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Chapter Text

As a child, Ferndell Hall was a second home to you. You lived down the road from the Holmes’ and tended to hide away there whenever you got into a fight with your mother (which was often). You were an only child, a girl (which had disappointed your parents), and while you loved to learn, you hated your governess. You were curious, a little wild, and lonely.

Not that you were any less lonely with the Holmes boys. Mycroft was always making up games with ridiculous rules and amendments to try and keep you from playing them. Sherlock usually stayed out of yours and Mycroft’s arguments - you could hold your own against him anyway.

When Mycroft couldn’t be bothered with you anymore, you’d trail behind Sherlock, trying to hold his hand to keep up with him, asking him a thousand questions about what he was reading, or what he was doing. He’d indulge you some of the time, but others he’d ignore you in favor of a book, or a drawing. It was those moments that you ran to Eudoria and Enola.

“Never mind them,” Eudoria would tell you, when you were pouting over Mycroft making over some additional stupid rule, or Sherlock not even bothering to look at you from behind his book.

“Why don’t they like me?” You asked one day, watching Mycroft and Sherlock fence with one another in the front yard. Eudoria looked down at you.

“Why does it matter to you how they feel?”

“Everyone wants to be liked,” You rationalized. Eudoria hummed thoughtfully, smoothing a hand over your hair.

“Focus more on the company you would like to keep, dove. Not on the company that will not keep you.”

--

When their father passed away, it was clear that both Mycroft and Sherlock would be sent to boarding schools. Your parents allowed a brief lapse in your studies so that you could spend more time with them before they left Ferndell. Mycroft was sent away first, and Sherlock would be sent soon after.

On the day he was set to leave, you and Sherlock waited in the front hall, watching as his things were packed into a carriage.

“Will you write?” Sherlock asked quietly. You turned to him, surprised.

“...If you like,” You said after a moment. He didn’t meet your eye, just nodded.

--

“Mother is missing.”

Coming from Enola, that was a shock. You had watched her grow, she wasn’t the type to tease about something like this, especially where Eudoria was involved.

“What’s happened?” You asked.

As the years had gone by, you had continued to visit Ferndell, spent time with Eudoria, Enola, and Mrs. Lane. You’d fallen out of contact with Sherlock. You’d written letters, gotten one or two back, and grown frustrated. You’d stopped writing, remembering what Eudoria had told you: “Focus more on the company you would like to keep.”

You looked in on Enola and Mrs. Lane every day that week, only insinuating yourself in Enola’s space where she wanted you - you knew that her mother was her chief companion and didn’t want to crowd her. You couldn’t help the lingering concern you had for Eudoria.

“You’re good to come and check on ‘er,” Mrs. Lane sighed as the two of you shared a sherry, “It’ll be better when Sherlock comes home.”

“The boys have been sent for?” You asked, eyeing your drink.

“ ‘Course. Enola’ll be collecting them tomorrow.” Tomorrow. You were suddenly not in the mood for your sherry anymore.

--

“They’ve already gone through the parlor-- Mycroft didn’t like our tennis rackets,” Enola said as you followed her down the hall to the kitchen, “And-- they were going through Mother’s room. Mycroft said Mother’s been sending him lists of expenses for all sorts of things-- a footman and a governess.”

“Goodness,” You mumbled, frowning, “Well, I’m sure your mother has a reason. She has a reason for everything.”

Enola slid onto one of the stools in the kitchen, folding her arms on the table and propping her chin up on her hand. She perked her head up the second someone else stepped into the kitchen.

“Mrs. Lane, if we could have some wine. We’ll be in the library.”

You glanced in the direction of the voice; that glance alone was enough to know it was him.

Enola had proudly kept every single clipping of every single case he’d ever solved; the sketches in the paper didn’t nearly do him justice. You glanced away quickly enough again as you felt his head turn toward you; as Mrs. Lane said, “Of course, Mr. Holmes.”

“...Aren’t you going to say hello to Sherlock?” Enola asked. You raised a brow before glancing in his direction again.

“Hello to Sherlock,” You said simply. The smile that lit up Enola’s face was worth it, especially after the week she’d had.

It was almost gratifying, his staring, and you were moderately certain he had absolutely no idea who you were.

“I have business to attend to at home, but if you need anything, you know where to reach me,” You addressed both Enola and Mrs. Lane before turning back to Sherlock.

“Don’t strain yourself,” You said coolly as you brushed past him.

--

“Impatient.”

You lifted your head from the letter you’d been focusing on to see Sherlock leaning in the doorway of your study.

“...Excuse me?” You asked.

“Your handwriting,” He said, stepping further into your study, “When I was at school, I was made to study calligraphy, and I used to study your letters. The ink was often smudged, because you write quickly, which means you’re impatient. The size of your lettering is large implying that you’re outspoken, comfortable in your own skin, and the spacing is narrow, which means you can’t stand being alone.”

He stopped in front of your desk, looking down at you. You set your pen aside, tipping your chin up.

“Do you have a reason for being here, Mr. Holmes?” You asked. Sherlock lowered himself into one of the seats across from you, reaching into his pocket and pulling his pipe out. Your arched a brow.

“I wanted to ask you about--”

“You’re not smoking in here.”

Sherlock stilled, looking at you.

“Excuse me?”

“Which part of that was unclear?” You asked. Sherlock stared at you for a moment before tucking his pipe away.

"I remember you,” He said.

“Charming, well done.”

“I wanted to talk to you about my mother.”

“Go on, then.”

"My mother hasn’t said anything to you about a trip, a change?”

“None. You know Eudoria keeps her cards close to her chest.”

“And you haven’t noticed any suspicious characters around the house?”

“You suspect she’s gone off with someone?” You quirked a brow, “She’d never. No one is more important to your mother than Enola.”

“You have a theory?” Sherlock asked.

“You’re the detective here, Mr. Holmes, not me. If you’ll excuse me, I’m rather busy.”

Sherlock gave a nod as he stood. You leaned back over your letter, picking up your pen. You froze when you heard him murmur,

“It’s good to see you again, dove.”

You looked up to see him lingering by your door, an odd, almost soft smile on his face. He gave you a quick nod before he left, door shutting behind him.

--

“Whole house is up in arms,” Mrs. Lane was scrubbing the kitchen table down for what had to be the fifth time.

“Mrs. Lane, please,” You soothed, gently steering her to sit, “Let me make us some tea, hmm?”

Enola was gone. No warning, no note, just a caricature of Mycroft on a pillow (you’d seen it and let out an incredibly unladylike snort).

“You going to London-- And the boys as well, it’ll just be me rattling around the house,” Mrs. Lane sighed as you set a fresh cuppa down in front of her. She reached up, patting your cheek in thanks.

--

“Did I hear Mrs. Lane say you’ll be going into town?”

You turned at the sound of Sherlock’s voice and found him a few paces behind you. The path between Ferndell Hall and your home was a scenic one, quiet and well-trod.

You stopped to allow him to catch up, folding your arms over your chest, “Might I ask why you were eavesdropping?”

“Is it really eavesdropping if it occurs in ones own home?” He asked.

“If one was not intended to be privy to the conversation, yes.”

Sherlock considered this for a moment before he stepped around you, continuing toward your home. You frowned after him before you followed, lengthening your strides to catch up.

“What takes you there?” He asked.

“I’ve business to attend to.”

“You used that same phrase the other day,” Sherlock reminded you.

“And it is as true now as it was then,” You said.

“What sort of ‘business’ is it?”

“I have to look in on my aunt, for one, and meet with a couple of my father’s investors. He’s been ill, so he’s unable to make the trip himself.”

“And he trusts you to do it for him?”

You looked up to find Sherlock’s brow furrowed and you rolled your eyes.

“Try not to look so shocked. You’re not the only person in the world capable of getting things done.”

“You used to chase after Mycroft and I, you wanted your hand held at all times,” Sherlock reminded you. You scoffed, stopping and turning to face him.

“I was a child,” You snapped. He stopped as well, tucking his hands into his pockets, and you went on, “And I was lonely-- And it’s not as if you or Mycroft did anything to assuage that.”

You saw a flash of hurt in Sherlock’s eyes, the brief clench of his jaw before his face returned to that calm, observant set. You shook your head, averting your eyes. You hardly lost your temper anymore, had learned to school your emotions to get ahead when needed. Why on earth was he bringing this out in you?

“If you’ll excuse me,” You said stiffly, stepping around him.

“When do you leave for London?” He asked. You stopped again, turning a little to look at him; he wouldn’t meet your eye, his gaze set on the ground.

“Tomorrow,” You said.

“The 9:15?” He asked.

“Yes,” You nodded.

“Perhaps I’ll see you at the station.”

“...Perhaps.”

Chapter Text

You thanked the attendant that put your luggage on the overhead rack before you settled in your seat. Part of you had considered lingering on the platform, looking around and waiting for Sherlock, but it felt ridiculous. He’d surely been winding you up the day before; he’d done that when you were younger, when Mycroft had already started to tick you off, and had grown bored with your ‘antics’ as he’d call them (even at that age). Sherlock knew, back then, that it wouldn’t take much longer before you were on the verge of tears and stomping off to Eudoria.

As you’d gotten older and looked back, you’d realized that that was just a tactic to get you to go away. Why he’d bothered to act as such last night, though, you simply didn’t understand.

You leaned back, a book in your hands as you waited for the train to depart.

“Have you room for two more?”

You straightened and turned your head at the sound of Sherlock’s voice, brows raised at the sight of him standing in the doorway to the compartment.

“I’m only seeing one of you at the moment,” You said.

“Mycroft will be right along.”

You carefully shielded your displeasure, but the quirk of Sherlock’s brow told you that you weren’t careful enough. You gestured to the seat across from yourself before returning your attention to your book. Sherlock sat directly across from you, a book and a notebook in his own hands. You eyed them with interest before lowering your eyes to your book again.

“What are you reading?” Sherlock asked as he opened his own book.

“North and South,” you answered.

“Do you like it?”

You did, quite a bit, but you weren’t sure you wanted Sherlock making a mockery of the subject matter, or your swooning over Mr. Thornton. But then you remembered what he’d told you a few days ago about your handwriting, ‘You’re outspoken, comfortable in your own skin’.

“Yes, I do,” You answered crisply, turning the page. There was a moment of silence between you before you asked, “Have you any news about Enola’s whereabouts?”

