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Chapter Text

Paris was a decidedly more liberal environment than London. As such, Edith had become practiced at rejecting unwanted attention and quite good at ignoring it, too. Which is why it took Eleanor whispering in her ear for her to notice she was being leered at.

“Don’t look now, but the gentleman across the way has been staring at you all night.”

Edith scanned the boxes on the other side of the theater, eyes quickly alighting on a man of about middle age, with salt and pepper at his temples, a matching mustache, and prodigious eyebrows. His hair was brushed back smartly and he was dressed to the fashion in a black tailcoat and white tie. She would dare say he cut a dashing figure, except one look at him and Edith knew immediately it was Sherlock Holmes wearing a paltry disguise.

“How much do you think I could charge him for the view?” she muttered to her friend.

Eleanor lightly rapped Edith’s arm, her amusement hidden behind a well placed fan.

Thankfully, it didn’t come up again until later, when they paused in the grand hall for refreshments. Edith enjoyed the Parisian ballets. The technical components reminded her of fighting—graceful and intricate in its interplay between dancers. It was always the afterwards she found tedious. High society was never her crowd.

“Here comes Professor Blanchet with your mystery gentleman,” warned Eleanor. “If you’re in need of rescue, just say the word.”

“Bon soir, ladies—Madame Hetherington, Mademoiselle Grayston,” Professor Blanchet greeted, sketching a respectful bow. “An exquisite interpretation, wouldn’t you say?”

“Professor.” Eleanor dipped into a curtsy. “Edith and I were just commenting on how very well choreographed it was.”

“Yes, the best so far this season. Ladies, I would like to introduce you to my colleague, Monsieur Rupert Fontaine.” Edith had to try very hard not to choke on her drink. “A countryman of yours, actually. He is here to give a lecture on the mind altering effects of fungi.”

“How fascinating,” said Eleanor, doing her best to control the conversation. “Have you experimented with them yourself, Mr. Fontaine?”

“I’ve dabbled,” he responded in a scratchy low timber. “Though the real thrill is in the hunting of them.”

“Is that right?”

“Indeed. The best time is right after a heavy, prolonged rain, when the Earth is wet and sodden and there’s a strong pungent aroma in the air. I find that’s when nature is most keen to reveal her hidden splendor.”

Poor Eleanor, Edith thought, watching the color rise on her friend’s cheeks. A gallant effort, nonetheless.

“Well, that does sound thrilling,” said Eleanor. “I suppose you’ll have to offer us a demonstration.”

“It would be my pleasure,” he replied as his eyes drifted toward Edith.

“Madame Hetherington,” interrupted Professor Blanchet with a vague put upon air, “I would very much like to discuss a potential topic for your next salon.”

Eleanor spared a concerned glance in her direction. Edith nodded, assuring her friend she was capable of handling a mycologist who enjoyed rolling around in the dirt a little too much.

The professor led Eleanor to a quiet corner, leaving the two of them alone to quietly sip from their glasses of champagne. “He’s in love with her,” Sherlock as Mr. Fontaine concluded as he watched them retreat.

What sort of trouble had Professor Blanchet gotten himself into if Sherlock was here in disguise? Eyeing him curiously, Edith wondered if he knew she knew he was Sherlock and was continuing the charade for pure amusement. Perhaps the bubbles had reached her head because Edith decided playing along was a perfectly harmless idea. In fact, it might provide a nice distraction from the discomfort she felt at these uppercrust convenings.

“It is possible for men to respect women, Mr. Fontaine,” Edith said. “Just because he has a regard for her doesn’t mean he’s in love.”

“Is that him regarding her now?” he asked, pointing in the direction where the professor was placing a lingering kiss on Eleanor’s hand. As if on cue, Eleanor’s husband appeared, his face barely masking a simmering rage. Professor Blanchet mumbled a clumsy explanation and then dashed off, his face redder than the Queen’s birthday parade. Whatever patronage he was receiving from the Hetheringtons would most likely dry up by the evening’s conclusion.

Edith sighed inwardly. So much for high minded ideals concerning relations between the sexes. Determined to match the conversation to their genteel surroundings, she turned to her companion and stiffly asked, “How did you come to be such an expert on mushrooms, Mr. Fontaine?”

“My childhood groundskeeper. I spent many hours following him about the family estate. He was highly knowledgeable.”

Edith suspected there was a grain of truth to the tale. Those were always the best lies. She could picture a young Sherlock peppering the groundskeeper with an endless string of questions while scrambling over logs, doing his best to keep up.

“This is duller than a rusted pocket knife,” he complained out of nowhere and downed his drink in one. “Shall we go searching for a more lively atmosphere?”

“God, yes,” she immediately answered, grateful for an excuse to leave.

Edith polished off her own drink and instructed him to wait for her outside while she made her apologies to Eleanor and Mr. Hetherington, her friend bidding her good night with a knowing look. Out in the warm, humid air, Edith found him leaning against a column smoking a pipe, a coat slung over his shoulder, and came up short.

In his tails, high waisted trousers, and white tie, he was a breathtaking sight. There was an air of distinction about him, a charm and quiet confidence accompanying age and experience. How these qualities could exist inside someone she considered possessed none of those things was a marvel unto itself.

When he spotted her staring, the corner of his mouth turned up in a roguish grin. His eyes were bright with mischief and she could see in them the promise of an evening full of intrigue and possibility. Edith resolved then and there to turn a blind eye to all the parts of the man that reminded her of Sherlock Holmes and to welcome whatever adventure might find her.

They eventually settled on a rowdy café along the Seine. Between the music and crowd, conversation was minimal, which suited Edith just fine.

Rupert was an agreeable man. He had a genuine smile that reached his eyes and made them wrinkle at the corners. Every once in a while he would lean over and shout some information about the music without being patronizing or comment on some funny thing he’d noticed about their fellow revelers.

He was also incredibly handsome, a fact she was finding harder and harder to ignore. His greying curls were polished back, save for the lock hanging over his forehead. This close, she could see the shadow of a beard beginning to appear along the sharp cut of his jaw, the fine structure of his high cheekbones, and the expressive play of his eyebrows.

At one point, he offered her a dry piece of shriveled mushroom—if her curiosity was so compelled—and she accepted, not even inquiring on what she ought to expect. It took about an hour to feel the effects. In the meantime, she imbibed in a short serving of absinthe dripped over sugar and a glass of red wine.

As the fungus took its hold, Edith grew weary of the noise. She waited for a break in the music to whisper an invitation in his ear. This brought him to his feet at once, his elbow extended toward her. Normally, she declined such offers, but tonight she welcomed the additional stability.

Arm in arm they strode, taking a circuitous route to enjoy the views of the river. Despite having tread this path many times, for Edith it was like seeing it anew. The twinkling street lamps in the distance were alive and vibrating and she imagined she could distinguish each individual particle of light. There were colors she hadn’t noticed before, shimmering along the rippling waters. Even the cobblestones danced below her feet.

A noise startled her. Edith let out a gasp, clinging tightly to Rupert’s arm. “That cat was green,” she observed in wonder, watching it dart into a pulsating alley. His answering laugh was throaty and deep, sending a thrill down her spine, her heart beating quickly.

When they reached her place, they climbed the four flights of stairs to her small apartment. Eleanor’s cousin, Diane, the one who’d married a Frenchman, had offered her a permanent room in her house, but Edith preferred the freedom to come and go as she pleased.

Rupert took in the space eagerly, examining the easel of charcoal drawings by the window and her growing collection of books stacked haphazardly in the corner. She poured them each a snifter of brandy and opened a window so that the wind might carry the sounds of music up to them.

“Junqueiro, Chénier, Hugo—are you hoping to start a revolution, Miss Grayston?” he asked, sorting through the piles.

Edith felt a small pinch of regret. “I already tried. Now I just read about it.”

He joined her by the window, looking out across the glittering city lights. “How mysterious,” he said, his eyes fixed on her mouth.

The night was warm and, at this height, it collected and pooled in the small space. Edith leaned back against the window sill, enjoying the breeze against the nape of her neck, and encouraged it along by undoing the buttons of her high-collared dress.

