#smart!reader

nerd!rafe who knows everything academically, like he can break down an entire economic theory in seconds, but the second a conversation turns even slightly flirty, he’ll turn into a deer in headlights, trying to awkwardly exit. 

nerd!rafe who taps his pen against the desk when he’s thinking, faster and faster the more frustrated he gets, until he forces himself to stop because he doesn’t want to draw attention.

nerd!rafe who hates being wrong. like it genuinely bothers him more than it should, so he double checks everything, triple checks, rereads emails before sending them like five times, and he’ll get weirdly competitive in academic settings. like he won’t say anything out loud, but if someone scores higher than him on an exam? you’ll find him studying twice as hard for next time. 

nerd!rafe who always smells so clean, like laundry detergent and an expensive subtle cologne, because he needs to feel presentable, like that’s one thing he can control.

nerd!rafe who has a slight eye twitch when people are being loud or obnoxious around him, like he’s overstimulated but trying to hide it.

nerd!rafe who definitely stress studies. like something goes wrong in his life? suddenly he’s deep into textbooks at 2am because it’s the only thing that makes sense, because to him? everything must have a logical answer. 

nerd!rafe who lowkey has control issues, but it shows in smaller ways, planning his schedule down to the hour, needing things to go a certain way or he he’ll get tense. 

nerd!rafe who notices you before he even realizes he’s noticing you. like one random lecture, his eyes just drift, glancing behind him, and suddenly you’re there. but then it keeps happening. every class, every time. like his brain just automatically searches for you. 

nerd!rafe who’s first thought is literally 'who is that?' because there’s no way someone like you has been on campus this whole time and he’s somehow missed it. 

nerd!rafe who stares at you when he thinks you won’t notice, like fully watching you from across the room, but the second you even move in his direction, he’s looking down at his hands like his life depends on it.

nerd!rafe who sits there trying to focus on the lecture but keeps getting distracted by the way you take notes, the way you tuck your hair behind your ear, or the way you lightly chew on your pen when you’re concentrating.

nerd!rafe who starts noticing you’re in more than one of his classes. advanced audit. federal tax. and now econ too? and suddenly he’s like 'how the hell have i never seen you before?'

nerd!rafe who realizes pretty quickly you’re not just some girl coasting by. you answer questions in class, so confident and correct. and now he feels this weird mix of admiration and intimidation because he’s used to being the smartest one in the room and now there’s you. 

nerd!rafe who, in his own head, compares you to a positive integer. because there’s just something about you, that makes sense to him in a way nothing else does. 'she’s like a perfect number', he thinks once, and that’s it, his only logical way to describe you. 

nerd!rafe who sees your name pop up on the tutoring schedule and genuinely freezes. rereading it like three times, just to make sure it’s actually you.

nerd!rafe who without even thinking too hard about it, pays the assigned tutor $1500 and hands over his perfect accounting 3 notes just to switch students. but then immediately regrets it after because now he actually has to sit across from you and talk to you. 

nerd!rafe who stands up the second you walk in, heart racing way too fast for someone who literally presents in front of classes, and lecture halls all the time. “h-hi, um, i’m rafe.” but blushes the second you smile and say, “i know, we have a few classes together.” and short circuits because you noticed him, out of everyone, him. “oh yeah, we do, i just, yeah” he miserably tries to respond as you sit down. 

nerd!rafe who freezes when you ask “you’re graduating summa cum laude, right?” he’s confused on why you’re asking. “um, yeah. i think so.” he says, but of course he knows he is, adjusting his glasses even though they’re already sitting perfectly. “i’m really happy they assigned you to me then, i only wanted the best” you say, taking your books and pens out. he tries to play it off, flipping open his notebook like normal, but his handwriting is just slightly messier than usual because his hands aren’t as steady. he ends up over explaining the first concept just to prove mostly to himself that he’s worth that title.

