#rosie in 221b
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When John found out that Sherlock is secretly obsessed with his eyes 👀
#bbc sherlock incorrect quotes#bbc sherlock#sherlock#221b#sherlocked#sherlock holmes#johnlock#the six thatchers#rosie watson#john watson#benedict cumberbatch#martin freeman
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A happy family😍
#bbc sherlock#sherlock bbc#sherlock holmes#benedict cumberbatch#johnlock#john watson#martin freeman#sherlockbbc#221b johnlock#sherlock x john#johnlock forever!! ❤️❤️#sherlock holmes x john watson#rosie watson
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is that glitter on your neck in that picture?
No of course not, why should I have glitter on my neck? Must have been some camera malfunction. Or some light reflexion. Maybe some lens flare?
#damn it rosie must have crafted something with glitter again its everywhere#i mean no there is no glitter at 221B especially not on my neck#roleplay#rp#sherlock roleplay#johnlock roleplay#sherlock rp#johnlock rp#221b is filled with glitter#sparkly everywhere#sparkly sherlock#glitterlock#glitter
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Wails of Wedded Bliss
Chapter 3 || Masterlist || Chapter 5
Chapter Summary: Sherlock fulfils his husbandry duty and desires to play some more with your weak resolve.
Pairing: Sherlock Homes x wife!reader
Chapter Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Period Sex, Blowjob, Bondage, Pet Names, Fingering, Forced Orgasm, Forced Pubic shave, Humiliation.
Word Count: 9k
Author Notes: This chapter involves description of period blood and sex, please be warned!!
Inspiring Song: "Copy Cat." Billie Eillish classic cover
•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•
6:39pm Tuesday 6th May 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.
You had no choice. Not really...he was your husband and you were his wife. His threat of infidelity brought a great fear to your mental strength than your threat to murder him without a solid plan.
Oh how you hated him for this. You despised him with every sense. You weren’t sure how you’d be able to forgive him.
You knew he wasn’t a good or kind or even gentle husband, but a husband is meant to be faithful. And if humiliating yourself to pleasuring him with your mouth kept him straying in sin; by god you would obey.
You crept closer to him and slowly lowered yourself on one knee, then the next. Your eyes could not leave his face. A sick and twisted smile spread over his rosy cheeks.
In his palm was his half hard cock. His large hand made it appear smaller. The memory of its violent entrance had not been forgotten however.
It stared you back in the face. The pink head peaked up and out of his pale skin. His thumb rubbed over the pink head.
You felt cold and strange in comparison to your usual jitters. You fluttered your eyes closed. Your hands sat in your lap on your thighs.
‘He just wanted a kiss. I can kiss it...’
You leant forward and puckered your lips. His skin was feverishly warm. You pulled back fast and blinked up at him with wet eyes.
He chuckled meanly and touched your damp cheek in his other hand before moving his fingers under your jaw and guiding you closer to his cock.
“Lick the top with the tip of your tongue.”
Your lips trembled nervously. You weren’t sure if this was worth it. The thudding of your chest made you forget what he had asked.
Visions of the lewd novel in his chest flashed in your mind.
“P-pardon?”
His thumb pressed against your mouth, forcing its way past your lips and teeth. You knew better than to bite him. You weren’t an animal...you didn’t want a repeat of the night before where you had bitten his tongue.
“Stick out,” he pulled your tongue out with his thumb, “this little tongue.”
He pulled you closer by the chin and held his cock upwards.
“Lick.”
You whined softly and batted your eyes. Did you have the guts to do this? To truly perform fellatio? You didn’t really have the choice. You had to do this.
He let you go and waited patiently. He undid his cuffs and rolled the shirt off his shoulders.
“Are you so dim witted?” he gruffly asked, his fingers grabbed at your jaw after you took too long,
“Need I repeat myself once more?”
You shuddered and shook your head side to side. It was just so scary. Why did you have to have such a cruel husband!?
“No,” you licked your chapped lips, “I am sorry Mr Holmes.”
His eyes widened, his face softened but his lips smirked, “So polite, little lamb...”
Your lower half tingles with delight at the warmth of his sudden praise...
‘Little lamb, how do I despise it...yet feel warmth within?’
You pushed your face closer. You stuck out your tongue again and this time, glided it over his hot red tip. The gleam of your saliva and his desire shone in the soft candle light of a kerosene lamp on his bedside table.
You tucked your nose quickly back to your chest. You flushed.
Fluttering his eyes, Sherlock clenched the covers. His gasp on his breath was a sound of pain you originally believed.
“Again,” he said clearing his throat, “Come now, I grow tiresome to your reluctance.”
You wanted to spit at him. He knew you didn’t want to do this and yet still made you do it. You licked him again. His hand clapped on the back of your neck, forcing you closer and blocking you from pulling away.
You fell into him slightly, forced to need to grab his pant covered knee and thigh. Your fingers squeezed his trousers to stabilise your balance on your knees.
You looked back up into his eyes. Perhaps it was easier to look him in the eye instead of looking at the brutal beast between his thighs.
You opened your mouth and licked his cock little by little...his thumb pushed up your nose, opening your mouth wider. He pushed his cock into your mouth. His eyes were glued on you. He appeared relaxed.
His skin lacked any flavour. It was like licking your palm...but after a while there was a hint of salt in the taste buds.
You kept your mouth open, you kept your tongue out as he moved his hips in and out. His hand pushed you down and pinched you back up.
Your eyes remained only on him. He was grunting and sighing. A twinge of triumph tickled your heart. You were pleasing him! He would not want to seek out the unsavoury company of whores or any other woman overall.
He paused and leant down. He grabbed at your wrist and picked up his hand and rested your fingers around his length of his cock.
Your blinked and stared at the placement.
“Squeeze, and rub me up to the tip, down to the sack.” You nodded, his cock still rested on your tongue.
He chuckled and rested back on his hands. He waited for you to take over.
This was it. This is what would bring him pleasure. You cupped his shaft and moved the way you were instructed. You did it at a pace where he appear to struggle how to breathe. His words were nothingness under his breath.
He looked to the ceiling and moaned.
The skin was hot and twitched under your finger tips.
He let out a choking groan. The back of your mouth felt that harsh slapping squirt of his release.
You pulled back in horror. Your bottom slid across the rug. You weren’t sure what it was really. In fact you feared he had the audacity to piss in your mouth. You spat on the floor and coughed.
“Ugh!”
He cackled at the mortified look you had written over your sweet face.
He sighed and chewed his bottom lip. He slowly clapped his hands.
“Well done... Forgive me, I had intended to finish myself over your sweet breasts, little lamb.”
He cocked his head to the side and hummed, “Take off my shoes.” He lifted his foot to your direction.
You thought he was entirely despicable! You wiped your mouth with a growing glare. It didn’t go unnoticed by him, in fact, he took glee in your narrowing look..
“You wish to be a wife? Act as a wife. You want my loyalty? Well, you must be my whore...and whores suckle their johns cream with pretty smiles on their painted faces. Wives help their husbands undress from long days of work.”
You felt...weak and disgusting. You felt like an idiot. In your grumpy defeat you crawled back to him and began to unlace his shoes. In the corner of your eye you saw his hand reach back to his front and touch his thick meat. The looser the laces, you lifted your hands and rocked his heel out of his shoe.
Demurely you sat both his shoes aside. His socks smelt of his sweat and the filth of London street ways. You gagged and pinched the wool socks away from his calves and flung them from his toes.
A cramp waved through you and forced a grimacing groan out of your quiet misery.
Sherlock stopped laughing, his smugness dissipated. His face fell. He tucked his cock away with an annoyed sigh.
His hands unexpectedly tucked beneath your armpits and lifted you off the floor. He pushed you lightly onto his mattress onto your front. You felt your breath hitching, worrying what he would do to you. It wouldn’t be right for him to have sex with you during your menses.
He palmed his giant hand over your bottom. Hoisting your night dress up your thighs and over your back. He slapped one cheek lightly and chuckled at your cry and hiss. He grabbed your shoulder and held you down slightly. Your fingers gripped the covers of his top blanket. You had washed and changed this set. They smelt of a sweet lemon citrus.
