Billet-Doux
A Sherlockian Story
Summary: Gwynn receives a series of gifts in sophomore year, but can never catch who leaves them. Then she receives a love letter from a special someone and discovers who her mysterious admirer is.
College days Sherlock & Gwynn!
Warnings: mentions of drug use, Sherlock high (my attempt at writing it, I dunno how to write this kind of thing, I DO NOT promote it in any way through my writing of it), sexual themes
3,963 words
Gwynn stared at the gift on her desk. She studied it, frowning at it, observing it. Sherlock watched her curiously from behind.
“And there was no note left? No sign of who could have done it?” Sherlock mused, keeping his voice low in order to prevent them from earning the wrath of the school’s librarian as they had last time for the first gift Gwynn had found left at her dorm door.
Gwynn shook her head. “Only this slip of paper, obviously printed, attached.” She flicked the little paper at Sherlock, who frowned at it.
“Whoever is leaving these little...surprises for you is clever. He clearly doesn’t want you to know who he is,” Sherlock murmured.
“How do you know it’s a he?”
Sherlock met her gaze. “Can I deduce? Out loud?”
Gwynn leaned forward, flicking the tiny box she had yet to open. “Please do.” She didn’t tell him that she loved the way he spoke, that she loved the speed at which his brain worked.
And staring at the gift, she didn’t notice the way his lips twitched, wanting to form a smile. She only heard the sharp intake of breath as he began his deduction: “It’s wrapped elegantly, but it’s torn at the corner and part of the white underside of the paper is shown—a nail could easily fix the problem by slipping it under the nearest seam, however these nails must be clipped short—” He proved this by miming doing so with his own nails, which were too short to do anything. “—thus making it likely a male, as most of the females around here have nails quite long.” He lightly took Gwynn’s hand an examined it. “Yes, yours are fairly long as well... Continuing, the paper is a solid blue-purple color. Most women would chose a patterned paper to fit the occasion whereas most men chose at random from what’s on hand, if they have any on hand—I do believe the last gift was wrapped in Christmas paper?”
“Yes,” Gwynn said dryly. “So it’s definitely a guy, then?”
“The odds lean in favor of a man, yes,” Sherlock agreed.
“Perfect,” she grumbled sarcastically. “I have an admirer.”
Something like pity lingered in Sherlock’s gaze. “It appears you do.”
Gwynn grimaced. “Alright, what do you suggest I do?” she sighed.
Sherlock’s flicked from the small box to his friend. “Open it, I suppose?”
“You’re sure that’s wise?”
Gwynn’s eyes locked on Sherlock’s. His throat closed up, his thoughts screeching to a halt. But remembering she’d asked him a question, he nodded. “I think it’s alright.” He sniffed the box, turning it over in his hands. “Smells fine. No trace of poisons, acids, the likes.”
“Drugs?”
The hesitancy in Gwynn’s voice made Sherlock’s insides twist up. She’d found out about his drug use only a few weeks ago. Though she’d let the subject drop, she didn’t seem inclined to quite forget the whole thing as Sherlock would have hoped. He didn’t lose sight of her gaze turning to his arm once more.
Subconsciously, he pushed his sleeve down. “Not that I can tell.”
Gwynn clenched her fists. “Alright, let’s do this then.” She picked the box out of Sherlock’s open palm and glanced around. “Should we go somewhere other than the library? Somewhere louder so we don’t get...”
Sherlock shook his head. “We can’t be seen here, we should be fine.”
She slunk down a little in her seat, but Gwynn slowly peeled the wrapping paper from the small box. She swallowed hard, glanced up at Sherlock, and then lifted the lid off of the tiny box.
Her breath caught in her throat, Sherlock watching with anticipation. “He’s done his homework,” she squeaked.
“What? What is it?” Sherlock demanded.
Gwynn turned the box around for him to see. Inside was a long, thin golden pendant with little dots and dashes going down on a golden chain.
.- / .-- .- .-. -- / .... . .- .-. - ....
Sherlock glanced at her but it only took him a few minutes to decipher the Morse code. The pendant read: A warm hearth.