nerd!rafe who takes your comment too seriously. like instead of laughing it off, he straightens up a bit in his chair, suddenly feeling this quiet pressure to actually be the best for you. “i’ll, make sure you understand everything,” he says softly, almost like a promise. and from that point on, he’s locked in. he’s patient and thorough, explaining things step by step, glancing at you every few seconds to make sure you’re following. not because it’s his job, but because you said you wanted the best, and he needs to live up to that in your eyes.

nerd!rafe who replays that moment later, sitting at his desk with his notes open but not actually reading them. just staring at your small doodles on the corner of his notes, while your voice loops in his head. ‘i only wanted the best’ he exhales quietly, running a hand through his hair, and from that point on, every tutoring session feels different to him. like it’s not just about teaching you anymore, it’s about not disappointing you.

nerd!rafe who tries so hard to stay composed during the session but fails miserably, getting warm from how nervous he is, his hands slightly shaky as he flips through notes.

nerd!rafe who doesn’t even realize his glasses are fogging up until he can barely see the page in front of him, so when you lean closer, reaching toward him “can i?” and he’s already nodding before you finish the sentence “y-yes, yeah.”

nerd!rafe who immediately looks away when you lift your tank top to clean his glasses, his head snapping to the side so fast, refusing to even risk glancing at your more esposed breasts, ears burning red, because he respects you way too much.

nerd!rafe who just sits there, hands gripping his knees, trying to breathe normally while his brain is absolutely losing it. and when he looks back at you, finishing cleaning his glasses for him, he genuinely forgets what he was saying. 

nerd!rafe who blinks at you like he’s buffering when you smile and say, “you look good without your glasses” his cheeks turn red, responding with a shy “thank you.” 

nerd!rafe who is painfully oblivious to your flirting. so he thinks it's a coincidence when your hand brushes his. thinks completely nothing of it when you sit closer. or thinks you just “like being prepared” when you show up as early as he does now. 

nerd!rafe who genuinely believes you’re just really dedicated to tutoring when you ask questions he thinks you should definitely already know the answers to. 

nerd!rafe who’s doesn’t react when you slip him your number, “for scheduling our next sessions,” you say casually. he nods immediately, taking it like it’s completely normal. “yeah yeah, that makes sense.”

nerd!rafe who sits in his room later, staring at your number in his phone, then realizes he has another method to speaking to you that’s not in class or a scheduled tutoring session. he then decides to type out a text, deletes it thinkings it’s too awkward sounding, types another, then deletes that too now thinking it’s too corny sounding. 

nerd!rafe who has no idea that you’re not just asking for a tutor now, but waiting for him to make a move, because you’ve been flirting with him this whole time. because he’s insanely smart, but when it comes to you? he’s completely and utterly clueless.

nerd!rafe who struggles with emotions because he can’t logic' his way through them like he does everything else, so he’ll write things down he wants to say to you beforehand, and then still can’t get the words out right when he’s actually in front of you. 

nerd!rafe who overanalyzes every interaction with you after it happens, asking himself “did i sound weird?”  “did she notice that?”  “why did she smile like that?”

nerd!rafe who notices almost everything, and if not, everything about you. from what you wear, when you change your hair, that cute little lip pout you do when you’re upset, if you changed your perfume, and files it in the drawer that says your name on it, in his mind, because nothing about you is uninteresting to him.  

nerd!rafe who would absolutely help you with anything. assignments, scheduling, fixing something, but acts like it’s no big deal when he clearly went out of his way.

nerd!rafe who loosens his tie, when the sessions go too long and unbottons his shirt a little, exposing his chest a bit, running a hand through his hair, looking unintentionally really fucking good.

nerd!rafe who is a bookworm through and through. like he always has a book on him, “just in case.” mostly science fiction, space, time travel, anything educationally complex, but he has a soft spot for harry potter, even if he’d never admit it out loud unless you asked first.

nerd!rafe who reads at night instead of scrolling on his phone. with his glasses always low on his nose, one hand absentmindedly pushing them back up while the other flips pages, completely lost in whatever world he’s in.

