tell you- My cousin Vijay sent word this morning, he’s seeking a wife. My mother wants me to ask if you’d like to meet him, a prospective match.”

Your lips curled into a sneer, “Isn’t he the one that use to tie our braids together in a knot during Diwali and chase us around the street making animal noises?”

You recalled a young teenage boy about five years your senior with a tooth gap and ruffled hair. He was so annoying, calling you names and bullying you by calling you fat and ugly. He was spoilt and rude. He mocked you when you told him you were a princess. He said you were a princess of pimple pox and nothing more. Oh how you remembered the way your blood boiled.

“We were children, he was playing, only a boy,” she smiled, “He’s a man now, studying to be a barrister in Bombay but he will be visiting in a few weeks to help us move.”

Ah yes, the dilemma you needed to find a solution too soon. It was a month ago that a letter had been nailed to the house door, it was an eviction commandment made by the British military and government. The Paraiyars family and you had to leave the home in Raisina hill, why? Because the British do what they like…building concrete monstrosities over beautiful land and demolishing the history of your people like it was worthless dust. Rumours spread about a grand governors palace was to be built there, but they couldn’t burn the village to ash with people living inside...well....at least not on their "morally good Christian conscious."

“Vijay I believe owns a cottage near the seaside. You could be his bride and live with him instead of moving back to Indore to your father.”

Moving back was not possible...not after his most recent letter.

“Father has…felt it improper for me to move back to Indore. He believes that my existence would cause me more harm than good under his jailers’ eyes…His pension he shares I give mostly to your mother for board. I have saved my wages, I am considering…moving to a boarding workhouse in Jhansi or Agra, but tell your mother I would like to greet Vijay when he arrives…”

You smirked looking down at your fingernails, “Lakshmi forbid I run out of money and need to resort to the ‘charity’ of Christians or to prostitution.”

Anjuli made a face, shaking her head and brushed her shoulder into yours, “You wrinkle your nose at every man, white, black or bronze,” she smiled cheekily, “I doubt you’d make a good prostitute.”

“Anjuli!” You shrieked.

Both you and her erupted into a large happy shrill of giggles enough to gain head turns from passing public. You and her playfully poked your elbows into each other. Anjuli was right, there was no chance that you could make a suitable prostitute…you hadn’t had sex and didn’t know how to please a man, most men you barely liked. They could be selfish. Anjuli on the other hand, she was a frisky thing. She had kissed a hundred men and given her ‘precious flower’ to a boy back when she was thirteen. She had no shame. Anjuli had shared her sordid tales of lust to you many times. You knew her boyfriends that snuck her out at night and returned her by morning. You promised never to tell her mother or father who surely would’ve disowned her if they knew how promiscuous she was. It was best if they believed she made money with her parents in the markets selling dyed clothes and wooden jewellery boxes.

03:04pm Friday 11th July 1890, 5 Bistdari Road, Central Ridge Forest, Delhi, India.

Arriving to the Watson Bungalow was simple enough, the ox cart rolled and bumped over the rock and sandy grooves of the path. Anjuli pulled the reigns of her beast and helped you both down. She tied her ox to the outside gate posts, the precious creature lowered its head and munched on dry grass that still was hinted in green. The ox would be glad as soon the wet season would hit and all the food delight lush and green would return.

You and Anjuli stepped inside and removed your sandals, Anjuli then led you through the house. It had been some time since you had been here. Anjuli’s mother was dismissed as Mrs Victoria Watson’s maid when the new Watson bride had arrived.

Doctor Watson, their son was a short ferrety man. His face was covered in a long mutton mustache like a snake of hair slithering along his face. He was a grown man from the teenager you had met many years ago. His parents had sent him to Europe to school, as far as you were aware he had join the army and fought in some notorious war battles like The of Battle of Abu Klea.

As you entered the bureau office, you found him hunched over some paperwork, his brows scrunched. His eyes lifted up and brightened his face on seeing you both.

“Oh Miss Paraiyars, Anjuli dear,” he said clapping his hands and opening a drawer in his desk, “Thank you so much dear for bringing darling Miss Newalkar here. Here,” he handed Anjuli a small bag and slipped four rupees into her hand, “and take these sweets back to your Mataji, Mrs Paraiyars.”

Anjuli put her hands together and smiled, wobbling her head before leaving you alone to return outside back to her ox cart.

You had your hands pressed together peacefully while the doctor hobbled over to you from around the desk. He was smiling brightly and nodded his head to you, offering you a chair in front of the desk.

“Y/N thankyou for coming on such short notice. I requested your presence in person to offer you a job position.”

Your smile fell, you sheepishly explained to the man, “I am currently employed at the Anglo school Doctor, Babu.”

The doctor nodded, “Yes…Anjuli tells me you are still teaching the children English and Hindi?”

“Yes Doctor Babu,” you confirmed.

“How much are you paid per month?” he asked quickly, touching his lips lightly in thought.

“Twenty five rupees,” you said softly, you didn’t dare try to sound prideful.

The doctor smiled and pulled out a piece paper contract, he then stated, “I will pay you a hundred per month.”

Your eyes widened, and then narrowed. It was too spectacular to be true, it sounded Impossible. Your fathers pension was only a hundred and fifty rupees a year, for the doctor to give you a hundred per month was unfathomable wealth. What on earth was he wanting from you!?

“What is the position,” you swallowed breathlessly, “Doctor Babu?”

“Housekeeper and…a carer,” he sighed, “I need you to live here, and watch over one of my friends. He is from England and I am afraid he might not understand the customs here.”

He leant against the desk cocking his head and looking down at his feet awkwardly. “Please,” he begged, “he is different to other men. He is particular and perhaps rather spoilt. I need you to make sure he doesn’t get lost, harmed or too upset. It is pressing that I should return to my wife in Agra. I would have hired Mrs Paraiyars, in fact I did offer this role to her, but I have been informed she will be moving and her English is not as it once was…and my English friend is rather…particular and impatient with broken speech...”

He wrote a signature across the bottom of the document and held it out for you to read. It was real…your mouth watered. You could save more than your regular wage and easily move back to Indore without burdening your father or mother’s family.  

“If you accept my offer, you may live here as a free lodging, you recall where the servant quarters are I am sure? You will also receive a handsome budget for food. And-” he paused looking up and pocketing the cheque, he gasped, “Sherlock! Dear god man! Did you walk here from the train station?!”

You turned around in the chair and took in the sight of a familiar looking soul.

He was the gentleman from the road. The supposed businessman with his briefcase. He was taller standing here with you then when you sat above in the ox cart. He was standing in the doorway to the office. He stepped inside and lowered his walking stick and briefcase.

“My friend,” the handsome stranger gleefully called, “My dear John Watson, I came the moment I read your message. One of the khaki coated lads pointed me here.”

Up close now you could observe his features on a better judgement. Sherlock Holmes was well known in the British gazette for his distinct physical appearance. With his broad angular frame, sharp hard features, and mighty frame, he exuded a striking and intimidating aura that commanded respect. He reminded you of warriors you imagined before bed in story's of battles your father described at Jhansi Fort.

His face was marked by a strong, sharp pointed nose and intense, deep-set sapphire eyes. His hair was kept combed and short below his ears short and slicked back, revealing his angular eyebrows, and his pink lips that were tightly pursed. He wore a grand brown suit coat with a crisp white shirt, and woolen sweater vest beneath it. And at the base of his throat was a dark burgundy tie. Something about the time reminded you of blood. A cut throat. You felt cold.

