#henry!holmes

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.

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♡Sherlock fans would often send you rude mail and menacing glares. Yet Sherlock would always tell you to ignore them.

♡Yet how could you ignore them when you got them everywhere. With Sherlock always at work, you decided to confide in your closest friend: Max.

♡You had grown up with Max and he was your dearest friend. He never upset you and often supported your ideas, he was truly lovely. Yet you both never saw each other in a romantic light.

♡One morning, after you had woken up alone due to Sherlock going to work. You decided to go and visit Max and see how he was doing as he was currently trying to woo a woman.

♡When you got there you were immediately encased in a hug and Max dragging you down the streets of London to go shopping while he spoke about how he was going to find the perfect bouquet of flowers to woo his lady.

♡As you were both strolling down the market with your arms linked, you felt eyes watching you. No doubt the folks that detested you for stealing Sherlock from his work.

♡When you turned to look you were shocked to see, Sherlock and Ebola stood there. Enola was talking to him yet he had his eyes dead set on you. You could see his jaw tighten and his hands crumple into fists.

♡You felt your heart race, Sherlock had never been angry, let alone angry at you which is why you were so nervous to see him angry now.

♡Max pulled your arm and dragged your attention away from your fiance babbling excitedly about seeing the perfect bouquet.

♡As you stood next to Max as he was looking at the variety of flowers, you heard the familiar voice of Enola grow closer.

♡Before you could even turn to see the girl, a hard chest was pressed against your back and an arm wrapped around your waist making you gasp. You turned and there was Sherlock.

♡He wasn't glaring at you, rather at Max. He jaw still clenched. You squeezed his bicep and he focused his attention on you. You raised an eyebrow at him.

♡Max turned his attention to you both and Sherlock spoke, "Dove, come on we must return home. We must continue planning our wedding. Enola had a few ideas."

♡You looked at him shocked, "My darling, can it not wait? I am busy here trying to help my friend."

♡"My dear, I do not care if he is your friend, I am your fiance and I require your attention more than him."

♡You glared at him, "Sherlock how hypocritical of you. You never pay me any attention so why should I give you any? If you are going to let your foolish jealousy talk for you then I suggest you stay away from me."

♡Max stared and looped his arm through yours and you continued strolling down the street, all the while Sherlock felt his heart crack.

♡He turned to Enola, "Have I really not shown her how much I adore her? Does she feel that deprived of my presence?"

♡Enola stared at him, placing a hand on her hip before glaring at him, "You are silly dear brother. You often go to work rather than talk to your dear future wife. You haven't even professed your love for her you stupid man."

♡Sherlocks eyes widened, "Help me Enola, help me fix my wrong."

✧──────────────────────────────────✧

♡It had been a day since you had seen Sherlock and you felt your heart ache a fraction over not seeing him.

♡Max had been wonderful and allowed you to stay at his house for the night where finally revealed he was trying to woo Lady Ristunberg.

♡You were awoken by a knock at the door. You grabbed a night coat and sorted yourself out so you looked mildly decent and opened the door.

♡Your heart hammered at seeing Sherlock stood there with a bouquet of flowers in his hand.

♡"Sherlock? What are you going here? It's so early." You stared at his beautiful puppy dog eyes and how he was starting to get eye bags. "Have you slept?"

♡He stared at you, "I have not my lady. You see I require you to be happy with me so that then I can sleep peacefully. And due to the fact you are not, I have not slept and have dedicated the night to searching for ways to prove my love for you."

♡You stared at him and then at the flowers in his hand. "Will you give me a minute to change so that then we may return home?"

♡A sigh left his lips, and he nodded relieved.

✧──────────────────────────────────✧

♡When you arrived back with Sherlock hiding in your shadow, you were surprised to find the flat organised.

♡You watched as Sherlock walked past you and handed you 5 books. All the books that you had given him to read while he was trying to court you.

♡"What is this Sherlock?" He walked over to you and took the first book you ever gave him from your hands.

♡He opened the book and flicked to a page where a flower rested. A pink camellia. You looked at him, "A pink camellia. It symbolises longing. The first book you ever gave me when I was courting you. I marked the pages with how I longed for your love."

♡He took the second book, and there rested a blue salvia. "The second book, where you started to slowly give in to my advances. And then the first time I heard your laugh, your cute little giggle. I marked it that day with a blue salvia, it means thinking of you. I thought about the beauty of your voice for days on end."

♡The next book was taken and the next flower shown, a pink rose. "Happiness. A pink rose is happiness because everything you did, you do, makes me happy."