nerd!rafe who lights up, actually lights up, when you ask him what he’s reading, like he tries to play it cool at first but then starts explaining the plot, getting a little too into it before catching himself “sorry, yeah, it’s good.”

nerd!rafe who starts off with a crush, and slowly gets to know you over more tutoring sessions, dissecting your brain, like a frog in your high school freshman science class, but less gory of course. 

nerd!rafe who still gets nervous around you even after you start talking more, because no matter how much he studies people in theory, he’ll never fully understand how you make him feel.

nerd!rafe who realizes he doesn’t just like looking at you, he really does like you.

nerd!rafe who starts watching youtube videos, and tiktok videos on how to flirt with a girl, trying the pick up lines he’s learned in the mirror. and getting frustrated at how stupid they sound.

nerd!rafe notices when you’re cold one day, even before you say anything and ‘runs the stats’ in his head for a solid thirty seconds before pulling off his dark grey hoodie. “here, you can um, t-take this, if you want, you don’t have to of course” he stumbles over his words. “thank you” you say with a smile, and he swears your smile can melt him. 

nerd!rafe who has no idea where that confidence came from, but the second you put it on he’s so done for. to him, you look way too good in his clothes and he has to look down at his notes to hide it.

nerd!rafe who doesn’t open up easily, having such a hard time expressing his emotions, let alone speaking about them, so when he falls in love with you? it’s the same way he does literally everything else, obsessively, like once he lets himself feel it, there’s no going back.

nerd!rafe who secretly craves praise so bad it’s almost painful, but would never admit it, so when the compliments come in your sweet voice, he swears they’re imprinted in his mind forever.

nerd!rafe who doesn’t realize you notice everything, from the way he listens, the way he remembers, to the way he goes out of his way in quiet ways just for you. and you can’t fathom how he still has no idea that to you, none of it is weird, it’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for you.

you’ve never been one for academic sports spirit.

what’s the point? okay, your school has incredible athletes, that’s good, but why the fuck would you kiss and praise the ground they walk on?

you’re a fantastic student and no one gives a shit.

why do they get all the glory while brainiacs get zilch?

the double standards piss you off.

somehow academics always take the backseat to sports; maybe that explained your dislike towards jocks like rafe cameron.

up until sophomore year, you’d only heard about him, saw him occasionally around school. it was understandable why people talked about him so often. he looked like he’d just been ripped off a page of an abercrombie and fitch catalog, and apparently – you’d never attended a game to check – he was the best player on the team, playing forward.

unlike many, you didn’t form an opinion about him until you met him.

the verdict? total pain in your fucking ass.

ever since you two were paired in a class project together, an annual class at that, he suddenly took an interest in you, like you were some sort of exotic animal he’d never encountered in his life, only because you wouldn’t flirt with him.

outrageous, never done before.

for the first four months, it was mostly him laying on the cheesy pickup lines and you rolling your eyes so hard you thought they'd pop out of your skull. eventually, rafe dialed it down and you were able to be civil, perhaps friends.

if you could call it that.

wich is why, as his friend, you’re starting to lose your fucking patience. the season was not going well for his team. at all.

there was little to no chance they were going to be able to win the championship.

not that you cared, but apparently the whole school did. everyone seemed to be on the verge of a meltdown.

“i swear to god if they lose to standford next week–“

“pope, will you kindly shut the fuck up? it’s just soccer.”

“just soccer?”

you let out an exasperated sigh, glancing over at pope who looks at you like you’ve shot someone.

“can we study? peacefully?”

"it’s not just soccer! it's about school spirit, camaraderie, y’know?"

you raise an eyebrow, unimpressed.

"camaraderie? please. more like a bunch of testosterone-fueled egos chasing after a ball," you retort, disdain evident in your tone.

“you don't know what you're talking about. and i'm being dead serious, cameron’s been on edge lately. never seen him like this."

you lean back in your chair, crossing your arms.

"losing does that to people. don't know why you're complaining soooo much" you sigh, "i’m the one who has to put up with his brooding and pouting.”

pope’s quiet. too quiet. you can picture the gears turning in his brain as he blankly stares at you. nothing good ever comes out of that.