“I do believe you’re trying to seduce me,” Rupert said, his voice rough with need.

A slow smile spread across her face, as if daring him to do something about it. Accepting the challenge, he captured her lips in a small ember of a kiss—gentle and yielding—a large hand resting on her waist. Edith ran her tongue along the seam of his mouth and he welcomed her with parted lips. The kiss smoldered: reaching, retreating, teeth scraping along flesh; until it caught into a blazing passion—pushing and devouring—his tongue playing along the length of hers.

He smelled of smoke and tasted like it, too, with a good measure of brandy mixed in. There was also the subtle scent of spices and the natural odor of his body, mingling together to make an intoxicating perfume.

Edith pulled at his jacket lapels, bending him over her; his hand shooting out to brace against the window frame, still holding his drink; the other clutched her waist tightly. They broke apart, gasping, foreheads pressed together, their lips swollen and bruised.

“I had a sense you’d be dangerous,” he said.

Edith reached for his brandy and polished it down as he watched, mesmerized, and deposited the empty glass on the sill. Slipping a finger into the waistline of his trousers, she pulled him ever closer. “I promise I won’t bite.”

“Let’s not rule it out,” he said, flattening her back against the window.

He nursed at her bottom lip to chase a stray drop of liquor as she snaked her hands underneath his jacket, nudging it off his broad shoulders. Rupert took the hint, shucking it off completely, and started in on the row of buttons down her front. Only it was a lot of buttons, so after a few moments of struggle, he pulled away and asked, “May I?” before wrenching the fabric apart, the metal beads pitter pattering across the floor. Edith did the same to his shirt, he took a knife to her corset; then they were down to their undergarments, shuffling toward the bed.

Edith had been with men before, had enjoyed it even, but the encounters were usually brief and over before she could find true pleasure. As much as she’d attempted to enter this with an open mind, her bar was very low. Fortunately, there were many things working in Rupert’s favor: the warm weather, the booze, and the euphoric effects of the mushroom. They heightened the intensity in which she experienced every touch, every look, and every word of praise whispered into her ear.

He was generous in his attentions, as if his own release hinged on Edith finding hers. The realization alone sent a pulsing shock to her loins, pushing her to an orgasm that stole her breath from her lungs. All she could do was grip the sheets above her head and bite down on his shoulder as he thrust, holding on for dear life as she rode out the cresting wave.

His own release followed quickly. He rolled off her to avoid the potential for future complications and used a discarded garment to wipe himself clean. They lay there for a while, panting and sated, watching the shadows on the ornate ceiling tiles grow and shrink.

Eventually, Edith rolled out of bed to freshen up. She donned the satin kimono Eleanor gifted her and took the pins from her hair. By the time she was finished, Rupert was up and had poured himself another brandy. He was browsing through her sketchbook—still lifes, nudes of all shapes and sizes, landscapes, too. It was a hobby more than anything, something she could do with her hands instead of thinking all the time.

She came up behind him as he was inspecting a figure drawing of a naked man, an unhappy frown on his face. “No good?” she asked, peering around him.

“You did the best with what you were given.”

Edith rolled her eyes. “Would you like to pose, then?” she mocked in good fun.

But rather than laugh or give a witty retort, he looked at her with an impish smile, his hair falling over an eye, and said, “How do you want me?”

There were a myriad of ways she could have answered, ultimately deciding to direct him to the chaise and instructed him to lay out in whatever way made him comfortable. He took to lounging, one arm behind his head, a knee bent—on full display for her viewing pleasure—and the snifter of brandy resting on his chest.

Making conversation as she drew, he asked, “How long have you been in Paris?”

“Six months,” Edith said.

“And what brought you here?”

She thought about how best to answer, searching for something definitive enough to assuage his curiosity without revealing too much. “I needed a change. London society can be stifling,” which was truth enough.

“Will you be returning soon?”

“Eventually.”

“So now you read books about revolutions and entice unsuspecting men back to your studio under the pretense of art.”

“I also teach.”

“What do you teach?”

“English, mostly.”

“Mostly?”

Edith paused and gave him a stern glare. “Yes, mostly.”

He pouted but stopped his interrogation, sipping his brandy to console himself. The silence was welcoming as she concentrated on the sculpted contours of his torso, admiring how they flared just above the hips before dipping into a V shape, ending at his loins. His arms were massive; she suspected he chose this position to show off the pronounced definition of his bicep. He was a prime physical specimen for his sex and Edith even found his phallus quite pleasing to look at.

Where she found herself tripping up was his face and she realized, then, what a colossal mistake this exercise had been. There was no ignoring those piercing blue-greys and the distinct cleft on his chin, pieces of Sherlock she had been so determined to overlook. So she abandoned her efforts; joined him on the chaise, fitting herself at his side; and hitched her leg over his thigh.

“Done are we?” he quipped, wrapping his arm around her shoulders so she wouldn’t fall.

“You’ve distracted me.”

He hummed, nuzzling his nose against hers. “A terrible tragedy,” he murmured into her lips before kissing her gently.

They spent several minutes in this tender embrace. Edith marveled at his yielding softness, how it made her feel warm and dizzy. A moan escaped her and he took it as an invitation to rotate over so he could discard his glass on the small table beside them without breaking their kiss. Rolling them back, he pulled her on top of him, his hands exploring every satin inch.

Edith sat up, straddling his middle, and undid the ties of her kimono. It fell open, revealing only a strip of skin from her throat down to the junction of her thighs. She rocked her hips, gliding her opening along his hardened length, enjoying the feel of his cock head against the sensitive nub between her legs. She felt powerful sitting astride him, watching the apple of his throat bob as he swallowed his lust, his eyes blown wide.

He traced a hand down the visible expanse of skin between her breasts, down across the soft swell of her belly; before traveling back up, the rough of his palm a delightful sensation on her nipple as he cupped her; further up still to slip the kimono off her shoulder, exposing half of her to the open air.

“My god, you’re beautiful,” he breathed, drinking her in as his thumb caressed the underside of her breast.

Thanks to her ministrations, he was slick enough from her arousal to guide him inside with ease. His head fell back against the chaise as he let out a long, low groan, reveling in the feeling of being enveloped by her warmth.

A sharp and strange new sensation had her leaning forward, bracing herself on his chest, her curls falling around her face like dandelion fluff. It felt like being punched from the inside—a blunt pain that started at her core before vibrating outward through the rest of her body, dissipating into tingling pleasure around the edges.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

Edith nodded her head, taking deep breaths as she adjusted to the feel of him. He waited patiently, his hands soothing along her curves. Once she adjusted to it, she gave an experimental sweep of her hips and again had to stop.

“It’s deep,” she explained with her eyes screwed shut. “I’ve never felt this before.”

Abruptly, he sat up, brushed the hair out of her face, and kissed her urgently. Bringing her with him, he swung his feet around so they were firmly planted on the floor, the change in position lessening the intensity of the sensation by some small degree. The satin kimono pooled like water onto the floor as she slipped her limbs from it and wrapped her arms around him, sinking a hand into his locks, and tried a third time, shuddering at the full body pleasure of it.

He cursed, his fingers flexing against her back muscles. “Incredible,” he grit out.

Emboldened, she moved again, this time without pausing, rocking in small tentative motions. His hands traveled down and firmly gripped her rear, encouraging her along as he placed wet, hot, open-mouthed kisses across her neck and chest, nibbling and sucking at her teat.

By now, Edith was positively dripping. The lewd sounds of them—slick and wet, loud and wanton—harmonized like a symphony. She gripped his hair tightly and a small moan escaped him; the vibrations on her nipple shivered down her spine. Inspired, she pulled harder and was rewarded with a loud groan, her gut starting to coil tight at the sound.

“Edith,” he warned, fingers pressing indents into her flesh.

She jerked his head back by his hair so she could see his face. “I want to watch you,” she panted.

That was enough. He hastily lifted her off him, his eyes shuttering with a moan. The abundant muscles in his abdomen and thighs clenched tight as he spilled, ropes of white leaping forth in bursts, his phallus pulsing with each release.