♡You felt tears gather in your eyes, as the fourth book opened and there was a red rose. He smiled shakily, "The day you agreed to court me I marked it with a red rose. It means I love you. Truly my heart belong only to you."

♡You felt a few tears slip at finally hearing those words. Sherlock leaned forward and wiped your tears before he took the last book from your hands and opened it.

♡Held between his fingers was a red flower, he handed it to you and you took it before staring at him. "A red salvia."

♡"What does it mean?" Your voice was so soft.

♡He chuckled, "It means forever mine. The day you agreed to marry me, you were forever mine. But the day you first spoke to me, I was forever yours. You held my heart before you even knew it. I know I am a hard man but my love,"

♡You watched as he got on he knees infront of you and stared up. You placed the flower on the side close to you, and put your hands on his face.

♡"I love you. I worship the ground you walk on. I am thankful to be near you. I adore you, and though I am terrible at showing it, I hope you know that I truly mean it."

♡You got on your knees and kisses Sherlock embracing the overwhelming amount of love that was in the room.

♡When you both pulled away, you placed your forehead against his and closed your eyes. You felt him take your small hand in his and you smiled.

♡"I love you too Sherlock Holmes so very much, all I ask is that you come home and spend time with me more."

♡"My dearest dove, I promise you I will. I will make sure you wake up drowning in my love. And then when your Mrs. Holmes you will carry our love." He chuckled and you blushed.

♡"You were quite attractive jealous though I must admit."

♡A laugh echoed around the room and he pulled you up against him and he dragged you to the bedroom. "Well then I must admit you're quite attractive covered in my marks."

Pleasure had easily built in your belly, your husband driving you to the edge just as easily as he would solve a case or string the bow for his violin. You grasp for him, needing to touch his skin, to know he’s real. “Sherlock.” You mewled, your voice already fucked out and raspy.

He smirks. “That’s it darling.” He cooed, his voice dropped even lower, a mere rumbling growl in his broad chest. He had waited oh so patiently for this day and now that it was here, he would savour every delicious second of it. “Give in, let yourself open up.” A thick finger moved from your bundle of nerves down to your opening. 

His thick body was nestled comfortably between your thighs, keeping you spread open and vulnerable for him. One large hand cupped your mound possessively as his fingers explored the soft flesh. You whimpered and whined with each touch, desperate for more but terrified of what was to come. The cold metal of his wedding band cutting through the heat between your legs. The ripped remains of your wedding gown lay beneath you like a white flag of surrender, evidence of your husband’s need for your body. 

With trembling hands, you reached for him again but he smirked wickedly, his blue eyes glinting in the low candlelight and pushed your touch away, pinning your wrists to your plush stomach with one mighty hand. “Do not be so impatient. I have been waiting for this day since I first saw you- you can handle a few more moments.” You attempted to disagree but instead a moan slipped from your lips as his middle finger finally breached you.

Your cunt burned even with a stretch as small as one of his fingers but as your husband curled his knuckles, ecstasy washed over you like a comforting wave. Your eyelids fluttered as you struggled to take in a breath. And right as your back arched from the bed, your lungs finally filling with air, a second finger joined the first.

Pleasure ricocheted through you, tearing you apart and pulling you back together all at the same time. Sherlock’s smile grew darker as he watched you crumble. He had spent months thinking about this day, this moment. You were bound to him for all eternity, the perfect bride meant for him.

“I think you’re ready for me now my darling.” Sherlock withdrew his hand slowly, drinking down the gasps that escaped your lips, savouring each and every mewl. His fingers shone with your release which he eagerly licked up. “Divine. I think I will feast on you every chance I get.” You gave an embarrassed whine and turned your head away from your husband.

“Now now wife. I won’t have any of that.” He guided your gaze back to him, forcing you to look upon his large frame as he towered over you. “Your eyes will remain on me as I fuck that perfect cunt of yours.” 

After a moment, he seemed satisfied that you would not look away again, so he released your jaw, letting his hands wander down the length of your soft body until he reached your wide hips. “My beautiful wife.” That was all the warning he gave before the crown of his cock was notched at your entrance and he slowly thrust into your weeping cunt.

Pain. That was all you felt, like the sting of an insect that only grew more intense with each passing second. Your fingernails bit into Sherlock’s broad side. “Too big.” Your body was on fire, an uncontrollable flame that your husband’s lust fuelled. 

His head rolled back between his broad shoulders as he moaned, his hands gripping your wide hips even tighter. He forced even more of his considerable length inside you. “Do not fret wife, we have only to persevere.”