His eyes smoothly shifted to you and your presence, his lips parted softly, he glanced back at John, “A patient of yours Doctor?”

The moustached man bristled and shook his head, he stuttered and leant his hand out to you. you carefully chose to take it and rise from the chair as he introduced you.

“Oh- I- Sherlock…um, Sherlock Holmes, I would like you to meet Miss Y/N Newalkar.”

“Miss Newalkar,” the doctor waved his hand over the figure of the giant stock of a man, “This is the very gentleman I was informing you about. This is my friend Detective Sherlock Holmes.”

You pressed your hands together and nodded in greeting. One of Sherlock’s brows raised and his lips hardened in a straight line.

Doctor Watson explained back to the detective, “I was in the middle of discussing whether this dear lady would like to accept a role of housekeeping during your stay here.”

“Whatever for?” Sherlock snickered, “Is your lady wife not up to par with her duties?” he shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked on his leather shoes while his eyes scanned all the way down to your bare feet. It was a crude look of judgement. The westerner seemed to forget not everyone shared the same styles and habits here. You tried not to roll your eyes at him as he scanned your arms and the parts of your belly that the saree did not cover.  Those dark blue orbs crawled up and settled over your faux sweetened smiling face.

“Some…plans have come up unexpectedly. Mary is back in Agra, staying safe with her family,” John stated, his fingers rubbed together, “I need to be with her. And the hospitals are in desire of my services as a surgeon. I ask that you will look around, see if you can find anything here…” he leant in closer and whispered to the man, “I will visit every couple of days, to check up on you and see if there is truth to be founded in my suspicions.”

'Suspicions?'

“John…” the detective pat his friends shoulder, “I am happy to see you. I promise I will do my very best.”

“Thankyou,” said the doctor.

Sherlock jerked his chin to your direction, “How much does the dear girl here know?”

“Well, I…not much,” the doctor blushed and looked back to you, “Miss Newalkar, your thoughts on the job position role?”

You swallowed and nodded slowly, “I accept the conditions, thankyou for your most gracious offering, Doctor Babu.”

The doctor smiled and carefully touched your back, leading you to the exist of his office as he happily stated.

“Splendid! Please, this is the contract. Sign it and return with your belongings later on a few hours while I converse with my friend and guest.”

You looked back at the mysterious Sherlock Holmes and back to the contract. You wobbled your head in goodbye and went on your way. The way you could feel his eyes over your body walking away made you shiver. He was a intimidateding looking man. You left the home and slipped your sandals on.

You thought about how you would now be the housekeeper of a prestigious British family in the community. A wave of relief to your stability washed over you. You didn’t need to crawl to your father and your mother’s family. You started smiling ear to ear. All you needed to do was take care of a house and baby-sit an Englishman who was vulnerable to these new lands.

“Did you see him go in?” Anjuli smirked from the ox cart, waving you over, “The British man you fancied?”

You jerked your chin up proudly exclaiming, “I met him.”

Your friend gasped with a wide smile, “What is he like?”

“I don’t really know,” you shrugged before waving the contract in front of your friends face, “but I am going to be his housekeeper, I need to inform the school of my resignation.”

Anjuli looked at the contract, she couldn't read english but made a light sad sound and sucked her teeth before sighing, “Oh, those children will miss you dearly.”

And that you could both agree. You grabbed the ox reigns and tapped its flank with the cane rolling back to the school again quickly to collect your last wage.

Helplines:

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

Australian Helpline Services

UK Helpline Services

American Helpline Services

India Helpline Services.

[iamsherlocked1479]

Kinktober 2023: Day one

wearng leather for Sherlock :)

1k words, short but I love it.

Kinktober masterlist

He didn’t know what he was doing on this website, he was reading, well judging, John's blog when this ad popped up. He was mesmerised by the woman’s outfit, a black leather bra with a silver zip down the middle barely keeping in her breast. He thought about you, he thought about how good you’d look, how he’d like to run his hands through the textures of your skin and leather he then looked down at her legs. The panties were again leather, held on by straps wrapped around her thighs, he wanted this on you he wanted to delicately peel it off your sweating skin, he wanted to rile you up to the point of no return and have you like he had so many times. His cock twitched in his trousers just imagining it. He didn’t hear you come in, he didn’t hear you drop your bag to do your usual of greeting him with a kiss.

“Sherlock” you laughed “what are you doing?” He jumped and closed his laptop screen 

“I- i uh was reading johns blog and then.” He looked back at the screen “and then”

“And then you manage to end up on the boux avenue website?” You looked down a little “and got a little excited.” You laugh at his bulge 

“Well I was thinking about if you wore this?” He opened his laptop, “I'd like that” he said quietly. Your hand rubbed the back off his shoulder as you smirked.

“Then order it.”

Within the next week your parcel had arrived, Sherlock had become fixated on his latest case which gave you time to prepare for the evening you had planned. You showered and styled your hair smiling at the way it bounced as you walked. You put on the bra and zipped it up and spent a couple of minutes cursing over the thigh straps of the panties before finally getting them correct. You covered yourself up with a silk black robe just incase anyone visited before sherlock got home. 

Shit, that was the perfect way to describe Sherlock’s day, his case was boring, was not the adventure or high he assumed it would give to him. The only good thing was now he was coming home to tou, he had already planned to fuck you sensless but when he entered the living room to find you in nothing but that exact black leather lingerie he hadn’t gotten out of his head for a week sat in his chair, he dropped to his knees. Like physically, fell on his knees between your thighs. He ran his fingers along the thigh strap pulling it so it would snap back on your skin. 

“You like it Mr holmes?” You laugh leaning forward making sure to push your chest in his face, which of course he doesn’t push away. He takes your tits in his hands feeling the cold leather running his thumb over the bulge you nipple was creating. You hum happily as he trails his lips along your collarbone. You ran your hands through his dark curls as his hands rubbed along your tits, he pulled down the zip and licked the crevice between each breast, he pulled off the bra and then pulled you to your feet. He took your hand and led 

you towards his room pushing you down onto his bed as he caged you between his arms.

“Need you, been thinking about this all week.” He exhaled as he ran his lip down your stomach towards your soaked core. He, as expected, managed to undo the straps of the panties very easily, sliding them off in one quick motion before diving into his meal like a dog on a bone. His tongue started by licking a long stripe up your core before settling nicely in a circular motion around your throbbing clit. The sensation caused you to squirm under his grasp, he grunted and pushed your legs down gently holding you in place and thrusted his tongue into your hole using his thumb to tap your clit.

“Fuck, Sher- too much. God'' you cried out as your muscles sized causing you to spill your juices into his mouth. He licked vigorously making sure to catch every drop. He got on his knees pawing himself through his now tight jeans watching you come down from you high.

“You always cum so quickly huh.” He laughed as you lifted yourself to your elbows rolling your eyes. You looked down at his painfully hard crotch and pulled yourself towards it.

“Only for you, it's so annoying, I want to leave you wanting to know you can’t cum without me.” He hissed at the motion of your hand dragging up his covered length towards his buckle, undoing it quickly and pulling down his trousers as he took off his shirt, discarding it somewhere in the room. He flipped you around and jerked himself as you positioned yourself on your knees, you slick begging for his cock. He grunted as he ran his tip through your folds to your cunt.