“A warm hearth...isn’t that what you say?”
Gwynn nodded. “‘Life is not worth more than a book, a hug, and a warm hearth.’ My mother used to say that all the time before she had me, apparently, so my brother took to calling me ‘Hearth.’ But I guess it would be a bit long on a pendant, so I guess it’s been shortened.”
“What’re you gonna do about it?” Sherlock asked.
Gwynn bit her lip. “I...I don’t know. If I wear it, I’m basically inviting this guy to keep sending me gifts and it’s a bit weird, if I’m being honest, but I don’t exactly want to ignore it. I want to know who this person is. Do you think wearing it or at least keeping it or something might prompt him into revealing himself?”
“Perhaps,” Sherlock decided after a moment of thought. “Though it might take more gifts.”
Gwynn groaned. “More?”
A smile twitched at Sherlock’s lips. “I’m afraid so, Gwynn.”
She crossed her arms on the table and laid her head on them. She glared at him. “You don’t seem very afraid of it.”
“They’re just gifts, Gwynn,” he reminded her. “There’s nothing that’s so scary about that, is there?”
/
The next gift came a two days later: a dainty gold choker of the same make as the necklace bearing the Morse for a book and a hug.
The fourth gift was a wire rose ring, which arrived a week after the previous one.
Four days later, she discovered the fifth was a pair of long earrings Gwynn had been fawning over last time she’d passed the jewelry shop she loved and they’d been displayed in the window.
The sixth, which came in a small little box the next day, was an essential oil with Gwynn’s favorite scent.
But the seventh, which came nearly two weeks after the sixth gift, was the one that made Gwynn finally start to realize who her gift-giver might be.
/
Blissfully relaxed and at ease with the world, Sherlock lay on his bed in his dorm, his schoolwork forgotten. His books were cast aside, his laptop shut, his bag dumped on the floor.
The only thing that mattered now was the needle in his hand and the euphoric feeling coursing through him now that he’d used said needle.
His mouth had formed a small ‘o’ in slight pain when he’d first pushed the needle into his arm—but now there was nothing but a relaxed, detached expression on that face, the pretty face Gwynn had often admired, not that Sherlock would ever know that.
Sherlock’s mind had been ripping, tearing, shredding itself to pieces. Without a challenge in his schoolwork, his brilliance was going to waste. It needed something to work on, to keep itself busy and distracted with.
This was the only alternative. Unless he wanted to start going crazy, that is, this was the only option.
Of course, Gwynn wouldn’t see it that way. She’d be livid and horrified and probably yell at him for a whole hour about not going to her and telling her he needed stimulation. Last time, she’d whipped up a pretty good challenge for him, a murder mystery she’d written incredibly well that he had quite enjoyed solving as she wrote it.
But he needed something now, not in a day or two, and it would take Gwynn that long to come up with a conceivable murder plot.
She’d be disappointed in him.
Oh, Sherlock, he could hear her saying with sadness beyond disappointment in her voice, I thought you were past this. We all thought you were past this.
But after being mad at him, she’d hold him as she usually did and she rub her fingers through his hair the way he liked, and she’d coo to him, I’ll help you, Sherl. I’ll help you and we’ll get through it. She’d kiss the top of his head (he quite enjoyed that kiss, that tender brushing of her lips over his curls). And then she’d help him clean out his stash. They’d start anew...and then he’d do it again. And again. And again.
Sherlock banished the thoughts of her from his head. No, this wasn’t the time. He could worry about Gwynn’s reaction when he wasn’t high as a kite.
What Sherlock didn’t know—he always deleted it so it wouldn’t distract him—that it was thoughts of Gwynn that always filled his head when he was high. Sometime he thought of her as he would a friend, sometimes he thought of how she must think, sometimes he wondered how crazy she must be to have befriended him, and sometimes his mind went further and wondered how she might be naked in his bed, what she might do, say, sound like, feel like. Would she want to? Would she let him? How would he even bring it up? How could he tell her he wanted it—wanted her?
He deleted it after. Every time. He deleted it because the one time it didn’t, it distracted him and left him on unsteady ground.