His lips touched your bare shoulders. His hot breath tingled in your ear.
You flushed and squeezed your eyes shut. God it felt strange and ticklish.
“Look at this perfect little arse,” he admired, groping at the flesh, “Plump and ripe for a needed disciplining. Your grandparents let you get away with far too much.”
He slapped you harder. A scream bellied from you. Your spine curled up and you desperately reached back to scratch his bare arms.
“Stop it! Or I will bite you again!” you shouted.
The detective smacked his lip and hummed, “Ah that reminds me, thankyou little lamb.”
In two fingers he held in front of your eyes his cravat. He stuffed the material deep into your mouth and slapped you swiftly when you tried nipping his hand. Tears poured like boiling water.
He tied the rest of the fabric tightly behind your head. You violently shook your head and fought against him, you tried pushing away only to be shoved down by his strong hands.
He rolled you into your back and used your nightgown to tie your wrists together, over your hands. Your claws were contained from clawing his eyeballs out.
The bonds were pushed above your head. He attached a loose part of the arm of your clothes to the headpost.
He smacked your thighs apart hard. You shrieked behind the gag.
He tore the sanitary apron away and tossed it across the room. You turn your nose into your arm, too embarrassed to look at your husband who played with your body.
You twitched and tried to kick at Sherlock as his hand tickled down your side and between your thighs. The wicked man smirked as he watched your pleading eyes water. He pushed two fingers inside your red hot messed cavern. You felt ill. This was an abomination! He fingered you and held your upper body down, watching you like a hawk as you struggled.
His digits within you flexed and curled. You felt them touch along the top of your walls while his thumb rubbed down into your forbidden button. You whined and shook your head. He removed his hand all together. You clenched your legs back together.
“Oh my, Mrs Holmes,” he purred, glancing down, “You secret slut...this isn’t blood,” he held his fingers up to the light, “Why...this is arousal...”
His lips curled, flashing those pearly white gnashers.
Your eyes widened with horror. You were humiliated. Surely it wasn’t possible that you could be enjoying this? Why did he have to be so handsome. Why did your fear mix in with attraction so easily.
With the clear gleaming on his hand, with little pink streaks, he kissed your cheek and pinched
your nipples.
You shook your head and whimpered. Your legs were buzzing at the pain inflicted increased a desperate certain warmth within you.
“My was that a moan? Interesting,” he whispered cheekily.
“and if I...do this...” he asked as he shoved his hand back onto your snatch, rubbing in fine circles ontop of your clit. Your hips lifted and your thighs trembled. Your toes curled hard and your head rolled back. God it felt delicious and evil.
Amongst your lustful whines, Sherlock chortled happily, “How perfect you might be dear wife...I had no little hope for this morning, but now,” his nose shoved into your ear, “...oh you’ve just gone and damned yourself for good.”
He tugged at your pubic mane lightly, it didn’t matter, it made you squeal and howl in pain.
Your husband sat up and left the bed. Your arms were still bound above your head. You lifted your knees protectively to your chest.
“All this hair...” He tutted, “it shall not do.”
You heard him wonder across his bedroom. Out of his personal drawers he found a straight razor. He also brought forth the basin of water he had near the door way. With a cloth napkin and tiny sliver of soap, he returned and forced your legs down on to the bed. He knelt on your spread ankles and lathered your nether curls.
It was when the soap started to foam that you realised what he was intending to do. It was impossible to word the begging but he knew...you knew he knew what you were pleading out.
You knew how sharp a razor could be. What if he mutilated you!?
He glided the cold metal over your wet sensitive skin.
He licked his bottom lip as he scrapped away your mass of pubic hair.
“Hold still wife or I will cut you,” he scolded sarcastically as he went through the white bubbles.
Cleaning the razor in the water before returning it back between your thighs he hummed, “I am displeased you didn’t confer with me about the states of my accounts before deciding to pay them all off yourself. That dowry was meant for dresses, and necessary accessories such as calling cards...” he tapped the razor on the basin bowl, “now we must both rely on Mycroft and my cases for wages...stupid girl.”
The way he stared into your eyes as he held the blade up to the light...was he threatening you...was this...a warning.
You squeezed your eyes shut and took a deep shuddering breath. Tied to his bed and at his whim you were significantly helpless.
His hands took the towel and wiped your cunt clean of the hairs and soap still left behind. He whistled dramatically and smirked.
“My, my, what a pretty pussy you have.” He mused as he tossed the razor into the basin and moved the water bowl under the bed, out of the way.
His middle finger pushed inside. You gasped. The stretching intrusion took you off your guard.
“So tight still. I might need to train you to take me.”
He tore it back out and touched your naked clit lightly.
You gasped and choked behind the cravat. With deep moans, you wept pathetically.
“Oh look at that reaction,” he cooed condescendingly, he caressed the skin with his knuckle, “and all I’m doing is touching your clit. So sensitive.”
He licked his bottom lip and smirked, he pulled his hand back and slapped his palm across your labia. You squeal as the hot fiery pain rose up under your skin and spread out a dark shade with the rushing of your blood.
“Splendid responses to the nerves,” Sherlock noted before running the stinging flesh, you whined and turned your face into your arm.
“Bit sore I gather?” The man mocked, “Poor Lamb. All mine and bloody for sacrifice.”
A horrid in taking sound came from him. He spat on his fingers and pushed the wetted digits against your labia, dragging them down before sliding in home.
“There we are, squeezing so tightly around my finger, feels filling?”
He paused and listened to your heavy breathing behind the man made gag he had over your mouth. Listening to your ragged gasps and wheezes made his cock stir. You were so innocent and confused, he could see through your prudish and proper demeanour so easily. He fingered you until you were on the brink of insanity. Your eyes were becoming hazy, strained and almost crossed.
He thought it incredible...a true virgin. Not some pretender whore that his friend Miss Adler supplied. You were the authentic innocent.
“Now that you are properly tied up and without risk to harm me,” he whispered wetly, “-And decently groomed... I will complete our union.” He removed his fingers slowly out of you.
You closed your eyes and took a deep breath. You needed to compose yourself. You wanted to pretend you were back home with your grandparents. You imagined yourself in the gardens with your cousins playing balls. Oh back then life was a struggle but comparing to this...it was truly childsplay.
You yearned for your girlhood once more before you felt him move off the bed a moment only to shove your thighs wider apart and sit the head of his cock on top of your naked hairless lips.
Here the devil had come to steal all girlhood for good and inflict the agonising curse of
womanhood.
He entered slowly. Clearly he had learnt from yesterday that this task would only be accomplished with patience.
Indeed yesterday would’ve been considered a consummated marriage...so why he cared so much to refer to this as a completion of union alluded you.
You whimpered softly and peaked through your wet lashes to see his invasive entrance breaking into you.
To say you were full was placing it lightly. This man stole all possible space inside. He left no pocket of air as he pushed along and settled within.
His hands were tightly holding each ankle apart.
You now understood why he touched you with his hands before...your slickness welcomed and slid him deeper into you.
“Oh, my poor little lamb, taking in her masters thick cock so bravely,” he praised and then laughed as you struggled against your own nightgown binded to the headboard, “unable to nip or kick back at him.”
You grew silent in defeat. You submitted to the chance of zero hopelessness. Your legs fell limply.
He released your ankles.
You were plagued in your own paralysis.
You felt like he was pausing before pushing more inside. He was huge. There’s not many you could compare it too as a recently deflowered woman but you were confident his size must’ve been abnormal. Even he winced every so often at the tight squeeze.
When his pelvic bone pressed against your cunt, he sighed, “There...truly man and wife...at last...” A small scoff was heard.
You said something behind the gag that caught his ear. It was too muffled.
He pulled the gag harshly down your chin.
“What was that?”
You narrowed your eyes at him and huffed stubbornly, “Hu-husband and wife. Not man and wife.”
You wanted to remind him exactly who he was doing this to and why he could do it...because you allowed it.