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“Thank you so much, Mr. Newman,” y/n said with a smile.

“Not a problem, dear!” the man said. “It’s always a pleasure to see you around. Feel free to stop by again soon!”

“I’ll do my best. Good day!”

She stepped out on the cobble street, still smiling. Mr. Newman was a pleasant man. He was old enough to be her father, and greeted every customer that walked into his shop with a smile. He sold a variety of items, but she primarily stopped in for art supplies. She would send him a telegram, detailing the items she wanted, and within a week, Mr. Newman would make sure to have them for her.

Painting was a hobby of hers, one she didn’t get to do often but greatly enjoyed. She had learned at a young age from her mother and had continued to enhance her skills as she grew older. However, painting now remained a thing to do in her spare time. 

She quickly ran the rest of her errands, making her last stop in the local market. She greeted the usual stall owners as she bought her groceries for the week. She knew that some people found it odd that she did her own shopping, but she enjoyed the hustle and bustle of the market. The people were pleasant for the most part and it gave her a chance to get out of the house.

Once she had all that she needed, she began making her way back home. She hummed lightly to herself and smiled at people as she passed by them. She always felt that it was right to smile at people, because you never knew if they needed a little bit of happiness. Not everyone responded to her smiles, but she was never offended by it. 

Just as she turned a corner, she heard someone shout her name.

“Miss l/n!”

y/n turned her head quickly to determine the source and smiled. Lilliana, a local florist, waved at her. y/n walked over to her, carefully crossing the street.

“Lilliana, it’s so good to see you!” y/n said. “How are you? Is your sister doing all right? Better I hope?”

“Much, thank you. Seemed to have just been a little cold. She’s back to causing chaos, that one.” Lilliana took in y/n’s bags. “Looks like you’ve got your hands full.”

“I’m afraid so. Otherwise I would be more than happy to buy some flowers off of you today. They look absolutely lovely.”

Lilliana smiled at the compliment.

“Well at least take a look around,” she invited. “If you’re not in a rush, that is.”

“All right, I’ll take a look.”

The girl cheered and left y/n to attend to another guest. y/n slowly walked through the selection of flowers, admiring the colors and scents. She carefully knelt down next to a basket full of (favorite flower). They were beautiful. She felt a little silly buying flowers for herself, but she couldn’t resist.

She waved down Lilliana and requested a small bundle of flowers. She smiled as she watched Lilliana build a small bouquet for her. Lilliana always treated her too well, giving her more than she paid for. As Lilliana carefully picked flowers to put together, she glanced at y/n.

“You know, y/n,” she said, “you seem to have an admirer.”

y/n looked at her, puzzled.

“I’m sorry?”

“An admirer. Since you started browsing, there’s a gent across the street that’s had an eye on you.”

Now that she mentioned it, y/n could feel the gaze. She was used to the occasional glance, but this felt different. It was… more persistent, curious even. y/n glanced around, making sure not to make it obvious. She didn’t notice anyone terribly out of place, but the street was filled with people. However, she knew not to question Lilliana. The girl saw these people almost every day. She would know when someone breaks routine.

y/n simply smiled, playing it off. She carefully adjusted her bags so she could get out a bit of money to pay Lilliana. They exchanged the money for the bouquet and y/n smiled.

“It’s beautiful, Lilliana,” she said. “Excellent job as always.”

“You flatter me. Have a lovely day, y/n.”

“You too! I’ll see you soon.”

y/n started back down the street, ready to get home. Her shoulders were starting to hurt from the weight of her bags. Luckily her flat was only about a block away. She briefly wondered about her mysterious admirer, but chose to forget about him.

She made good time and got to her home in no time. She unlocked the door and stepped inside. It was moments like this when she disliked living on the third floor. She waved briefly to the landlord’s wife, slowly made her way up, and was soon back in her comfortable home. She laid her things out on the dining table, sorting them briefly before beginning to put things away.

The food went in their respective homes, organized in a way that would be easy for her to access later. She cut the bottoms of the stems of her flowers and placed them in a vase, which she left by the window.

She then went to her bedroom and shed her overcoat. It had been cold, so the coat had been welcome on her outing. Her gloves and hat were put away, and her purse stored. She proceeded to make herself comfortable. She changed into slightly more comfortable clothing, a skirt and shirt that allowed her more movement. She pulled the pins out of her hair, letting it fall around her shoulders. Finally comfortable again, she went back to the main room and stored her new paints and canvases. 