“No.”

You pursed your lips. Somehow you didn’t believe that; maybe you didn’t want to. Sherlock was brilliant. If he had no leads, there was a higher likelihood of Enola being lost.

“Would you tell me if you did?” You asked.

Sherlock didn’t answer right away, and when you glanced up, you found him watching you, eyes gentle.

“I know you’re worried about her, dove,” He said softly. It was so straightforward, still utterly Sherlock, but for once, this acknowledgement of your emotion didn’t feel like an indictment. You lowered your eyes to your book again, fully intending to focus, but you could feel the weight of Sherlock’s gaze on you still.

“Ah, there you are, Sherlock.”

Your attentions were averted at the sound of another voice at the door of the compartment. You’d only caught glimpses of Mycroft when he’d returned to Ferndell, but it was so unmistakably him. He regarded you with a pleased shock as he stepped inside, removing his hat and sitting beside Sherlock.

“You look like you’ve rather grown up to be... Well, respectable,” He said, eyes carefully sweeping your person. You arched a brow.

“And you look like you’ve rather grown up,” You returned before you shifted in your seat, fully intending to return to your reading.

“Your parents are in good health?” Mycroft pressed, insistent on upholding the rules of polite conversation, despite it only being the three of you.

“They are well as can be expected,” You answered with a polite nod.

“And you are well?”

“I am, thank you, Mr. Holmes.”

A pause, you assumed a respite as you turned back to your book.

“You are... Unmarried?” Mycroft asked. You bristled, fingers tightening around your book as you lifted your eyes to his again. A fair question - hands covered in gloves, Mycroft wouldn’t be able to see a ring if you’d been wearing one.

“Yes,” You confirmed.

“And yet you travel alone,” He observed, “Quite precarious for a woman in your position.”

You knew better than this. You weren’t going to sink to the level of Mycroft’s ridiculous little game - you could see his spoiling to rile you up, his eagerness to call you on your impending outburst. He was waiting for it. Instead, you let your shoulders sag a little, your head tip to the side as you regarded him.

“Needs must, Mr. Holmes. Unfortunately my father isn’t well enough to travel, which is one of the things that’s necessitating my travel into London in the first place. If he were well, or if my parents had been fortunate enough to have sons, as yours had been, I might not be in this situation. But if you’d be so kind as to lend yourself as my companion for the duration of this journey, I’d be incredibly grateful,” You answered in a steady voice, offering Mycroft a bashful smile. Mycroft’s excitement spoiled so fast you swore his mustache wilted a little. He faltered, clearing his throat before nodding and mumbling a, “It would be my privilege,” before opening his newspaper and shielding himself behind it.

Once he was out of sight you allowed your smile to drop, and you rolled your eyes as you sat up straight. You made to turn back to your book, eyes catching on Sherlock’s on the way. He was smiling, fully, warmly - something you hadn’t seen directed at you in a long time. You felt a thrill run through you, and you couldn’t help the small smile, a real one, that grew on your own lips at the sight. Neither of you spoke, just returned to your respective reading materials.

--

The train ride was spent in amiably awkward silence; Mycroft reading a paper and tutting over the reform bill, Sherlock and yourself immersed in your own books. Now and again you’d feel him watching you over the top of his, and you’d feel the urge to squirm, or bring your book up a little higher to block him out of your field of vision, but you kept carefully still.

You wouldn’t let him get to you as he had on the path back from Ferndell. You’d been kicking yourself all night for snapping at him the way you had, letting him get the better of you. But what had bothered you, more than the fact that you’d started to lose your temper, was the fact that he’d actually seemed affected by what you said. The look in his eyes, the little clench of his jaw - and then to push it all down in a second. You’d wondered if that was what he needed to do in order to work on these cases, set the emotion aside, hone in on the facts. But you weren’t a case.

You tried not to dwell, to instead focus on your book, but knowing he was watching you, that he was so close by, was just so distracting.

--

“I trust you’ve someone to meet you at the station?”

You’d said what you’d said to get a rise out of Mycroft, but he seemed to be taking his role as companion very seriously.

“I have, yes. My uncle,” You nodded, closing your book and folding your hands atop it as the train pulled into the station. You’d hardly read a word after a certain point, you’d merely been turning the pages for the sake of appearances.

“Your father’s brother?” Sherlock asked.

“Mother’s,” You corrected. His brow furrowed at that, and he loosed a,

“Hm.”

“Problem?” You asked. Sherlock shook his head before directing his gaze out of the window. You took the moment to look over his profile, admire his strong jaw and the curl of his hair. You didn’t let yourself longer too long, strongly aware of the fact that Mycroft was still there. Sherlock and Mycroft were both out of their seats as soon as the train stopped. Sherlock offered his hand to you. You took it, letting him help you up. You loosened your grip on his hand, and he took a moment to do the same before he reached up, fetching your luggage down from the overhead rack. Mycroft stepped back, gesturing for you to go. You stepped out ahead of them, nodding in thanks. They followed you out of the compartment and off of the train.

"I know you two have quite a bit to do, you don’t have to wait with me,” You offered as they stopped on either side of you.

“Nonsense,” Mycroft said crisply, “I wouldn’t dare leave a lady unattended.” He offered you his arm, and you saw that glint in his eye, still egging you on. You matched it with the smile you’d given him before, wrapping your arm around his as you headed for the entrance, Sherlock trailing close behind.

“There’s my uncle,” You said as soon as you spotted your Uncle Cornelius. He was smiling, red-cheeked (likely from the sherry he’d already dipped into and not a mid-morning chill). You made the necessary introductions to Mycroft, but when you turned to Sherlock, you narrowed your eyes, “I presume you two have already met?”

Cornelius opened his mouth to contradict you, but the additional darkening in his cheeks told you that you were right. You let out your own knowing, “Hm.”  Mycroft cleared his throat.

“I’ll get us a hansom,” He addressed Sherlock. He nodded to Cornelius, then yourself before stepping away. Cornelius reached out, taking your bag from Sherlock.

“Do I even want to know how you two are acquainted?” You asked, clasping your hands behind your back and turning a sweet smile up at the both of them.

“Mr. Holmes was kind enough to... Assist me with a personal matter last year,” Cornelius admitted. You nodded.

“I see,” You said, “And this wouldn’t have anything to do with the actress that you took up with that subsequently tried sell your Rembrandt to the Louvre without your say-so, would it?”

Cornelius let out a shaky, embarrassed laugh, eyes darting between yourself and Sherlock. You nodded, sighing, “Right.”

“Sherlock!” Mycroft called from a ways away. You all turned at the sound of his voice to see him waving Sherlock away. You looked up at Sherlock.

“If you find anything out about Enola--”

“I will let you know,” He nodded. He glanced at Cornelius before he turned to face you fully.

“Might I call on you while we’re both in town? -- If I have an update on Enola,” He clarified. You nodded.

“Of course,” You said. Sherlock nodded. He turned, shaking Cornelius’ hand and saying his goodbyes before he left with Mycroft.

You watched the two of them disappear into the crowd before you turned back to see your Uncle Cornelius eyeing you curiously.

“What?” You asked, frowning.

“I believe, my dear, that you are interested.”

Your frown deepened to a scowl.

“Try not to read too deeply into a woman’s interest, Uncle. You may find yourself short another Dutch Old Master.”

Chapter Text

Your next day was spent looking in on your aunt (your father’s sister, Mary - a kind woman, but always troubled with some illness; she would spend nearly an hour describing it to you and then say, “But I don’t want to bore you with that, dearie, it’s a trouble for an old woman”), as well as meeting with one of the investors that your father had asked you to speak with. You’d taken over the use of Cornelius’ study while you were in town, and had hoped that the atmosphere would soften the man’s attitude toward you. Unfortunately, it hadn’t had the desired effect. The man had been rude and condescending. It had taken everything in your power to keep your head and not snap at the man in the way you wanted to. As irritated as you were, this was your father’s livelihood, and the way he kept a roof over all your heads.

That being said, you were in an awful mood when your Uncle informed you of a visitor.

“Who is it?” You asked. Cornelius chuckled at your dark tone.

“No need to look so dour. It’s your friend, Mr. Holmes,” He said. You hesitated before turning to answer him.

“Which Mr. Holmes?” You asked.

“The detective, not the politician,” He reassured you. You nodded.

“Send him in, then,” You agreed. As soon as Cornelius was out of the room, you found yourself turning to check your reflection in the glass of the cabinet, reaching up to tuck away a stray hair. You immediately felt ridiculous. Sherlock wasn’t there to see you, he was there to tell you about what he knew about Enola. You huffed, resting your hands on your hips and turning away from the cabinet. Surely it was the meeting with your father’s investor earlier that had you so riled.

Your hands absently smoothed over the skirt of your dress before you raised a hand to fiddle with the cameo on your choker. You heard the door open and you lowered your hand, resting it on the back of a chair. You opened your mouth to greet him, but he spoke up before you could.

“Who did it?” 

He’d hardly been there a moment and he was already throwing around questions.

“Excuse me?” You asked.

“Who upset you?” He pressed. You had expected Cornelius to come in behind him, but the door closed, leaving the two of you alone. You knew that your mother would have a fit if she found out you were alone with a man, especially when her brother was meant to be looking after you. It was one thing for Sherlock to come and speak with you alone when you were in your own home. Your parents were always wary of what may happen to you and your reputation when you traveled - “People talk in London,” Your mother would always sniff (as if the country was entirely free of gossip).

“What makes you think I’m upset?” You asked. Sherlock strode further into the study, looking you over openly. You didn’t have a book to hide behind this time, though, and despite the fact that you were wearing several layers of clothing, you felt very exposed.

“You mean beyond your inability to keep still?” He asked.

“I haven’t moved since you came in,” You argued.

“Your fingers haven’t stopped tapping on that chair,” Sherlock nodded toward your hand. You hadn’t even noticed you started, and you immediately pressed the pads of your fingers into the leather of the chair to still them.

“Your shoulders are pulled incredibly tight,” Sherlock added, continuing to come closer.

“I value good posture,” You excused.

“You're flushed...And your jaw is clenched,” Sherlock added, stopping right in front of you. You immediately relaxed your jaw, but the redness in your face, well. There was nothing you could do about that.

“...Have you heard anything about Enola?” You asked, choosing not to address his initial question of who had upset you.