Overcome with curiosity, Edith drew a finger along the underside of his overly sensitive member, causing him to give a strained gasp, and collected a few drops. The taste was pungent and bitter on her tongue but not altogether unpleasant. He watched her in awe, mouth agape.

Taking his hand, she folded his fingers against his palm, save for his middle and forefinger; brought it to her mouth, sucking and laving; and coated him in her spit. When they were sufficiently moist, she withdrew them with a smack, guided him down to her slit, and instructed him on exactly how to touch her. He was a quick study. Soon he was caressing her in just the right spot, building the tension at her core like a windup toy.

Edith rose to her knees to give him more clearance, those muscled biceps being put to good use as he quickened the pace and pressure. His free hand gripped her rear for purchase as he fingered her hard and fast. Oh, the sounds she made—incomprehensible gibberish, whining moans, and the wet squelch of his hand against her as he worked her to her release.

Her orgasm crashed over her hard, doubling Edith over even as he kept at it, her legs shaking uncontrollably. She tried to stop him by grabbing his wrist, completely drenched, the sensation overwhelming; and still, it only slowed him down, forcing her to push herself up by his shoulders to escape.

Finally pulling free, he marveled at the moisture she’d produced, sucking her ardor from his fingers. Edith slumped against him, still throbbing, trying to catch her breath. He used his dry hand to stroke her back as he placed feather light kisses onto her shoulder.

“Absolutely phenomenal,” he said in praise. “We must do that again.”

By the third time, the illusion began to wane. The pace he’d set was luxuriously slow, almost tender, the kind where you have nowhere else to look but straight into the other person's eyes; those damn blue-grey eyes framed by long lashes, and shadowed by a chronically furrowed brow.

Sweat from exertion had weakened the adhesive of his mustache and the powder in his hair had mostly shaken off. He was beginning to look less like a distinguished, older gentleman who spent all his time in the wilderness, and more and more like Sherlock Holmes.

Edith shut her eyes, hoping to persevere the pretense for as long as she could. Otherwise, she would have to consider how she was going to tell Eudoria about shagging her son multiple times over the course of one evening. And then she would have to admit to Enola she’d inadvertently grown to fancy her brother. Not to mention the mystery of how someone so dismissive of attachments could also be so good at this.

She tried imagining them together in the woods, fucking on the mossy ground among the ferns and trees, their basket of mushrooms forgotten; but then Sherlock’s voice cut in, not even trying to pretend.

“Look at me, Edith,” he said, panting.

Edith shook her head, unwilling to comply, too afraid of what it would mean if she did. She tried to kiss him, but he reared back just far enough to taunt her, his lips grazing over hers.

He cupped her face, a thumb brushing along the thin skin of her lower lid. “Edith,” he tried again, a desperate tinge to his voice, his thrusts becoming erratic, “please.”

And she did, god help her; she looked and all of her fears were realized. He’d taken off the false mustache and his hair fell in wet dark hanks over his unfairly handsome face. There was no hiding from it any longer, no excuses she could make. He was Sherlock, as real and complicated and brilliant as she remembered him; who hated his mother and people in general but had a secret softness for lost girls; and for whatever reason, a fondness and hunger for her. All the time and work she’d done to create distance, gone in a blink of an eye and left in its place was a mess of her own making.

This time when she came, it was gentle and quiet, prolonged by Sherlock’s breathless encouragement. “God yes, keep going, you can do it. Edith, look at me. Keep going. That’s it,” on and on until her toes curled and her back arched up off the creaky mattress, her muscles bearing down around him.

When she could do no more, Sherlock pressed his weight into her, his nose nestled in the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent. Tensing, he pulled himself out and spilled onto the cotton sheets, his pleasure loud and delicious in her ears. They lay like that for a brief moment, both of them catching their breaths. One of Sherlock’s hands was still caressing her face while the other began marking a path down between her legs, greedy for more.

All at once, anger flared inside her. How dare he break this fragile spell, to demand from her an intimacy she had not agreed to give. She swatted his hand away before shoving him off; scrambled out of bed, sticky and wet; and retreated behind the changing screen in the corner of the room where she didn’t have to see him and be reminded of how disappointed she was in herself for failing to untangle from the quagmire that was him and his family.

Because if she was truly honest, she would have to admit she missed Eudoria terribly. Edith still heard her voice inside her head anytime she was contemplating a decision. Paris was supposed to be about creating her own inner guiding star, to locate the voice she’d hushed many years ago in service of belonging.

Edith would also have to admit how much she enjoyed Sherlock’s company, found comfort in it even. She felt drawn to him despite his tactless manners and strong opinions. It was a thrill when she managed to change his mind about a thing or made him see it with fresh eyes. Above all, she resented herself for caring too much about his good opinion.

With a damp washcloth from the basin she started wiping herself clean, trying to reclaim some semblance of dignity. It wasn’t long until she felt Sherlock’s presence behind her. He didn’t say anything, only enfolded her in his embrace, one arm around her shoulders, the other just below her breasts, pressing his cheek to her temple. He was warm, broad, and firm in all the right places, a solid bulwark against her back; and for a moment she felt what she imagined to be security, even as her heart beat with a quickness that made her uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“For what?” she asked, dubious he understood the pain he’d caused her.

“For not being forthright with my intentions: I needed you to want me.”

“You should have told me from the start,” she agreed. Sherlock held her tighter, his large hands making indents in her flesh, nuzzling his nose against her hairline. Understanding his action as one of contrition, she yielded, placing her hands over his forearms. “It frightens me, wanting you.”

It was the most truthful she’d ever been aloud about the content of her heart. She felt simultaneously exhilarated and nervous. Most importantly, she felt liberated from the burden of carrying it around all on her own. It was proof of her potential: she could be freely herself, fully and authentically—her fears and desires and shortcomings all.

At her admission, he pressed into her, already half hard. “We are both of us inexperienced. It could work so long as we take turns getting it wrong and not all at once,” he said, mildly sardonic.

Edith felt a sadness overtake her. “I’m not ready to go back.”

His hold slackened a little and Edith rotated in his arms, looking up at him. He was putting on a brave face for her benefit, but she could see the disappointment in his eyes, the illusion he’d been carrying shattered. They stood naked before one another, unbearable reality settling like snow around them.

This was never going to work.

“Will you write?” she tried, hoping to find a thread of amiability to preserve.

“No,” he replied bluntly and she couldn’t be angry at him for telling the truth.

Despite his assurances, they’d gotten it wrong and all at once: he wanted more than she was ready to give.

“As it goes,” she said, attempting at graceful acceptance, to which he echoed, “As it goes.”

They parted ways, Edith seeing him off at the train station the next morning. She watched as it departed, growing smaller and smaller until it disappeared around a bend. Afterwards, she attended a lecture on the European Revolutions of 1820 before rendezvousing with a few friends at a café to discuss the ethics and effectiveness of disruptive disobedience.

And life went on.

Chapter Text

Eleanor’s next salon turned out to be a revelation. The topic was Abstraction in Art, which was all well and good, but the interesting part was a young man named Albert Carnot. After the last dreadful year, Edith found herself drawn to him for reasons that did not surprise her a whit.

(Professor Blanchet was notably absent but not missed.)

Albert was a staunch socialist. He strongly believed the ways their society organized itself around the exploitation of people was unjust and he despised the long reach of Europe across the globe. Some years her junior, his youthful idealism was untested, but what he lacked in finesse and experience, he more than made up for in eagerness. They would stay up half the night dissecting the Communist Manifesto or debating the efficacy of the Paris Commune, all between rigorous bouts of love making.

“How is it you came to be so sexually liberated?” he asked one evening as they lay naked together, passing a cigarette between them.

“Why shouldn’t I be?” Edith replied, blowing out a long thin stream of smoke from her lips.

“Aren’t women expected to be chaste and virtuous?”

“By whom?”

Albert shrugged. “By everyone.”

Edith rolled over onto her stomach and looked at him, piqued by the conversation. “Do you?”