Suddenly, she heard a knock on her door. She paused for a moment before slowly making her way to the door. She rarely got visitors, so questions started filling her mind.

y/n undid the lock and pulled the door open a little. A rather tall man stood in the hall. He looked a little awkward due to his height and broad shoulders. He turned to look at her and offered a small smile.

“Good afternoon,” he greeted.

“Hello,” y/n said. She remained partly behind the door. “Can I help you?”

“Ah, yes. I, um, well…” He fiddled slightly with his cane and hat, something she wouldn’t typically expect. “You are y/n l/n, correct?”

She raised an eyebrow at him.

“Yes?”

“You used to live near Ferndell Hall.”

He sounded more sure of his statement this time, meanwhile she became slightly more wary.

“I’m sorry, do I know you?”

“I’m Sherlock Holmes. I used to live at Ferndell with my mother and siblings.”

Of course!

“Oh my word!” y/n exclaimed, opening the door a little more. She could see it now. Those bright, intense eyes so full of wonder and never missed a thing. “I didn’t recognize you, it’s been so long!”

“Indeed it has. Might I come in?”

“Yes, forgive me.” She opened the door wider and watched him step into her home. Once he was in, she shut the door. “Can I get you anything? Tea?”

“Thank you.”

She went to the kitchen and started a kettle of water to heat. When she went back to check on Sherlock, she found him wandering around her flat, looking at her belongings. She didn’t say anything and simply let him observe.

It had been so long.

Sure enough, they had been neighbors. The two of them were close in age, so they frequently played together as children, running through the fields and climbing trees. They would occasionally study together too. Sherlock’s older brother Mycroft had often thought of her actions as “unfit for a lady”, but their mother Eudora encouraged the behavior for many years. They had been the closest of friends for many years. y/n smiled slightly; those were some of the best years of her life.

He had changed so much from the boy she knew. They were once the same height, now he towered over her. His dark hair was still curly and his eyes were still the same, if not more intense now. He definitely filled out. It was hard to tell with his suit jacket on, but he looked like he had gained a lot of muscle. His features became more defined. He looked handsome. She almost blushed.

“I see you still paint,” Sherlock observed. He was looking at her new and old paints, then her recent painting. “It’s lovely.”

“Thank you.”

He continued on, only briefly, and stopped at a collection of photographs. There weren’t many, but y/n loved them. One of her parents, one of her old home, one she had taken of London when she first arrived, then one of…

“Is this Alexander?”

y/n nodded sadly.

“Yes,” she said.

Alex had been her brother. He had died when she was early in her teen years. An accident. He had been on the road when his carriage was attacked. Those responsible had shot him and stolen most of his belongings. He hadn’t made it through the night. He had been only an hour from home when he was attacked.

“I am sorry,” Sherlock said, bringing her back once again. “He was a good man.”

She nodded, blinking to get rid of the tears that threatened to spill.

“Yes, he was.”

He had been her biggest supporter. He included her in all of his activities and lessons, never wanting her to feel excluded. He was the reason she knew the Holmes family. He would drag her out of the house and take her with him to visit Mycroft and Sherlock.

Just then, the kettle started to whistle. She went to the kitchen and started on the tea. She heard Sherlock’s footsteps continue to move around somewhere behind her.

“You receive letters from Enola?” he suddenly asked, loud enough for her to hear.

“Yes, I do,” she replied. She couldn’t help but smile at the thought of the youngest Holmes. “She is quite a character. I met her briefly when I returned from finishing school and spent many weeks with her and Eudora. We’ve kept in contact, so I’ve been up to date on her adventures.”

She joined him again and passed him his cup. He took it with a nod. y/n sat down in one of her chairs, reclining comfortably. She supposed she should be a little more polite with the way she sat, but she couldn’t really bring herself to care.

Sherlock cleared his throat.

“Do you remember when we used to write to one another?” he asked.

y/n smiled a little and nodded.

“Yes. We lived only a mile apart but we sent letters almost daily. I looked forward to those moments. Your stories were quite interesting.”

“As were yours. We could have written a novel.”

y/n laughed.

“What a story that would have been. The tales of two children and their imagination.”

Sherlock hummed.

“You know,” he continued slowly. He didn’t look at her and instead stared into his cup. He cleared his throat with a hum. “After Alex’s passing, and you went off to finishing school, I still tried to write to you.”

y/n froze, teacup lifted halfway to her lips. But Sherlock surprisingly didn’t seem to notice.

“I wrote to you, daily at first. I had hoped you were well for I knew you were still grieving when you left. I wanted to continue our stories, as a way to distract you or perhaps give you something other than your schooling to think about. When I didn’t receive a response at first, I thought it was just because you were busy. So I wrote weekly. Then monthly. Then…” He sighed. “I know I really have no right to ask you this, but why didn’t you answer any of my letters?”