Sherlock watched you for a few seconds as if waiting for you to crack. Then he hummed thoughtfully, brushing past you to go the desk. You felt your shoulders relax as he did; you hadn’t even realized how tense you were. You hated how easily he could read those things on you - but you reminded yourself that he could read those things on anyone.

“Have you seen this?”

You turned around to see Sherlock holding up the Pall Mall Gazette. You strode forward, holding your hand out for it. He passed it to you before he unbuttoned his jacket, leaning back against the desk. You skimmed the article he’d opened to: Disturbance on London Express. Two Boys Leap From Train.

Your brow furrowed as you turned away from him, paper in hand as you began to read it to yourself in a mutter: “There was a report of a disturbance on a London bound train yesterday morning. The London express train had left Basilweather station at 9:15, and was bound for the city when passengers witnessed two boys and a man with a bowler hat moving around the carriages excitedly and with much haste--”

“You still read aloud to yourself?” You ear caught on the teasing in Sherlock’s tone and you grumbled, “Shush,” Before you went on reading in silence.
You’d skimmed the article that morning, but it hadn’t caught your eye the way it had Sherlock’s. You unfolded the paper when you finished, eyes darting to the article on the Marquess that was reported missing before you rejoined Sherlock at the desk, pressing the paper into his chest wordlessly. You had intended to move your hand away, assuming he’d catch the paper quickly enough, but his hand quickly covered yours, keeping it there.

It wasn’t for more than a moment or two, but it felt like ages. You never went into public without your gloves, rarely met with men or had occasion to touch a gentleman’s hand besides. Now Sherlock’s thumb brushed over your bare knuckles, the pads of his fingers fanning out over the back of your hand. It was a simple touch, innocent and soft, but it set your blood singing.

You slipped your hand out from under his, picking up a stack of mail that had been deposited on the side of the desk and beginning to leaf through it. In truth, you’d already done this once, half an hour ago, but you needed something to keep your eyes off of Sherlock’s and your hands away from his.

“...Thoughts?” He asked. You could hear him refolding the paper.

“You know these matters better than I. I’ve never been in a situation where I’ve had to go looking for someone that didn’t want to be found,” You answered.

“Perhaps not, but you’ve spent more time with Enola than I have in these last few years.”

“Yes, and whose fault is that?” You volleyed back dryly, turning a letter over and inspecting the wax seal. When Sherlock didn’t answer, you glanced up to find him frowning and staring ahead.

“Your jaw is clenched,” You informed him, reaching up and tapping at the tight muscle with the letter. Sherlock cut you a sharp look, and you smiled sweetly before you lowered your eyes back to the mail, tossing the letter onto the desk.

“If that was her, she’ll have changed her disguise by now,” You added, “Your sister isn’t stupid. She knows that that incident will have caught some people’s attention.”

“I know that she’s not stupid,” Sherlock snapped. You regarded him carefully out of the corner of your eye. There was only one person that could get a rise out of Sherlock when you were children - you had been his favorite target then, and Sherlock let him at it, as long as it meant Sherlock got some peace. You weighed your options before deciding to play your hunch.

“What did Mycroft say?” You asked knowingly. Sherlock directed his gaze elsewhere in the room, clearly displeased at being caught out.

“He doesn’t want me looking for Enola...And he’ll send her to boarding school once she’s found.”

You shook your head, muttering, “Smarmy bastard,” Unable to help yourself. You had looked away, and didn’t see Sherlock’s slight smile at your curse.

“She’d hate it there,” You added more loudly, “There’s no freedom, no way for you to be yourself. Mycroft may think that what he’s doing is for Enola’s own good, but... Being sent to one feels like a punishment.”

“How would you know? You had a governess,” Sherlock grunted. You pursed your lips, nodding.

“I did... Until my mother deemed me un-governable.”

You felt the weight of Sherlock’s frown as it was turned on you in full force.

“I didn’t know you were sent away,” He said.

“Well, how would you? You never came back,” The bitterness and hurt seeped into your tone, unbidden.

“You stopped writing,” Sherlock’s rebuttal spoken more harshly than you’d expected, and you turned to him with fire in your eyes.

“You never answered,” You snapped.

There was a knock at the door, and it only gave you two a second’s warning before Cornelius’ cheerful self popped inside.

“All well in here?”

“Quite,” Sherlock answered brusquely. Both men went silent, waiting for your confirmation, but you never gave it, instead pretending to re-immerse yourself in the letters in your hands. Cornelius cleared his throat.

“I hate to intrude, but we'll be having guests over for dinner this evening and I’m sure it’ll take my niece some time to get ready. Frills and frippery and all that.”

You rolled your eyes, unable to help it. You’d had quite enough with men’s assumptions for one day.

“I do hope you enjoy yourselves.” Sherlock’s tone was very flat, matter-of-fact, and you were almost certain he didn’t mean it.

“Oh, you know how these things are. Business for the men, pleasure for the women,” Cornelius tutted, “Though Lord Dawson will be there and he and a certain someone seem to be quite keen on one another.”

You scoffed quietly, tossing another letter onto the desk for the sake of throwing something. Lord Dawson was an egotistical bore, but a well-moneyed one, and someone that your mother was pressuring you to marry.

“I believe my brother has been meaning to become acquainted with Lord Dawson for some time,” Sherlock commented.

“Well, then you and Mycroft ought to join us for dinner this evening!” Cornelius offered.

“No!” You said sharply. You froze, feeling both Sherlock and Cornelius turn their attention to you.

You turned your head to look at your uncle, lips pursed.

“Mr. Holmes is in the middle of a case, he’ll be far too occupied to join us for dinner,” You glanced over at Sherlock, adding, “Won’t you.” Sherlock nodded.

“Your niece is right, I am currently in the thick of a case,” He said, looking at Cornelius. You relaxed, turning back to the letters, satisfied...Until Sherlock continued, “But I will have to eat sometime, as will Mycroft. We’d be glad to join you.” Your hands tightened on the letters, fighting the urge to reach up and smack Sherlock over the head with the lot of them.

“Splendid!” Cornelius grinned, “We will send a formal invitation around to your brother, of course.”

“I will excuse myself, then, and give you all time to prepare,” Sherlock straightened from the desk. He turned back to you, leaning in and tapping a finger against your cheek with a murmur of, “Your jaw is clenched, dove.”

You gave him your most murderous look, but he was already striding toward the door to bid your Uncle Cornelius a good day.

Chapter Text

“You seem a little agitated, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

You did mind her saying so, but you couldn’t bring yourself to be irritated with Mrs. Lloyd. She was Uncle Cornelius’ housekeeper, had known you since you were very young, and was familiar with your moods.

“I’m not particularly looking forward to this evening,” You excused. Mrs. Lloyd glanced at you in the mirror as she adjusted the off-the-shoulder sleeves of your royal blue evening gown.

“Could it have anything to do with the fact that Lord Dawson will be in attendance?” She asked.

“Among other things,” You replied stiffly. She hummed, lifting her hands to smooth over your hair.

“Shall I tuck a flower into the braid? I got a lovely bunch of gardenias at the market this morning,” Mrs. Lloyd offered. She didn’t wait for your answer before she headed for the door.

“Why gardenias?” You asked, turning to look at her.

“They symbolize purity and gentleness,” She told you. You grimaced.

“Are there any flowers that symbolize resentment?” You asked. Mrs. Lloyd frowned.

“Petunias. But I didn’t buy any of those.”

--

“It’s the last thing this country needs, reform,” Mycroft had been prattling on for nearly twenty minutes now. Most of the men’s voices uttered murmurs of agreement, though you noted Sherlock’s was absent. You glanced in his direction to find him eyeing the man that had been seated across from you.

Lord Fredrick Adelbert Dawson did cut a fine figure, you couldn’t deny it. With a sharp, pointed jaw, dusty blonde hair, hawk-sharp steel blue eyes, and an aquiline nose, he tended to draw the eye of many a young lady. He had even drawn yours when you’d first met him. And then you’d had a conversation with him and any interest you’d had faded quickly.

You lowered your eyes to your plate as you saw Sherlock’s gaze flit to you.

“Come now, gentlemen, I do believe we’re boring our companions,” Cornelius chuckled, casting looks around the table, “Perhaps Mr. Holmes could tell us about the case he’s currently working on?”

You felt yourself grow tense as everyone’s attention shifted to Sherlock. If he was rattled by this sudden spotlight, he didn’t show it. His face retained its usual mild expression; the only noticeable change was a now quirked brow in Cornelius’ direction.

“What is it you’d like to know?” He asked.

“Whatever it is you can tell us,” Cornelius pressed.

“I’m not sure there’s much Sherlock can say about this one at present,” Mycroft’s voice was tight as he reached for his glass of wine. You watched him take a rather long sip before he lowered the glass to the table. The hand that had been holding it rested on the cloth, balled into a fist.

“Is it because it’s confidential, or is it simply dreadfully boring?” Lord Dawson asked. You cast Sherlock a glance, watched him tip his head and narrow his eyes at the question. Oh dear.

“I’ve never come across a boring case, Lord Dawson. Some have perhaps been easier to solve than others, but the truth is never boring.”

“The truth?” Dawson repeated, brows raised in amusement, “What excitement can one find in the truth?”

“About as much excitement as you find at the Theatre Royal in Covent Garden. Is it still under the management of Madame Vestris?”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft hurried to hiss from the other end of the table. But the damage had been done. You watched as the blood drained from Dawson’s face. The comment had landed with the other gentlemen at the table, and, unfortunately, with you. Uncle Cornelius, in one of his more intoxicated states, had once made mention of ‘the pretty ladies he’d been in the company of’ at the Theatre Royal. You weren’t naïve; you knew that they were ladies of the night.

You reached for your glass of wine, avoiding the eyes of both Sherlock and Lord Dawson as they looked to you for a reaction.
 
“I quite loved H.M.S. Pinafore!” Cornelius piped up in the hopes of breaking the tension.

--

After dinner, the ladies had adjourned to the sitting room for a glass of wine and some conversation; the men had remained in the dining room for brandy and cigars. You had only been able to stand the chatter for a few minutes before you excused yourself.

You stepped out into the garden, sighing into the night air and allowing your shoulders to sag just a little. Dinner had been no less than a disaster. Even after Cornelius had moved the conversation on, there had been glares and harsh words veiled as polite conversation between Sherlock and Dawson. You had hated it; you knew that this would be awful, but you couldn’t have fathomed it would be nearly this bad.

