REVERANCE
(acd!sherlock.holmes x pregnant!reader)
“They did not return home yet. You looked up to him curiously as he led you both to a remote, forested section of a park, where the trees parted open to reveal a lake, clear and sparkling under the sun. It was quite shallow, perfect for a wade.”
THE bakery was bustling with fellow locals lining up for their daily rations. Holmes, in his austere coat and fedora tipped low over his face, stared ahead in utter agonizing boredom. He only hoped that by the time they reached the front desk, the bread wouldn’t run out.
You, by contrast, stood beside him in all beige: coat, Mary Jane’s and scarf. A happy, warmed up bundle simply content to be there beside him. Since The Day (when you’ve gotten pregnant), he limited your walks to the nearby park and in the flat, never far enough into the city where most of the crumbling damages were. It was simply too hazardous for a pregnant woman like you to wander.
He could not risk it.
He had capitulated only when you gave a devastatingly tearful look—entirely rehearsed beforehand, by the looks of it—and even if he knew, he remembered John’s instructions on not to distress the mother. It would be terrible for the baby. And terrible for you.
“See there?” He lowered his voice, and pointed over the line of civlians to a man in a distinct navy blue coat, “The cuffs.”
You perked up, “What about them?”
“Observe the length of it.” He continued, “See the color? It is faded.”
“Perhaps he…just likes his coat..?”
“Perhaps. But the other day when I came—you weren’t there—he donned a different color. A dark green.”
He watched as you frowned, trying to piece an explanation for the vague points, “Maybe he’s wealthy? A good change up can do wonders to your appearance.”
The knowing smile widened, a hound on a particularly pleasing scent, “Indeed. I have seen this man for several weeks now. His change of coats depends entirely on the environment. You see, if we were to come again tomorrow—“
“Really?” You said hopefully.
“No,” he said, “If I were to come tomorrow, I can predict that he will change his coat to green only because his wife is not there.” He leaned down, his voice a hushed conspiratorial whisper, “And only because his other wife will accompany him.”
You held a hand to your mouth to stifle your gasp, “You’re serious? Goodness, that’s— that terrible man!”
“Abhorrent.” He tilted his head to the man’s direction and the woman standing next to him, “See how he fusses when he is with his actual wife? It is very curious, indeed.”
You looked up, “Will you tell her? The wife?”
“Why, darling.” He said quietly, “I brought this up because I am the very man she appoints as her private investigator. She is coming for her dues tomorrow.”
“Serves him right!”
“I should like to see his excuses. One can wonder what kind of concoctions a cornered fool can procure…” He muttered then looked up. “Ah, our turn is here. Mr Schaefers! Good to see you again!”
Mr Schaefers was a ruddy, built man of fifty. His eyes were always crinkled and bright, voice as warm as a bonfire, “Mister Holmes!” He boomed, “And Mrs Holmes! Lovely to see you. Finally convinced the big bad tyrant to let you out?”
“I was hardly dictatorial.” He sniffed defensively.
“Took a great deal of tears,” You ignored him and whispered, “He doesn’t look like it but he’s very, very easy to convince.”
“I am not.”
“Husbands, I say!” He barked a laugh, “Right, right! This will be quick. Wouldn’t want you standing for long.” He fussed with the boxes below, “Peters is busy waiting up for the next batch. The dough just started rising. Hope a good few minutes isn’t too long, Mrs Holmes?”
Holmes looked down, “Will your feet hurt?”
“It’s quite alright.” You said “I’ve been sitting for far too much, standing is a better change.”
“Tell me when it hurts,”As Holmes took out his coupon book, he leaned forward, hushed, “About the offer you put up…”
The discussion was tuned out.
Old people talk, you mused. You looked around briefly for a moment, feeling restless, teetering on the soles of your shoes forward and backwards. Then, you noticed his hands were in his pockets, a sliver of pale skin peeking out. You smiled mischievously.
It’s interesting how everything works, nowadays. When you’re bored, what better to do than to fuss over your husband?
“Couldn’t ship it, too much of a problem with the border patrols,” Mr Schaefer sighed.
Holmes hummed thoughtfully, “Is that so?”