“what?” you press, wondering if you have to break the school spirit out of him.

“you should fuck him. after or before, don't care. but you should."

you recoil, nearly tumbling out of your chair at pope's suggestion.

your eyes widen, your mind struggling to process what he said. for a moment, the room spins around you, and you feel like you’ve been thrust into some surreal alternate universe.

“what?! pope?" you finally manage to sputter, nearly driving yourself into cardiac arrest, "the fuck's wrong with you?"

“don’t look at me like that,” he merely shrugs, “that man is depressed. he needs to get laid if he’s going to win something.“

you hardly think a guy like rafe is not getting laid every other day, but that’s irrelevant.

your jaw drops, stunned by his audacity. "are you kidding me? you don’t even like him!”

“but i like winning!” he whines, all but pushing his books aside to place in his elbows on the table, “and he’s so obsessed with you! it hurts watching. he’s like one of those crusty white dogs always running after you.”

"he does it to be funny, okay? he’s not actually interested.. t's just a joke”

your best friend only laughs, a raucous, almost maniacal sound that echoes through the room. he clutches his stomach.

"joking?" pope gasps out, his laughter still bubbling to the surface. "oh man. you're hilarious, honestly, wow."

you stare at him, lips set in a straight line, feeling like you missed the entire joke. "what's so funny?"

pope wipes away a fake tear, trying to compose himself.

“he almost ripped jj a new one after he pulled that stunt last semester.”

your eyebrows knit together in skepticism.

“and? i still don’t follow.”

rafe and jj couldn’t stand each other, they both were incredible athletes and everyone always gushed about how great they were together on the field.

outside, however? not so much.

“and?! why do you think jj randomly talked about you in the locker room?”

“because he’s a horny creep and got a kink for fist fights with undressed men?”

you love jj.

really, you do, but sometimes he’d win a lot more if he kept his mouth shut or thought before speaking. you've lost count of how many times that boy has been suspended.

pope leans in, his tone low and conspiratorial, “he practically threatened to rearrange jj's face if he ever mentioned you again.”

you narrow your eyes, “nop. you’re making that up.”

pope shakes his head, a grin playing on his lips. "nah, i'm dead serious.”

your mind races, trying to piece it all together. while your brain always clicks instantly in class.

feelings and emotions however, are a little more complicated to grasp sometimes.

"wait, so you're saying he actually cares about me?"

he nods, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "yep.”

“seriously?”

pope chuckles, leaning back in his chair. "head over heels. you’re our school’s only hope.”

your brain's on overdrive trying to process pope's bombshell revelation. rafe cameron, the big-shot jock, actually giving a fuck about you? it straight up sounds like a twisted plot line from a teen drama.

you didn’t see this one coming. but then again, you hardly pay attention to anything outside academics.

“so what? ’m supposed to fuck the mediocrity out of him?”

he grins, clapping you on the shoulder, “there’s that school spirit!”

you slap his hand away, “oh fuck off. ‘m being serious.”

"come on, hear me out. it's like a strategic move, y’ know? boost his morale, boost the team's performance. win-win."

you roll your eyes, not buying into his scheme. "yeah, because my sex habilities are definitely the key to winning soccer games."

he shrugs, undeterred. "it's not like you'd be doing it for him. it's all about the greater good."

you scoff, rearranging your notes for the millionth time, "this isn't some feel-good sports movie."

it’s not like you never thought about rafe. sure, he's a yapping idiot around you most of the time, but every time you need help or an extra hand, he’s always the first one to offer.

that has to count for something, right?

“the ball’s in your court.”

yeah it is.

truth to be told, you’ve been sick and tired of rafe acting like a loser over soccer. what was the point in whining about it if he wasn’t going to try and do better? god, you'd never seen him like this before and it's been irking you to beyond. even more now that pope mentioned it again.

at this point, you just want to march up to him, shake him and make it come to his senses. you can’t even remember that last time he tried to hit on you. that’s how bad it is! the memory is buried under the weight of his brooding.

so maybe….maybe pope's onto something, y'know? maybe there's more to it than just you and rafe. and yeah, okay, you're not exactly thrilled about the idea of hopping into bed with him, but only because you’d hate the attention that comes along with his name.