“Correct you are, my darling,” he let a laugh escape him before he moved back, “Now if I just pull and twist my hips like this.”
He re-entered and this time he put his thumb on your clit as he went inside. Your eyes blew wide and you began to babble.
“Oh oh oh! Wh-what wait, please!” You started to moan and whine.
Your husband cackled proudly, “It feels good doesn’t it?”
You foolishly nodded in truth. Something sparked a flame that flooded your insides.
He did it again and again. He repeated and rubbed down into you. The filling of his member rubbing against all parts of your inner skin made you clench and groan.
You felt increasingly needful to collect the same high feeling he had delivered on you before. You were climbing an imaginary hill. The urge to release your bladder made your eyes widen.
Desperation took you into the most needful begging, “N-no! I need to use a bedpan please
Sherlock, please, I am going to make a mess! Stop! I’ll do anything.”
Your little gasps and desperate moans spurred your husband on.
His hips were making a fast speeding pace that made you dig your knees into his sides.
You wanted him to stop. You were scared of pissing over him, especially in his bed.
“I want you to let go,” he moaned and shoved his nose against yours. His breath entered your mouth as he raggedy groaned, “Release, trust me...it will feel good.”
You didn’t trust him. You didn’t know what he meant. How could this behaviour be acceptable.
“No, no, no, no, ugh, ugh, stah-, Sher-, ugh, pl-please!”
He slammed himself harder and licked at your chest, “Such a pretty beggar, dear lord, I predicted you to be a homely creature, I have been proven wrong. In this light, you are rare gem of the seas of Venus. Oh sweet lamb, give me your release.”
You couldn’t hold yourself in containment any longer. You let your lower half go. You clenched hard down onto him.
You found your spine curl and your mouth wordlessly wailing.
“Breathe dead, breathe,” you heard Sherlock call above your silent choking before unleashing a brutalising scream. It was like taking your first breath, being reborn.
When the air released, your chest burned. You gasped and cried out as some mighty string was torn within and drowned you in a flooding dam of pleasure.
Sherlock followed your desirable agony and let his mind go. His grunting was feral and full of need.
Your muscles released and you cried with the feeling of warm melted gold ran through you.
You weakly called out, “Sherlock...”
His hot lips kissed against your sweaty skin. He kissed your neck up to your chin and cheek and engulfed your own mouth in a sloppy sensation of saliva and soft lips.
When your eyes focused and found a semblance of sane sight, you beheld a pleased man. You felt his fingers touching along your arms and wrists.
“I am going to untie you, hush you are safe...”
You shut your eyes. The last tears to come derived from pleasure and a overwhelming sense of joy that was foreign to you. You trembled, still drinking in the vibrations of your body.
You were stuck in a blanket of bodily pleasure. You had never been so relaxed and warm in your entire life.
You enjoyed what he had done and you didn’t know why especially since you heavily disliked your own husband.
Was this what Mrs Hudson referred to? Screaming followed by smiles?
‘Oh’, you thought, ‘never again will a woman have what I just claimed. This is mine and always shall be.’
“I...need...um...I...words...I...you’ve...I can’t think...I am spent,” you mumbled dumbly.
A part of you wanted to thank him and have him leave you alone to wallow in sleep. Another wanted him to do it all again.
“Pretty Lamb,” he cooed in your ear as your hands limply fell to the mattress, “I am going to carry you now.”
He had tucked himself away and scooped his hands under your legs. He moved your arms around his shoulders and pushed you to sit up before clamping his arm beneath your back. His nose tucked into your neck where he left another kiss.
Carefully he lifted you off his bed and stepped out into the dining parlour where he turned and took you to your room beside his.
He pulled the blankets and sheets away before sliding you down beneath them.
He pulled the cover up to your chin and you whimpered, “I...am sore.”
His hard face softened, he pressed his lips to your cheek and asked, “You are?”
You nodded your head, “I...feel...light...tired.”
He left your side to shut your door. The light disappeared completely. Only the moon that casted light over his face helped you see as he faced you again. He wondered over and invaded your bed space.
He climbed in along side you. The wood creaked with his added weight. You were slightly alarmed he was coming into your bed and not returning back to his room.
You were drowsy and moaned.
“Sleep, in my arms,” He said as you weakly tried rolling away.
You turned back and stared at the shadows of his face. His eyes were black with only small specks of the light reflecting.
His skin was sticky and hot... But tonight it was cold and windy...you needed him...he wanted you...you succeeded.
In the darkness, you decided to reclaim some small pride...you pushed your face up and kissed his lip. Breathing him in you could finally smell him and taste him. Chalk, blood, and tobacco.
You shut your eyes and imagined the joy of your grandmother if you could tell her how you finally became the wife of Sherlock Holmes before the rites of Godly flesh.
He was silent and still. He said nothing. Did nothing.
When you pulled back from the kids he rested his head softly back on the pillows with a light hum. His fingers tickled up your naked back, holding you close. You rubbed your cheek into his bicep and listened to his heart beat and breathing until you passed into the dreamlands of sleep.
•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•
6:04am Wednesday 7th May 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.
You dreamt of your father and mother. Two people who never married, but at some point were in love. You never had the chance to see them together in happiness.
They were well dressed and strolling in the park pushing a perambulator. And as you followed them it had not struck you that this was a dream. Inside the baby carriage was nothing at all...it was odd.
Yet your parents smiled and both leant in to kiss each other....their hands both held wedding bands.
If you had never been born, you suddenly thought, would they have been able to marry and be happy?
Your mother as she loved upon your father shoved the perambulator away. It rolled fast down the path and you followed it for a moment before hearing a terrible wail of a baby inside. A baby that wasn’t in the carriage before suddenly appeared, pulling back a blanket that covered it.
You chased after the carriage as it sped up and went down a hill. Your heart ached with terror. You struggled to keep up and reached out your hand to the handle bar. It was rolling just out of your reach!
You sobbed as the carriage crashed into Tree and fell to its side. Out rolled...a bleating lamb...the creature rose up on its four wiggly legs and bleated again. It’s long wagging tail flickered around anxiously.
You landed on your knees before the lamb and kept crying. Not even you knew the reason for your tears. You held the small animal to your torso, checking it over for any broken limbs. The baby sheep was fine.
A tap on your head made you look up and standing above you was a dark faceless shadow of a man. The shadow sucked you in and you screamed at the darkness before waking up.
Above you was a face you did know...your husband’s. His eyes danced around your features. His lips curled into a smirk, “Good morning Mrs Holmes, how did you sleep?”
You blinked and peered up at him warily before slowly you sat up and away from him. His hand touched your shoulder, your hand grabbed his wrist.
What was he doing in your bed? Why were you nude!? Ah the revaluations if the previous evening re-established back into your memory. He had fully fucked you. He had claimed you...and in your drunken sleepy state, you kissed him. You flushed.
“I slept fine...” you lied, “Please let me up,” you glanced between him, the door of the bedroom and your wardrobe, “I need to start my day.”
You swallowed hard as you looked over his broad chest.
“Nonsense,” Sherlock stated before dragging you closer to him by your waist, his hands were huge and warm, it would be too much to say even comforting.
“We have plenty of time before Mrs Hudson climbs up the stairs.” His lips touched your jaw and peppered down your neck..
“Mr Holmes...please,” you cleared your throat as your hand pushed his chest to force a pause. You flushed with embarrassment. He noticed very quickly at your strained tone.
“Oh...I see...you recall the events of last night...your self deduction?”
His hands under the blanket slid downward to your thighs. He touched the soft shaved skin of your pubis. You felt twice as sensitive...
“H-humiliated, st-stupid and angry,” you shuddered.
You had let him hurt you again...and yet this time it came to a pleasant conclusion. You were disgusted in yourself for obeying him so quickly, so willingly I’m regards to giving him fellatio.
His fingers pressed your clit and he smiled at your gasp.
“And now?”
You gulped and turned your face into the pillows away from his eyes.
It was hard to deny how much you enjoyed the jumping buzz in your lower belly.