You reached into his coat pocket, took his left hand out and splayed his palms over yours. They were warm. So warm. He was always warmer than you. A large walking hot water bottle that smelled like tobacco and old sheaf of papers. It was always a tassle when he’d got up to work. Sometimes, you prayed, in those moments, you were a button-sized hamster so he could tuck you in his breast pocket and bring you wherever.
You liked it best when he’d gather you up in his arms. Against the warmth of his chest— a blanket around you—his cheek against the crown of your head. You pressed his palm against the apple of your cold cheeks, hoping it’d transfer.
“It will improve over time, Mr Schaefer…” Holmes looked down, his eyes soft. Your own were closed, nose tucked under the thick, beige scarf. His thumb gave a press into your skin, before he resumed his discussion.
This hand, the left, you named it cub, wasn’t mottled with scars or bruises contrary to his dominant hand— which you called ‘bear’. He took extra care of this one. Made it soft with lotion. Made sure he didn’t bruise it, hold his pipe, or weaponized it angainst unruly perpetrators. The hand he wore his ring on. The hand that held yours.
“This one is for you,” He flexed his left hand when you were tending the bruises on his right, “My right is my work. And my left is my life.”
“Silly man,”You’d chastised him. “Every hand is important. These make up your life.”
With the pad of your thumb, you slowly rubbed the bone of his knuckles. The muscles of his hand loosened , his fingers curling loosely over your hand. You traced one vein down the skin to his wrist. He turned his hand, palms up. You slotted your own into his.
You looked up, “Finished?”
On his other hand was a brown bag, filled with bread, and with a tip on your toes, you made out three demure blueberry tarts discreetly tucked inside.
“Mr Schaefer’s treats.” He whispered, a finger to his lips. “Now, let’s go before Lestrade finds out.”
“Hurry!” You giggled, “Hurry!”
.
.
.
They did not return home yet. You looked up to him curiously as he led you both to a remote, forested section of a park, where the trees parted open to reveal a lake, clear and sparkling under the sun. It was quite shallow, perfect for a wade.
“Wait a moment,” He said and began the simple task—if not appreciative to her eyes, alone—of undressing.
He took off his coat, folded it carefully, and laid it on the ground. His fedora followed, plopped onto his coat; watch peeled off and tucked into the pocket; cuffs unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up to his forearms; boots off. You were captivated, intently observing his arms with nothing but an appreciative stare.
Then, you heard the clink. The specific clink of his belt. His hands drifted from his arms and lower. Oh! Your face burned furiously. You whirled around with a sound of protest and hid your face into your palms, one hand outstretched. “Wait!“
His eyebrows raised far up into his forehead, stilling. He was quiet for a moment, watching you—his wife of five years—flustered by the very notion of him adjusting his pants.
“If I were to wade into the water with my trouser ends unrolled….” He said slowly, “It will be wet, it will irritate my skin and cause a rash. And I will be in agony for days.” He paused, “Open your eyes, sparrow.”
You peeked cautiously through the cracks of your fingers. He stood there, fondly exasperatedly with his hands on his hips. His pants were there, the bottom rolled up to his shin just like he said. Not taken off.
“Oh…” You said quietly, heart still hammering. You would not survive if he had done what you thought he’d do.
His lips curled and he shook his head.“Yes, ‘Oh’, you silly, silly thing. Come here.” He opened his arms.
You ambled towards him, not able to look at his eyes, and he took off your coat and scarf, bundling it up with his.
“Sorry,” You muttered, “Force of habit.”
“There’s nothing quite habitual about being skittish at the very sight of your husband’s skin,” He knelt to untie your Mary Janes, and your face grew defiantly warmer when he lowered his voice, “Or have you developed a slight revulsion to my legs? I thought you quite liked them.”
You sputtered, “It’s not like that, you impossible man! You can’t just!—in the middle of the field!—”
He laughed so suddenly that your stammer died off. The sound was a warm thing that made the austere lines of his face soften and crinkle, eyes sparkling with mirth. He rose “I was only jesting.”
“Hmph.”
He opened his palms in capitulation, “Now, shall we? Before the night grows cold.”