He pushed in with a single thrust, his hands instinctively gripping onto your waist. He tried to support your body as he pounded into you, he pushed your face down into the mattress. He fitted into you so well, he filled all the gaps and reached all the places other men just always seemed to miss, not that there were many other men. 

F-fuck, feels s-good.” You hummed as he brought his thumb down to your twitching clit. The bed creaked and squealed with you, it wasn’t the most sturdy thing. 

“Fuck, good girl. You gonna cum for me?” He rested one hand on your lower back. You tried to speak but were only capable of muttering some inaudible phrases so just stuck to nodding. His thrusts became more infrequent and harder and your thighs began to shake. Your orgasm ignited a final push in him causing him to force himself even deeper in. The sound of the final screw falling from the bed frame didn’t deter him. He let loose as he pulled himself from you cumming in your lower back and flopping on the bed beside you leading the left side to drop to the floor.

“Fuck me.” You said through breathless pants 

“You broke my bed.” Sherlock said, panting himself

“We broke your bed.” You correct “again” you sigh

You look at each other and laugh, you lie there laughing for a moment.

“Thankyou.” Sherlock presses his lips to yours.

“I just want to make you happy.”

“You always do.” 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Taglist: @rmoonstoner

(there was somone else but when i put in your user i couldn't find it)

[eardefenders]

Sherlock & Co - Mailbag Episode 3 Transcript

00:00 John: Heyyy there, I’m,uh, I’m, uh, back in your ears! Heh. Uh, thanks for inviting me in. Um, I-I just wanted to add a chunk on before this Q and A just to give you an update on all things Gloria Scott. Uh, thanks so much for the kind words, first off. Uh I-I-I did warn about its angst. Um, and I appreciate i-it’s not always a fun ride when, when those kinds of things happen. Um. But hey! I’m glad you all enjoyed it. Um, glad the masterful sound design was appreciated.

00:32 John: Uhm, yeah I thought I’d, I’d check in now and give you a rundown of it all. Post match interview sort of stuff. Uh, Lionel did recover from the stroke. He is out of hospital, but he will be going back to Australia. Um. He’s-he's obviously cooperating with the government, um, down there. It’s not an easy situation, but he’s handling it with remarkable grace and dignity. Um. Victor is, as well. Can’t quite get the read on things with him at the moment. He’s obviously very, very torn. Uh, we solved the case for him, but, y’know, yeah. H-he’s in a much worse place then he was before. Um. *pause* Such is life. Uh, such is a very complicated life, I should say. He’s helping his dad, with the inquiries. Uh, m-my gut says there’ll be prison time. *sucks teeth* Um, y’know, c-cooperation and evidence and the, yeah, t-the mitigating circumstances might be helpful to Lionel and all, but, uh… *deep breath* ultimately lives were lost. He was complicit. Y’know this is the world we live in.

01:49 John: *sucks teeth* Victor has paused the job search, but uh I-I do believe he’ll be coming back to the UK once, y’know, whatever happens, happens. But, uh, yeah. Tough stuff. Um, glad you all enjoyed Mariana joining in on the adventure. Um, don’t know if she enjoyed it all that much. So far she’s watched corpses get pulled out of the canal and now she’s watched an elderly stroke victim get extradited for murder. So, uh, y’know. *chuckles lightly* Welcome to the world of true crime, Ametxazurra!

02:23 John:Um, Sherlock asked me to apologize, also, actually. Um, yes, to apologize that he wasn’t technically correct in his solving of the case. Um, uh, Hunter did reveal the actual truth. I, I told him people wouldn’t really mind. He got me to apologize anyway, so, uh, yeah. There you go. Um, so he’s been a right mopey bastard, as you can imagine. *clears throat* So, to cheer him up, I carted him off to…an indoor theme park! Heh, yeah, you heard that right. Theme park. But indoors. Well, theme park’s a bit strong to be honest. I-I-It’s like an arcade with an indoor roller coaster. But yeah! Y’know! Uhm, back to Camden, but for a much more enjoyable experience.

03:05 John: These questions were asked, um, before The Gloria Scott episode aired. T-two that I ask Sherlock right at the end are eerily prescient. Um, that’s the right word, I think? Uh, I hope. Welp, you’ll see what I mean. Enjoy!

03:19-3:49 *Intro Music*

03:47 *Arcade Sounds Fade In, we can hear Sherlock exerting himself*

03:50 John: Yoooo, wassup guys! Welcome to the John Watson channel where we talk all things John Watson all the time! Ehh, that’s my impression of a youtuber or real podcaster, hope you enjoyed it. Ah, right, Sherlock, tell the members where we are.

04:01 Sherlock: Indoor theme park! Augh! *through gritted teeth* You little alien bastard! Get back here!

04:09 John: Sherlock is doing some whack-a-mole, ah, or they’re aliens in this place, not moles. Could be alien moles. Who knows. Ah, it’s an indoor theme park in *in a very exaggerated North London accent (genuinely he sounds like an ass here)* North London. That’s North London, sorry. Bit excited. Had about a kilogram of sugar. Haha, I’m looking at all sorts here. Arcade machines, carousels, basketball hoop game thingy, air hockey, bumper cars -dodge’ems, call’em what you will-, and an indoor roller coaster! Hahahaa! It’s wild stuff. Okay, let’s get to some questions over a casual game of air hockey.

04:40 *Audio Cut, sounds of air hockey being played*

04:41 Sherlock: Have that! *puck hit sound* And that!

04:44 John: ‘Have that and that’? What are you, a musketeer? Hahahaaaa! *sound of a puck entering the goal* First point Watson! Heyheyheeeey, ahhhh. And now for the first question. Uh, Tonkster aka Resetoaster asks, “To John and Sherlock, if you go to Subway -the fast food I should clarify- what do you usually order?”

05:03 Sherlock: *with exertion* You’re *sound of the puck being hit* distracting me! Ah!

05:06 John: Ah, you wouldn’t be saying that if you were winning.

05:07 Sherlock: I’m not winning *puck hit sound* precisely because of it.

05:11 John: Alright, fine. I’ll answer. Uh, I like the turkey club. Is that-Ow! That hit my finger. *hisses in pain*- I think there’s a turkey one. Um, I like that one on plain-ish bread. I don’t think their fancy breads are all that good. Uh, and then I’ll have a southwest sauce- Wham! Haha! *sound of puck entering goal*

05:23 Sherlock: Oh, bugger.

05:26 John: Subway order?

05:26 Sherlock: Never been.

05:27 John: Great.

05:27 *audio cuts. Sounds of automatic rifle fire going off*

05:29 John: Reloading. Cover me!

05:29 Sherlock: Covering.

05:30 John: Incoming at your two o’clock.

05:31 Sherlock: On it!

05:32 *sounds of two loud gunshots*

05:33 John: Yesss, Sherlock. Right, through the lobby. Okay, let’s see how this goes. Bellaxbear01 asks “If you guys want another pet, what animal would it be? Another dog, another cat, or maybe a fish?”

05:47 Sherlock: I like fish. *sound of gunshots* Very much. Reloading.

05:50 John: *pleased* Oh, hahah! I like fish too!

05:52 Sherlock: Really?

05:53 John: Yeah! Tropical?

05:54 Sherlock: Tropical or temperate.

05:56 John: Well that’s good to know. Yeah, worth maybe one day looking into that? Oo! Getting shot at here. Uh, Amelie5 asks “Do you have a favorite case you’ve solved so far?