He finally looked at her and his deduction skills kicked in almost against his will. 

Her grip was tight on her cup, yet her hands were shaking. Her eyes were wide. There were tears in them. She looked like a deer. Her expression was a little harder to read: shock, sadness, and puzzlement were the primary emotions. She gaped at him for another moment before swallowing.

“Sherlock,” she said, her voice thick. “You wrote me letters?”

Now it was his turn to be confused.

“What? Of course I did. Why wouldn’t I?”

She shook her head slightly.

“I never received any letters, Sherlock.”

His eyes widened.

She blinked and the first tear fell. She quickly wiped it away.

“My going to finishing school was not by choice,” she said. “I was perfectly content to learn at home, like how your mother raised Enola. My parents were the ones who sent me away. Alex was the only thing keeping me home.” She paused to collect herself a little. “At finishing school, I would talk about you and our adventures, and I would get reprimanded by the headmistress. It’s apparently frowned upon to remain friends with a boy after a certain age.”

She looked at him and continued: “If you sent letters, Sherlock, I never saw them. I would presume the headmistress got rid of them..”

Sherlock set down his cup and moved to kneel in front of her. He gently grabbed her hand.

“I never wanted that. I wanted to keep in contact with you, to remain friends.” He paused for a moment. “Why didn’t you try to find me afterwards? You went back to Ferndell to see my mother and sister, and I was solving cases at the time. Surely…”

“I had thought you didn’t want to be friends any longer and never wanted to speak to me again. I became different after finishing school.”

He chuckled a little.

“I never wanted that. And I don’t think you’re much different now than you were then, y/n. As a detective, I can tell you are the same woman. Perhaps to an outsider you are one of society’s polite women, but here, deep down, you are the same spitfire girl I used to play with. Perhaps even more so now. If you’re friends with Enola, then I know that to be true.”

y/n laughed a little. She had to admit, he was right. Finishing school had taught her how to act in public, but had little effect on her interests and personality. She wiped away her tears and took a deep breath to calm herself. She looked back at him. He was still kneeling beside her, his large hand wrapped around hers.

“So what now?” she asked.

“Whatever you wish, I suppose. Personally, I want to get to know you again. I want to catch up on all we missed. And perhaps, make something new with it?”

y/n smiled and squeezed his hand.

“I would love that.”

She leaned forward a little and pressed her forehead to his, closing her eyes. He sighed and closed his own eyes, enjoying the new peace that settled around them.

“Just wait until Enola hears about this,” y/n then muttered. “She will lose her mind.”

The sound of Sherlock’s voice startled you. Surreptitiously meeting his gaze, you gave him your name with a faltering smile and scurried off to stow Enola’s shawl and retrieve the tea the young lady was accustomed to guzzling whenever she returned from the outside world. You tripped on the irregular hem of your dress, nearly bruising yourself on the entryway to the next room, and fought the hot blush of embarrassment ruining your neck and cheeks.

You could feel Sherlock’s attention on you the whole while.

~~

You saw him frequently after that. Though he had his own cases and Enola was busy with hers, they both met both inside and outside Enola’s apartment in the spirit of sibling camaraderie, something that could not be said of their odious third sibling, Mycroft. He chanced by on occasion to rail at Enola’s lifestyle and the besmirching of their good name, but she drove him away easily. Plenty of times, Sherlock happened to be there and did the heavy work of shepherding an irate Mycroft out the door.

As Enola’s personal maid, the only one Enola kept, in part because she had yet to learn the proper ways of navigating high-society dress and mannerisms—you served as an educator of sorts in that regard, because Enola gave it such little consequence that you were constantly reminding her of its importance—you were privy to any and all conversations that happened in the apartment. Quite often Enola would ask you to sit with her and Sherlock at the table or in the sitting room to listen and share your opinion. While you would join them, you would reluctantly share your opinion, all the while trying to avoid Sherlock’s intense gaze. You felt inadequate in the presence of such giant intellects as the Holmes siblings.

Nevertheless, as you tripped and bumbled your way through these social interactions, catching your dress on corners you forgot existed, rattling the tea tray so hard you were embarrassed for weeks afterward at the sound of the fine china jostling against each other in the silence, you found Sherlock still deigned to speak to you and ask you about your day.

“It has been pleasant,” you would answer, smiling weakly at him. “Thank you for asking.” Your answer never wavered. It was unbecoming of staff to complain.

For his part, Sherlock seemed mildly perturbed that you responded in the same manner each time he asked.