His laugh was crude to your ears, “See how easy it is to feel that sweet entrapment?” He rubbed his hand between your legs and marvelled at your heightened reaction, “My goodness look at you, your cunt is pulsing against me, hot and hard in my palm.”
Your breath hitched and your hips accidentally rolled into his touch. Your body craved the addictive buzz. Your thighs parted for him...he accepted the invitation and moved a finger inside while he ground his palm against your bundle of nerves.
“Oh, are you going to release again?” he whispered proudly.
He chuckled at your shaking head. Your pathetic attempts to mentally deny it. You were close by how tightly you fluttered around just his lone finger. Your knees shook and clamped together. His finger continued jerking in and out.
“Oh ride the sweet death, come to be me, come, come, come to me little lamb.”
His mouth ducked down to your nude chest. He licked across your nipples and suckled them into his cheeks loudly.
Your hand grabbed the blankets and his wrist. You rolled your head back and sighed as whatever that spell was took over you.
“Did you know,” he smacked his lips across your breasts, before tonguing a single nipple, “you’ve the most delicious teats?”
You groaned and blushed. You were trying to catch your own breath.
He pressed his cock against your leg before taking your hand and forcing you to hold him.
“Touch me, hold it and slide your hand up and down like a silk pole.”
You did as he asked while he kissed your mouth openly. Your eyes fluttered shut and jerked him off until you felt a wetness glide down your hands, he moaned.
This is the kindest he has ever been to you presently.
You pulled your hand away and up to the light of the morning. Your eyes widened at the white goop stuck on your fingers and back of your hand.
“Wha-what is this?”
He chuckled and kissed your cheek proclaiming, “My seed.” Seed...to make children...but it was so...
“Its...liquid,” you disagreed, “and wet and sticky...it’s like mucus.”
He raced his fingers along your hip and patiently explained, “When drained inside of you,” his hand touched your lower belly, “it goes up and impregnates. But you are still bleeding so it washes out and won’t catch in your womb.”
You blinked and let your dirty hand fall back on the top of the covers.
“Oh...”
You felt him sit up and you mirrored him. You slid out of the bed as his warmth left you. Watching him pull his trousers properly back up over his hips and waist made you fluster from the sight of his bare arse.
It was such a plump bottom.
He pulled away your blanket, unveiling your nude self to the cold morning.
He turned around and brought back your water basin and a cloth. He soaked the material in and pressed the wet cloth to your thighs.
“Stay still,” he said softly, “I’m just washing you.”
You paused before you spread your legs for him and awkwardly nodded, “Thankyou...husband.”
Surely you could’ve cleaned yourself. You hissed as he scrubbed the dry blood and release from you thighs. The cold water on your hot dirty skin was soothing.
You stood out of your bed finally and hurried to your dresser to find either some padding tubes or a sanitary apron.
Your rolled the bandage up quickly and turned away from Sherlock as you inserted the material.
You felt...strange doing this in front of him. A part of him you were sure might be repulsed at the sight.
Except he had his back turned to you, he was washing himself in the basin while he asked, “How did you find the carnal pleasure?”
You froze and felt your mouth dry up. Had he forgotten that he had tied you up?!
It was hard to meet his eyes. You wrapped your arms around yourself. Your husband turned to you.
You felt the need to cover your privates with your hands.
“Strange, it...felt correct...but...wrong...” you cleared your throat, “forbidden, despite our vows.”
He smiled and nodded to the bed while he passed you to your wardrobe and investigated the contents, “Many young ladies new to it have expressed the same condolences...that is sex. That is coitus. That is what husband and wife do. To make babies, and to feel pleasure.”
Your nose wrinkled. Sherlock was significantly older than you. You trusted this wisdom. He was clearly an experienced man from the prices spent at Mayfair.
“Why did it hurt so much the first time?” you asked.
No one had prepared or explained why having sex with your husband would hurt. He was so brutal the first day. And last night it hurt but not as much...
He sighed and pulled out dark navy blouse and a skirt to match. You felt the urge to correct his choice as he held them up. It was an outfit for outside outings. You weren’t meant to leave the home during this delicate time.
He asked over his shoulder, “Have you ever ridden horses?”
“I have,” you answered honestly.
“Side saddle?” His left brow raised.
“Sometimes,” you pursed your lips and watched him lay out your clothes on your bed, “It was easier for balance when riding as men do.”
He nodded and went to collect a pair of your boots, “And that hurt your thighs the first time?”
“First few ride like that yes,” you agreed, huffing impatiently, “Where is this conversation leading?”
He pulled you closer by pinching your hip. He pushed a chemise over your head. Your eyes widened, this wasn’t his role...to help you dress. It was your responsibility and Mrs Hudson if you were inclined to ask for her assistance.
“How did the pain go away?” he asked.
You rolled your eyes and answered the obvious explanation, “Because my body accommodated and my muscles for the riding evolved to accept the saddled position.”
He passed you a pair of open crotch bloomers. You pulled the material over your legs and tied the strings to your waist over the corset.
He smiled and pinched your chin, “The same is said for sex. The more you practice, the better it will be for you and...your health.”
You flushed and turned your face away from him...you felt foolish with the way his eyes ran over your bare body. He turned you around and helped pull a corset over your head and began fighting the strings in the back.
“I...it hurt and felt good...I felt...suffocated...I thought I saw a bright light,” you grunted as he tugged.
Your husband shut his eyes and with a smile he hummed pleasingly, “La petite mort.” “The Little death?” You gasped.
He flicked his eyes open. He sounded amused, “ah you know French little lamb?”
“of course I do,” you scoffed lightly, “any self respectable lady must learn French.”
Not his sister, “I suppose so.”
He pulled more of the ties closer. The corset grew taunt and supportive of your chest. His fingers tugged down further.
“Why did you go to Scotland yard yesterday?” You asked him as he finished tying the laces together.
“And who did you have a fight with?”
You tapped your face with a soft finger. He passed you a hose suspender belt. You clipped the hooks behind your back while the belt sat on your waist.
“There’s now a bruise under your chin that I most certainly did not cause Mr Holmes...” A part of you wished you had. He would’ve deserved it from you. He rubbed the dark spot and smirked.
Your husband sat on your bed and plucked your stockings. He pat his thigh and opened the stockings up. You lifted your leg and rested it on his thigh. You clenched the wooden canopy pole to steady your balance.
You were embarrassed. At this angle he would be able to see your cunt stuffed with the white fluff soaking up your menstruation.
He showed no care or disgust. He slid the soft cotton up your leg and kissed your knee cheekily.
He clipped your stocking to the suspension strings.
“I inquired upon the Pennicott case,” he claimed,” his thumb rubbed dangerously over your thigh...
God, you felt a spark at the touch.
“I thought you said it was obvious,” you stuttered, “He ran out from his wife.”
“I did, and...I rethought it,” he admitted, he slid the other stocking up your other leg, “Pennicott is a Baron and a owner of many warehouse factories. His wife comes from a well off family too and she is pregnant last heard, baby number six now. Why would he disappear off the face of the earth?...”
He stood up straight and forced your arms above your head before he slid a petticoat across your waist.
“A lover?”
He smiled as he tied the strings at your waist and shook his head, “No, men like Pennicott would just keep their arm candy and refer to them as a niece of a distant cousin. And if he was attached so lovingly, he would just move to another country but to completely eradicate and leave all his finances? To leave his wife in her state? It makes not much sense. He was making a fine quarter profit! So why is he missing?”
He passed you the blouse and skirt.
“Well,” You pulled the skirt over your arms and buttoned the buttons up to our neck “Perhaps he’s been kidnapped, for ransom?”
Sherlock hummed, “Maybe Watson, but I do wonder still.” You blinked...
“Pardon?” you gawked.
He raised his brows to your exclamation.
“You called me Watson.”
“Oh dear god,” he chuckled and passed you your skirt, “it’s already happening.”
You slid on the final layer and wrinkled your nose at him, “What is happening?” Sherlock stood up from the bed and clapped his hands.
“Come with me,” he softly begged, “Today I will be visiting his wife. The Baroness. I am investigating the case.”