06:05 *sounds of a big gun being fired*

06:07 Sherlock: A good question at bloody last. Die you bastards! *big boom*

06:12 John: Oh wowhaowhaooow! *sounds of I guess dirt falling, maybe bodies???* *with a smile in his voice* Oh, you made him blow up! Ha! Ahh, I know the feeling. Poor sod.

06:18 Sherlock: I rather enjoyed the Red Headed League.

06:22 John: Yep, that was a good’un. -Oh, duck down! That’s a machine gun.- Did you like the Red Headed League because of the case or because it proved me wrong about it being boring?

06:27 Sherlock: Mmm, both.

06:28 John: Great, well-oh I’m dead. *sound of man yelling, presumably John’s character dying in the game* Balls.

06:31 *audio cut. Ambient arcade sounds with something fizzing at the forefront*

06:34 John: What is that?

06:35 Sherlock: *struggling to speak* opp ing andy.

06:37 John: Opping Andy?

06:38 Sherlock: *still struggling to speak, but clearly annoyed* Op-opping. Andy.

06:41 John: Ohhhh, popping candy. Right. Well, RangerPip asks any specific reason you started smoking a pipe?

06:49 Sherlock: *unintellible gargling and consonant sounds*

06:54 John: Right, well, if you understood that RangerPip, well done you, haheh. *pause* *in a considering tone* Hunnh. He may or may not be choking.

07:03 *audio cut, loud music and bumper car sounds*

07:04 John: Ah!

07:04 Sherlock: Ahahaha!

07:05 John: Hahahah, left! Left! Left!

07:08 Both: Ah! *sound of impact*

07:09 John: Oh my god, my ribs! Argh, right! Let’s get up some more speed and smash into these kids-uh, I mean! These, um, big burly blokes.

07:17 Sherlock: Here we go.

07:20 John: Yesss, Sherlock, we are at some speed now, baby! Hahahah, right! Question from Raylein, “Does Archie get human food? And if he does, who feeds it to him?”

07:30 John: Ah yeah I do feed him, I-

07:30 Sherlock: Yes.

07:33 John: Wait.

07:34 Sherlock: What?

07:35 John: You’re feeding him as well?

07:36 Sherlock: I am, yes!

07:38 John: Well, that explains a lot. Uh, yeah Raylein, I don’t really like animal products going to waste so I just, um, I chuck him all sorts. Ope, here we go. Come here you little shits.

07:44 Sherlock: Ahhhhhhhh!

07:45 John: *sound of impact* Ah hahah!

07:48 *audio cut, it’s much quieter now, but they’re still at the arcade*

07:49 John: *remorsefully* I just didn’t think they’d cry and tell their mums is all.

07:51 Sherlock: That’s what children do. *accusingly* You told me to smash into them.

07:55 John: I did not say that.

07:57 Sherlock: Can I get the SD card out of your microphone and check?

08:00 John: No.

08:01 Sherlock: See.

08:02 John: Andrew says, “Question for Sherlock: Do you have any piercings? And, if you don’t, do you want any? And, if you do, which ones do you want?”

08:10 Sherlock: *sucks in a deep breath* Ear piercing. I haven’t used it for some time.

08:14 John: Why not?

08:15 Sherlock: Was that asked in the Discord?

08:17 John: What?

08:18 Sherlock: That. Just then.  The ‘Why not?’

08:21 John: …No.

08:22 Sherlock: *takes a breath* Well then. I needn’t answer it. This is a time for members.

08:26 John: Right. Great. Lovely. Ok, MushPit says “Your deductive skills, was it talent you were born with or a skill that you developed and perfected over time?”

08:34 Sherlock: I assume MushPit is asking me, not you?

08:37 John: Ah ha ha, very funny.

08:40 Sherlock: My senses have always been, um-

08:43 John: Overcalibrated?

08:44 Sherlock: Yes, quite. Sooo, I’ve always observed a lot. When I found it difficult to tune out of my surroundings, I decided to analyze them. Then it became rather addictive. Yes, it became a skill, but I feel it much stronger then a skill. It feels like a byproduct of my very existence. I cannot unlearn it. IIII cannot wind it down or soften it. It occupies me as much as I do it. I fear that I  cannot stop it. Even if it kills me. Even if it drains everything from me and I can never truly find it to know myself, to know my surroundings without the necessity…uh, no, the-the requisite to my very self. To t-try to understand everything-

09:33 John: The rollercoaster’s ready.

09:34 Sherlock: Oh.

09:35 John: Uh, we- we can finish if you want? Uh, y’know we can go on it later?

09:40 *audio cut, we can hear the roller coaster going and John and Sherlock on it. John keeps saying ‘Woohoo! Wheee!’ and Sherlock is saying joyfully ‘Bloody fantastic! Absolutely bloody fantastic!’ Both of them also keep laughing in between their exclamations*

09:48 *audio cut. We’re outside. London traffic can be heard.*

09:53 John: Oh that was good! Wasn’t it?

09:54 Sherlock: *pleased* Superb.

09:56 John: Not a bad idea, is it? A theme park, indoors? I mean we were a little old for it, but hey, y’know, there’s no age limit on enjoyment! Well, I mean you can’t go jumping into a soft play or anything like that, but yeah. Yeah. Now we are walking near Chalk Farm. Not actually a farm of chalk, of course. It’s just a nice place between Bellsides Park and the Northern end of Camden town. How’s that q and a session for you, mate?

10:16 Sherlock: Is that question on the Discord?

10:17 John: Right, ok. This is not a thing. You can still have normal chats with me inbetween members questions.

10:25 Sherlock: Noted.

10:26 John: Well it’s a question for me now anyway. Um, has your mother finally listened to the podcast? And if yes, what does she think of it? Uh, yes, has she listened? She has! She didn’t like the sound of my bomb. That makes two of us, there. Eheh. Uh, and she sent me further messages about Mariana. And! She will occasionally point out when I’ve been rude to people on the show. *clicks tongue* She also asked me if the Austrian man’s face was okay, so she has at least, definitely finished one adventure. And, no. His face is not. Ok. Mum. Uhh, so- hunh, this is weird.

10:59 Sherlock: What’s that?

11:01 John: Two questions here, next to each other. Uh, I-I’m not making this up. First one, Ramt or-or Ramtonk, “t-the flowers on my orchids are gone, but the plants themselves are thriving. Uhh, they’re watered as they should be and get optimal sunlight. Will the flowers ever come back?”

11:19 Sherlock: *pleasantly surprised* Hhha!

11:20 John: Right? Yeah and the second one from Batonks the Graveyard Ghost says, “Question for John, do you have any funny memories from your childhood that you’d like to share with us?”

11:30 Sherlock: Yes, that is quite remarkable.

11:32 John: Well! I’ll let the adventure of The Gloria Scott answer those questions! So, ah, everybody, thanks so much for these. I hope you enjoyed the answers. Sorry it’s been so short, but I’ve just noticed that that’s our bus!! We’re gonna miss it! Go! Go! Go!

11:46 Sherlock: *frustrated sigh* For goodness sake!

11:47-12:17 *Outro Music Plays*

[sobeautifullyobsessed]

My Beautiful Obsession: long time, no see 😉

Happy to report that I've got a new coworker who came to the Service Desk already extremely infatuated with Benedict Cumberbatch. We immediately bonded over Doctor Strange. Turns out that she's been a fan since seeing BBC Sherlock. Friends, I wore a very old, faded Sherlock tee shirt (just for her delight 😁), and she recognized when I called what he was wearing The Purple Shirt of Sex!! It feels like a decade since I've encountered a fellow *looks around furtively**whispers* Cumberbitch in the wild!!