“But my dress is long.” You tugged at the flowy fabric, “The ends will get wet.”
He thought for a moment.
“Here,” He came behind her, with one hand, bunching the back of her dress in a small clump and raised it up until the hem of her dress were slightly above her shin. “Now walk, I will guide you.”
They ambled slowly towards the water, the grass a cool wet patch of curls under their bare feet.
“Oh!” She made a delighted sound, wiggling her toes into the biting water, “It’s—oh! It’s so cold!”
“Is this alright?” He leaned over, a palm curled protectively over her stomach.
“She loves it. I can feel her kicking!” She tilted her head back enough to see his face and laid her hands on his forearms, clutching the sleeves, pulling his chest closer against her back. “It’s perfect.”
He stared at the clear water, looking at the pebbles: some round, some jagged. His mind, once a creative vice, imagined a slight slip, or a trip that would send them both tumbling into the water.
“There!” She remained eager, tugging him forward, “Just a little more! I want it up my knees.”.
“We shouldn’t stay here for long.” His lips curled, “You’ll get cold feet.”
“I always do,” She sloshed her feet back and forth in the water. “It’s not a new occurrence anyway so you will bring me to the middle.”
There was no reasoning with the determined tyrant of bakerstreet. Even with kisses and delightful, tasty treats.
“Whatever the conductor says,” He smiled.
And so they begin waddling towards the middle of the shallow lake.
.
.
.
“William, look!” You pointed.
He had been feeling the gentle dance of the sun on his face when you said it. He opened his eyes, turned his gaze from the sky and down to a brown duck, a good feet away, wiggling on the water towards them. It looked up, curious at the two giants.
“I am quite sure it is not pleased with us,” He remarked.
“What do you think it’s saying?”
“It is displeased by the abhorrent sight of our feet dipped in to the water.” He said, leaning down, his cheek against her cold ones, “Observe its expression. ‘You are soiling my home and my life—leave before I will bite your ankles.’”
“Oh, poor thing!” You tilted your face to the side, bumping his nose with yours, his breaths a a tickling warm puff against your jaw.“Tell the Sir Duckling, me and my husband will soon depart and that I will provide him crumbs for his infinite patience.”
“Blasted husband.” He muttered.
“You take that back!
“Only if you hand over the blueberry tarts in the bag.”
She gasped, “I could possibly not!”
“Whyever so?”
“They cost a good fortune!”
“And what does it have to do with me?” He lowered his voice, squeezing her shoulders. “You barge into my home and demand I capitulate?”
“There has to be something!” You looked around and plunged your hand into his trouser pocket, wriggling your fingers around and produced a piece of grape. “It’s a good thing my husband loves his breakfast dry and contaminated.” She held it up to his nose, “Will this do, oh Sir Duckling?”
“Hm,” Holmes sniffed and thought for a long moment, “That will do.”
The duck had already wiggled away, irritated by the chattering giants, and the grape was safely tucked back into his pocket.
.
.
.
By the time they waded back to the bank , shivering, the sky bloomed into a warm, golden hue.
He bundled himself and you into your respective coats, wrapping the scarf back around your neck. He went to his knees, the coat pooling around him, and began patting your feet dry with the ends of his coat. You looked down at the top of his head, the curls of his hair falling forward.
The things you do for me. You thought. Always on your knees, even when you’re tired.
After putting on his oxfords and toeing on your Mary Janes, he rose.
“We should go,” he looked into the horizon, his hand blindly reaching out for yours, “Mrs Hudson would round up the constables by now if we returned any later.”
He was about to walk forward, when you said, “William.”
“Hm?” He turned.
You stood there, under the evening light, staring up to him with such adoring reverence that he felt his neck warm. You inched closer and leaned up on your toes. He bent down to meet you halfway and felt the soft, wet press of your lips against his. You smell, he noted delightfully, like lemons. And tasted like so. You pressed another kiss to his temple before teetering back onto your heels, leaving the great Sherlock Holmes flushed by a wifely kiss. Lestrade would have a field day if he knew.
“Mrs Hudson is waiting,” You took his hand, “Let’s go.”
His fingers curled into yours.
“Yes,” He softened, “Let’s go.”