“Of course not,” he said at once, but Edith raised an eyebrow not quite believing him. Albert wolfishly grinned, eager to prove himself, and rose up onto an elbow. “I think women should be allowed to follow their desires, just as men do. I believe women should be able to fuck whomever they want, whenever they want, with as many people as they want. As many times as they want. They should know their bodies intimately—what brings them pleasure, how to pleasure themselves.”

As he spoke, he traced his fingers along her spine, down between the roundness of her cheeks, finding where she was already wet with anticipation.

“Those are very good beliefs,” Edith said, her eyes fluttering shut.

No more was spoken on the subject.

After Albert, there was a woman named Clotilde Du Bois, who was dark skinned like herself and had come to France from the West African colonies. The nuns who’d raised her had named her after the venerated saint, credited as having spread the news of Jesus Christ across the European continent.

Edith had seen Clotilde in passing numerous times in the market. Their eyes would meet on occasion and there had always been the novel thrill of seeing herself reflected in a stranger’s face.

Clotilde was a reserved woman and demurred under Edith’s attention. It took many months before she felt comfortable enough to carry on a conversation. Once she opened up, Edith found herself smitten. She was warm and funny and knew how to spin a compelling yarn. Her dream was to be an author and she would often share her writings with Edith—painful stories about the horrors of growing up in the colonies and the anguish of being raised in a mission without knowing where she’d come from.

It ripped Edith open to read. She saw her own pain mirrored in Clotilde’s words, could feel the old scars tear open and bleed anew; but as soon as she finished, a calm settled within her, like a balm over her bruised soul.

They made love only once, after Clotilde’s first published story. She appeared at Edith’s door, bright eyed and brimming with excitement, and had kissed Edith clumsily on the mouth. Her innocence was intoxicating. Edith spent almost an hour enjoying her taste. Every sound of wonder made her throb until it was almost painful and she reached down to touch herself, timing her orgasm to match.

In the morning, Clotilde dressed hurriedly, tears in her eyes. “What have I done?” she asked, barely above a whisper.

Edith sat upright in bed, bewildered. “You’ve done nothing.”

“It is a sin.”

“According to whom?”

“To God.”

Edith remained tight-lipped, knowing there was nothing she could say to change her mind. She keenly remembered the guilt and shame accompanying each of her early encounters, blaming herself for not being strong enough to resist the desire. It had taken years to unlearn and along the way she’d lost her faith. No amount of reassurance or kindness had made a difference. It was a journey she’d had to walk on her own. She sat in bed, her knees pulled to her chest, feeling the echoes of old shames course through her as she watched Clotilde's desparate escape.

“God made us, Clotilde,” Edith said, her voice distant in her own ears.

“He made us wrong.”

She didn’t see Clotilde again.

Edith paced back and forth in Eleanor’s parlor, her arms crossed, worrying her lower lip with her teeth. The only sounds that could be heard were her shoes, the ticking of the grandfather clock, and the occasional turning of a page.

It had taken her six months to write her first essay critiquing the shortcomings of the suffrage movement in England and another three months to translate into French. The resulting work was currently held in Eleanor’s long fingers. Other than the crease in her brows, her friend's face was placid in the early afternoon sun.

After what felt like ages, Eleanor placed the last page face down on the table and leaned back in her chair, staring off into the middle distance.

“Well?” Edith asked after a while, rocking on her heels with her thumb nail between her teeth.

Eleanor looked up, dazed, as if she’d come to some profound realization, the world opening its horizons to greet her. “I think you’ve done it.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. It’s everything I’ve felt, but didn’t have the words for. Everything—it’s connected. A collective spiritual oppression. Our pain is your pain and yours is ours.” Beaming, Eleanor stood and gathered Edith into her arms. “I’m so proud of you,” she said, rocking them back and forth.

Edith hugged her back tightly. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Tosh,” Eleanor said before pulling back, her hands still on Edith’s shoulders. The grin she wore, however, began to fade, a worried expression taking over. “Are you ready for this?”

Edith laughed, at once relieved and anxious and giddy. “No, not at all.”

“Then we might as well start drinking.”

Edith’s essay landed in the French newspapers to moderate attention. Not until a rebuttal was published by an offended politician did she receive her first invitation to speak.

She was a nervous wreck the week leading up to the event. Eleanor and Diane were kind enough to help her practice and she looked for them in the crowd of faces as she spoke. Afterwards, they celebrated with a bottle of champagne and a cake Diane had ordered to mark the occasion.

More invitations followed, including an opportunity to debate said politician, and it would be a lie to call it a resounding success. She’d made some good points, but the format was foreign to her and there were some moments where her mind could not formulate arguments quickly enough. Still, she learned a great deal from the experience.

By now, two years had passed since she’d left England, slipping out like a robber in the middle of the night. In hindsight, she could recognize the action as cowardly, but at the time it had felt the only way. She hadn’t been strong enough then to face her challenges straight on. She felt strong enough now.

Edith penned two letters: a long one to Eudoria detailing her adventures abroad (with some omissions) and requesting her assistance to procure lodging for her return to the country. The second much shorter one was to Sherlock, informing him of her pending arrival.

Of the two, she sent the longer one.

The townhouse was much larger than a woman living alone required. Eudoria had insisted, however, citing the importance of having adequate space for meetings and hosting important guests. After living in a small apartment for two years, the extra room and an actual kitchen was, indeed, nice.

Edith spent the first week in England finding her bearings and writing letters to her former jiu-jitsu students. The second week, she paid visits to the women who’d defected from the former regime. Approaching them as a new convert who’d realized the error of their ways, she persuaded them to join her for a new and better vision, a vision where women of all classes and persuasions could thrive with dignity and self-determination.

It felt wonderful to have a focus again, a clear and driving direction. Her time in France had been transformative and she wouldn’t have traded it for the world, but being back confirmed for her England was home and her fight would always be here.

In her third week, Edith met with prominent members of the Labour Party. Accompanying her were Eudoria and Eleanor, who’d agreed to leave France earlier than scheduled. It was a major step toward a united front, but first acknowledgements had to be made.

“You understand our position, then?” Edith said, her back straight and chin held firm. “A full page in the next edition of your paper, apologizing for the failings of your party to adequately address the unique plights of women in this country and to provide a place within your ranks for equal power in decisions concerning party matters.”

“The numbers do not lie, Miss Grayston. Votes for women would bring the Labour Party into majority. If this is what is needed, we are willing to try.”

When she arrived home that evening, Edith was feeling tipsy and high strung. Eudoria had convinced them to stop at a pub for a proper British pint. “All that French wine, it can’t be good for you,” she’d said as she’d led them in. One pint had turned into two, and then three, and maybe a few more and by the end most of the men had stopped giving them guff.

There was a lot to celebrate. Edith felt like she was standing at the top of a great hill, looking out over an expanse of possibility. From here, the momentum could only build and keep growing. She could feel it in her veins, her body alive and thrumming.

Not yet ready for sleep, she remembered Eudoria had gifted her a bottle of brandy as a house warming present. As she was pouring herself a generous finger, there was a knock at the door. Curious who could be visiting at such a late hour, Edith peered through the window. It was Sherlock, his handsome face unsmiling.

A small twinge of guilt caught her in the chest. She hadn’t written, reasoning he was capable of finding her on his own if he wanted. He’d certainly done it before.

Edith took a deep breath to steel herself before letting him into the foyer, his eyes compulsively scanning the room. There was nothing remarkably changed about him. He was still as fine a specimen as he’d always been with his dark curls, strongly sculpted features, and broad shoulders.

“What a pleasant surprise,” she greeted dryly, slipping easily into their familiar back and forth.

“Is it? I wouldn’t have guessed,” he said, taking in her nonplussed expression. “Nice house. How are you affording it?”

“Your inheritance, most likely,” answered Edith, put out by the question.

He glanced at her sidelong, eyeing her up and down. “Don’t even joke.”

Hoping to keep the conversation cordial she said, “How can I help you this evening, Mr. Holmes?”

Something dark flickered across his features, fast and fleeting. He opened his mouth to speak but then shut it, repeating the motion a few more times, until finally he muttered, “Oh, the hell with it,” rushed forward, and kissed her.