I advised her to watch The Power of the Dog, and she loved it, of course. Next on the list is The Imitation Game. And then his adventure with Bear Grylls.

Oh, and she's a huge proponent of Scruffybatch ❤️‍🔥🥵❤️‍🔥

To quote her: Now that's a Man!

[jawnscoffee]

Sherlock's Wedding Speech

ok so this is a very random onehsot i've head in my head for AGES and it rained today and that means: perfect day to stay inside and write :D

the title says everything (even though i have NO idea if sherlock would actually say sth like this but i just love his best man speech way too much). hope you like it!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ladies and gentlemen, family, friends, and...uhm... others. 

When I stood here for the first time, I was babbling something about telegrams that John received, which, in case you forgot, are still not actually telegrams; we just call them telegrams. I still haven't figured out why, by the way. I guess I'll just have to be content with the fact that it's a wedding tradition.  

When I stood here for the first time, I thought telegrams were stupid because I didn't know what it was like to receive telegrams myself. I didn't understand why people would congratulate you on something like a wedding or on finding somebody you want to spend the rest of your life with. I thought it was stupid since a wedding is nobody else's business anyway, and after all, it is very rare that you actually do end up spending the rest of your life with the particular person you married that day.  I didn't understand because I didn't know back then what it felt like to have found someone you knew you would love for the rest of your life and even longer still, no matter what. I didn't understand because I didn't know what it felt like to be loved by this particular person just as much in return. 

When John Watson asked me to marry him, I suddenly did.  

John Watson. My friend, John Watson. My...love. 

When John first broached the subject of getting married, I was confused—even more so when he asked me to be his best man.  I confess that at first, once again, I didn't realise he was asking me. It took me a little longer to understand what he was saying than when he asked me to be his best man and why he, all of a sudden, knelt down in front of me. I couldn't express just a scrap of emotion, which, understandably, unsettled John a bit.  Looking back at it, I think the reason why I couldn't do it was because, just as I didn't expect to be anybody's best man or best friend, I didn't expect anybody to ever kneel down for me. Or, well, propose to me, as I later understood.  

For a very long time, I thought that a wedding was nothing short of a celebration of all that is false, specious, irrational, and sentimental in this ailing and morally compromised world. I considered a wedding to be nothing but honouring the death watch beetle that is the doom of our society and, in time, one feels certain, our entire species. I, unfortunately, stated both of these fairly openly, if anyone has trouble remembering.  

When John knelt down in front of me and asked me to be his husband, though, this mindset died just like my false belief about telegrams, and I finally started to understand. 

John Watson right here is not only my helpmate during my adventures, which I consider to have been ours for a long time, actually. John Watson is not only the bravest, kindest, and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing, even though this is, by any means, the case. 

This man, whom I am lucky enough to call my husband from now on, is far more than that.  

John Watson is the person I have never even imagined meeting, since it takes a good bit of luck to meet your special someone. But I did have this luck. Because John Watson is my special someone.

He is the person I will love for the rest of my life and even longer, and he has saved me from so many misfortunes I'm unable to put into words.

He is not only my best friend and the one whom I love most in this world, but also the one who showed me what it's like to be loved in return. He showed me that receiving felicitating telegrams is actually not a stupid thing at all, because sometimes even I cannot believe how lucky I am to have found my very own kind of forever.

He showed me that weddings are not a death watch beetle that is the doom of our society, but rather a promise that I am more than willing to make.  

This time, I cannot congratulate you on your choice of companion, John. I'm still an utterly ridiculous man, redeemed only by the warmth and constancy of your friendship and...love. But, nevertheless, I will happily thank everyone who congratulates me. 

When I say I love this man and will love him until all eternity, it is the truest promise of which I'm capable.

I won't say that I love John more than anybody has ever loved anyone before, since you cannot and should not compare one love to another. However, when I say I love this man, I mean that I love him more than anyone will ever love him and has ever loved him before, and that I have a lifetime ahead to prove that.  

With the bright rings on our ring fingers, I've made an even brighter promise I will never forget to try to fulfil. 

John, when you knelt down, you made me, and this is something I can say for certain, the happiest man on earth.  I wish I could describe it more in detail, but I simply love you more than words can say.  

With the rings on our fingers, you stole the very last piece of my heart, and I'm not afraid to call myself a heartless man any more. 

I don't need legal papers to say that I'm yours and you're mine, because I already am and will always be yours. But if this is the way to celebrate the luck I've got, I'll be more than happy to raise my glass to the man who is not only my love but also my husband from this day on.  

I love you, John Watson, more than everything I've ever loved before. Thank you for making me the happiest I've ever been.    

tagging: @topsyturvy-turtely @a-victorian-girl @lisbeth-kk @peanitbear @just-a-fixed-point-in-time @dw91165 @writingloud @7-percent @blogstandbygoy @johnlockifconvenient @kat987 @mary-johnlocked @meohmycroft @consultingtribble @paulineholmes02 @jameshavinganxiety @lastsociopaths @catlock-holmes @jobooksncoffee (hope that's okay! tbh still don't get when and what people you're supposed to tag...)

[childofhypno]

just some thoughts from sherlock and co. Mailbag episode

honestly I did this to myself and at 3am no less.

In an mailbag episode on the sherlock and co. patreon, answering a question on their favorite musicals, John answered Les Misèrables. And being the romantic we know our loveable doctor to be, I was perusing the songs from the 2013 movie album and came across On My Own.

Sung by Èpoine about her unrequited love for Marius. And that is sad in its own regard, there's a reason it's one of the musicals most popular songs and Samantha Barks does a great job of that crushing emotional weight of being so wrapped in someone, so ultimately dazzled by them and wanting to be near them. But knowing they will not look at you the same, will not place the same value on the time and proximity you share. And that is not their fault and it is hard to love someone and desire to be close and yet have them be the source of your greatest pain and rejection, even though they may wish you no harm.

It's been hinted at and out right stated (by Sherlock) that John wants to be liked. And given what we've heard about John's last relationship (the one whereby he gained ownership of Archie after the split) and perhaps some insecurities there, insecurities in his own capabilities, comparing himself to others, its understandable to read John as something of an insecure man. Not in a toxic manner but John definitely has a lot of self doubts about himself and his place in the world and what he can offer to others. Despite him so naturally being able to attune to people and their needs and being quite bloody smart and intuitive. All round just a decent person.

And John, as much as anyone, marvels at Sherlock Holmes. This almost mythical figure. John admires Sherlock and maybe envies him on some level. I think not in Sherlock's deduction skills or specific knowledge skillsets but maybe in Sherlock's apparent surety in himself and where he is in life and what he wants from it. Sherlock is plainly himself, even if it means not "fitting in " John often tries to mould himself to what others might like, and hey, as a people pleaser, oh boy do I understand that. Almost becomes like muscle memory.

Sherlock in turn, I think admires John's social prowess. His ability to express the complexity of emotions. Just because someone doesn't emote the typical way doesn't mean they don't feel the emotions. And that can be incredibly frustrating when you want to communicate with others. Sherlock cares about people. He's interested in people. And he can't always express or connect with them in the way he wants. Like a language barrier he mentioned in another mailbag episode. That is why Sherlock and John work. They draw out in each other and supplement for the qualities they lack or yearn to have more of. They're a balancing act. A good one. And I'm not the first to point that out.