...a part of you is weirdly intrigued.

you're not dying to be his next conquest, but you're done with watching him drown in his own misery. maybe this could be the wake-up call he needs.

a swift kick in the ass to snap him out of his funk.

you wouldn’t be doing out of selfish reasons!

school spirit and all! you’d be doing everyone a favor. and you wouldn't need to blame it on yourself if things went downhill.

you had pope for that.

which is why you’re standing in front of rafe's room in his frat.

a jock and a frat boy? charming. you’ve certainly hit the jackass lottery. but you’ve been here before.

he always saved your day when the library was packed or when your roommate was too busy fucking her boyfriend in your dorm room. this was weirdly your safe place to work.

taking a deep breath, you rap your knuckles against the door, trying to ignore the butterflies doing somersaults in your stomach.

it's not about you! get a grip.

the door swings open, and there's the fucker, all brooding and rugged.

you roll your eyes at the cliché, but there's something weird about the way he looks at you.

or maybe the tight wife-beater is doing a number on you.

you still notice the bags underneath his swollen eyes.

there's a flicker of surprise in him, he wasn't expecting to see you, out of everyone in this school, and you can't blame him; after all, you're not exactly a regular visitor to the frat house, only when your academic needs force you to.

“hey?”

“you look like shit, cameron.”

rafe's eyebrows raise in surprise at your blunt remark, “uh, what?”

you roll your eyes resisting the urge to scoff. "can i come in or are you going to stand there looking like an idiot all day?”

rafe chuckles, stepping aside to let you into his room, “come on in.”

you step inside, taking in the cluttered room with a mixture of amusement and mild disgust. it was never this bad before, you know rafe’s a clean freak and this? this is not him.

it’s exactly how you imagined a frat boy's room would look like—dirty.

there’s laundry strewn across the floor, empty beer cans littering the desk, and a distinct musky smell lingering in the air. you shake your head, shooting rafe a disapproving look.

"what are you? a divorced forty-five-year-old man?”

rafe laughs at your comment, though there's a hint of embarrassment in his expression as he scratches the back of his neck.

“yeah, i know. sorry about that."

he’s doing worse than what you realized and it tugs a little at your heartstrings.

you raise an eyebrow, unconvinced by his apology. "sorry doesn't cut it, cameron. you should be ashamed of yourself.”

"okay, fair point. i'll clean up, promise."

“not just your stupid room. i mean your whole attitude. you've been moping around like a loser!”

rafe's expression shifts, defensiveness crossing his features. "hey, ‘m not—"

"don't even try to deny it," you interrupt, not backing down. "everyone’s noticed. you’re pissing me off.”

you don’t know why you’re suddenly so tempted to give him the scolding of a lifetime, but there’s something about seeing someone with so much potential and drive wasting it all away without a fight.

it’s not like him.

and by the kicked-puppy look on his face, you can tell he's not used to being called out so openly. too bad you're dead set on breaking through to him, no matter how awkward it gets.

“see! you’re just staring at me like—like, a fucking idiot!”, you fire off, frustration lacing your tone. the irony of the situation isn't lost on you. “will you speak for gods sake? for more than five seconds? i spent months trying to get you to shut up and now you do?”

rafe's stunned expression makes you second guess your approach for a moment, but you push the feeling aside, knowing you can't afford to let sympathy cloud your purpose here.

“why are you mad at me?”

you can't believe he's clueless after all this time.

"why am i mad at you?" you repeat incredulously, feeling the irritation rising your my chest. "seriously, rafe? have you even looked in the mirror lately?"

he blinks at you, his confusion evident, and you resist the urge to roll your eyes.

"you've been moping around like the world's about to end.”

rafe's brows furrow even further, and for a moment, you wonder if he's playing dumb or if he genuinely has no idea what you’re talking about.