Edith made a startled noise as her back hit the wall. His tongue prodded the seam of her lips and she opened to him without thinking. The smokey taste of him was familiar and memories of riding his cock flashed behind her eyelids, a pleasurable heat beginning to build between her legs.

Abruptly, she broke away, pushing at his shoulders. “I can’t,” she said, breathless.

“Why not?”

Edith swallowed, her mouth suddenly gone dry. “Because you’re everything I’m fighting against.”

His jaw clenched, biting down a rebuttal. Instead of arguing, Sherlock insinuated a leg between hers, pressing with delicious intent, and said, “Don’t you think it makes it more interesting?”

It was hard to disagree.

With one fluid motion, Edith yanked at his lapel, capturing his mouth in a searing kiss. Then she pulled them up and over his shoulders, his jacket dropping to the floor to join his hat. He reached for her buttons, his fingers clumsy with the small enamels on her shirt.

“Forget the buttons,” Edith instructed, unfastening his trousers with ease. “Take your jacket off.”

Sherlock obeyed while Edith grabbed the mass of her skirts and hitched them up above her hips. Catching her behind the knees, Sherlock hoisted her off the floor and her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. The hardness of his arousal as he rutted into her made her heart leap with anticipation.

She managed to liberate him from his confines and guided him between the fabric of her open drawers. Overpowered by lust and his own impatience, Sherlock pushed into her with a single hard thrust. Edith cried out in pleasurable surprise and he swallowed the sound, his tongue raking across the roof of her mouth.

Using the wall for leverage, she met him thrust for thrust, relishing the sensation of being stretched and filled. Just as the coil in her gut was growing tighter, Sherlock broke apart and said with a rough voice, “I have a proposition.”

Not wanting the moment ruined, she clamped a hand over his mouth, willing him to silence. In retaliation, he pushed off the wall and deposited her bodily onto the stairs, the rise uncomfortably pressing against her back. Sherlock went to his knees before her and skated his hands beneath her skirt, up along her stockings. Loosening the ties of her drawers, he pulled them down over her hips; tossed it haphazardly aside; spread her open; and kissed her inner thigh—wet and bruising—moving higher and higher, touching everywhere except where it mattered. When he finally made it to her womanhood, he paused and said, “We could make this a clandestine affair.”

Edith whined, lifting her hips desperately toward him; he was so close, she could feel his breath on her skin. Hungry for more, she sunk her fingers into his hair and guided him to where she needed him most. His tongue ventured out and lapped at her folds with slow, deliberate strokes, tasting her. With every pass he explored deeper, eventually latching onto the sensitive nub between her inner lips, and prodded it out from beneath its hood with the flick of his tongue. Edith’s eyes drifted close, a moan escaping her as she bucked into him involuntarily. “God, yes,” she breathed, her head falling back onto the stairs, drunk on the pleasure of it. Sherlock hummed in approval, the vibrations making her clamp her thighs around his head.

He brought his hand up to her mouth, allowing her to bathe him in her saliva, her tongue teasing his finger tips, before he inserted them into her depths. Surprisingly, he remembered how she liked to be touched, caressing her front wall with confident firm strokes. Forcing her legs further apart with his shoulder, he doubled his efforts, his hand moving hard and quick as he pulled the crux of her between his lips, the slick sounds lewd and exhilarating in her ears.

The tension inside her was building to a crescendo, his efforts bringing her close to the edge of true pleasure. Right as she was about to tip over, Sherlock pulled away, his mouth shining with her lust.

“Bastard!” said Edith between her teeth.

He loomed up over her, caging her in with his arms. “What say you?” he said, his hair falling seductively over one eye.

She reached for his cock, satisfied by the way his eyes shuttered at her touch. “This is extortion,” Edith said as she stroked him

Regaining his senses, he batted her hand away. “Edith, I’d like an answer.”

Edith slumped against the stairs, annoyed, and still frustratingly aroused. Back in Paris, she had told him she preferred forthrightness so she couldn’t even be mad at him about it, though his timing was abysmal.

In truth, she hadn’t considered the possibility of an ongoing affair. She hadn’t considered much of anything beyond the desire to fill herself with him. Having said that, a discreet arrangement made some sense. She could continue her work while enjoying the pleasure of his company, free from all the strings and considerations and hopefully scandal; and Sherlock could go about his affairs—solving murders and robberies—without her rising infamy getting in the way. The only issues, and in her mind they were big ones, were Eudoria and Enola. She would have to come clean, at least to them, and the idea of it was daunting.

Back in the present, Sherlock was waiting, his normally closed off demeanor giving way to a mixture of trepidation and hope—and something in her melted. “All right,” Edith heard herself say.

A cautious smile spread over his face. “All right,” he repeated and kissed her gently.

Somehow, they made it to her bedroom without injuring themselves, though there were a few close calls and a newly broken vase out in the hallway.

Sherlock had managed to strip her of most of her clothes along their journey. Breaking from their kiss, he spun her around, giving him access to the strings of her corset. Edith pushed back into him, feeling his hardness against her, as he loosened the ties until there was enough slack for her to unfasten the metal hooks at the front.

He pulled her flush against him, his hands cupping her breasts. “You’ve made quite the name for yourself,” he said into her ear, kneading her through her chemise. One hand drifted down, his fingers rubbing firm concentric circles between her legs.

Just yesterday, a smear article had been published in The Times in which she was referred to as a “Dark Temptress”—a corrupting influence of sin and evil, hell bent on seducing the nation’s daughters into hedonism and immorality. It was male hysteria at its finest, though the idea had a certain appeal—it sounded like one hell of a good time.

“In this line of work, you’re probably off the mark if someone isn’t angry,” she said, her voice hitching as he formed a nipple.

Sherlock nuzzled behind the shell of her ear as he continued to fondle her and said, “Sounds familiar.”

Edith supposed that was true. The closer you got to fingering a culprit the more desperate they usually became. “What’s the count now?” she asked, reaching back to card her finger through his curls.

“Twenty.”

Memories of watching him at his work visited her—how alive he became the more things didn’t make sense, how he walked light on his feet, the fire in his eyes. The Great Detective was disciplined and dedicated. He was driven by the need to always be better, to be the best. She could picture the cocksure confidence with which he carried himself, how he brought it with him to every room. She recalled the weight of him restraining her back at the asylum, his breathing short and labored.

Edith shivered, her own breath coming quick, feeling her legs weaken as she approached her peak. And then, suddenly, Sherlock froze, his hands moving around to rest on her hips, holding her fast.

“Why are you doing this?” she said, throbbing and frustrated beyond measure.

His voice was rough and low and scolding in her ear. “Why do you think?”

It wasn’t fair. They’d had an agreement, hadn’t they? No writing.

Hoping to entice him into forgetting, she pulled off her chemise so she was completely naked before him. His hands found her bare breasts immediately. Edith turned her head and tried to kiss him, but he evaded her attempt, his lips brushing against her feather light. “I’m going to murder you,” she threatened.

“You can try,” he replied.

And so she did. With the outside of her foot, Edith kicked his leg sideways out from under him and moved her hand from his head to the scruff of his shirt, yanking him hard. She used his weight to roll him over her shoulder and onto the bed, where she mounted him and pinned him down onto the mattress.

Edith licked up the column of his neck, tasting the salt of his sweat. The vein in his neck pulsed with need against her tongue. “Be careful what you wish for,” she said, sotto voce.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but she sank her teeth into his bottom lip and the words turned into a grunt in the back of his throat, his cock twitching against her thigh. Aligning herself, she rubbed along his engorged length, his drawers soaked with her lust—teasing him, driving him mad. He bucked against her, trying to find relief from the building pressure, but she held firm and stilled her hips above him.

“Edith,” he said, his tone strained.

“Not so fun, is it?” she taunted.

With a growl he surged up, knocking her off balance. Using his superior strength, he got her on her stomach with her cheek pressed into the mattress. Edith could feel him fumbling between them as he removed his drawers and then he was pushing into her, sheathing himself in her warmth.