“Are you cold?”

You jumped at the sound of his voice. Sherlock held his hands up in apology as you brought your hand up to your chest, feeling your heart pound.

“No,” You lied, the word harsh in your irritation. If he knew you were lying, he didn’t call you on it. Sherlock turned, beginning to wander around the garden in silence. You rubbed your hands over your arms, trying to warm them as he was looking elsewhere. As you saw him turn back toward you, you quickly lowered your hands, clasping them in front of you.

“What are you doing out here?” You asked.

“I wanted some air,” Sherlock excused.

“There’s plenty of air inside.”

“And you?” Sherlock asked, “What drew you out?”

“... It was too warm in the sitting room,” You fibbed. Sherlock hummed, clearly unconvinced before he began to wander the garden again.

“Did they teach you to lie at finishing school?” He had meant it to be a joke, but you nodded and said, “In a way.” His brow furrowed.

“Explain,” He requested.

You looked down at your hands, considering.

“Well... You’re taught to comport yourself according to the rules of society. How to sit, how to eat, how to smile, how to speak, how to laugh. And you’re taught to act that way regardless of however you may truly be, or however you may feel. You learn to become someone else, for the sake of society...Though everyone tells you that it’s for your own sake.”

When you looked at Sherlock, you found him watching you closely.

“...Promise me you’ll find Enola before Mycroft does,” You pleaded softly. His mouth turned down in irritation.

“I’m doing everything I can, dove,” Sherlock swore.

“If you were doing everything, you wouldn’t be taking breaks to ruin dinner parties,” You retorted. Sherlock grunted, turning away from you.

“Your Lord Dawson is quite the character,” He commented. The butterflies in your stomach began to swirl about in an uneasy flurry.

“How so?” You asked.

“Well, he’s quite blunt, firm in his opinions. He seems to be under the impression that you’re meek, soft...Though maybe that was the fault of the gardenia,” he glanced back at you. You let out an irritated huff, reaching up and yanking the flower that Mrs. Lloyd had put in your hair out, tossing it on the stone bench near you. You glowered at the sight of Sherlock’s amused smile.

“I’m sure Mycroft will be quite cross with you for what you said to Fredrick,” You commented.

“Fredrick?” Sherlock repeated, stopping in his place, a thread of incredulity in his tone. You arched a challenging brow, silently daring him to comment on the name further. Rather than press, Sherlock said,

“I’m sure Mycroft is already taking the pains to smooth things over. You’re familiar with Dawson, do you think he’s amenable?”

“Your brother has a reputation for being persistent to the point of ruthlessness. I’m sure his success is imminent.”

“I wasn’t asking you about my brother,” Sherlock pointed out. He tucked his hands behind his back, regarding you.

“...Could you be happy with him?”

The question took you aback, but your answer was prepared - it was the same thing you’d been telling yourself for months: “My family would stop worrying about my future. It would be a weight off of their mind, and therefore mine.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“Yes it is,” You argued. Sherlock considered this.

“I disagree,” He finally said, “Let me ask again.”

He began to cross the garden toward you in slow, steady steps as he spoke,

“Would you be happy, being Lady Dawson? Attending opening day at Ascot? Wearing the latest fashions? Having your name in the papers whenever your husband takes up another of his several affairs?” Your stomach churned uneasily, heart pounding as Sherlock stared you down.

“Stop it,” You mumbled.

“Bearing two, three little lords or ladies? Shipping them off to school--”

“Stop it!” You snapped more loudly. Sherlock went still at that, close enough for you to see the flicker of shock in his eyes. You shook your head a little bit, squeezing your eyes shut for a moment to quell the tears that had begun to prickle, taking a deep breath to steady yourself before you looked at him again.

“You’re just as bad as Mycroft sometimes, you know? Prodding me to see how quickly you can get a rise out of me like I’m some experiment and not a person. It’s cruel.”

Then you saw it again - the flash of hurt that had crossed Sherlock’s face back at Ferndell. But it didn’t disappear this time. Instead it settled, twisting his handsome features as his eyes lowered to the ground.

“You did it when we were young, too. Maybe it was fair then, maybe I was just this irritating noise-making thing that you wanted away from you. But we’re not children anymore,” You reprimanded him, “And what I may have to do to maintain my family’s social standing is none of your concern, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock looked at you then, eyes skating over your face before he met your gaze.

“Your eyes are red,” He said. Irritation shot through you.

“I’m not a case, Sherlock,” You sneered before you turned away, intending to leave. Sherlock’s hand caught hold of yours, stilling you.

“Let go,” You hissed.

“Dove.”

His tone was beseeching, gentle. You didn’t trust it.

“Let go of me,” You demanded. He did, and you strode away, leaving him alone in the night.

--

“Are you alright? ... My dear, you’re shaking,” Mrs. Lloyd gripped you by the shoulders, steering you back into the study.

“I-- It was colder than I anticipated,” You excused. You allowed yourself to be steered into a chair by the fire, folded into a blanket, the others fussing about you catching your death. No one noticed the gardenia missing from your hair.

No one noticed the white petals peeking out from the pocket of Sherlock’s jacket as he bid Cornelius a good night.

--

“Breakfast is on the table. And there’s been a delivery for you - it’s in your study,” Your mother informed you.

You thanked her quietly before turning back to your vanity to finish pinning up your hair.

You were glad to be home. Your last two days in London had been entirely uneventful. You’d met with your father’s other investor (with minimal condescension; the gentleman had actually been somewhat pleasant) and dropped in on your aunt one more time before traveling home. You hadn’t heard from Dawson, which was a relief.

You’d heard nothing from Sherlock. That should’ve been a relief, but it was, in fact, agonizing. You told yourself it was because it meant that you had no news of Enola, but you knew that it was more than that. You couldn’t help but wonder what the two of you may’ve said or done if you’d turned back to him when he’d wanted you to. You hadn’t sought him out despite this curiosity, either in person or by post; he had a case to work on. Besides, you didn’t know what you’d say to him even if you did see him. You two seemed to turn to bickering when left to your own devices.

Your curiosity about the delivery won out over your hunger, and you went into your study. There was a beautiful white satin glass vase sitting on your desk filled with purple hyacinths.

You knew what those flowers meant well enough - you’d sent them to your Aunt Mary the last time you’d failed to send her a formal thank you note for a dinner party you’d attended at her home. Purple hyacinths were for apologies. You stepped closer to them warily, gently fingering the petals. Your eyes fell to the envelope beside the vase, and your stomach gave a little flip.

Sherlock’s handwriting hadn’t changed after all this time; his penmanship had always had a crisp, almost tight quality to it. You picked the envelope up, pulling the note out.

Please forgive me, dove.
                                   -S.H.

At the very bottom of the note was an address for Miss Harrison’s Finishing School.

Chapter Text

“I don’t want to see him.”

“You have to.”

“Mama, I do not have to do anything,” You protested sharply, reaching back and adjusting the lacing on your corset.

“Mr. Holmes is a family friend, you cannot turn him away. Especially not after he sent you those lovely flowers,” Your mother insisted, “He’ll be waiting for you in your study,” She added before shutting the door to your bedroom behind herself.

You braced yourself against your vanity, taking a deep breath to steady your nerves. You hadn’t written to Sherlock after he’d sent you those hyacinths. You’d written to Enola, but had yet to hear anything back. You weren’t sure you’d be able to see Sherlock without losing your temper. You hated feeling out of control around people. Looking back on your time in London, you felt like that around him a lot -- at the station, in your Uncle Cornelius’ study, in the garden. Sherlock just didn’t know when to stop pushing, and he brought out something in you that made you push right back.

You looked at yourself in the mirror for a few moments before you straightened up. You would dress, hear Sherlock out as quickly as possible, and then he would be out of the door. Simple.

--

“...You’re well?” He asked. He looked distinctly uncomfortable, making it a point to bow to pleasantries. You’d never seen that before. It was odd that he was taking a page out of Mycroft’s book, inquiring after your health rather than getting right to the point as usual.

"Quite,” You answered simply, hands clasped in front of you, “What brings you here, Mr. Holmes?”

“I’ve seen Enola.”

You were careful not to let your relief or eagerness show on your face; your hands tightened around one another as you struggled to keep your emotions in check.

“How is she?” You asked.

“Miserable, as you said she would be. Or at least she was. I’ve been informed that she’s ... Well, Mycroft used the word ‘escaped’, but I thought that it was a touch dramatic.”

“From Miss Harrison’s?” You shook your head, “That’s impossible. If she acted out at all, they’ll have kept her room locked, she’ll be escorted to and from lessons and meals--”

“Speaking from experience?”

“...Perhaps,” You conceded after a moment. Sherlock quirked a brow before answering,

“Apparently she briefly had company while on the run in London. A ‘useless’ boy-- I suspect it’s the missing Marquess.”

"Proven not to be so useless after all,” You said thoughtfully. Sherlock hummed in agreement.

“Where is she now?” You asked.

“I’m unsure. I’ve set a message in the Pall Mall Gazette personals for her-- she set one for our mother there, and I was able to decode it.”

“A message? What’s it say?”

“A place and a time to meet.”

“...Is Mycroft aware of this plan?” You asked, narrowing your eyes at Sherlock.

“He is. But I will be asking him to make Enola my ward. Sending her to a finishing school to leave her to break out of it won’t exactly further her education.”

You couldn’t help the surprise that overtook your face.

“... Well it will if she’s planning on becoming an escape artist,” You offered. Sherlock laughed a little, and you bit your cheek to halt a smile, desperately trying to ignore the warmth that spread through you at the sound. Sherlock met your eyes as his laugh tapered off, and for a moment, the both of you just watched one another. There was nothing malicious or combative in it.

You broke eye contact first, eyes straying to the empty vase on your desk.

“I should get back to London. The vote takes place tomorrow--”

“Of course,” You nodded. Sherlock crossed the room, and you took a step to the side, out of the way of the door. He stopped just in front of you on his way out.

“What I said the other night... It was not my place,” He said quietly. You lifted your eyes to his, and were startled to find him looking at you, rather than at the floor.