Your eyes fluttered. Your thoughts couldn’t keep up. You sputtered as you tried to find sensibility. “Sherlock, it is our honeymoon and I am bleeding,” you whispered, “It is improper. I need to conduct laundry. Both our bedding must be soaked in...” you cleared your throat, “the blood.” He winked at you and pulled you close to his nude chest by your covered waist.
“Isn’t it marvelous that we have a housekeeper for such things?”
You narrowed your eyes... “A housekeeper is not a maid and I would not subject Mrs Hudson to cleaning that. She has told me herself that linens is not of her department.”
The tall man bent down and offered, “Mrs Hudson will clean the laundry, trust me..”
Despite his assurance, It wasn’t right for you to be out and about in public like this.
“And what would I be doing,” you tested, “Running after you as you speak to the Baroness?”
“Sitting pretty,” Sherlock stated, “And looking for clues.”
Your eyes sharpened, “Clues?”
Your husband tapped your nose, “Yes, you seem to have a hint of talent in that department. You just don’t know where to deduce the end results for the clues.” You blinked....
With a soft mutter you stated, “I suppose it would allow me more insight to your profession and a chance to bond and learn about each other...”
Before you could continue anymore questions you heard a soft knock on your bedroom door.
“Mrs Hudson,” you both whispered, glancing to one another.
Helplines:
If you are a victim of sexual abuse, assault or domestic violence or know someone who is please reach out to these links that share helpline services, phone numbers or emails. Consent and respect is important in every relationship whether between friends, family or even strangers.
Australian Helpline Services
UK Helpline Services
American Helpline Services
India Helpline Services.
#dead dove fic#dead dove do not eat#sherlock holmes x y/n#sherlock holmes x female reader#sherlock holmes x poc!reader#sherlock holmes x you#sherlock holmes x ofc#sherlock holmes x reader#sherlock holmes#enola sherlock#henry sherlock#henry cavill x female reader#henry cavill x y/n#henry cavill x ofc#henry cavill x you#henry cavill x reader#wowb
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Chaos - May Prompts (17)
“Sherlock? Tesco had only twelve—”
The first thing John notices, incidentally, is that the dishes are clean and balancing precariously within an inch of their lives on the solid square foot of the draining board.
The rest of the flat resembles a rubbish tip, if said tip consisted of a weird combination of chemistry equipment, case files, medical journals, and the ubiquitous detritus of baby stuff. Oh, and also made noise.
Something drips, something splats, something oozes, something beeps, something—he’s pretty sure—might’ve been on fire earlier. Something smells too sweet—or maybe sour?—and something else that could only be Rosie’s distinct brand of nappy pressie hits the back of his nostrils like the principal note in 221B’s potpourri. Stained babygrows cover his chair, colourful blocks teeter on Sherlock’s, and a well-loved copy of Dear Zoo stares at him from a pile of flannels. CBeebies blurbles quietly in the background.
A lingering cloud of baby powder shifts like a weather pattern when John crosses the room.
Rosie—neat as a pin, hair brushed, tummy full, bum in the air like a Christmas goose—is tucked into her little nest, snoozing away.
“You got her to sleep,” John whispers.
“Controlled chaos,” Sherlock mouths from the sofa.
John gently tugs the Peppa Pig plaster out of Sherlock’s hair and kisses him.
+
Thank you to @calaisreno for the fun prompt series! Tags in replies. Thanks for reading! <3
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Cake
1146 words / Prompt: Laugh
Have some cake. It's my birthday.
Sherlock picks up his fork and examines the slice of cake before him. It’s yellow, with thick white icing and colourful sprinkles.
John and Molly have already tasted their pieces and are talking about something. John makes a teasing remark about hearing aids. Apparently Sherlock has missed the question.
“Hm?”
John smiles at him. It’s a fond smile, but a sad one. Sherlock tries to remember the last time John looked happy. It’s been ages, he thinks. Even the smile on his face now isn’t truly happy.
His wedding, maybe. He did smile a lot that day, but there was something ragged underneath. A kind of exhausted cheer. The days leading up the event were hectic, but it was worth it to give John and Mary a joyous day. Maybe it was relief Sherlock saw in those wedding smiles. Glad to have the big day go well, ready to wake up to a new life.
The day Rosie was born, John’s smile was incredulous, full of wonder. But Sherlock could see he was terrified, too. It was the day it all became real, irrevocable. There was no going back for him and Mary. Nor for Sherlock. John was a father, and had responsibilities.
Unmingled joy. That’s what Sherlock is trying to remember.
That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.
And you invaded Afghanistan.
It was the first time he heard John helpless with laughter. They’d stood inside the front door, leaning against the wall, giggling at the ridiculousness of what they’d just done, running through alleys and across rooftops. Welcome to London.
It was the moment when he first realised he wanted to kiss John. He wanted to hear that giggle of surrender again. To laugh every day with John and keep him forever.
It might have lasted, if Sherlock hadn’t created a problem that could only be solved by dying, leaving John alone for two years.
He’d dreamed of coming home, hearing John laugh at his brilliant resurrection. He’d been so intent on that, he hadn’t realised. It may have been necessary to go away, but his return wasn’t as brilliant as he’d dreamed.
Well, then. Neither of them has been happy.
“You haven’t even tasted it,” John is saying.
“Oh.” He lifts a bite to his mouth, smells vanilla, feels the icing melt on his tongue. “Delicious.” It is, and he takes another bite, even though he’s not hungry.
John is smiling at him.
He can’t stop thinking about John’s tears, just a half an hour ago in the flat.
I’m not the man you thought I was.
It’s not okay.
Well, it is what it is. John hasn’t been happy for a long time, he thinks.
Though they never spoke of it, he knows John had mixed feelings about the marriage. A part of him loved Mary, but even though he forgave her, he never forgot: what have I ever done… my whole life… to deserve you?
Mary wasn’t supposed to be like that. But she was.
Sherlock wasn’t supposed to come back, but he did.
John was supposed to be happy. He wasn’t.
Sometimes he thinks John might have been happy if Sherlock had stayed dead. He would have got over his best friend dying in front of him. He would have married and lived in the suburbs with his wife and child. His wife wouldn’t have shot Sherlock, and she wouldn’t have died, trying to protect him. He wouldn’t be raising his child alone.
He eats his cake silently, pressing his fork into the last crumbs.
“You’ve been quiet,” John says as they walk back to 221B.
“Hm.”
“About earlier… I’m sorry.” He huffs a small laugh. “Mood killer, for sure.”
He stops walking. “John.”
John is two paces ahead by the time Sherlock says his name. He turns and looks at Sherlock, puzzled. “What is it?”
“Are you happy?”
“Am I happy?” He gives a short, bitter laugh. “What does happiness have to do with anything? Are you happy?”
“Well, no one can be happy all the time. But I consider myself an optimistic person. I expect I will be happy again.”
“Are you…” John licks his lips. “Will you contact her?”
“No. She knows what I am, and doesn’t expect it.”
“Sherlock, I know I was pushing when I said you should… I mean, it’s okay if you don’t want that. I just wish you weren’t so alone.”
“Not so alone. I have you.”
Sherlock resumes walking; John falls into step with him.
“Yeah, a great friend I’ve been.”
“You’re not perfect, John. Neither am I. You shouldn’t hold yourself to an impossibly high standard. Happiness is more important. Do you know,” he says, turning to look at John, “some of my happiest moments have been spent with you.”
John sighs. “We’ve had some good times. I’ll never forget the months we lived together. You saved me. I was so lost, so alone…” Glancing at Sherlock, he smiles wistfully. “Do you remember that night, when we were chasing the cab, and I forgot my cane at the restaurant?” He giggles. “Oh, God. Down alleys, across the rooftops. Welcome to London. That was the most ridiculous thing I’d ever done.”
Sherlock smiles. “Wanna see some more?”
“What are you saying?” John halts.
Sherlock turns and faces him. “Come back. Move in with me, you and Rosie.”
John is gazing at him, his eyes soft. “Do you know what I wished for that night?”
“What did you wish, John?”