All this to say, imagine when that act is separated. The Fall. Grown so comfortable to have the other's support, always by each others side and then, suddenly the other person isn't there. And you have to remember how you functioned without them before. But you can't go back. You're not the same person you were. But if they aren't there to remind you, to encourage you, it's easy to fall back into old habits.

And so the song. On My Own. From John's perspective, watching the man the myth the dazzling legend that is Sherlock Holmes, getting swept up in the adventures, feeling totally out of place but thrilled be along for the ride, participating, maybe growing in confidence all because of coincidental flat share with possibly the most brilliant and bizzare man he's ever met. The world is changing for John Watson. And Sherlock is seemingly at the center of it all. He's found purpose. Friends. A home. Maybe more. But John is as fallible in his assumptions as any of us are. And Sherlock appears to have no interest in such relationships and John, not confident enough to make the first move. So he can daydream. Of what it would be like to be with Sherlock. And what it would be like be without Sherlock.

And then the Fall. And he truly is without Sherlock and his world has dulled and greyed and blurred. The city has lost its glimmer. The flat is quiet. The words are meaningless. And John sits with his what ifs.

Don't think of John hearing this song. Of the heartbreak of knowing that you can ever be with the one you love. And knowing that taste of what brilliant technicolours the world is when you were with them, full of stimulating twinkling lights. And thinking it could never be that way again. Don't imagine John, sat in the flat, in the achingly quiet flat, as a woman sings for her never was love, head in his hands, Archie resting his head on John's knee. Don't think of John cursing himself for not being sure enough to tell Sherlock how he felt, for not being good enough again to save his friend. Don't think of John Watson, once again, on his own.

[frost-queen]

Upon a nightly walk //part 2 (Reader!Bridgerton x Sherlock Holmes)

Requested by: anon, Forever tag:@missmelodramatic, @merlin-dahlia, @alex–awesome–22 @elllie-does-the-posts, @floatlosers, @merlieve, @queen-of-books, @glimmering-darling-dolly@denkisclown, @wildieflower, @meyocoko, @bubblybrianna, @justanothercoco@subjecta13-thefangirl, @m-rae23, @harleyquinnswifeyfrfr, @swampthing07, @melsunshine

Summary: Having fallen asleep at Sherlock's home after his drunk night. You have to rush home, hoping no one would find out about your nightly adventures of roaming the streets of London. Will anyone find out or can you sneak back in unseen? < read part 1 & part 3 >

Slowly your eyes started to open at the morning glow. A soft light peeking through the curtains. Inhaling deep, you rolled onto your back, stretching your arm out. Squealing a bit. What a lovely dream you had. A warm touch had cherished you. Brushed against your cheek. A yearning your heart desired in your dreams. Someone that loved you, look after you. Hold you into their arms and whisper sweet words of love.

Stand between the cruel world and your dreams and hopes. Offering you protection, love, ambition, and pleasure. Not to be one’s wife for one purpose of breeding. It was the loveliest dream you had. Flickering your eyes open, you slowly got up. Blinking slowly as your brows furrowed. These were not your curtains nor your walls. Looking down these were not your blankets nor pillows.

The sound of something happening outside your door, startled you. It made you jump out of bed, hurrying away from the door. Muffled sounds on the other end of the door frightened you. Seeing a candleholder on the nightstand, you took it. Holding it high as you carefully stepped up to the door. Taking the handle in your hand, you took a deep breath.

From underneath the door, you saw a shadow move across. Clear to you that someone else was around. You waited a few seconds before opening the door. You stormed out, candleholder in the ready as you took a swing. – “Whoah there!” – Sherlock called out, ducking down just in time, and grabbing you by your wrist to stop you from taking another swing. – “Sherlock?” – you called out confused.

He moved your wrist down, holding a gentle hand in front of him. – “Yes it is me, Miss Bridgerton.” – he reassured you. He let go of your wrist, pulling his vest straight. You looked around, trying to recall how you found yourself here. – “This is your home?” – you questioned out loud. – “Yes.” – Sherlock answered with a deep hum. He watched as you looked curiously around as if seeing it for the first time.

“Miss Bridgerton, you… you do remember how you got here do you?” – he asked wanting to be sure. You paused, frowning deep. – “I was out for a walk.” – you started pacing around. – “Then I…” – your eyes widened. – “I stumbled upon you… drunk.” – pointing at him. – “Not my finest moment.” – Sherlock replied. – “You brought me home Miss Bridgerton, remember?”

You nodded remembering it. It made Sherlock sigh relieved. For a moment he wasn’t sure which one of the two had been drinking for this memory loss to occur. – “Feeling any better?” – you asked, moving a bit closer. He nodded. – “All thanks to your care Miss Bridgerton.” – he smiled, fond of the memories of last night. How pleased he was his mind was careful enough to store the events of last night to his memory and not forget about it.

You started chuckling remembering his drunken state. – “Am I that amusing to you?” – he said quirking his eyebrow up. – “Yes, my lord.” – you replied. Eyes caught with his, staring lost at each other for a moment. – “Would… would you like some tea?” – he whispered, taking a step closer to you. You nodded, drawn closer to him. He opened his hand, offering it to you. You raised your hand up, to place it in his when the sound of a carriage riding on the cobble stones made you pull back.

Eyes wide at the horror that was awaiting you. – “My brothers.” – you exclaimed worried. – “I…they have no idea I disappeared last night. What would they do? What would they say?” – you wondered, panicking a bit. You were pacing once again with worry. Gasping loud, you came to a sudden realization. – “I staid here? What will they say if they find out I spend the night here with you. I would be locked up? Send away? Killed?” – you spewed out with terror.

“Miss Bridgerton, Miss Bridgerton.” – Sherlock tried to intervene, but you had no ears for it. – “Y/n!” – he shouted loudly, catching for sure your attention. He took a deep breath to compose himself. – “Your brothers will not end your precious and beautiful life.” – he reassured you. – “I…” – he took another breath. – “It might not to be too late. If I escort you home now, you could be home without anyone knowing.

It is still early. Very early as no noblemen is yet awake.” – he explained with a suggestion. It took you a few seconds to let it sink in. – “Can I? Will it be effective?” – you asked. Sherlock nodded, plucking your hand from beside your body. – “It will. If you trust me.” – he said, staring down at you. – “I trust you.” – you breathed out, your body almost drawn to be in contact with his. He brought your hand up, drawing circles with his thumb. – “Tea shall be for another time.” – he spoke losing himself in your gaze.

“Pity…” – you whispered drawing your head nearer to his. Sherlock was tempted to lean in as well and touch your lips. Yet he held back, knowing time was of the essence. – “We must leave Miss Bridgerton.” – he said, moving away. You nodded, following him downstairs. Out of his home. Sherlock walked you up to his carriage, assisting you inside. – “Bridgerton estate.” – he told the footman before joining you in the carriage.

He sat across from you. The memories from last night slowly slipping through. How you held his hand. Him resting his head on your shoulder, yet also the other parts. Where you had to shove him in the carriage as he was beyond himself. Drowsy from alcoholism. It made you move your hands between your thighs in the folds of your dress. Flustered of last nights ride. Sherlock briefly looked at you before turning his gaze away to outside.