“I recognize now that your... Position as an only child, let alone a daughter, is a difficult one. I never really considered it until I heard how Mycroft talked about Enola, and his plans for her. I saw how Mother lived, and I knew you...Or I thought I did,” He shook his head a little bit, “You’ve changed, dove. But I understand now that it’s because you think that have to, not because you want to.”

You averted your eyes, jaw clenching. Sherlock’s hand lifted, cupping your chin and lifting your head to meet his eyes again.

“Whatever happens regarding yourself and... Lord Dawson...Whatever you choose, as it is your choice,” Sherlock’s voice had gone tight, and for the life of you, you couldn’t place why, “I only hope that he understands how entirely unworthy he is of you.”

Your lips parted, ready to reply, but you couldn’t bring yourself to say anything. Sherlock’s eyes drifted down over your lips as his thumb tenderly traced along your jaw. Then he took a step back, lowering his hand. He nodded once as if to himself, then opened the door. You stood alone in the study, your skin tingling where he’d touched you so sweetly, his words ringing through your head.

Chapter Text

Your mother wasn’t pleased - but then, you were used to that, when was she, really? You were going back into town - for your own business, not hers. Therein lied her displeasure.

“We allowed you to travel alone before only because your father and I had no other choice,” She argued, watching you pack your suitcase, “This is unacceptable.”

“And leaving me alone in a room with Sherlock Holmes, that was acceptable?” You countered, turning to look at her, “If anyone found out about it, mama, the town would be talking, and you know it.”

Your mother paled at the implication.

“Mr. Holmes is a reputable man--”

“Reputable or not, I was left with a man I am not engaged to without a chaperone. That’s one rule of society broken, what’s another?”

“As if you’d ever be engaged to Sherlock Holmes,” Your mother scoffed. You lowered your eyes. You didn’t know why that comment turned your stomach.

You didn’t care if your mother didn’t want you going into town. You’d had a letter from Enola.

She was safe, renting a room for the time being. It would be sustainable for a little while, but she had made contact with Sherlock. He’d reassured her that she would be his ward going forward, that she wouldn’t have to return to finishing school. She believed him. Frankly, so did you. He could be tricky for the sake of drawing in a lead, but he wouldn’t do this to Enola only to put her away again.

You hadn’t reached out to him since he’d spoken to him your study. You weren’t even sure what you’d say if you did.

He’d left your head spinning. You hadn’t chased him down for answers to the questions you had, just lowered yourself into your desk chair and considered. He’d been so insistent about your choice, what you could choose to do. Some part of you felt that you had a duty to your family, even if it meant your own misery. The other part knew that you were too willful, too forthright to safely navigate the waters of marriage with Lord Dawson. And what on earth had Sherlock meant by Dawson being unworthy of you?

You’d asked Enola if you could visit, and she had sent you a new address at which to meet. You’d sent a letter to Uncle Cornelius, whom you’d be staying with again, telling him that you didn’t need him to meet you at the station and that you’d send your things along to the house. You knew that you were too eager to see Enola and that you wouldn’t have the patience to bring Cornelius along or stop by his house before seeing her.

You’d never been to Baker Street before; You’d never had occasion to travel to that part of town. It was quaint, with just a few people taking a stroll along it. You didn’t have a chance to knock, nor did you need to announce yourself; Enola had been watching for you, and she met you, grinning, at the door.

She spoke a mile a minute, introducing you to Mrs. Hudson, showing you about Sherlock’s flat, skimming past his room to hers, and then the library, and the sitting room. You didn’t have to ask her the hundred questions you had about her leaving, her time in London, her time at Miss Harrison’s- she answered them, unprompted.

“Have you seen your mother?” You asked once Enola had finally settled the two of you in the sitting room. She glanced back toward the door, ensuring no one was coming in before she turned back to you, nodding a little. You tipped your head to the side, watching her closely.

“She’s alright?” You asked gently.

“She... Was trying to protect me,” Enola answered quietly, “I know that now, and I know we can never go back to our lives before. I’ll just miss it.”

You nodded.

“I can understand that,” You reassured, “Change, while inevitable, is often...Disquieting.”

Enola hummed, wrinkling her nose, and in that moment, you saw the little girl that you had watched grow up. You smiled.

“You’re happy here, with Sherlock?” You asked. Enola’s eyes lit up at the question.

--

“Enola?”

Your head turned at the sound of Sherlock’s voice. You’d hardly realized how late it had gotten; looking outside, you could see that the leeries had been at their posts, lighting the darkened, foggy street.

“In here!” Enola called back. You felt your stomach twist Sherlock rounded into the room, eyes landing on Enola, and then you. He stilled at the sight of you.

“...Mrs. Hudson said you had company,” He commented. You smiled a little.

“I should be on my way. I didn’t realize how long I’ve been visiting, though I’m sure Cornelius hasn’t noticed at all.”

--

You left with a promise to stop in on Enola at least one more time before leaving London. You focused more on your gloves as you pulled them on than on the fact that Sherlock was in the hall, watching you.

“... It was good of you to come and see her,” he commented.

You glanced up at him.

“’Good of me’? That makes it sound like I was performing some kind of duty.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Sherlock muttered. You hummed, straightening one of your gloves.

“Well,” You lifted your head to look at him, “It’s good to see her in one piece.” You paused. “She’s happy here, Sherlock,” You added more softly. He averted his gaze to a spot just over your shoulder, but you could see a hint of pride in his eyes.

“You’ll be good for each other, I think,” You added, raising your hands to your collar and straightening it, “I should be on my way.”

“You said that before,” Sherlock reminded you.

“Well, it’s as true now as it was in the sitting room.” You hesitated before meeting his eyes again.

“...The last time we spoke, Mr. Holmes, I was...Very cold toward you.”

“I’m sure you had your reasons.”

“Regardless, it was unfair--”

“You don’t need to--”

“Bloody hell, would you let me apologize!” You snapped. That was when you caught sight of the smile on Sherlock’s lips. You closed your eyes, shaking your head and sighing heavily.

“You’re impossible,” You grumbled, “and I’m leaving.”

He followed you down the front hall and outside. Before you could raise a hand to hail a hansom yourself, Sherlock raised a hand, flagging one down for you. He opened the door, holding his hand out to help you in before giving the driver the address to your Uncle Cornelius’. He turned to you, to door still open, his hand still clasping yours.

“I’ll see you again?” Sherlock asked. You frowned.

“I told Enola I’d come back.”

“You told Enola you’d come back and see her.”

You raised a brow.

“...You’ll see me again, Mr. Holmes.” You made to pull your hand away, but Sherlock tutted softly.

“What?” You asked. He lifted his hand to grip your sleeve, holding your arm in place. The hand that was holding yours loosed the grip on your fingers, reaching into the sleeve and catching hold of the bottom of your glove.

“What are you doing?” You asked, watching Sherlock pull your glove off of your hand.

“Guaranteeing a second meeting.”

“You don’t think I have another pair of gloves?”

“Oh, I’m certain that you do. I’m also certain that your mother will be incensed if I send this to her. She may ask how it came to be in my possession.”

Sherlock grinned at your scowl as he tucked the glove into his pocket.

“Goodnight, dove,” He added as he shut the door of the hansom.

Chapter Text

You had almost forgotten what it was like to be around Lord Dawson with your Uncle Cornelius lingering nearby. The last time a man had visited you at Cornelius’ home, it had been Sherlock, and Cornelius had left the two of you alone.

Now, though, the three of you were settled in Cornelius’ sitting room. They had been engaged in a conversation about horse racing for the last twenty minutes. You’d kept your face set in a careful mask of interest, nodding every few minutes. Frankly, you couldn’t give a damn about the horses Dawson kept. He only brought them up to remind you of the amount of wealth he had, as if you’d managed to forget somehow.

You raised your eyes as you spotted Dawson rising out of his chair.

“I really must go. I have tickets to the theater this evening.”

He stilled, realizing what he’d just technically told the two of you. Cornelius’ coughed thickly, diverting Dawson’s attention and allowing you the chance to pinch your nose and shake your head in peace. You lowered your hand as Dawson turned to you again.

“I shall try to call on you again before you leave London—Do you know when you’ll be called home?”

“I’m unsure,” You admitted, “But it will likely be within the next week.”

“Then I will be certain to hurry back,” Dawson chanced a wink as he took hold of your gloved hand and raised it to his lips. You lowered your eyes coyly, as was expected of you, and lowered your hand back to your lap as Cornelius escorted Dawson out of the room. You sighed, resting your head on your hand and peering out of the window. You’d spent the previous night dwelling on the brief feeling of Sherlock’s fingertips skimming over the soft of your wrist as he’d peeled your glove away. He’d watched you as he’d done it, eyes pinning you to the seat of the hansom. His hold on your sleeve had not been excessively strong; you could’ve pulled away if you’d wanted to. But... You hadn’t particularly wanted to.

That was a dreadfully dangerous thought.

You’d need to get it back – and soon. Your mother wouldn’t like you lingering in town any longer than necessary, but you couldn’t leave without that glove.

Maybe you could ask Enola to get it for you.

“Well?”

You turned your head at the sound of Uncle Cornelius’ voice.

“’Well’ what?” You asked.

“What do you think?”

“…Of?”

“Of Lord Dawson’s prospects as your future husband,” Cornelius pressed as he sat down across from you.

“I think I’d buy him a box at the Theater Royal for a wedding present.”

Cornelius’ belly shook with his laugh, and you smiled a little.

“That is a wicked thought, niece. One which your mother would not approve of…Not that your mother approves of much. She does seem fond of Lord Dawson, though.”

“Well, she wouldn’t be married to him.”

Cornelius hummed, thoughtful.

“Tell me,” He leaned forward, “If you had to describe your ideal husband, how would you?”

You frowned.

“Why on earth do you ask?”

“Indulge me.”

You considered for a few moments. It was hardly the first time you’d thought about it, but it was the first time anyone had bothered to ask you.

“...Considerate,” You started, “Intelligent, trustworthy, and honest...Respectful.”

“Quite the list,” Cornelius leaned back in his seat, his hand coming up to rub at his chin thoughtfully, “Do you find Dawson lacking in some of these qualities?”

You found Dawson lacking in all of them.

“Well, beyond his tendency to be unfaithful, of which I am already well aware,” You said dryly as you rose out of your seat, “There is the matter of his dismissal of interests, my time, and the gift he gave me,” You picked up the parcel - sheet music, wrapped with a beautiful turquoise bow.