He looks down at his feet. “I wished… that I could spend the rest of my days running after you, trying to keep up. Giggling at crime scenes, running all over London, coming home and sitting in the evenings…” He sighs. “It can’t be like it was before. I have a child.”
“Another adventure I look forward to. We’ll hire a nanny, solve all the boring cases, and you’ll write them up for the blog. We’ll be together.” He puts his hands on John’s shoulders. “Come back to me.”
John shakes his head gravely. “You don’t know what you’re asking. Rosie’s a baby, and soon she’ll be toddling around, getting into everything.”
“That’s what babies do. They grow into children, and eventually leave home. And you’ll miss her then. I want to see her grow up, too. I want to be there when you send her off to uni. I want to help plan her wedding, hold your first grandchild. I want to retire to a cottage in Sussex with you and keep bees.”
“Bees?”
“Yes, John. Do keep up. If you don’t like bees, you ought to have plenty of cases to write up by then.”
John brushes tears from his eyes. “What are you saying?”
In answer, he puts his arms around John. “You said love would complete me as a human being. I’m saying, it already has.”
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One More Time (With Feeling)
"Are you sure?" Sherlock eyed the familiar street with wonder.
"Completely sure." The man behind him in the big blue box smiled. He was leaning over Sherlock's shoulder, trying to get a peek ... "This the moment?" he asked, grinning wider.
"This was ... this was it," Sherlock stammered. His feet betrayed him, already eagerly stepping out of the box and onto the cobblestone pavement.
He made it two steps towards Angelo's before the thought struck him. "What if he doesnt-?"
"-Want you?!" The man mocked incredulity, shaking his head, "trust me ... you're irresistible." Then he shut the doors of the Tardis, and Sherlock had to move or risk being seen.
He took a deep breath, then heard the whir of the machine disappearing behind him.
This was it.
.
Sherlock straightened his suit jacket, running his fingers through his messy curls and ... decided to take the jacket off and make himself appear as much like his younger self as possible.
Next ... he shot a text to himself. Waiting until that Sherlock was out of the way in the loos, he stole into the same seat beside John.
"So ... you have a girlfriend?" John was just asking.
Perfect timing.
. ... God, how much he had missed this John!
. eager, and open, and .... waiting ... ?
.
"Not really my area." he answered, swallowing his fears.
He feigned interest out the window, keeping his minds-eye firmly fixed on John. Trying to capture and record every minute detail of this precious moment.
"Oh," John took a bite, and then looked up again quickly, "Oh? You ... have a boyfriend, then?"
Sherlock's eyes flitted towards John's despite his best efforts.
"Which is fine, of course!" John hurried to add.
"Of course it's fine," Sherlock answered, suddenly needing water. He took a deep drink and caught his eyes drifting back to meet John's.
"So you have a boyfriend?" John asked.
Hurried pulse. Short breaths.
John had even licked at his lips when he spoke, like he was nervous ... afraid to ask? ... how had he not noticed before ... ?
"Nope," Sherlock replied, deepening his voice to a purr. The effect was not lost on John ...
Dilated eyes.
. Cheeks turning rosy.
. Slight shift in his seat ...
"Not unless ... you are applying for the job?" Sherlock asked unconcerned, unbuttoning the top button of his shirt.
John was watching his neck ... his pulse. Licking his lips again. His breathing hitched. Heavy.
This was hardly a fair game.
.
"Maybe we should go?" he asked, extending his hand.
Suddenly John rose with him.
Then hesitated.
"Did we need to-" John looked out the window, "... your murderer?" he asked, genuinely concerned they would let a criminal roam free if they left? It was adorable.
"Oh ... just passing the time," Sherlock reassured him with a dismissing wave of his hand, "it was a long-shot he would appear." Then ... as much as he wanted to stay and enjoy what followed ...
. Decided ...
He'd better go tell his younger, idiotic self .... the chances he was throwing away if he did not continue.
He would be understanding.
"Let me settle the bill," he lied, excusing himself to see John eagerly already out the door pacing back and forth with a smile on his face.
(psst! ... more is beneath cut!) - Liri
"You made it home, love?" John was smiling at him in a knowingly ... achingly ... more-than familiar way ... ?
"Did you ... miss me?" Sherlock asked cautiously, entering 221B. He closed the door behind him and stood with his back pressed against it.
Present Day.
Safely returned from his time-travel adventures.
He hoped.
"Did I miss you ...?!" John laughed. He was already taking Sherlock's hands in his, and sweeping him into the room.
Deftly, he danced them both around to the fireplace ... like this was just something they did, and had done ... a million times before?
Sherlock lost himself in the movement. Closing his eyes and enjoying the sensation that was John Watson, held in his arms.
He had only once before been able to steal that pleasure; Beneath the pretense of 'teaching John to dance'.
When at last, dazed, and more than pleasantly bewildered, they stopped swaying ... Sherlock dared to open his eyes.
A happy sigh escaped John's lips. Making him look even more ... irresistible?
"I take it you missed me too?" John teased. Pulling Sherlock down for a soft, delicious kiss. Sherlock melted into his arms. Giving John everything he had pent up inside of him, since leaving his younger self to carry on with the night before them ...
John's eyes opened wide as Sherlock finally released him.
"Where did that come from?" he asked, awed.
His fingers were on Sherlock's lips ... memorizing his face ... and then ... wiping a tear from where it traced down Sherlock's pale cheek.
"You have no idea ... how much I've missed," Sherlock replied at long last. His breath hitching against the words he struggled to free.
John kissed him again. More languid ... more painstaking possessive this time ... and Sherlock felt his knees weaken.
"Take me to bed, John?" he asked.
Genuinely wanting to know ... and to feel ...
. What their first time was like ... for himself ... ?
"Oh God, yes," John whispered.
. Leading the way.
..........................................................................................
For @totallysilvergirl request for the Angelo scene and @calaisreno prompt: Do-Over. Plus tossing in one more Doctor: (couldn't resist, mate)
@johnlocky @chinike @rhasima @raina-at @lisbeth-kk @jrow @khorazir @fluffbyday-smutbynight @topsyturvy-turtely @gaylilsherlock @a-victorian-girl @solarmama-plantsareneat @impalaparkedat221b @chriscalledmesweetie @friday411 @ghostofnuggetspast @sgam76 @janetm74 @peanitbear @masterofhounds @missdeliadili @loki-lock @meetinginsamarra @bs2sjh @gomielka @thetimemoves @thegildedbee @iwlyanmw @jobooksncoffee @amyreadsandstresses @kittenmadnessandtea @naefelldaurk @dragonnan @jolieblack @notjustamumj @jawnn-watson @dinner--starving @safedistancefrombeingsmart @weeesi @gregorovitch-adler @inevitably-johnlocked @dapetty @bewitched-bullet @theofficialinternetloner @keirgreeneyes @dontfuckmylifewtf @strawberrywinter4 @thalialunacy
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May Prompts (20) Do-Over
The Luckiest Girl in the World (chapter 20)
Summary: Rosie comes home in the middle of the night, and realises that her parents have kept a horrible secret from her.
Twenty Years Old
I tried my best to be quiet when I locked myself in at three in the morning. The intended sleepover at Clare’s had ended abruptly, when her brother had stumbled in around midnight and broken two of his fingers when he tried to find his way in the dark. Being familiar with injuries of all kinds, I insisted on accompany him and a rather hysterical Clare to the closest A&E. That sorted, I decided to go home. Clare’s parents, who had attended a party, were summoned to the hospital as well, and my services weren’t needed anymore.
When I heard muffled sounds from the living room, I was puzzled. I couldn’t quite discern if one of my parents was talking on the phone, or if they were talking to each other. And then I heard sobbing. Dad. I froze and all kinds of thoughts soared around in my mind.
Had anyone died? Nana? Pops or Granny?
I didn’t even dare thinking about uncle Myc or Molly. Papa’s words stopped me from opening the door and inquire. His voice was thick with emotions, clearly crying himself.
“I’m sorry, John. I wish she’d never been born!”
The last sentence was delivered with passion and venom.