"i don't—uh, i don't understand," he finally stammers out, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

that’s it.

you’re gonna pull the feelings card and hope it doesn’t backfire.

“do you like me?” you blurt out, the words tumbling out before you can stop them.

rafe snorts as he lifts his finger to scratch his face, “course i do. pretty obvious.”

for a second you get a glimpse of the real rafe and it soothes you inside.

“and you want to fuck me?”

you’ve never seen him look so gobsmacked in his life, you’d laugh in his face if it wasn’t such a serious matter.

“what?” he stammers, his cheeks flushing slightly.

you can’t believe the rafe cameron is blushing. over you.

you let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through your hair. "do you want to fuck me? do i need to spell it out for you?”

he opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out, and you can't help but feel a twinge of satisfaction at finally catching him off guard, “’m sorry? is this—are you…is this for punk’d?”

"punk'd? seriously, rafe?" you snap, incredulous that he would think this is some sort of prank, “it’s 2024.”

rafe's cheeks flush an even deeper shade of red, and he stammers again "no, i mean— i...didn't expect you to— uhh”

“yes or no.”

rafe blinks at you before breathing out, “yes.”

“okay. so win your next match and you will.”

he looks at you like you’ve grown a second head, exhaling through his nose, trying to keep his agitation to a minimum. “what?”

“i’m sick and tired of this version of you. i need you to win, and if this” you gesture to the both of you with your hand, “is your motivation, then we’re doing it.”

"y’serious?" he takes a step closer, his demeanor suddenly more serious, “me and you?”

you nod firmly, crossing your arms over your chest as you tilt your head up to look at his features, “dead serious. and it’s not you and me. it’s for the team, and for the school spirit or whatever nonsense pope keeps going on about."

rafe lets out a small chuckle, a hint of his usual cocky confident demeanor returning. "is that so? can't say no to that kind of motivation."

“i figured.”

he reaches out a hand, his fingers lightly grazing the strands of your hair, eyes fixed on your lips. "are there any rules?”

you swallow hard, feeling your heart race at his touch. “no, just win.”

rafe's lips curl into a playful smirk— the money-making smirk that makes you want to punch him and kiss him, not necessarily in that order — as he leans in closer, his breath warm against your ear.

"never would've guessed you'd be the one to offer yourself as my motivation, though," he murmurs, his voice sending a shiver down your spine, "i'm surprised."

you try to maintain your composure, but his proximity is making it increasingly difficult to think straight.

"just doing what needs to be done," you manage to stammer out, trying to sound perfectly unaffected by his words.

rafe chuckles softly, his hand still lingering in your hair as he leans back slightly to look at you.

"my pretty prize, huh?" he says, his tone teasing as he brushes a strand of hair away from your face.

you feel a flush spread across your features at his boldness. you blame him entirely for this side of you. without thinking, you reach up to brush your fingers against his cheek, tips pressings against his skin lightly.

“just win the fucking match, cameron."

rafe's nasty smirk widens into a heart-stopping, soul-gripping grin as he leans in closer, his lips hovering dangerously close to yours.

"consider it done."

You received news about him a week later. The poor man was robbed; yes, he was fine; no, he didn't see who did it. After some visits and friendly banter, you became friends and had a standing agreement that every Saturday morning, you would go out to the docks with Mr. Beckwourth to get his supply of fish and then help him sell it in the market.

You were busily accepting an order of salmon and herring when your stomach lurched. Surely you were mistaken. 

Ever since you ran away from your previous life, you have lived in fear of a tall figure with broad shoulders finding you and dragging you back to those horrid people you called family. They would kill you if you ever went back home before you came of age, after what became of Darling Anne. 

There was no way that a man like Sherlock Holmes would come to the market to buy his food. Unless he was in one of his cases, why would it bring him here? You had no clue; you just hoped that whatever it was didn't bring him to this point.