Air left his lungs with a deep moan. Sherlock restrained her by the forearms as he splayed on top of her. His shirt shielded his warm skin and chest hairs from her back, but before she could complain he murmured into her ear, “Don’t expect any sleep tonight.”

The promise of his words pulled a loud moan from her lips, high and keening, and she raised her rear to meet him. Sitting back on his heels, he jerked her up by her hips onto all fours and sunk back into her in one hard thrust.

Edith let out a strangled cry. He had found that place inside her, that hidden place where pain and pleasure converged. She fisted the sheets, her forehead pressing into the bed as her body seized. Sherlock cursed, his nails digging crescents into her flesh, but he didn’t stop. He kept going, kept moving, pumping into her. Their bodies slapped loudly together, the impact rippling along her thighs.

The pleasure was sharp and focused at her core, radiating out to the ends of her fingers, her toes curling as her heels came off the mattress. Noises left her mouth in incomprehensible gibberish. He increased his speed, ruthless.

She came violently, clenching around him so hard he was forced out of her, her muscles spasming with the power of her release. Wetness dripped down her leg as she convulsed, her mouth open in a silent scream. Watching her writhe in ecstasy, Sherlock finished himself off with his hand, moaning loudly, ropes of semen shooting across the dimples of her back.

Spent, they collapsed down onto the mattress. Edith’s body was still vibrating under him as he placed open wet kisses onto her shoulder blades. His weight was comforting as she rode out the aftershocks of her climax.

After a while, Sherlock sat up and removed his shirt, using it to wipe her clean. He rolled them over so she was fitted at his side, tracing absent circles along her arm.

“How did you learn to do all that?” she asked, dazed.

Sherlock hummed, already beginning to doze off. He ran a hand through his damp hair, taming the curls into their proper place. “Books mostly.”

“Only books?” she questioned.

“Some practice.”

“Those poor girls,” Edith teased, placing light kisses on his chest.

Extracting herself, she sat up on the edge of the bed, and retrieved her cigarette case from the nightstand. She lit one, took a long drag, and eyed the wet patch on the bed cover.

“Jane’s going to kill me,” she said, blowing a long stream of smoke. She made a mental note to insist upon a towel next time.

“Who?”

“The maid.”

“Isn’t that her job?”

Edith twisted and leaned across the bed, bringing the cigarette to his mouth. “That doesn’t mean I should make it harder.”

Sherlock inhaled deeply, the cigarette held between his lips. His cheeks hollowed and the cords in his neck pulled taut, accentuating the graceful arch of his bones and the sheer power beneath his pale skin. Each muscle was refined and distinct—his chest, his arms, all the way down to his calves. Michelangelo would have been envious.

As she inspected him, something on his far side caught her attention. The skin was an angry red on his flank, blue and purple splotches just beginning to form. “What happened here?” she asked, touching the edges of it gingerly.

He flinched and grabbed her wrist. “Just a bruise,” he said.

Alarms went off in her head, immediately sobering her from her drunken haze and post coital afterglow. He'd worn his shirt the whole time. Had he been trying to hide it? Her agitation must have shown on her face for Sherlock gave her a roguish smile and said, “Worried are we?”

As soon as he said the words, Edith realized she was. It was only natural to be concerned about the well being of another and she had never truly considered how dangerous his occupation was. He carried a gun on him at all times—it was probably still in his coat, laying on the floor downstairs—and while he was exceptional at his job, took great care to ensure he was in fighting form, things still happened.

“Does it hurt?” she asked.

“Only when I breathe.”

“When did this happen?”

Sherlock took another drag from the cigarette, stalling. “Who remembers,” he said, which meant it was fairly recent, at least within the last couple hours judging by the color. Meaning he’d come here directly, probably high on adrenaline, seeking an outlet and maybe even comfort.

Abruptly, her heart ached for him. Sherlock was the best at what he did, but to get there he'd forsaken a great deal; and in the end, it was all he had. Whatever setback had occurred earlier in the day must have been a major blow to his self worth. How lonely he must be to come to her, to ask and accept what little she could give.

Edith leaned over him and kissed his side, just a brush of her lips against his skin; moving up higher to his sternum, to his collarbone; until she was looking into his eyes, those gorgeous blue-grey eyes with long lashes, shadowed by an ever creased brow.

“If we’re going to do this, I have some conditions,” she said, smoothing her finger along his forehead.

“Like?” asked Sherlock, wary.

“Evenings only.”

“Seems reasonable.”

“Eudoria and Enola are informed.”

“Objection.”

“And anytime you’re in pain, you tell me.” Edith spread her hands over his chest, just above his heart. “Whatever that pain may be.”

Sherlock stared up at her, his eyes bright and clear, an inscrutable expression on his face like his mind was racing faster than he could speak. He reached up and held her behind her neck, pulling her in for a deep, slow kiss and encouraged her down on top of him with a palm on her lower back.

“You’re a dangerous woman, Edith Grayston,” he said when they parted.

Edith smiled, surprised by the tenderness in her heart. “And you’re a disaster, Sherlock Holmes.”

Chapter Text

Eudoria and Enola exchanged glances before staring at her blankly from across the teatime spread.

“I just assumed,” said Eudoria, completely unaffected.

“You just assumed?” Edith asked in rising indignation.

Eudoria shrugged. “You got on so well.”

“We most certainly did not. And there’s a long way to go from there to here to just immediately assume.”

“Well, he did ask after you once. When was that?” Enola screwed her face in concentration, her eyes cast upward. “Maybe a year and a half ago. Right before the Paris case.”

Eudoria gave Edith a look.

She stared at them, open mouthed. This was not the reaction she'd anticipated. Horror and incredulity, maybe. Awkwardness, at minimum. Even just the decency to feign surprise would have been preferable.

Enola leaned forward, a mischievous grin on her face. “Was that when it happened? In Paris?”

“I am not answering that,” Edith said, taking a sip of tea.

“So terribly romantic,” she decided anyway, her chin resting on her palm.

“At any rate, I would appreciate discretion from both of you. This is not something I want spread around, distracting us from our work.”

“I think you’re the only one who has to worry about that,” Eudoria muttered behind her cup.

Edith shook her head in disbelief. “I should have kept my mouth shut.”

“Oh, come now,” Enola chided. “This could be something if only the two of you would stop being so stubborn.”

“How am I being stubborn?”

“What’s the worst that could happen?”

“Are you joking? My reputation, for one.”

“Who cares what society thinks,” replied Enola.

“I’m not worried about society, I’m worried about our allies. What does it say about my integrity to be cavorting around town in the company of a man with such close ties to Scotland Yard?”

Both Eudoria and Enola had to agree on that count.

“It could help in other ways,” Eudoria suggested. “The Mayfair set might actually take to the idea. He’s well regarded in those circles. It could even get you into a few rooms.”

“True,” Enola agreed, having some experience on the matter. “It would be a shame to squander the opportunity.”

Edith hated the idea. She hated this conversation. It wasn’t who she was. She was a woman of action, a woman who ran a dojo above a radical, militant feminist tea shop for years, who once embedded an axe into the Prime Minister’s carriage with a note demanding suffrage. She wasn’t a woman who drank champagne and mingled with politicians, begging them to consider the possibility of marginal reform.

But wasn’t that what she’d told all of them when she returned to England? We need both. It wasn’t either or. It was all of it together.

“It’s just an idea,” Eudoria assured her, but the look in her eye said something different.

Edith sank into the tub with a sigh. The scalding water enveloped her in a hot cocoon. She breathed deeply, her lungs opening, soothed by the steamy air.

This was her sanctuary, her place of solitude and self-indulgence. After a trying day, she would bring up a bottle of brandy and a sweet confection of some kind, light some aromatic incense, draw a hot bath, and spend hours soaking until her fingers pruned and the water went cold.

Tonight, she was in search of some additional solace. After her awkward conversation with Eudoria and Enola had wound down, she’d taken notice of a book on the table. It had been lent to Enola by a friend—a fictional tale about a group of nuns who’d traveled to a remote village in the French West Africas where they clashed with the locals and were driven mad by isolation. They then turned on each other, the mission doomed to fail.