Who the hell was he talking about?
“It’s not your fault, my love,” Dad croaked. “You didn’t remember her. She knew what she was doing. Stop blaming yourself.”
“But you’re still suffering, and it’s been years,” Papa protested, the devastation pouring out of his voice.
“Only a vicious nightmare because of the events earlier today, Sherlock. She can’t harm us anymore now,” Dad soothed. “Let’s go back to bed.”
I exhaled shakily, only then realising I’d been holding my breath for too long. Slowly, I ascended to my room, knowing that sleep wouldn’t grace me with its presence tonight. Only one option, then.
Are you available? Need to talk. I’m home.
A car will pick you up in twenty minutes. UM
***
No sounds were coming from Dad and Papa’s bedroom when I snuck down the stairs twenty minutes later. A nondescript driver nodded at me when I slid into the back seat of one of my uncle’s cars. I was surprised to see that the car stopped outside uncle Myc’s house and not the Diogenes Club. I suddenly felt bad for interrupting his sleep.
“No need to apologise, Rosamund,” uncle Myc assured me before I’d even said a word. “We had just woken up. Gregory was called away to a crime scene.”
“Right. Perhaps for the best,” I said hesitantly, while I curled up in one of the comfortable armchairs.
“Your parents don’t know you’re here,” he stated.
“No. Hopefully I managed to sneak out soundlessly. I…overheard something when I came home. Unexpectedly. I was supposed to spend the night at Clare’s, but a trip to the A&E put a stop to that,” I sighed.
Uncle Myc cocked an eyebrow at the mentioning of the hospital.
“Clare’s brother. Broken fingers. She went hysterical, so I…”
“You took it upon yourself to accompany them. Being a comforting presence. Just like your father,” he summarised.
Despite my distress, I had to chuckle a bit. I wondered if he was aware of how much he reminded me of Papa in such moments. Probably, I concluded.
I gave him a clinical summary of what I’d heard back at 221B. He inhaled sharply and clenched the armrests so hard his knuckles whitened. His eyes closed and a pained expression manifested on his face. Years of practise paid off because when he opened his eyes again, he was his normal calm self.
He told me about his and Papa’s sister Eurus and what she’d done as a child and that she’d been locked up at a place called Sherrinford. I was shocked beyond belief, and braced myself when uncle’s look got even more sombre, after he’d uttered the words: “and then she managed to escape.”
“Dad was trapped in that well, and Papa…”
I had a hard time grasping all this mind-blowing and horrific information.
“Yes,” uncle interrupted.
There was no need to tell that tale one more time.
“So, why now, do you think? Dad’s nightmare, I mean.”
“Ah, yes. I got a call from Sherrinford yesterday. Eurus fell into a coma. She never woke and died a few hours later. We all went there yesterday to confirm and bury her,” he told me and clenched his jaw tight.
She was his little sister, I thought, and tears started to stream down my cheeks.
“Don’t,” he said fiercely when I was about to rise and go over to hug him.
“But, uncle Myc, she was your…”
“She was a predator, a manipulator, a cold-blooded killer. Eurus stopped being my baby sister long ago, Rosamund, and I’m glad she’s dead. It means that one of the heavier burdens I’ve been forced to bear, is finally lifted off my shoulders.”
“I still want to hug you,” I whispered. “We could both need one, I think.”
Uncle Myc stood and opened his arms. He held me tight, and I buried my nose in his chest and inhaled the familiar scent of his luxurious aftershave.
“Thank you for keeping us safe,” I murmured and rubbed his back.
“A privilege, my dear,” he assured me with a steady voice. “The guest room is ready for you. No need to go back to Baker Street at this hour.”
“How can anyone think of you as a heartless person, Mycroft Holmes?” I asked fondly and stroked his cheek.
His blush and muteness spoke volumes. He was just as sentimental as his younger brother.
(Canon do-over)
Also available on AO3
@calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @helloliriels @raina-at
More tags in the replies
#may prompts 2024#may 20: do-over#sherlock fandom#rosie watson#sherlock#john watson#mycroft holmes#johnlock#bbc sherlock#sherlock fanfic#ao3 fanfic
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So, I was thinking about different fandoms and the fics that I love. What makes a good, satisfying fan fic? I realize it has 100% to do with the canon.
Take BBC Sherlock. I struggle so much with AUs where their beginnings are different. Sherlock is an astronaut, assigned to work with scientist John. (This is an example, not a dig at any specific fic). I can't. I can't. I realize BBC Sherlock is also an AU from Doyle, but BBC Sherlock and John are so fucking tied to "A Study In Pink" and John handing his phone to Sherlock that everything else seems false. Fun premise, but not the Sherlock and John I know.
A satisfying Johnlock fan fic needs to change the ending of the BBC canon. To think of these two men, who love each other so much, just continuing their parallel existences, never becoming anything more than crime-fighting buds, is just. . . it doesn't fit. It doesn't fit the show. It doesn't fit the characters Moffit and Gatiss created, even if they decided to not make it happen (as a special 'fuck you' to their fans). It's heartbreaking.
My favorite fics are fixits -- many of them deal with the aftermath of Euros and Mary, or some do "canon intercepts" and deal with Seasons 3 and 4 differently. Still, anything but John and Sherlock raising Rosie together as partners/lovers/husbands in 221B with Mrs. Hudson downstairs feels like a lie. (Some canon intercepts write out Rosie completely.)
If I had to write sequels to BBC canon, I'd pick "Drawn to Stars" by @totallysilvergirl or "Never Turn Your Back on the Sea” by @discordantwords . There's a thousand other ones, but those ring the most true to me.
"Heartstopper" fics don't have a lot of room to mess with the ending. Anything other than Charlie and Nick happily growing old together is so far out of canon and out of character that it doesn't even seem like it's worth exploring. There are a handful of ones that have one character or the other dying, but mostly, we understand right away that Charlie and Nick are endgame. We are 100% aligned with canon and creator on this.
Anything that isn't true to this ending rings as false as anything that isn't true to Sherlock's beginning. Fun to read, but not our characters.
With Nick and Charlie being so young in canon, their beginnings are so much malleable. Sherlock and John are tied to that lab. Nick and Charlie? not so much. They meet in grammar school. They meet in University. They meet after a hot hookup at a club in their 20s. They meet after broken marriages to Imogen and Ben. They meet during Nick's rugby career or as fellow teachers. They meet at gyms, at animal rescues, at psychiatric hospitals. They are single parents, University professors, rock star drummers, hot shot authors and academics. Their beginning isn't fixed. But the end always is.
I have so many favorites but I just re-read "Lavender Fields" and I think it's a perfect Nick and Charlie meeting up in their 30s fics. There's a ton of University fics too.
I haven't read nearly as many fics from other fandoms, so I don't know their quirks. I'm finding that fandoms that don't have a m/m pairing are hard to find a lot of fics for. (That's a whole 'nother post). But other m/m fandoms seem to have canon-compliant extra scenes. (Wanna see Achilles and Patroclus get freaky in a tent somewhere? Here ya go. That being said, there's one about Achilles waiting for Patroclus in the Underworld that breaks. my. damn. heart.)
Anyways, I need to do a serious look-through of other fandoms to see how this plays out.
I should add the links here to the fics I mention, just because.
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proud dads
#bbc sherlock#sherlock#221b#sherlocked#johnlock#sherlock holmes#john watson#rosie watson#the empty hearse#benedict cumberbatch#martin freeman
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A Dark and Stormy Night
A BBC Sherlock Adventure by Jolie_Black
Summary: Nine year old Rosie Watson lives a sheltered life, raised by her loving Dad and their little village at 221B Baker Street, and enjoying a safe and comfortable routine of school, play and family time. Until one day, out of nowhere, safe and comfortable is over.
Rating: T
Tags: Action, Adventure, Drama, Mild Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Parentlock, Protective Sherlock, Protective John, Found Family, Growing Up
Now posting on AO3!
Please let me know if you want to be tagged for updates! (Tags in the comments.)