~~

On a bright winter morning, a knock resounded on the front door to the apartment. You went to answer immediately, confused as to who could be there at such an early hour.

“Mr. Holmes!”

Sherlock, top hat and gloves in hand, smiled faintly at your surprise. “Good morning.”

You stepped aside, allowing him to enter. Reaching for his hat and gloves, you stuttered, “Miss Holmes isn’t here at present, sir.”

“No?”

“She’s gone out on some errands.”

“Errands.”

At this, you couldn’t help but smile. But you and Sherlock knew Enola was not one to complete domestic chores. It was a Thursday, and only you did the shopping and cleaning—on Fridays, no less.

“Did she say when she would return?”

You shook your head. “Not well until evening, I expect, sir. She likes to be out of doors as much as possible.”

“Indeed. Mycroft dislikes her wildness, but the city really is no place for her spirit.”

Sherlock strode into the sitting room and eased himself into his customary chair, a high-backed thing with wide dimensions that easily accommodated his broad shoulders.

“May I offer some tea or something else?”

“Some tea will suffice.”

Nodding, you scurried out of the room and hastily put together a tray with some biscuits while you waited for the teapot to boil. You had never been alone with Sherlock before. Certainly Enola had on occasion left the room, leaving you with her brother, but she had always remained somewhere in the apartment. Your heart began to trip in your chest as you heard Sherlock shift in his seat, the characteristic, crisp snap of a newspaper being opened following the movement.

What neither he nor his sister knew was that you harbored a tiny little secret in your heart. You had grown enamored of Sherlock. That he took the time to accord you any attention whatsoever, that he cared to ask about your day and even more valued your opinion, had elevated him above any other man of your acquaintance.

He could never know, of course.

Struggling to hold the tray steady, you made your way back into the sitting room. The nearer you drew to the entryway, the more the fine china rattled in your hands. Embarrassment creeping up your cheeks, you hastily set the tray down beside Sherlock and stepped back, eager to retreat.

“Please, do sit,” he said, gesturing at the settee opposite. “Have you had tea yet?”

“No, I haven’t,” you managed to answer, trying not to fumble over your words.

“Please have tea with me.”

Nodding jerkily, you poured yourself a cup, stirred in some sugar and cream, and took a single biscuit before seating yourself on the settee. You felt uncomfortable, though it wasn’t quite an unpleasant feeling. You had never imagined a scene quite so…domestic with Sherlock. The man was such a towering intellect, his reputation so widely circulated, that it seemed impossible he would bother with such trivial things as tea and the morning paper.

“How are you this morning?”

You jerked your attention up to him, nearly flinging the teaspoon out of the cup in surprise. “Um, I am very well, Mr. Holmes.”

“You may call me Sherlock.”

“It…isn’t proper.”

“I am not Mycroft, and Enola certainly isn’t. Our views on propriety differ from the general populace.”

You frowned, taking a moment to survey his handsome features as a decidedly unpleasant feeling unfurled in your gut. A mild crease appeared between his dark eyebrows the longer you looked at him.

“Is there something the matter?”

“Are you…are you hoping I will become part of your network of informants? Is that why you bother speaking to me?”

He blinked, matching your frown. “No. You are not strategically placed to be of any use to me in that regard.”

You couldn’t help but flinch. Of all the answers, you hadn’t expected one so harsh and insensitive. The biscuit tasted bland and dry on your tongue as you averted your gaze and bought time with the dessert.

“Why would you think that?”

You didn’t meet his gaze. “I can find no other reason for why you deign to speak with a servant.”

The newspaper snapped shut with a crisp sound that made you twitch. Staring down into your cup of tea, you felt your heart galloping against your ribs.

“Did it not occur to you that I may enjoy your company?”

“No,” you answered truthfully. “We haven’t much interacted.”

“No, your training prevents you from saying anything other than ‘It is very pleasant, sir’ or ‘I am well, sir’ or ‘Thank you, sir, may I get your coat?’”

You risked a glance up at him, surprised by the displeasure in his voice. “Excuse me?”

“Enola tells me you are a wealth of information and opinions that she values exceedingly. Yet I have been unable to elicit more than platitudes from you.”

Speaking past the sudden lump in your throat, you managed to say, “I apologize, sir. I am merely…behaving according to my station.”

“My God, Mycroft would love that answer.”

You stiffened, offended. “He understands the hierarchy of this world.”

“Don’t make me laugh.”