“Scandalous stuff,” Enola had said with a grin. Edith had spied the name of the author and forgotten to breathe.

C. Du Bois.

To see Clotilde’s name on such a widely circulated novel filled Edith with a mixture of pride and regret. It would be a lie to say she never thought of her. The other woman floated unbidden into her mind whenever she was feeling particularly distressed. She was a reminder of who and what Edith was fighting for: a world where maybe the two of them could have been happy—together.

Edith had never been anyone’s first. It had been exhilarating to hear Clotilde’s noises of surprise, the way she trembled under her attention, Clotilde’s shy modesty slowly giving way to desire. Every sensation was something new to be discovered. Edith could remember how she tasted, the smell of her, the color of her flower—a darkness hiding a tantalizing bloom—

“Whom are you picturing?”

Edith’s heart leapt up into her throat as she clamped her legs shut, her hands coming up to cover herself. Water sloshed up the sides of the tub, threatening to spill over.

Above her stood Sherlock, his head tilted inquisitively. He was dressed like a street peddler in a dirty woolen waistcoat and matching trousers. Because of his odd hours she’d given him a key, a convenience now turning into a regret.

“What are you doing here? I thought we agreed on tomorrow night,” Edith said once she’d recovered from her shock, her body still curled in on itself.

“My business concluded early and I was curious how the meeting with my family went. This is exponentially more interesting,” he answered, rolling back his shirt sleeves. Kneeling beside the tub, he placed a hand on her knee drawn up above the waterline. “Now, who were you thinking about?”

Plenty of times, Sherlock had seen her naked and had taken all manner of liberties; but for some reason Edith felt particularly vulnerable, like she’d been caught red handed doing something she shouldn’t. “None of your business,” she said, moving her knee away.

Sherlock frowned and stared at her thoughtfully. For a while, there was nothing but the sound of his fingers rippling the surface of the water. “Did you love them?” he eventually asked.

God, he never missed a thing, did he?

Had she loved Clotilde? They’d known each other so briefly, but there’d been something different about how she'd felt with her, something she’d never experienced with another person. Not even with Sherlock. But what it was, she couldn’t say.

“It doesn’t matter. It wouldn’t have worked,” she said into the water, unable to meet his gaze.

Sherlock hummed in consideration, absently tracing the outside of her knee with his knuckle. “Maybe one day,” he said, much to her surprise.

Edith’s eyes snapped to his face. There was no malice there, no judgement or derision, just a quiet, kind acceptance she hadn’t known to expect. She looked at him, the bluish grey eyes and narrow nose she should by all logic despise, feeling nothing but gratitude and an overwhelming fondness.

Reaching out, she fisted his collar and brought him to her, dragging him fully clothed into the tub, the water rising up and flooding the bathroom floor.

It all happened quickly—the sound of gun fire, bodies piling on top of her, voices yelling and shouting.

She’d just finished her speech at the largest labor strike in England’s history and was turning from the podium when the shot rang out. Chaos ensued. People were scrambling, pushing and shoving to escape, no one really knowing where it had come from. The bullet grazed her arm, a red bloom spreading across the fabric of her coat. Immediately, her bodyguards surrounded her—all former students—whisking her away to a waiting carriage.

Back at the townhouse, between dressing the wound and conferring with Elizabeth, her head of security about patrolling the neighborhood, Edith received no less than a dozen visitors.

The first was Enola, who’d been in attendance and had noticed some suspicious looking chaps observing the crowds.

“Company men?” Edith asked.

“Possibly, but that doesn’t answer why they shot you specifically.”

After Enola were the rally organizers. They apologized profusely and swore to increase security at the next event.

“Don’t put yourselves out,” she said. “I’m happy to assist in that regard.”

Next was Eleanor in her usual calm. She came with fresh bandages and a basket of sweets for soothing. Edith drew from her quiet strength, knowing the hard conversation was yet to come

A Labour Party representative arrived soon after with flowers and an invitation.

“The campaign tour is almost upon us. Would you be interested, Miss Grayston? Your participation would be a considerable draw. Especially after today.”

“I’ll have to think about it,” Edith replied coyly. “Especially after today.”

This was followed by a slew of reporters, all wanting a quote for their morning edition. Edith gave them each a statement about refusing to be intimidated and assured them she would continue to fight for safe working conditions and the right to share in the means of production, specifically for working class women, single mothers, and victims of colonial exploitation.

Much later, Eudoria appeared, tight-lipped and simmering with ire.

“I warned you. This was the risk of operating publicly,” she said.

Edith nodded. “You did. And it was still worth doing.”

“You could have died.”

A calm took over as she watched her friend pace. “I took a calculated risk, Eudoria. I learned it from you.”

Eudoria shook her head, unconvinced. There was pain in her dear friend’s eyes, worry and fear clear on her features, and suddenly it dawned on Edith while Eudoria had no qualms about leaving, it was another thing altogether being left. The wound of her husband’s passing was still there, even after all these years. As a single mother, as a fighter, she’d never been given the time, never taken the time, to be still long enough for the wound to heal.

She embraced Eudoria, her own heart aching. “I can’t promise to always be all right. But if something happens to me, there’s still Enola, Elizabeth, and Eleanor. We are this fight, Eudoria. As long as it continues, that is where I’ll live, even when I’ve long since shuffled off this mortal coil.”

For a long while they stood there in silence, hugging, until Eudoria said, “You’ve become very good at speeches.” Edith laughed with equal amounts amusement and relief.

Sherlock’s absence did not go unnoticed. He did not visit her that night, nor the next, nor the following nights after that. By the close of the second week, her mild displeasure had turned to resentment.

If the shoe had been on the other foot, she may not have been the first at his door, but she would have made it a point to see him; and it hurt to know he would not, or could not, extend her the same consideration. Going into this, she knew full well who Sherlock was: attachments did not suit him. That was fine. They didn’t suit her either. And yet, somehow, she’d come to rely on him for comfort. He’d made her feel safe held in his arms.

With growing horror, Edith realized she missed him.

What a monumental disaster. What an incredible mistake. She had opened herself to a man incapable of attachments and now she was upset he was pulling away. This was no one’s fault but her own.

Enough, she said to herself, feeling her heart already hardening. Enough.

Sherlock finally appeared the following week, after she’d resigned herself to an imperfect separation.

The full day had been preoccupied by a grueling series of meetings to prepare for the campaign tour. Edith arrived home around midnight, eager for a moment of quiet to rest her tired mind. When she turned up the gaslight, there he was: a dark brooding figure in the middle of her sitting room, slumped in the wingback chair by the hearth, staring off into nothing.

“You were out late,” he commented, tracking her movements closely.

Edith’s eyes flickered over him as she poured herself some brandy. “I wasn’t expecting company,” she replied. “How did you get in?”

“Miss Miller.”

“Elizabeth?” she said in mild surprise. She didn’t think the younger woman liked him enough to allow him past their defenses.

“The shooter was apprehended. She sent the patrols home. She also called me a twat.”

Edith frowned. “When did this occur?”

“You were out.”

She made a mental note to speak with Elizabeth in the morning about conferring with her first before releasing girls from duty. Settling down onto the opposite sofa, Edith observed Sherlock carefully. He seemed on edge, his body tense and rigid. Dark circles lined his eyes and a shadow was growing in along his jaw. “You look terrible,” she said.

“Don’t you want to know who it is?” he asked.

“Does it matter?”

“I think you know it does.”

Edith sipped her drink, recalling her earlier conversation with Eudoria. “It was a calculated risk.”

“How did you know?” he asked.

She fiddled with the pleat of her skirt, thinking about how best to explain without setting him off. “An acquaintance informed me.”

“A lover?”

Edith shot him a look. He had no right to be upset about her past. He’d never been before. “They ran in similar circles,” she explained. “I merely planted the seed and the rest took care of itself.”