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The breaking of the jar could be caused by Rosie you know what little children are like with their grabby hands if John put the preserved human heart (if that’s right) up. Unless he puts it on a really high shelf
Rosie knows not to mess with jars, cylinders, containers, bottles, flasks and any other science equipment in the flat. I taught it to her that it's dangerous and that she should not do it. I have dangerous chemicals still in the flat, mostly out of reach and secured, but if I am in process of an experiment and she enters the kitchen, and would just start grabbing the flasks full with acid and spill them, it would not end well. She is a clever girl, she understands not to play or mess with such things.
#she is not stupid like you all are#roleplay#sherlock roleplay#bbc sherlock#sherlock holmes#rp#john watson#johnlock roleplay#sherlock bbc#sherlock#sherlock rp#johnlock rp#rosie#rosie watson#221b bakerstreet#221b baker street#221b
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Martin Freeman (58/366)
Sherlock
2010–2017
Writer & Creator
Mark Gatiss
Steven Moffat
*Modernized version of the Conan Doyle characters.
T4.E2
The Lying Detective (2017)
Directed
Nick Hurran
T4.E3
The Final Problem (2017)
Directed
Benjamin Caron
We need to talk about the elephant in the room.
I really hate the last episode of the series. Secret sister? Were Gatiss and Moffat possessed by Marlene King when they wrote the script?
Nothing against Sian Brooke, she is a magnificent actress.
So if I have to choose an ending it will be the end of the previous chapter.
I wish the hug had nothing to do with 'the cheating' part. Only two men finally lower their barriers and try to seek solace for a completely avoidable death.
Understand my point: JW failed to protect his wife, attacked his (only) friend, is not able to take care of his daughter, resorts to alcohol, hallucinates his dead wife, and has suicidal thoughts. Was it necessary to also fail in his marriage, when Mary was still alive? I think it's too much for one man.
So... They go to celebrate SH's birthday and months later, JW and Rosie, return to 221b Baker Street. End.
**Of course, the cherry on top would be an explicit johnlock's end.
#martin freeman#bbc sherlock#sherlock#john watson#sherlock holmes#benedict cumberbatch#The Lying Detective#The Final Problem#Don't get me started on the granny with a hidden gun#It's not okay
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mayprompts2024 #12, family
The Bed Shop Boys are taking a break today! I had an idea about the prompt that did not fit into the bed shop AU at all, so have this
221b "Family Day"
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It’s family day in Rosie’s primary school and the children are expected to bring their parents for a meet-and-greet with the teachers. Rosie’s best friend Charlotte has two mothers and Rosie brought her two fathers. They had bonded quickly over their unusual family backgrounds but none of the other children in their class or the teachers really cared about that. Every constellation of family was considered fine.
Rosie was at Sherlock’s side when Charlotte arrived crying. Pointing to a haughty looking woman, Charlotte sniffed, “She said two mothers is not a true family.”
Rosie has always been protective like John and clever like Sherlock and hates that Charlotte is sad. With Charlotte and Sherlock in tow, Rosie stomps up to the obnoxious woman who is bragging to a group of parents about how lovely her son is.
Rosie plants herself in front of the woman, arms akimbo, declaring sternly for all to hear. “Family means caring for each other, belonging and love. It’s not about having one mama and one papa! Dad says people who say this are stupid.”
The woman gives Sherlock a disapproving look. “I think your dad is rude.”
Sherlock smiles sweetly. “I’m Papa.”
John appears behind Sherlock’s back.
“I’m Dad”, he says and gives her his deadliest grin, clearly transporting what he thinks of her.
Stupid bitch!
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tagging some people @calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @lisbeth-kk @peanitbear @raina-at
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You know how I complain about the lack of emotional resolution in The Final Problem? It's not an issue exclusive to that episode.
In The Great Game, there is an explosion at 221B, when John enters the room expecting to see a hurt or injured Sherlock, but instead, we see Mycroft and Sherlock talk about a case.
Why is this interesting? We know Mycroft went straight there after he heard about the explosion, most likely for reasons other than the case like, idk, to check if his brother is still alive? We are not shown that. If Mycroft showed any concern towards him, it is entirely off screen.
We are shown Mycroft watch Sherlock get tortured and speak to him in bad Serbian (why was the Serbian so bad? Was it supposed to be bad?), mirror the actions of his torturers and refer to his torture as a "holiday."
What are we not shown? Mycroft helping him out of the chains. Arranging for him to get his wounds mended. Any possible show of concern. See a pattern?
The Great Game was mostly from John's pov, so it makes sense there. John wasn't there. Here you have no excuse, as season 3 is mostly Sherlock's pov.
So why did they not show us that? They were afraid of consequences. It's the same reason the Lazarus explanation felt like a retcon and a cop-out to people.
I saw a hypothesis that just as Option 1 was Anderson's fantasy and Option 2 was the fangirl fantasy, Lazarus is Sherlock's fantasy.
In this version, he had the events perfectly in control, Mycroft didn't cause him to get screwed over and it was all intentional and they worked together, John, Mrs H and Lestrade were not in any real danger, Sherlock didn't get as emotional on the roof and didn't cry etc. etc. etc.
You see if Mycroft was to blame for the fall, if he was what truly led to Sherlock's downfall and it wasn't all premeditated, you would have to address that.
Sherlock would be angry with him. He would resent him for something he actually did as opposed to a vague reason we were never given or explained.
You wanted to play with emotional stakes, but you didn't want any relationships to actually evolve.
That's why John's beating of Sherlock is not addressed in The Final Problem even when it would be relevant.
That's why Molly is shown back in 221B at the end when the last time we saw her, Eurus put her friendship with Sherlock in serious jeopardy if not outright kill it.
That's why they wrote Rosie into the show and then did next to nothing with her.
That's why 221B explodes and then is rebuilt in a quick montage at the end of the episode.
That's why Eurus is put back into the very same prison she had no issue mindfucking everyone in and escaping from.
That's why we don't see Sherlock reacting to Mycroft being freed or have them discuss events of Sherrinford.
Because they wanted to put these characters through hell, but not actually have anything change.
#sherlock s4#the holmes brothers#sherlock holmes#mycroft holmes#john watson#molly hooper#rosie watson#rosamund mary watson#eurus holmes#sherlock s4 critical#anti sherlock s4#mofftiss critical#lack of emotional resolution#sherlock meta#sherlock s4 meta
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John Watson has a problem with vows, with promises, with words like "always" and "forever".
Put simply, life has taught him the hard way that, well, shit happens. Your best intentions can come back to bite you in the arse in unexpected and life-derailing ways.
A few examples: His parents' "always" ended in a bitter divorce when he was ten. He thought he would always be in the Army, but a stray bullet ended that, too. He got married, and his wife turned out to be a psycho. That "always" ended very, very quickly when he realised that she shot his best friend through the chest.
All that having been said, there's a few things John Watson is rock-solidly certain about.
One is his daughter. He will love this little girl and protect her with his life for as long as he'll live, which is reasonably the only always he can promise.
The second is his job. He will be a doctor for as long as they let him be one. The work saw him through some rough times, and it's more than a job. It's part of who he is, part of the very core of him.
The last and best thing he's certain about is that he will love Sherlock Holmes until the very second he dies, and if there's an afterlife, he'll continue there. It's just empirical evidence, at this point, because Sherlock put him through the best and worst moments of his life, and he still loves him so much it hurts to breathe through it sometimes. He can't and won't promise that they'll never fight, that he'll never be angry, that they'll never have days or weeks or months where they won't be able to stand the sight of each other (see above, shit happens). But he handed his heart over to Sherlock the moment he first received the keys to 221B, and he has no intention of taking it back.
So that's it, he supposes. He's Dr John Watson, Rosie's father and Sherlock Holmes' husband. And that will always be true.
For the prompt Always by @notjustamumj. I basically wrote this on my phone at a conference today, so I'm sorry for any typos in advance.
@calaisreno @lisbeth-kk @meetinginsamarra @helloliriels @the-reading-lemon @7-percent and anyone else who likes to play.
Sorry if this is shit, I'm so tired...
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