“Quite thoughtful,” Cornelius said. You raised a brow, lifting the handwritten note that had been tucked under it.

“‘Hoping that you will think of me when you play these notes, my dear sweet Mable,” You read. Cornelius balked.

“Perhaps… Perhaps--”

“There’s no ‘perhaps’, Uncle,” You sighed, passing him the note, “It’s dated last year as well -- clearly meant for some sweetheart that dismissed him before he could give it to her. If he can’t put effort into courting me properly, then how am I to believe he’ll show me any respect when we’re married?”

Cornelius lifted his eyes from the note you’d handed him. He looked primed to ask another question, but before he could, there was a knock on the door.

“Yes?” Cornelius called out. The door opened to reveal Mrs. Lloyd.

“A Mr. Holmes is here to see the young lady.”

“Mustached or un-mustached?” You asked. Mrs. Lloyd raised a brow before she leaned back into the hall to get another look. She leaned back in.

“Un-mustached.”

Sherlock.

“Send him in,” You sighed, resting your hands on your hips. Mrs. Lloyd nodded, stepping back to get him. You turned to Uncle Cornelius, expectant. He frowned.

“Aren’t you going to excuse yourself?” You asked when he didn’t move.

“Why would I?”

“The last time Mr. Holmes called on me, you made yourself...Scarce.”

“And you’ve reason for me to do so now?”

“I-- No, no reason, but I assumed--”

Cornelius simply leaned back in his seat, watching you flounder, amused. Your eyes widened a bit. How on earth were you going to explain needing to get your glove back?

“Ah, Holmes,” Cornelis grinned as he pushed himself out of his seat, holding his hand out to Sherlock as he came in.

“Sir,” Sherlock shook his hand before turning to you.

“Mr. Holmes,” You greeted.

“Dove,” He murmured. You felt the weight of Cornelius’ bewildered gaze on the both of you. Sherlock seemed to sense it, too, and he cleared his throat.

“I was wondering if you would care to accompany me on a walk,” He spoke up, voice clear so that Cornelius wouldn’t have any more reason to stare you down.

“Of course,” You nodded. Surely you could negotiate your glove’s freedom.

--

Cornelius was trailing a suspicious number of steps behind you. You walked with your hands clasped in front of you; Sherlock walked beside you with his hands clasped behind him. The two of you strolled in surprisingly companionable silence for quite a while.

“So--”

“I--”

The two of you began to speak at the same time. You turned to look at one another, waiting for the other to speak. Sherlock smiled.

“Go on,” He urged gently.

“I assumed that I would be the one to come to Baker Street to visit you, not the other way around,” You said.

“I was feeling a little...impatient,” Sherlock seemed chagrined to say so. Your brows rose.

“Impatient?” You repeated, unable to keep the amusement from bleeding into your tone. You glanced back, ensuring Cornelius had kept his distance.

“Did you think I’d left town?”

“No, dove. You’re smarter than that. Besides, you’d never do that to Enola.”

You hesitated, eyes set ahead of you.

“I’d never do it to you, either,” You offered, “I keep my promises, Mr. Holmes.”

“...Not all of them.”

“Pardon?”

“Well, you did promise you’d write-- When we were younger,” Sherlock reminded you.

“And I did, several times, thus fulfilling my promise.”

Sherlock hummed quietly, unconvinced. You scoffed.

“Just because I didn’t do something exactly as you might’ve liked doesn’t mean that I didn’t do it at all.”

“Did you really stop because…” Sherlock trailed off. You glanced up at him to find his brow deeply furrowed, the corners of his mouth pulled down.

“...Yes,” You admitted, “You hardly ever took pleasure in my company when we were at Ferndell. I hadn’t expected you to ask me to write to you at all, and then when you didn’t respond, I just assumed that you were as bored of me as you had ever been… At least you got some additional calligraphy study out of it,” You offered. Had you been alone, you might’ve nudged his arm with yours, or something -- anything to get that dreadful frown off of Sherlock’s face. He stopped walking, and you realized that you’d returned to Uncle Cornelius’ house.

It was getting quite late -- Big Ben had just chimed four; people would be arriving for dinner in a while, and you had to change. Cornelius and Sherlock bid one another a good day.

“Sherlock,” You spoke up as he began to walk away from the house. He turned back to you, expectant. You glanced back toward Cornelius, who was already starting up the steps.

“May I have my glove back, please?” You asked, voice hushed.

“Hm? Oh, of course.”

You watched as Sherlock patted down each of his pockets, his face shifting from a frown to a playful pout.

“Of all the luck-- I believe it’s in my other coat.”

You shook your head slowly, eyes narrowing at him.

“Incorrigible,” You said.

“Is that better or worse than impossible?” Sherlock asked.

“Come now, young lady! It’s getting late,” You heard Mrs. Lloyd call from inside.

“Run along, dove. I’ll bring your glove next time,” Sherlock said, shooting you a wink.

“Do you promise?” You asked.

“I can only tell you that I shall try.” Sherlock reached out and took hold of your hand. You watched warily as he bent over it, pressing a kiss to the back of it. You quickly pulled it back when he leaned away. He arched a brow. You felt heat rise to your cheeks as you cast glances around. There were few people on the street - surely no one that knew your mother had seen you and would tell her what had transpired.

“I cannot have you stealing two of my right gloves,” You grumbled by way of explanation, “Then I should have to carry a muff around in the middle of May, and how ridiculous would that look?”

Sherlock smiled, taking a step back.

“Good day, dove.”

“Good day, Mr. Holmes.” 

Chapter Text

“You’re enjoying this far too much,” You accused Sherlock as he captured one of your rooks.

“I disagree. I believe I’m enjoying it exactly the right amount.”

You rolled your eyes openly, careful not to let your smile widen as he chuckled.

“It is your turn, dove,” He added. Your eyes darted to Cornelius, whom you saw shift in his seat at the use of the pet name. He had been steadfast in his chaperoning of yourself and Sherlock whenever the detective made it a point to stop by, as he had nearly every day for the last three weeks.You were unsure if Dawson had caught wind of your other… Visitor (Sherlock wasn’t a suitor, he wasn’t courting you, surely. You refused to put too much stock in the books and flowers that he brought; even if the books were on topics that you loved; even if Mrs. Lloyd insisted that carnations stood for fascination, and small sunflowers meant adoration, and kennedias signified mental beauty, and Peruvian heliotrope were for devotion, and mossy saxifrage represented affection).

You looked down at the board.

“Aren’t you always the one counseling me not to rush into my next move?”

“I suppose I am,” Sherlock mused.

“Then perhaps you only pointed out that it was my turn to distract me from the bigger picture.”

“Do you really think that I would do something like that?”

“I think that that is exactly what you would do,” You looked up at Sherlock from under your lashes, and this time, you couldn’t help but share his smile. You reached out, your fingers settling on your bishop. Sherlock made a soft sound in his throat.

“Shush,” You ordered.

“You’re certain?” Sherlock asked.

“It’s not going to work this time, Holmes,” You insisted, moving the piece before sitting up straight. Sherlock cocked his head to the side; the movement put you in mind of a small, confused puppy.

“What’s not going to work?” His tone was woven with innocence, but you knew better. This was the third game that you’d played with him that afternoon, and he’d managed to make you second-guess yourself during the last two.

“You know what. Now take your turn.” You watched as he clasped his hands under his chin, resting his chin and lips against his knuckles as he surveyed the board. In his concentration, you let your eyes wander his face. He tended to get this furrow between his brow when he was thinking; now and again, his eyes would narrow, but only a touch and just for a second. You heard him push a short huff out through his nose before he hummed thoughtfully. You didn’t follow his gaze back to the board. Instead, you continued to watch him unabashedly as you asked,

“What now?”

Sherlock’s eyes flitted to yours, and you felt a shock of warmth spread through you. He held your gaze with such intensity that you almost missed his moving his queen and murmuring, “Checkmate.”

You looked down at the board before you leaned back in your seat, groaning in frustration.

“You did far better this time than last,” Sherlock said, sitting up. You could tell that he wasn’t teasing you, and you hummed.

“I didn’t beat you, though.”

“You will, dove. Just not today.”

You raised a brow.

“No time for one more?”

“I’m afraid I have to meet with Lestrade in,” Sherlock reached into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out his pocket watch, “Nearly half an hour.”

“Ah,” You nodded, “New case?”

“Yes, though from what details he told me, I’m hoping for a speedy resolution.”

Your brows rose.

“That sounds rather unlike you. I thought you preferred the cases that were more difficult to unpick.”

“I do, but I have...Other things occupying my mind at present.”

Beautifully vague; classic Sherlock.

“Things regarding Enola?” You asked. He hesitated in answering before he settled on, “Some.” You stood when Sherlock did, and you cleared your throat, signalling his departure to your Uncle Cornelius. You heard him folding his paper.

“I’ll be stopping by to see her tomorrow,” You added, clasping your hands, “She told me that she’d be quite occupied with Edith at the tea rooms, else, and-- and I will have to leave town at the end of this week.”

Sherlock cut you a look, briefly sharp, then stunned.

“This week?” He asked, frowning.

“Yes.”

You’d been planning on telling Sherlock at some point during his last few visits, but the two of you just seemed to get so caught up-- with conversation, or chess, or cards.

“I’m afraid her mother has been quite miserable without her,” Cornelius added, rounding his armchair. You glanced at him. He knew as well as you that that was a lie; she had been irate with your departure, and only grew more and more frustrated when you’d stalled in town. She’d only allowed it for as long as she had because Cornelius had reported to her that Dawson was visiting you with some frequency. It was unlikely that he would make a trip out to see you at your home. Your mother was deathly afraid that you would come through this season without a proposal; you had never been more afraid that you would receive one.

You could see on Sherlock’s face that he didn’t buy the reason for a moment, but he gave a stiff nod, murmuring, “Of course,” before he turned to look at you.

“I will do my best to see you at least once more before you leave London.”

“I would like that,” You said; your heart twinged with how much you meant it.

--

Enola tended to get caught up in things; you knew that about her. That was why, when you arrived at Baker Street the following day, you found her not at home. Mrs. Hudson apologized profusely, offering to let you wait in the sitting room for her. You accepted, and in solitude, you took your chance to look around.