“You and your sister fail to understand that for the rest of us, the common folk, we are punished and penalized for offending that hierarchy,” you snapped, unable to hold your tongue. “We are not safe behind status, wealth, or intellect as you and yours are. If we do not stay the line, we are crushed underfoot. So do not mistake my mannerisms for acquiescence and meekness. Recognize it for what it is: survival.”

As the words died on the air between you, you realized with a sudden shock what you had done. Shame flooded through you, coloring your cheeks and making you burn with it.

“That,” Sherlock said slowly, “is what I have wanted from you.”

You glanced back up at him in surprise.

“Your real voice behind the pleasantries,” he explained. “The one Enola has told me so much about and with which I am very much enamored.”

Enamored? You scrutinized his features, trying to read the truth there. He held your gaze steadily, unflinching.

“It is your decision,” he continued quietly, “but I would very much like to hear more of that voice, if you would grant me the privilege.”

Your heart began to race not with shame but with something you couldn’t quite identify. Swallowing thickly, you nodded, trying to fight the tight feeling in your chest.

“I very much like your company,” you whispered, “but I fear my true voice may disturb you.”

“Disturbing defines the cases I solve. I doubt you could bother me to any such degree beyond them.”

“I would hate to lose the kindness you have afforded me. It means…more to me than you could know.”

“My sister is Enola Holmes, and my brother is Mycroft Holmes. There is nothing you could say or do that would be more extreme than my sister or more despicable than my brother.”

You tried to speak, found words wouldn’t surface. Nodding, you took a sip of the tea, tasting only its heat on your tongue.

Had anyone of status other than Enola cared for your true self? You glanced across at Sherlock, a creeping realization sneaking up on you. Perhaps there had been another this whole while, waiting patiently for you to grant him the privilege of seeing it.

“You are a man wholly devoted to your vocation, Mr. Holmes,” you respond carefully, managing your expression into one a little less surprised than you feel in order to match his calm demeanor. “And one often referred to as ‘a confirmed bachelor’. May I ask why you, now, find yourself desirous of a wife?”

“I do not, particularly,” he answers honestly, and though his words are somewhat severe, his tone is very gentle. “I am not a romantic in search of love, nor do I feel it necessary to conform to a particular mold or custom society may define as necessary or desirable for a man of my station. But—I hope you will forgive me my candor, Miss Marlow—I have lately realized that I very much wish to have a child. Or children. Whatever your—forgive me; I am too bold. Whatever my wife’s preference might prove. It is not so much a legacy I look for as…an opportunity. There are few honors in the world greater than to raise a child, and as I seek to bring a greater share of justice and peace into this world…well, this might be one means by which I might do so, if I can nurture a child to hold those same values as sacred."

He pauses for breath at the end of this eloquent speech, looking almost surprised to have revealed such a personal sentiment. But your immediate smile seems to comfort him, and you can tell he is hoping for a response, which you are all too happy to offer:

“I have always thought that, if one can raise a little human being in love and respect, and teach them how to give their best to others, it is a tremendous service one can render unto the world. You are to be commended, sir, for not seeing it simply as your right, but as your responsibility.”

“Quite so. I am happy to find we are in such perfect accordance,” he replies, a look of hopeful expectance now gracing his features.

“May I ask you another question, sir?”

“You may ask me as many as you wish.”

“Thank you. I think it not out of turn to say you do not want for feminine attention, so…why me?”

“An excellent question. I have chosen you as my ideal match based upon three merits: you walk several miles around London every morning, you have many friends, and your younger brother is an excellent pianist.”

“You make a refreshing case for yourself, Mr. Holmes!” you laugh, charmed by his bluntness, and wildly curious to know more. His reasoning was novel indeed, and this was not the first time you had received an offer of marriage, though it was the first time someone had approached you directly. Previous attempts to hazard for your hand had first faced, and been turned away by, your elder brother, and for good reason. “Most would list the substantial inheritance left me by my parents in all three places of merit.”

“The money is of no consequence to me, I assure you,” he scoffs with a dismissive gesture, as if he were grievously offended by the very notion. “If you wish for a copy of my bank slip to demonstrate that my finances are entirely in order, and more than ample enough to provide for yourself and our family in the comfort you are deservedly accustomed to, then allow me—“

“Oh, no, no—I believe you!” you assure him, unable to resist a smile at his earnest indignation. “What about these particular qualities of mine have seized you into so violent a passion?”

He starts to answer out of polite instinct, then catches himself and looks at you askance.

“Are you making fun of me, Miss Marlow?”

“Only a little. Please, forgive me. I am more gratified by your honesty and plainness than any feigned fit of infatuation…as well as quite curious.”