Not wanting to embarrass you or himself in any matter. He truly felt ashamed for acting like such a fool in your presence. He hoped you wouldn’t think any less of him. – “Miss Bridgerton I…” – he started, feeling the need to explain his last night behavior. He kept his next words in seeing you had raised your hand. – “My lord, an explanation is not in order. You would’ve had your reasons. All I care about is that you are well.” – you told him.

Sherlock smiled, wondering how you could keep surprising him. – “You are a remarkable lady Miss Bridgerton.” – he complimented. – “Do believe me that you hold a special place in my heart.” – he moved a hand to his chest with a comforting nod. It made you bashful, warming up. – “As do you.” – you whispered, turning your head for if you stared any longer at him, you might catch fire.

Your heart started to thump louder when the carriage rode into your street. The anxiety of sneaking back into the house, drumming loudly in your chest. The carriage came to a stop, making you take a deep breath. – “Shall I escort you to the door?” – Sherlock asked. You shook your head. – “This is mine to do alone.” – you replied, moving closer to the door of the carriage. So did Sherlock. – “I look forward to that tea.” – he told you. – “So do I.” – you answered.

The door opened as Sherlock gave you his hand, helping you out. You stepped away from the carriage, looking back at him. Sherlock kept staring, not wanting to leave yet. You turned round, taking a few steps when the door opened. – “Y/n Y/m/n Bridgerton!” – Anthony called out, rushing out of the door. Followed by Benedict and Colin. It had startled you, making you drop down, sitting crouched. Sherlock’s eyes widened at the sight of your brothers.

He signaled to his footman to take a leave. The carriage took off just before Benedict could reach it and open the door. He had run past Anthony towards the carriage, ready to pull him out. – “Don’t think I didn’t see you Sherlock!” – Benedict shouted with a warning finger. Anthony grabbed you by the arm, pulling you up roughly. – “Inside!” – he ordered, dragging you along.

He dragged you to father’s old study, followed by Colin and Benedict. – “Where have you been?!” – he shouted, setting you down on the chair. You wanted to answer, but closed your mouth when he set his hands on the chair’s railing, staring down with a scowl. – “Disappearing into the night, wandering the streets! Do you have any idea how dangerous that was!” – he said loudly. – “Not to mention what you were doing at Sherlock’s!” – Colin interfered. – “I wasn’t…” – you said in defense.

“So what? You slept on the streets is that it Y/n?” – Benedict called out; arms crossed. – “No!” – you replied. – “So you were with him?” – Benedict answered setting his hands on the desk. – “Yes but…” – you said, your brothers scoffing loud in agony and frustration. – “Nothing happened if that is what you fear.” – you told them. – “I stumbled upon him and brought him home. I didn’t mean to fall asleep there, but I assure you nothing has happened that could ruin my reputation. Our reputation.” – you made clear.

“That is not the point Y/n!” – Anthony said, grabbing you by the arms, pulling you out of the chair. – “You went out alone in the dark! If you were in anyway harmed? I…I” – he squeezed your arms tighter. – “I do not require another month of mourning Y/n!” – he said loudly. You nodded softly. – “Apologies… I wasn’t thinking.” – you responded. – “Clearly!” – Colin pointed out. The bitterness in his voice made you regret everything in an instant.

Anthony let go of you, looking away. – “This has not come to an end yet! You will face the consequences of your actions.” – he warned you. You tried looking at your brothers, but they avoided your gaze. Truly disappointed in you. With nothing else to do but apologize and beg for forgiveness, you lowered your head. – “I am deeply sorrowed.” – you said.

You walked past Anthony who couldn’t even give you a look. Benedict too did not grant you a look. Arms crossed as he forced himself to not look upon you. You moved past him nearer to Colin, who kept looking at the ground. When you attempted to meet his gaze, he turned his posture, back towards you. Deeply saddened, you left the study, making your way upstairs to have a cry in your room.

------------------------------

Read more of my fics on my Masterlists!  

[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.

[ohwhataniight]

more than the world can contain - Chapter 4: A Scandal in Belgravia - Part 3

Part 1, Part 2

Songs I was listening to while writing:

Sherlocked

Faded

Tango del Fuego

So. I can't stop writing and posting little bits of my WIP. It's horrible. I can't seem to be able to sit down and proofread and complete it before I appear on your dashboard again. Anyway, please forgive my impatience once again.

Irene Adler makes me hot. Seriously, every character in this universe makes me swoon. Impertinent.

J

Now that’s a visual and auditory experience I never expected I’d acquire. Sherlock Holmes, the mighty and seemingly heartless (I declare bullshit to that) detective, lying like a giant lump in his bed under covers he keeps throwing off, tossing and turning, his voice alternating between tiny whimpers and an anxious baritone. “I am not in love, I am not in love.”

In retrospect, I should have seen this coming. I had been foolish enough to be comforted by his “married to my work” facade and assume that this - us, solving crimes together - would keep being enough for him. I should have listened to Donovan. “He’ll get bored of you” meaning you’ll never be enough. Because, apparently, people who could be enough for Sherlock do exist, after all, in the form of women who match him in wits and ineffability. It only makes sense that he has to deny being in love with such a person, a woman, now that was unexpected, only a day into meeting her. Such forms of denial, when uttered with such desperation by those lips, are akin to a declaration.

Honestly, I don’t know what this sinking feeling in my stomach really signifies. I should have expected this, and even if I hadn’t, I shouldn’t care. I don’t know why I care, why it feels so ugly and wrong that Sherlock Holmes is so adamantly denying (declaring) his love for a woman who, painful as it is to admit, is a perfect match for his mind and his looks. I think I have sort of become addicted to this - this us, again - to being handcuffed together, running around foggy London hand-in-hand, The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson, just the two of us, sleuth brothers-in-arms, colleagues, friends.

For some reason I can only blurrily see, my knees give out with the idea of someone else stepping into the equation.

“He’ll get bored of you”.

About bloody time I realized that, then.

But for now, he’s unconscious, and distressed, and he needs me. So I provide the comfort he requires, my hand brushing damp, stray curls away from his forehead, stroking his head, hushing him, taking it all in (including the image of his lipstick-stained skin) while I still can, privy to the fact that the only reason he accepts that is because he’s high as a fucking kite. The realization tugs painfully on my heart like a rusty hook.

Yet, he seems to want me here, leans into the touch, drags me close with his arms wrapped like tentacles around my waist when I make an attempt to withdraw after musing on consent, and when he calls my name I realize that I’m more than okay to do that for the most brilliant man in the world.

I’m okay with him needing me, until he realizes he doesn’t anymore.

S

Tasteful touch, the moaning. It attracts some delightfully appalled stares. Especially from John. He’s been counting.

She is interesting too, diverting, even. A pleasant distraction. I stalk her on Twitter, become occupied with her in more ways than one. I never respond to her texts, and yet it’s still somehow like a two-way conversation. She catches up quickly, she understands. It’s refreshing to find someone who is equally intrigued by The Game, and fit to follow (or even lead, sometimes).

Until her texts become all about John Watson.

Still not responding?

Are you so terribly busy, Mr. Holmes?

You’re having breakfast together, aren’t you? How domestic.

I can do to you things that would make John Watson blush.

We could let him watch.

John watching. John participating. John. The images materialize instantly in my head - it’s the curse of exceptional intelligence combined with a synaesthetic ability of sorts. Damn my mind palace. Thankfully, the presence of both Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson in the room is distasteful enough for me to be able to brush off every and any unsettling image involving the Woman and John.