Oh, yes, you had followed the news discreetly (no point in letting those around you know you were literate.), but diligently. You knew all about him and his service to the crown and its citizens. Best not to test fate. I’ve come too far. Your thought was desperate as you dove below the stall and rubbed some fish guts on your cheek and head. I’ll have to spend some money in one of the washhouses with warm water then. Mrs. Acker will have a fit if I show up soiled again. You rose again with a cheery smile, despite your fear about whether you may or may not have been seen.

You were hyper-aware of yourself leaving the market. Once, twice, three times you could have sworn you were being followed, but when you stopped in front of a shop or pretended to turn in the wrong street, with a piece of paper in your hand to make it believable, you had either come across a vagrant or no one at all. It took you longer than normal to get to the washhouse, but it was worth the coin and your time. You didn't afford yourself many luxuries, but good ointments and oils for your skin, courtesy of the two nurses, who were just old school mates and the young governess who took care of some lonely boys on the other side of London at night, and a weekly wash—a habit picked up by your mother and father's stay in their respective corners of the east—were a must. It was, in part, also why you decided to help Mr. Beckwourth. Not only did you like the old man, it also gave you a reason to visit the washhouses once a week. The ones with warm and hot water were cheaper than the tepid tub that Mrs. Acker managed. Having one last look around, you quickly dogged into the washhouse.

It was closer to evening when you finally made it to the house. Exsusted, not only from the week of labour you had but from walking up and down the streets of London just in case your follower from last night or that nuisance Sherlock Holmes had seen you or at least suspected it was you and tried to follow you back to your residence. 

Thanking Mrs. Acker for allowing you to take your supper in your room, you made your way up to what once had been a small attic workshop with a partial glass roof but was now a small room. You didn't mind it. The glass part of the roof had a hatch you could open in the summer, keeping the room cool. After all, who would climb to the roof to steal steel from a humble boarding house? And since the fireplace chimney ran through your room, it kept the winter chill out, despite part of the roof being made of glass. You liked the roof like this. It saved you on candles and gas for the lantern; it provided you with lots of natural light for you to read when you were in your room. And you always did love the sound of the rain. 

All in all, it was a quiet place with its share of whimsy. You had fallen in love with it the moment you saw it. Yes, it was a hassle to go down a flight of stairs every time you needed to go to the washroom, but since it was on the smaller side and was in the attic, it did come in cheaper than the other rooms, which suited you nicely. After eating, you settled down for some well-earned rest.

You didn't know that on the other side of London, in an apartment on Baker Street, a tall man with wide shoulders and dark blue eyes seethed in anger.

It had been by sheer coincidence that he found you at the market. Watson had to do some hours at the hospital, and Mary, being heavily pregnant, asked him to help her with her errands at the market. He stood silent as you helped an older man behind the fishmonger's stand. You couldn't help but notice your still-smooth hands. They had thickened with what he deduced was years of hard work, but they were still fine with smooth skin. On the subject of your skin, that too was fine, smooth, and quite clean. It didn't have any of the telltale muck common among the more impoverished folk. He didn't see how you could afford the cost of regular baths in a boarding house, so it could only be through the use of the washhouses that you could keep so clean. It still didn't explain the softness of your skin and healthy glow. Sherlock only had time to quickly turn around before you raised your eyes in his direction. He was going to take advantage of his luck. It seemed that he would move his plans forward by a whole day and a half. Making sure that Mary was alright and excusing himself, he made his way to the first beggar he found near the steps of the market. 

He was going to put his homeless network to good use. He would know where you lived by nightfall. 

Nightfall provided him with nothing. Despite no less than fifteen of his best in the Homeless Network having followed you discreetly, you still managed to give them the slip, more or less where he had followed you last night. He grabbed the skull on the fire mantle and threw it angrily at the wall. He then shot the wall for good measure. 

That sent Mr. Hudson into hysteria, threatening him about calling the Yard. No doubt Watson would have some choice words come Monday morning if previous fits of rage had taught him anything. He growled and threw more things at the wall opposite him. 

Pussycat was in for a right spanking when he finally got his hands on her.