It was a cozy room. Sherlock and Enola seemed to each have their own corners: Sherlock’s was by the fireplace, beside a bookshelf; Enola’s was by the window, with a desk that was stocked with books and drawing pencils. You chuckled at the caricature of Mycroft that you’d last seen at Ferndell pinned to the wall beside the window. You ran your fingers over the back of Enola’s chair before you turned, drifting toward Sherlock’s armchair. He had a reading table beside it; there was a wooden box with a pipe engraved on it, and a stack of books. There were a few pieces of paper sticking out of the books here and there, and you could just make out Sherlock’s handwriting.

You glanced toward the door, holding your breath for a moment. When you were sure that you couldn’t hear anyone coming, you picked up one, scanning the title on the spine: On the Origin of Species. Your brows rose before you reached for the one under it. It was a plain-covered book, unassuming. You hummed, curious, and set the first book aside in favor of flipping through the second. You smiled a little when you saw sketches. You knew that that was one thing that Sherlock and Enola both held a love for.

As you flipped through, you recognized Ferndell; there were a few pressed flowers with their sketches, meanings, and uses jotted down besides; you snorted when you spotted a caricature of Dawson. It depicted him with rather a large head and very small, beady eyes; his coat had money bursting out of the pockets, and he was leaning heavily on a dandy’s cane. Had Sherlock given your suitor gout? It certainly looked that way. You turned the next page and then froze, your breath catching in your throat.

It was… Well, it was you. Sherlock had sketched you in profile. Your eyes were downcast, your lips drawn up in a smile; there was shading around your cheeks, making it look as though you were blushing. He’d made you look so soft, so...Gentle, but somehow mischievous.

Was this how he saw you?

Sitting on the page beside it was a flower petal - white, pressed, but still soft. It looked familiar, but you couldn’t place it at first. You trailed your finger over it, frowning, before you realized that you had last seen it at the dinner party: your gardenia.

You heard the door slam shut downstairs, and the thunder of footsteps, and you hurried to shut the notebook and set it down on the stack, replacing the other book on top of it before you hurried over to the window. You turned to see Enola burst into the room, grinning.

“I’m sorry, I got caught up,” She apologized as she shrugged out of her coat. You smiled, chuckling, “It’s quite alright.”

“Would you like some tea?” Enola asked, but she was already heading for the kitchen. You followed close behind, answering, “Certainly.”

As the two of you settled back in the sitting room with your tea, you couldn’t stop your gaze from straying to Sherlock’s reading table now and again. Enola was sharp, you knew that; you didn’t know why you thought you were being sneaky.

“He’s working on a case,” She informed you after she caught you looking for the fifth time that afternoon. You nodded a little.

“Yes, he mentioned. He thought it would move along quite swiftly.”

“Maybe it is. He was out all last night, and when I awoke this morning, Mrs. Hudson said that he hadn’t been in yet.”

You frowned at that.

“Does that happen often?” You asked.

“Occasionally,” Enola shrugged, “But I don’t mind.”

You smiled, then, trying to reassure yourself; you knew that she didn’t, but you couldn’t help but wonder where he was and what he was up to.

“...Enola.”

“Hm?”

“You haven’t happened to see an odd glove around here that isn’t yours, have you?”

--
Your visit with Enola ran late, as it always did. You heard the clock chime five and you frowned; you were going to be late for dinner.

“I should be on my way,” You sighed softly. Enola opened her mouth to reply, but it was cut off by the thudding of footsteps coming up the stairs. There was a pause before you saw Sherlock sweep through the living room. He didn’t acknowledge either of you; you could see his shoulders hunched forward, his jaw tight with irritation. You watched as he opened his bedroom door, then flinched when it slammed shut behind him.

“...And now we know how the case is going,” You muttered sarcastically. Enola wrinkled her nose as you straightened from your chair. You exchanged your goodbyes, and you were headed for the front door before you stopped yourself, glancing back toward Sherlock’s door. Enola had had no leads; there was still time to get your glove back.

“Just-- I’ll be a moment,” You said. Enola arched a knowing brow before she nodded, stepping into her own room and shutting the door. You frowned a little bit. What on earth had that look been for? And why had she retreated to her bedroom? You shook the thought away as you walked over to Sherlock’s door, leaning in the doorway. You raised your hand, rapping your knuckles lightly on it twice.

You heard a gruff call of, “What?” and you bit your lip. Maybe this hadn’t been the best idea.

“What is it--” Came an additional yell, and you hurried to answer, “It’s me.”

There was a pause, and you straightened up as you heard Sherlock’s footsteps approaching the door. He opened it, and you were briefly taken aback.

You’d never seen the man look so...Disheveled. His curls were mussed, as if he’d been taking his hand through them; he’d removed his jacket and tie, and opened the top two buttons of his shirt; his sleeves had been rolled up to his elbows. You couldn’t help the way your eyes wandered his form before you met his gaze again.

“I’m sorry, I-- Didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“You haven’t,” Sherlock insisted, “I apologize, I didn’t realize that you were still here.”

He tucked his hands into his pockets and peered into the sitting room, searching for Enola, before he looked back to you.

“When does your train leave?”

“Friday morning. The 10:30.”

“Perhaps I’ll see you at the station.” That took you aback, and you were able to deduce a few things from it.

“...I take it the case is proving a little more difficult than expected?”

Sherlock pushed a heavy sigh out through his nose, leaning against the door frame as he hung his head; it more than confirmed your suspicions.

“I’m sorry,” You added softly. He raised a hand, rubbing over the back of his neck.

“It is nothing I haven’t dealt with before, but...I fear I may not be able to come and see you again before you leave.”

You felt disappointment fill you, but you pushed it away, shielding it with a smile.

“It’s alright, I understand,” You insisted, “I was glad to have your company while I was in town.”

“And I, yours, love,” Sherlock murmured.

Your heart soared at the words; you blinked at Sherlock a couple of times, certain that you’d imagined it.

“Pardon?” You asked. Sherlock’s brow furrowed.

“I-- I said I was glad to have yours, too, dove.”

That feeling of elation plummeted as quickly as it had swelled, your heart dropping like a kite that had lost the wind. You’d simply misheard him. You lowered your eyes, nodding.

“Of course. I should be on my way. Cornelius is expecting me.”

“Let me hail you a hansom--”

“No!” You rushed to stop him. Sherlock looked stricken; you felt bile rise in your throat, and you hurried to cover this with another smile.

“I can manage it myself. Good luck with your case, Mr. Holmes.”

You hurried out of Baker Street as quickly as you could, your glove completely forgotten.

Chapter Text

The first time he had asked and you'd refused, the both of you chalked it up to pure panic. You’d practically spluttered the word, “No!”

You’d taken in the look of shock on Cornelius’ face, and then the split-second of surprise on Dawson’s. He didn’t move from where he’d gone down on one knee; he didn’t let go of the hand of yours that he’d taken hold of. Instead he clasped it in both of his and chuckled.

“I understand that you’re perhaps a bit nervous at the prospect of marriage, dear,” He’d said; you’d hated that he’d called you dear and patted your hand like he was trying to soothe one of his damn race horses, “Take the day to think about it, of course, but I’m certain you’ll come to a favorable decision.”

And then he’d risen, pressed a previously unheard of kiss to your cheek, bid Cornelius a good day, and taken his leave. Cornelius had left to see him out, and you’d stood stock-still in the middle of the sitting room, stunned.

You’d had a proposal. You’d had a proposal, and as much as you knew Cornelius was on your side, you also knew that this news was going to make it back to your mother before you made it back home. Your train left at the end of the week, there was still a chance that you’d see Sherlock before then.

You groaned, scrubbing a hand across your forehead in frustration. Why on earth was your mind drifting to that man now? He wasn’t the one that had just proposed to you; he wasn’t the one that you’d just refused. Cornelius came back into the sitting room and looked at you.

“Was that a true ‘no’, or were you merely being coy?” He asked. You felt your lower lip wobble before you pursed your lips into a tight line to stop the movement further.

“Oh dear,” Cornelius sighed. 

--

While Sherlock had told you that he likely wouldn’t be able to see you before you left London, you couldn’t help but spend the rest of the week hoping that he might stop by. You’d considered going to Baker Street, but you knew that Enola wouldn’t be in, and it was unlikely that Sherlock would be, either, considering the nature of the case. You weren’t even sure what you were hoping to accomplish with this visit - you just wanted to see him again.

Dawson’s first proposal had been made on Tuesday; by Thursday, he’d visited three more times, asked three more times, and was becoming frustrated with what he deemed your lack of favorable response.

“...My dear,” He sat across from you, eyes boring cruelly into yours, “I’m sure that you understand why I find your answer concerning.”

“I’m unsure as to why you find it to be concerning rather than finding it to be all that it is: refusal,” You answered; you maintained your composure, sitting up straight, your face calm, voice steady, hands folded in your lap. You could see Cornelius in your periphery, rubbing his temples.

Dawson’s jaw clenched at that, and you watched him draw himself up to his full height.

“May I at least know on what grounds I have been refused?” He asked.

“Maybe that’s something you can take up with Mable, if not Madame Vestris,” You answered after a few moments. Dawson made no answer, instead storming from the room and slamming the door behind himself.

“That was your best chance at a future in society,” Cornelius said quietly, watching you. You gave him a long look, considering that.

“... If that’s what the future looks like, then I’d rather be a spinster,” You declared.

--

Perhaps I’ll see you at the station.

The first time Sherlock had said that to you, you’d been heading into London. You’d been certain that he’d only said so with the intention of winding you up, so you’d gotten on the train and settled in.

But now-- Now you waited on the platform, peering through the throng of people, turning every few moments to make sure he wasn’t approaching from a different direction. You hadn’t written to remind him that your train was leaving - The man’s mind was sharp as a tack, he didn’t need to be reminded.

Some small part of you was telling you that you were still holding out for him to arrive because you needed your glove back, but the rest of you had come to a realization the night before while you were laying in bed. It had kept you up most of the night, had hastened you out of bed and through breakfast and into the carriage to get to the station to wait for him.

You were quite certain that you were in love with Sherlock Holmes.

You weren’t even sure when you’d fallen for the man - he had infuriated you for so long that you had assumed that that was what you were burning with these past few weeks when you saw him. You hadn’t wanted to believe Mrs. Lloyd’s insistence that his gifts and flowers had been sent with the intention of courting you, but now you found yourself hoping that they were. Of course Sherlock was not as well off as Dawson - but that had always been your mother’s priority, not your own.