“Another quality to recommend you.” He nods approvingly. “As to the initial three, your walks are a testament to your health and heartiness; I have every hope that we would be blessed with a strong, healthy child, borne without undue peril to either of you. The second merit—your many friends—I confess appeals to me selfishly. I am not a sociable, nor oftentimes even an agreeable, man, and do not always converse comfortably, or on subjects of interest to anyone save myself. I would hate to disappoint a woman who hoped to be kept entertained by someone more charming, but what I cannot offer in way of easy companionship you have the full measure of already in your friends.”

“I do, indeed. What you call selfish, I call self-knowledge, and what is more, considerate to someone with whom you choose to share a life.”

“A wise observation. And perhaps we would not find one another’s company completely intolerable, on occasion.” This with a smile of his own. “But finally, as to your accomplished brother, I am myself a musician given to practice at all hours, but especially very late at night. Something similar must be required of anyone of your brother’s level of proficiency and artistry, therefore I’ll wager you could sleep through my own nocturnal etudes, or the potential disruptions of my work, without aggravation.”

“You are entirely correct; I haven’t heard him practice in years! But we may have to negotiate the midnight cadenzas once the baby arrives—oh…”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, a nearly imperceptible smile quirking up the corner of his mouth.

“I beg your pardon,” you correct yourself frantically, looking away as a furious blush burns across your cheeks. “Now I am too bold.”

You make the mistake of glancing back at him, and find his eyes intently fixed upon you, meeting your gaze with a composed, but clearly intrigued contemplation. For a wild, unfathomable instant, you are seized with a traitorous thought: all the polite conversation in the world cannot summon a child into existence. This man is not asking you only to raise a child with him, but to make one. With all the intimacy that requires.

You have never quite looked at him this way before, but now there is no denying it: Sherlock Holmes is a breathtakingly handsome man. And the very scent of him, masculine and heady, is suddenly as necessary to you as the very air you breathe. What would it be like, you wonder, against your sense of propriety, against your sensible nature—what would it be like to lay in his arms, to feel his skin against your as he fills you with his—

“Miss Marlow, what has set your mind awhirl?”

You cannot possibly tell him.

“I…I hope that you have found me in practice to be as meretricious as in theory,” you manage.

“Absolutely,” he affirms. “You confirm my hypotheses one after the other. And, if I may presume, you appear as satisfied with this conversation, and the questions and answers we have exchanged, as I am.”

“Very much so, thank you.”

“To conclude, Miss Marlow, while I cannot never promise to be an adoring swain, I intend to be more than a distant provider. My parents’ marriage and their raising of the three of us was unconventional to say the least, but from it I would take the best, and try to fill in the considerable gaps, as a staunch ally to you and dedicated father to our child. If such an arrangement is not to your taste, I would understand perfectly and will depart with nothing but the utmost respect for you. But if you wish to consider my proposition...my proposal...please take all the time you wish, and let me know of your decision at your leisure.”

“I will certainly consider it, most thoughtfully.” Yes. Thoughtfully. You have quite recovered your wits. Haven’t you? “And I will say at once that I am very grateful that you have sought me out at such a delicate and critical moment; I have tremendous respect for you, too, sir, and count myself most fortunate that you chose to approach me.”

“Thank you for your time, Miss Marlow.”

“Please, forgo the honorific,” you suggest, offering your hand.

“Then you must call me Sherlock.”

He takes your extended hand eagerly between his. It is not quite a handshake, nor does he endeavor a kiss…the gesture is neither strictly businesslike nor romantic, much like his proposal. Very apt, you think, and you gently squeeze his fingers before you can stop yourself. Clearly, the sensual tension that sparked moments before has not died away. Not at all. His hands are so large, but somehow graceful, too. A musician’s hands. Tactile. Expressive. A little roughened from playing the strings, just perfect to incite such raptures in your body as would welcome his seed…

“Sherlock,” you breathe.

“Rosamund,” he returns, and, with a subtly knowing smile, he takes care to slide his fingers lightly across your skin as he withdraws his hand. It is absolutely the most stirring thing you have ever experienced and now you must somehow let him walk away as if it had never happened.

“Good day.”

“Good day.”

It does not take you very long at all, in the end, to consider your answer, and a brief conversation with your brothers later, your find yourself seated at your desk to write:

Dear Sherlock,

I am most delighted and honored to accept your proposal. My brothers support us fully, and we may name the day and proceed with all legal and logistical matters whenever convenient. Perhaps you might dine with us at our home tomorrow to discuss?

Yours, sincerely,

Rosamund Marlow