To be continued...

[worstqueerbaittournament]

Submission messagefor Merlin and Arthur: merthur (merlin and Arthur from the BBC show merlin

Submission message for Steve and Bucky: Does Stucky count? Steve and Bucky from Captain America

Additional propaganda: I refuse to shut up about this. Merlin is not queerbait!! At no point during the show is there a genuine possibility of Arthur and Merlin to be in a romantic relationship. They are queer coded but they do not create a false impression of their relationship. See Sherlock for good example: they constantly bring it up in the show itself and dangle it in front of the viewers, only to not follow through. The show Merlin does not set them up. There are no offhanded remarks, comments, or jokes that they’re more than friends. There is simply no chance in the show that they will get together. They are queer coded, which is not the same. Coding says: this character displays some traits and characteristics that ___ people may relate to. Baiting says: oh you want these two together? hmm, you wanna see that? wouldn’t that be nifty? what if they talk about it and act like it? aren’t you gonna keep watching to find out if they really do? Then follows up with: SIKE! Wow we got you, of course they’re not together! All of that was meaningless! Let’s please stop confusing these two entirely separate concepts!

Merthur is just gay I don’t have to explain merthur on the merthur site. They’re talking to each other at night and giving each other flowers and shit— things Arthur NEVER does with his canon romantic love interest and if I’m not mistaken I think Arthur like goes to sleep for a hundred years and Merlin is like. Still waiting for him? Let them kiss, damn!

Stucky: "Of course, this is still a rollicking adventure tale and no adventure is complete without a love story.....the longest, most tortured one in Marvel history" - Christopher Markus and Stephen McFeely (writers of Captain America movies + Avengers Infinity War and Avengers: Endgame)

"from the meet cute to the tragic separation, their bond has all the elements of a classic romance." - Christopher Markus and Stephen McFeely

"Just as Jeph and Tim’’s earlier Daredevil: Yellow, Spider-Man: Blue, and Hulk: Gray all dealt with the major love interests in, the heroes’ lives, so too does Captain America: White. Steve and Bucky are each other’s soulmate." - Christopher Markus and Stephen McFeely

“So you have a character in Captain America who is searching for the only thing that he has left from his past that has any meaning to him, and that’s Bucky; and people have interpreted that relationship all kinds of ways and it’s great...we will never define it, as filmmakers, explicitly." - The Russos (Captain America: Civil War press)

"You mean, aside from Cap and Bucky?" - Anthony Russo (co-director of Cap 2 and 3 and Avengers: Infinity War and Avengers: Endgame) when asked about romance in Captain Amierca: Civil War

"Moderator: But you already had a romantic B story with Cap and Bucky, right?

Anthony: We sure do

Joe: We still do

Moderator: Did you ever had to dial down the sexual tension on set?

Joe: Why would we?" - Anthony and Joe Russo (directors of Cap 2 and 3 and Avengers: Infinity War and Avengers: Endgame) at a screening of Captain America: Civil War

Just a few examples directly from Marvel and the writers and directors.

merthur totally should win for so many reasons but mostly. most because the show writer, when advertising the last episode, said it was “a love story between two men” and then arthur just died in merlin’s arms for 42 minutes. on the day before christmas.

I put the first episode of Merlin, because I heard it was such a great show. I knew nothing about the ship at that point. I only put it on because i love shows like that. Before the first episode was over I was like OMG those two are gayer than later seasons Destiel. There is no way it was not intentional. NONE. Big time homoerotic vibes. It was great

I get the coding critique, but I think I disagree with the person who said they never teased a relationship with Merthur. If we’re talking “offhanded jokes that they’re more than friends” (or that other characters thought they were together a la Sherlock), I think the poetry and pants scenes fit that.

[asherloki]

One whiskey please

Sherlock x reader

Warning:- alcohol, bar fight almost

Fluff

"May I buy you a drink?" Said the man as stood beside me at the bar counter. I've been watching him for a long time, sitting alone with a whiskey in hand. Refusing every women who came to him. I couldn't stop looking at him. He has gorgeous green eyes, soft curly dark hair. He wore a white shirt with a black suit and a huge coat was beside him, probably he took it off because the air in here is warm. I stared at him, eventually hoping he'd see me and he did. He sipped his whiskey staring at me. Putting his whiskey down, he gave me a nod and I returned a nod to him too. With a smirk indicating he can come over here. As I saw him getting up I turned to face the bar, knowing he'd eventually say, what he actually did.

"Certainly" I replied leaning over the bar, "and who you might be?"

"Sherlock Holmes" he replied, "might've heard about me, didn't you?"

"I may have, I don't remember much about guys" I said sultrily, "but they do about me".

"I can see that" he answered and turned to the bar counter asking for a glass of whisky, "one whiskey please" he turned to me, "you're beautiful and rich".

"So am I, you're pretty damn appealing too" I answered, my eyes staring straight into his eyes.

"Your drink sir" said the guy at the counter giving him the glass.

"Your drink" Sherlock said to me handing me the whiskey.

"You sure?" I said gulping, dropping the smirk for a moment.

"Well you can try and if you don't -" he was suggesting if I don't like it I don't have to drink it until a guy came to me and said,

"I'd get you a better drink" and touched my hand to my surprise.

I didn't even had to shout for help cause Sherlock threw that whiskey on his very expensive shirt and pushed him away from me.

"Get off me" he hissed at him, "is she your property?"

"Yes I am" I said standing at the counter because those heels are awful and I couldn't walk properly in them, "I'm his wife you idiot".

Saying so I took out my wedding ring from my bag and wore it. He seemed to have seen something as surprising as a blue tiger. His mouth fell open, as everyone else's. Sherlock let go off him and took out his ring from the pocket and wore it.

"I... I didn't" that man stuttered, in utter surprise.

"It's okay" Sherlock patted his shoulder, "I know you didn't know that." Then he turned to me and said, "that's why I told you we can't recreate everything those fictions are about, in real life, but you were so invested into this pretence of hot rich fic scenario that you read".

It infuriated me that he shouted at me, "but I wanted to recreate it".

"Stop throwing tantrums at me, you can't even handle those stupid heels" he said walking towards me.

"Fine" I said, and put them off, "I look so short to you now".

Everyone laughed in awe there at this, even the guy drenched in whiskey, so did Sherlock at my knitted brows and pout.

"You're adorable" he said pinching my cheek. Then paying the man at the bar counter and taking his coat from his seat, we left the bar.

We walked in silence holding hands through the almost empty street of London.

"Did I look rich?" He asked as we walked barefoot.

"You looked normal " I said, still mad that our pretence didn't work.

"Well you don't even drink alcohol " he complained.

"Good for you, you got to drink your dearest whiskey." I said.

He chuckled at my anger. I carried these awful pair of heels because I bought it for tonight with alot of money which is a total waste. I can't handle heels, today was a reminder again. He too walked barefoot because according to him he can't possibly have the comfort of wearing shoes when I am walking barefoot.

"You know, these rich sexy stuffs aren't for us" he said. He's a simple man you know, I love his simple yet adventurous life, simple flat, simple he, himself.

"I guess so..." I said.

"Want to grab an ice cream?" And there he hit the nail at the perfect spot, I turned all excited to him,

"Yes yes and yes".

With that we ran barefoot to get some sweet treats for us. I know our plan didn't work but whatever we're doing now, is better, because it's not pretence.