But Sherlock had never declared his intentions to you - it was still possible that those gifts were simply friendly. You needed answers, and you could only get those answers from Sherlock. It had been a mystery that had brought him back to Ferndell and back into your life, and it just may be a mystery that would keep him out of it now.

“Come now, niece,” You turned to see Cornelius with his hands in his pockets, “The train will be departing in just a few moments. We really ought to get on board.”

Your heart sank as your eyes flitted to the clock. 10:28.

You thanked him quietly before taking another quick look around the train platform. No Sherlock.

“Hoping Dawson will make one more go for you?” Cornelius teased. You offered him a weak smile before boarding the train. You sat beside the window, peering through it as the train’s whistle blew. It jolted to life, and soon the train sped along and the platform dropped out of sight. You leaned back in your seat, hearing Cornelius strategize how he planned to tell your mother about what had happened with Dawson. You weren’t really listening; you were wondering what Sherlock was up to at that moment - chasing down some fiend, or telling Lestrade exactly how the case could be solved.

How could you know that Sherlock had missed you only by seconds, had watched the train pull out of the station, your glove clutched in his hand?

Chapter Text

Your mother was so livid that she couldn’t speak. Your father had heard Uncle Cornelius’ report of what you’d told Dawson, and he’d merely managed to reply, “... Well then.” And then he’d gently dismissed you so that this “ delicate matter” could be discussed between the three of them. You hadn’t wanted to leave the room and had debated arguing the point, but you could practically see the steam pouring out of your mother’s ears.

You couldn’t stop pacing in the hall outside of your father’s study. It was, of course, possible that they made you marry Dawson, if the man would still have you. Unfortunately, it was likely that he might; he had a horrid reputation that, despite his wealth and good looks, made him somewhat damaged goods to society. And you’d slighted him four times . Even if the man would have you, you were certain he would be far from kind. No love would blossom between the two of you.

You couldn’t hear through the door. You’d tried numerous times, but it was no bloody use.

A walk, you could do with a walk. You’d spent been nearly a month in London, and while you’d gone on plenty of walks with Sherlock (Dawson never wanted to go on any walks; he just wanted to sit around and talk about horses and the theater - he made a better companion to Cornelius than he did to you), you’d missed the countryside. You got your coat, and your hat, told your housemaid that if anyone asked, you would be out, and left. 

--

The breeze ruffled your hair, and you sighed with it, already feeling some of the tension melt from your shoulders. You had been right...Partially. While it was lovely to be out, these little back trails made you think of Enola, and the Holmes’. You already missed Enola. If you married Dawson, you’d spend the seasons in town, you’d be able to visit her freely. Dawson likely wouldn’t bother you once you were married, once you produced a son --

You pushed the thought away with a shake of your head, walking the path to Ferndell. Perhaps Mrs. Lane was in.

--

“You cannot honestly be considering--!”

“My dear, please do calm yourself.”

You frowned as you reentered your home and heard your parents bickering. You spotted Cornelius puttering around in the front hall and approached slowly.

“What’s going on?” You asked.

Cornelius looked at you and hesitated in answering before he finally said, “Apparently your father has had a letter and a visitor that he neglected to tell your mother about.”
How could that possibly be? Your parents always presented themselves as a united front. Your mother liked to boast that there was nothing that your father did that she didn’t know about.

“A visitor? Who?”

“Well it just so happens to be the same visitor that I also neglected to tell your mother about.”

“I don’t take your meaning, Uncle.”

“I may have… been remiss in mentioning your visits from Mr. Holmes.”

“Sherlock was here? When?”

“Earlier this week, so it seems.”

Why was it that when it came to Sherlock Holmes, you were always left with more questions than answers?

-- 

Earlier that week. When on earth could Sherlock have been there? You were so busy mulling over questions that you hardly spoke at all during dinner. You excused yourself early and went up to your room. You tried to settle in to read, but couldn’t bring yourself to. You had trouble getting into a comfortable position and once you had, you couldn’t quiet your mind enough to focus on the text.

Earlier that week ? And what on Earth for?

A letter. A letter and a visit.

A letter .

--

You waited until the house was dark and quiet before you crept down to your father’s study. It was something that you hadn’t done since you were quite young; you hadn’t had reason to since then. You were careful and quiet as you leafed through the things on his desk - books, ledgers, newspapers. You finally managed to unearth an envelope with Sherlock’s crisp writing on it - but there was no letter inside. You huffed a short, frustrated breath before tucking the envelope back where you’d found it. 

You went through the drawers next, and finally unearthed a small file. Within that file was Sherlock’s letter. Eyeing the date at the top of the letter, you saw that it had been sent the day that you’d told Sherlock that you’d be leaving London. You scanned the contents quickly, your eyes catching on the words, ‘ promptly’ and ‘ matter of great importance’ . There was nothing more to glean from it, though. You groaned, stomping your foot.

Stupidly vague. Classic Sherlock.

You tucked the letter away again, resolving yourself to ask your father in the morning why Sherlock had visited, and why he hadn’t told your mother.

--

You never got the chance to ask.

You fully intended to, of course. After breakfast, you dressed for the day, and you practically charged downstairs. Then you simply froze. Because there was Sherlock, shaking your father’s hand even as he was speaking to your mother. Your mother did not look happy (but then, when did she, really). Problem was, they had turned to see who exactly had charged down the stairs at such a speed and now you were just...Standing there.

You cleared your throat, clasping your hands in front of yourself.

“Mr. Holmes,” You greeted with a nod.

He smiled a bit.

“Would you care to join me for a walk?”

--

Neither of you were speaking. Neither of you had spoken since you’d left the house with Cornelius trailing his usual number of steps behind you. Sherlock was walking considerably closer to you, his arm brushing against yours every few steps.

“Did you wrap up your case?” You asked, glancing up at him. He nodded, but said nothing.

“Will you tell me about it?” You pressed.

“If you wish to hear about it.”

You scoffed.

“I would not have asked if I was uninterested. It’s not as if your ego needs any additional stroking.”

Sherlock chuckled, glancing back behind you.

“If you don’t mind… I’d rather not discuss the case just now.”

You frowned, turning to look at-- Where had Cornelius gone? You stopped walking, looking around; you didn’t see him anywhere . You sighed, shaking your head.

“Lord knows what that man gets up to,” You mumbled, “Fine, then. What would you like to discuss? Oh! I know,” You began to walk before Sherlock could answer you, “Why did you visit my father this week?”

Sherlock fell back into step beside you.

“That is part of the reason I wished to speak with you. Before I come to that matter, however, I must ask you something.”

“Alright.”

“Has Lord Dawson spoken to you of marriage?”

Your mouth twisted into a frown.

“He has. Several times.”

“And you’ve given your answer?”

“I have. Several times.”

“Then I take it that it has not been...A favorable answer.”

“Your sleuthing skills never fail to astound, Mr. Holmes,” You nudged Sherlock’s arm with your own. He sighed as he stopped walking, and he reached out, catching hold of your arm to still you, too.

“Please don’t tease me just now, love,” He murmured.

Your stomach twisted, but you pushed the sensation away. You’d heard him wrong, surely. You’d done it once before.

“Not in a teasing mood, then. That’s a first for you,” You commented, arching a brow, “What else would you like to discuss, Mr. Holmes?”

“If I might know the reasons for your refusing Lord Dawson--”

“I’m really not sure what Fredrick has to do with this conversation--”

“Then I might have a better understanding of my chances.”

You pulled your arm out of his grip then, taking a couple of steps back. You couldn’t trust this -- you didn’t .

“Don’t,” You mumbled, taking a couple of steps back toward the house.

“Don’t?” Sherlock repeated, the word soft, almost broken. You shook your head, pressing on,

“Don’t be cruel, Sherlock.”

“Cruel?” He took a step toward you, “How could you possibly think that I would say that to make fun, or as some-- What was it you said to me in the garden that night? As an experiment? This is not a game for me, love, I am…” You watched him lower his eyes to the ground, saw him take in a deep breath, “I know that I am not as wealthy as Lord Dawson, the life that he can provide to you is far superior than what I can provide you, but... But I do know that I find you to be brilliant, and clever, and enchanting. I do not presume to ever be worthy of you,” His eyes met yours, gentle and pleading, and you would swear to your dying day that you felt your heart skip a beat, “But I will spend the rest of my life trying to be. I love you, dove.”

The words rolled through you like thunder, trickling from head to toe; it wasn’t cold, but you felt yourself shiver. You watched him reach into his pocket, and couldn’t help your soft laugh as he pulled out your glove. You reached out, taking it from him and twisting it between your hands.

“...Why did you visit my father?” You asked.

“To get his consent to ask for your hand...Your mother wasn’t pleased with the idea--” Sherlock added.

“She’ll have to get used to it,” You tipped your chin up as you stepped closer to him. His brows rose a bit.

“Will she?”

You nodded, reaching up and taking a hold of his lapels.

“What are you doing, love?” He was watching you closely, guarded but curious under those long lashes.

“I’m making my choice, Sherlock,” You murmured before you brushed your lips against his. You smiled as you felt one of Sherlock’s hands cup your cheek; the other pressed to your lower back, drawing you closer to him. You sighed, letting your hands slide from his lapels, looping around his neck. Where Sherlock had always been forthright and combative, he was gentle and yielding, pliant under your fingers and lips. It was sweet and unhurried; you were suddenly very grateful that Cornelius seemed to have taken some sort of detour.

Sherlock’s forehead rested against yours as the kiss broke.

“I ought to ask you properly,” He mumbled. You rolled your eyes.

“When have you ever done anything properly?”

Sherlock laughed before leaning in for one chaste kiss, then another.

“I got rid of Cornelius, didn’t I?” He mumbled. You leaned away to look at him, arching a brow.

“What did you do?”

“I asked nicely...And promised him a bottle of brandy.”

You laughed.

“Sherlock Holmes, you’re a menace.”

He gave you a smile, sweet, beautiful.

“A menace that you wish to marry,” He reminded you.

“A menace that is to be my husband,” You nodded. His grip tightened around you as you said so.

“And you’re to be my wife,” He sounded almost awed as he whispered it. You reached up, brushing his curls back from his forehead.

“I love you, Sherlock.”

“And I you, dove. Dearly.”