Sherlock curled up into a ball on his bed, turning himself in on himself, tucking his legs up to his chest. He murmured Gwynn’s name to himself, a silent mantra that both comforted and tortured him. And as he imagined himself buried inside her, he could still hear her voice, full of disappointment, and see her face, creased in worry and sorrow.
Lewd thoughts clashed with the idea of keeping his friend at an arm’s length from him, his inner struggle surging with the dopamine released in his brain. Moaning in a cross between anger with himself and ecstasy as thoughts of what Gwynn might look like with him making slow, sweet love to her crossed his mind, angry tears blurred Sherlock’s vision.
She was his friend, his best friend, his only friend. He had no right to do this to her, to see her as anything but his friend. She did not deserve him flinching away or blushing and looking away when she approached him or spoke to him because of what went on in his head.
Feeling right sorry for himself, conflicted in every way, he tucked his legs in tighter and breathed out, dispelling Gwynn—momentarily—from his mind and letting himself return to relaxing, calming, blissful euphoria.
He breathed in, he breathed out.
He breathed in, he breathed out.
He breathed in, he breathed out.
Blissfully relaxed and unaware of the world, his eyes fluttered closed as he returned the needle to his arm, his hand trembling only slightly. He pushed the needle in, pushed the plunger down.
Bliss.
/
Sitting on a park bench with tumblers of tea in their hands, Gwynn and Sherlock were huddled for warmth. There was a bag at Gwynn’s feet: yet another gift from her...admirer.
But she wasn’t inclined to see what it was just yet. Her tea was still warm and she intended to drink it before it got cold.
The wintery weather had started to let up, but there was still a bitter chill in the air. But clearly people were getting sick of being cooped up in their houses all the time—as Gwynn had, which is why she’d dragged Sherlock out of the dorms and into the town—as there were many people out and about, bundled up in scarves and coats.
Gwynn missed her favorite scarf. It had gone missing about a month ago. She had others—like the one she was wearing now—but she didn’t like it quite as much as the one she’d lost. This one wasn’t soft enough or warm enough.
A chill wind blew Gwynn’s hair from underneath her newsboy cap and a guy walking by whistled. Instantly, there was a blush of embarrassment and anger on her cheeks.
An arm came around her shoulders and pulled her close. Gwynn glanced over to find Sherlock staring the guy down with a murderous glint in his eyes.
This is nice, she decided and leaned into his protective hold. Sherlock’s eyes dipped to her, then back up as the guy scurried away.
“Thank you,” Gwynn said.
Sherlock cleared his throat awkwardly and immediately moved his arm. He gestured to the bag with his chin. “So. Going to figure out what he’s left you this time?” He was suddenly very intent on that bag.
Gwynn sighed. “I suppose I should.” She really wanted to investigate why Sherlock was suddenly so protective, embarrassed, intent on that bag, but she leaned down and plopped it into her lap. Sherlock’s hands had returned to his own lap, clenched tightly around his tumbler.
Pulling away the tissue paper, Gwynn gasped. “My scarf!”
Sherlock lurched, nearly spilling tea in his haste as the lid of his tumbler popped off. “What?”
Gwynn pulled the scarf out of the bag, revealing the scarf she’d lost a month ago. “It’s my scarf, Sherl! My exact scarf that I lost! Either it’s the same one or a very good replacement.” She brought it to her face. “This...this is wonderful!” She swapped the one she was wearing for the scarf she’d lost. She sighed.
“You’re enjoying this,” Sherlock decided.
“What?”
“Being pampered, showered with gifts. You like it.”
Gwynn scowled but didn’t try to deny it. “So? Do you have a problem with that? Besides, why are you acting so strange? Why’d you get so protective of me when that guy whistled at me?”
Sherlock choked, cleared his throat, leaped to his feet. “Ah! Look at the time! I have a seminar to get to!” He hurried off without so much as a goodbye, his cheeks red and not just from the cold.
Gwynn stared after him, dumbstruck and confused. It was only several minutes after he’d gotten out of sight before she realized the seminar Sherlock had been complaining about and ‘rushed off to’ didn’t start for another hour and a half.