Pussycat was in for a whole lot more when he got his hands on her. A lot more. 

Sadly, since you were one of three maids who had not fainted at the macabre sight, you and the other ladies were tasked with cleaning everything up. You smelled like clotted blood and spoiled meat. You were wet, you were starving, your back hurt, you were past feeling your feet, your knees were bruising, and your hands were beginning to cramp. 

That didn't stop you from realising that someone was following you.

Of all the things I need, whatever this is right now is not it. Taking advantage of the chill, you rubbed your hands roughly and started to work out their kinks harshly, going as far as to bite some of your fingers discreetly while also constraining your breath and steps. 

There was no need to warn whoever was following you that you had caught on to their presence.

Having barely managed to gain some fluidity in your hands, you put them in your apron pockets, thanking God that you had opted not to take them off, as was your habit.

You counted your steps to ten as you breathed deeply every two steps. You grabbed the small pistol you found in your mother's jewellery bag. 

You reached ten and spun swiftly. Years of training with your mother and dancing, the one thing your aunt let you take with Anna to keep up appearances, kept you from getting dizzy. 

There was no one there. Or at least, it seemed that way. You smiled.

"I know you are out theeere" you sang in a taunt. "I felt you following me," you growled. "And I do know how to shoot." And with that final warning breathed into the night, you took off on a run. After all, you had always been a fast runner. 

You reached your shabby rooms, just barely missing the curfew. Luckily, Mrs. Acker took one look at you and ushered you in. You thanked her profusely as she helped you take off your clothes. Even your underthings were impregnated with the smell of blood, sweat, and the beginnings of rot. You would have to pay for the bath come next payday. You scrubbed yourself, feeling a bit better despite your tiredness. Looking at the clock, you moaned petulantly. You would only have a few hours of sleep before having to get up early to help old Mr. Beckwourth in the market stall selling fish. 

It wasn't by chance that you chose these jobs. Both took time, had a modestly adequate pay, rendered you invisible, and lent you a godawful smell, ensuring that none came near you. Just two more weeks. That's all. Two more weeks. You rambled in your mind as you got out of the old metallic tub and dried yourself as best you could. 

As you got ready for bed, you mourned the loss of intelligent conversation. You would do just about anything to have an engaging exchange. You'd give anything for a good game of chess. Two more weeks. You felt as if these last weeks were going to be the hardest yet. 

You seemed to have forgotten the age-old adage, Be careful about what you wish for.

 You didn't know you had been found. You didn't know that your pursuer had just managed to hide himself before you turned around, surprised by how easily you had found him out. You didn't know what your words did to his pride or how knowing that you could use a weapon made him reconsider his approach. Your father had never said anything about knowing how to handle weaponry. What else did you know? You spun with grace—yes, the grace of a dancer—but there was a precise strength as well. Your stance was that of a fighter. Did you know how to fight Pussycat? Oh yes, he remembered your mother's preferred pet name for you. Pussycat. It had potential. You didn't know that as you sprinted with considerable speed despite being held down by damp wool, a pair of vibrant blue eyes darkened with an unknown feeling as he reshaped his entire opinion about you for a second time.

As you lay in bed in a fitful sleep, you didn't know that somewhere else, a man, a most brilliant man, lay in his bed wondering what you truly looked like. Years prior, the paint you wore on your face concealed your appearance; now grime and exhaustion do the same. He had heard about your grandmother's beauty and how you resembled her, but somehow he wagered that you had suppressed her beauty tenfold. 

You didn't know what your defiance had done to your pursuer. A man with vibrant blue eyes who no longer considered you a quarry but instead now saw you as a worthy opponent.

A dangerous thing to be, his opponent.

It was a well-known fact that Sherlock Holmes was a formidable man, infamous for dragging all those who opposed him down to his feet. These next few days were going to be very entertaining. He smiled deviously as he took a deep breath and closed his eyes. 

Whether you ended up on your knees at his feet or standing by his side depended entirely on just how smart you truly were. Not that it mattered either way. 

Sherlock Holmes always got what he wanted.