/
Instant panic. That was all Sherlock felt. So he barricaded himself in his dorm, took out the needle—Gwynn still hadn’t found out about the last time—and plunged it into his arm.
Escape. He needed to escape. He might be high for the seminar, but as long as it brought him to a place where Gwynn wasn’t suspicious or mad or upset with him, a place where he could imagine himself loving her as he wanted to, as he wished she wanted to, he didn’t care.
/
Sherlock’s behavior returned to normal in the following week.
The gifts had stopped and Gwynn had taken to wearing the scarf once more. But there was no sign of anyone who showed any recognition of the scarf around her neck. The mystery continued.
But Gwynn had her own suspicions about who her mysterious gift-giver was: he obviously had to know her well, all the gifts were personalized to her; he had to trust she didn't report him to administration, which meant he had to somehow overhear her conversations with Sherlock; and Sherlock himself had deduced her gift-giver was a he quite quickly, and with reason, but...
Nearly a month had come and gone by the time Gwynn found another gift on her dorm mat one evening after a walk with Sherlock. She looked down at it with curiosity—a fairly large bag with wrapping paper and flowers poking out of the top.
She bent down to pick up and found it to be quite heavy, lifting it with a "ehhhherrr!" of exertion.
Hefting the bag through her dorm, Gwynn kicked the door shut behind her and placed the bag onto her bed. She studied it for a moment—should she wait to open it, as she had all the others, until Sherlock was with her...?
But it was heavy. She wanted to know what was in it...and it was doubtful she would be able to lug this to the library or wherever they met up to open it. So instead, she pulled out her phone and sent a text:
There's been another gift.
His reply came seconds later: Yes, and? What is it? - SH
Gwynn didn't hesitate a moment longer. She pulled the wrapping paper from the top and pulled the flowers out of the bag. The bouquet was a mix of yellow roses, jasmine, daisies, edelweiss, yellow honeysuckle, and both white and blue hyacinth. She lifted them to her nose and breathed deeply.
Well, so far flowers... They're quite beautiful. Do you want to see?
Not now, I can see them when I visit you tomorrow. - SH
Okay, then. I'll keep looking.
She dug through the bag again and gasped as she pulled the wrapping paper away. The rest of the bag was filled to the brim with books—the pile of them contained at least twenty, maybe twenty-five.
BOOKS!
...Books? - SH
Yes! Lots of them! There's at least twenty of them! I am not going to be bored for the next month or so!
How nice. - SH
What books are they? - SH
Gwynn sent him a list of all the titles, picked up one, and began to read.
/
Their break was upon them. Gwynn would be staying with the Holmes family for two weeks—something she was quite looking forward to. She had always enjoyed the Holmes's and family dinners were quite entertaining.
She'd read fifteen books from her last gift in the span of a month, and no new gifts had arrived. She wondered if her gift-giver (her suspicions were increasing with every book she read) was trying to give her time to read through all of them before he surprised her with another gift, or if he was done for good.
Two weeks prior, Gwynn and Sherlock had gotten into a fight. She'd found out, once again, about his drug use. She'd berated him, then held him, talked him through it, and then went back to her dorm and cried. Her dorm mate knew to leave her be when this happened—nothing could stop her from crying.
Crying because Sherlock was her best friend. She'd learned from his older brother, Mycroft, that he'd overdosed before. What if he did it again? What if he had to go to the hospital? What if no one found him in time? What if, God forbid, he died?
She would never be able to live with herself.
So after cleaning out his dorm and making him swear he wouldn't use again—at least keep away from the drugs until after vacation, because she knew he wouldn't last forever—they had reached their peace once more.
Which was how they were sitting side by side on a train bound for Sherlock's home laughing and talking quietly.
At last, Sherlock fell asleep, slumped against the window. Gwynn took the opportunity to pull out the sixteenth book—Sorcery of Thorns by Margaret Rogerson—and begin to read once more.
An hour passed and still Sherlock slept on. Gwynn reached the bottom of page 343:
He didn't answer with words. Instead he leaned forward and kissed her, his lips as soft as crushed velvet, his fingers tangling in her hair.
Afterward, he drew away. Disappointment flooded her, but he only moved far enough to rest his forehead against hers. "God, Elisabeth, I've been doomed since the moment I watched you smack a fiend off my carriage with a crowbar. How could you not tell? Silas has been rolling his eyes as me for weeks."
Her eyes chasing hungrily across the page, she flipped it only to find a folded piece of paper squished between the pages 344 and 345. She frowned and withdrew the paper, reading what quickly became a...a love letter, a confession of love, a billet-doux, if she wanted to be that fancy about it. It had been typed out.
Gwynn—
I'm not one for this kind of jargon—romance and love and eating each other's faces in empty hallways. But when it comes to you...I'm hopeless. There's just something alluring about you, something that draws me in and I can't figure out what it is. Maybe it's because I don't know why I find you so appealing that I do.
But for whatever reason I love you, I truly do. I want to spend every minute of every day of every year with you for the rest of my life. This roundabout way of telling you, of leaving gifts...I didn't know if I'd reveal myself. I didn't know if I'd follow it through. But after that scarf...I had to.
So now you know how your mysterious gift-giver knows everything about you. It's because it's me, me who you've confided in.
It's me.
Sherlock
The signature was signed in a magnificent scrawling penmanship. It was undoubtedly his hand writing.
Gwynn's heart stopped in her chest for several beats. She looked at Sherlock's sleeping form, the letter in her hand, and then back to him. She finished reading the chapter with a smile, tucking the letter back in the pages she'd found it in, and then closed the book with a grin.
He was good, wasn't he? To slip the letter in between pages so full of love...he must've planned it all out.
The idea of Sherlock reading such a book made Gwynn giggle. Sherlock was always one for practicality. What would he think of demons and sorcerers and grimoires, books with life in them?
She'd have to ask him one day.
But for now, she sat on the train, resting her eyes, and soon fell asleep.
/
No one was at the Holmes residence when they arrived. So they settled themselves, Gwynn taking her usual guest room, and decided to take a shower. Traveling on trains always gave her a severe case of germaphobia.
She'd only just turned the shower on and taken her shirt off when the door opened. Gwynn let out a screech and the door slammed in shock; but Sherlock was already in the bathroom with her, his cheeks blooming red, so she jumped into the shower, not even caring the rest of her clothes were becoming soaked in the running water.
"Sherlock!"
"Gwynn, oh no, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to barge in! I should have realized..."
She poked her head around the curtain and they stared at each other. At last, she let the curtain fall away and said, "I read your letter today. On the train. While you were sleeping. Do you really...?"
He cocked his head, embarrassment and nervousness overcoming him. "Do I...? Love you? Truly?"
She nodded, unable to speak.
"Yes," he breathed. "Yes."
"But how do you know? You don't fall in love with anybody so—"
Margaret Rogerson's description of Nathaniel's kiss could definitely apply to Sherlock. His lips were softer than anything she had ever felt, more gentle than a slight summer breeze.
She hardly knew what she was doing, but Gwynn's arms went around Sherlock's shoulders and pulled him close—into the shower with her. Both in clothes—though Gwynn less so, her shirt discarded on the floor and her bra the only thing covering her chest—they found themselves snogging in the shower. That first moment of Sherlock's tender kiss faded into something more, something filled with need.
Evidently, they had both been longing for this for a very long time without realizing it.
How right Gwynn's suspicions of her gift-giver turned out to be and how pleased Sherlock was that she returned his sentiment.
He was very pleased indeed when his family returned home and he could proudly introduce Gwynn not just as his friend but as his new girlfriend (to which Mycroft nearly had a heart attack).
And none of the rest of the Holmes family was any wiser to the make-out session in the shower.
**AUTHOR’S NOTE: Sorcery of Thorns is an AMAZING book by Margaret Rogerson. I don’t usually choose favorites, but this one is definitely at the top of the list. Also, I mentioned Mycroft for the first time (I think it’s the first time), yaaaaaay!