Sherlock looked away briefly, his lips set in a thin line. “So your acquaintance informed you Professor Blanchet fled to England after I identified him as the head manufacturer of synthetic opium. You knew he blamed me for his ruin. From there you surmised his hatred of me would lead him to a desire for revenge.” Sherlock tilted his head in consideration. “How did the Professor know my connection to you?”

“Nothing stays a secret for long. People notice who comes and goes from this place. It was only a matter of time before rumors spread.”

“And no doubt the Professor noticed the rally posters all over the city.” The organizers had advertised her presence heavily—the date, time, and precise location plastered on every available wall. Sherlock blinked, his eyes downcast, a deep crease between his brows. “He knew what you meant to me.”

Edith’s heart skipped a beat.

“And you let it happen,” he went on, gazing at her hard, “to heighten your profile.”

Despite his ire, a helpless smile spread across her face. So Sherlock hadn’t been avoiding her. He’d been on the case looking for her assailant, his legendary prowess applied in service to her well-being and safety.

Edith stood and began undressing before him. “Yes, I let it happen,” Edith said, shrugging out of her jacket. “Albert informed me the professor’s experiments had rendered him blind in one eye, making his aim abysmal. Like I said, it was a calculated risk.”

Undoing the buttons of her skirts, she let it drop to the floor, the material pooling around her ankles. Next were her tie and shirt, slipping it from her neck and gingerly peeling the cotton from her shoulders, in care of the tender skin around her healing wound. The corset was last to go so Edith stood before him in only her chemise.

He watched her intently, his throat working over his collar as he gripped the arms of his chair tight. “You intentionally put yourself in danger for your ambition?” he asked in tempered outrage, his nose flaring.

Edith had never seen him so agitated. She came before him and leaned forward onto the armrests to capture his lips, but he reared back, still angry. Undeterred, she kneeled between his legs and placed her hands on his thighs, spreading her fingers across their firm expanse.

“Not for ambition, for sympathy,” corrected Edith. She inched up toward the buttons of his trousers and found him already half hard. “To make the idea of me more palatable.”

Sherlock was trying desperately to restrain himself, to deny her the satisfaction of his pleasure. No matter, Edith would enjoy unraveling him. After a little over a year, her body had grown accustomed to his. The intensity of their first encounters had been replaced by a reliable, consistent kind of pleasure. She knew how to please herself upon him as much as she knew how to drive him mad.

Freeing him from his clothes, she stroked slowly, enjoying the softness of his skin and the way his nails dug into the upholstery as he took deliberate, measured breaths through his nose. The only indication of her effect on him were the small spasms of his stomach.

“Palatable?” he asked with a hitch.

Edith lowered her head, lapping at the underside of his phallus with the flat of her tongue. A few more licks and he was straining in her hand, his member twitching with each pass. Coming off the tip of him, she explained, “I intend to campaign for an open seat in a few cycles,” before drawing him into her mouth, cheeks hollowing as she sucked, her head bobbing above his lap. His breathing grew ragged and the knuckles on his hands were white. Sensing his impending peak, she pulled him from her mouth with a pop.

Sherlock let out a strangled gasp, pained by the unreleased pressure. She soothed him with her thumb, caressing the dip beneath the mushroom head.

“You never do things the easy way, do you?” he said, his voice wavering.

Edith unhanded him and pulled off her chemise, tossing it carelessly over her shoulder. His prick was wet and hot at the crux of her thighs as she settled naked onto his lap. One by one she undid the buttons of his waist coat, pushing it as far over his shoulders as they would go without his cooperation. The cravat was next, slipping it from his neck, giving her access to the buttons of his tunic. She pulled the fabric wide, revealing the sharp line of his collar bone, the dark hairs of his upper chest, and the tendons of his neck as he grit his teeth in resistance. The hairs on his sternum tickled her palm as she traced the bone up toward his neck, wrapped her fingers around his jaw, and tilted his head back onto the chair, forcing him to look up at her. “That was never an option for me,” she said, grinding into him, feeling the bob of his throat as he swallowed.

Whatever bluster he held fast to weakened ever so slightly, his face softening just a touch as he watched her with hooded eyes. It only took a few sweeps of her hips to get him inside her, aided by the straining stiffness of his length. His moan vibrated against her hand as his eyes shuttered.

“I have a proposition,” she said, squeezing her muscles tightly around his shaft. “We could make this a permanent affair.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open and he looked at her startled, his eyes darting down to her breasts and back up again. They screwed shut almost immediately as Edith rocked her pelvis forward, keeping the pace excruciatingly slow so she might savor the fullness of him stretching her center.

“I know you hate politics,” she said. “I understand if this influences your answer.”

“It is a wrinkle,” he gritted between his teeth.

A twinge of something rattled in her chest but she ignored it and started to pick up speed, suddenly struck with the desire to see him lose control. Despite all her efforts at seduction, he was still being stubborn, refusing to touch her, to open his eyes.

Leveraging herself up by the backrest, Edith raised off him until only his tip remained at her entrance before driving back down, repeating the motion again and again, unrelenting, making him sweat.

“It would be terribly—inconvenient for you. You’d have to—follow me around—like a lap dog,” she panted, bouncing off his thighs. “Going where I want. Doing what I say. Always on your—best behavior.”

Edith pictured him miserable as she dragged him along the campaign trail, Sherlock shaking constituents’ hands with a glum frown on his face. And he would do it, too, knowing his reward would be forthcoming, his eyes closely tracking her across the room in anticipation. The image startled a surprise release from her, clenching around him as she continued to roll her hips, hoping to extend the pleasure as long as she could.

Overwhelmed by the feel of her orgasm around him, he compulsively pawed at her rear as his head came off the chair. Sherlock breathed sharply through his nose, trying not to enjoy himself too much.

When she finally stilled, Edith met his eyes. He’d finally opened them, observing her like he was discovering something brand new. “A very interesting wrinkle,” he said, intrigued.

All right, so he’d won this one, she would win the next.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around her back and brought them both to the floor. Enthralled, he watched her stretch out along the Persian rug, her body still thrumming from her climax. She returned his gaze, admiring the way his muscles and sinew moved beneath his skin as he stripped off his clothes.

“I’m still furious with you,” said Sherlock affectionately, his palm running up between her breasts, around her shoulder to her arm, and covering the newly formed scar, still a little tender to the touch.

“I know. I’m sorry.” She caressed along the side of his face with her knuckles, the growing beard rough on her hand. The look of it on him was beginning to grow on her.

“I suppose there’s no convincing you not to do it again.”

Amused by his resignation, Edith laughed, delighted by how well he seemed to know her. “No, but I promise I will tell you next time.”

Above her, Sherlock wore an indiscernible look on his face. For a moment, Edith thought he might be dissatisfied with her answer and then he said, “I’ve never heard you laugh before.”

“Can that be true?” she asked in wonder.

“It is.”

They slotted together and stayed there, neither of them in any hurry, kissing lazily, enjoying the feel and taste and smell of each other—the softness of her curves, the hard planes of his body, the smooth and rough of their skin, their perspiration and arousal mingling in the air.

“Sherlock,” said Edith at length, nuzzling her nose against his.

“Hm?”

“What do you say?” she asked, reminding him of her earlier proposition.

He froze, staring down at her, his features morphing into a raw, open wound of an expression, a baring of his soul to the most vulnerable places within him. With startling clarity, Edith recognized it as the same expression he wore the evening in the carriage as they made their way from Geraldine’s place. The same night they’d said their first goodbye.

In a distant sort of way, she’d known how much affection he held for her, but it wasn’t until this very moment she understood it to be love. The word always made her uncomfortable, which in turn made it easy to hedge those feelings whenever they appeared. But it was love—love manifested in more than just swooning ardor, love as the extension of oneself for the growth of another, love as the ability to hold someone in their fullness. Love as the search for justice.

This whole time, Sherlock had been patiently waiting for her to come around, hoping she would someday feel for him what he’d felt for her all these years.

“Marry me,” she said, firm and clear and resolute.

It took a few seconds for her proposal to register; his eyes were wide and round, as if he couldn’t believe his ears. Edith couldn’t blame him, she’d been oblivious for a long time.

Urgently, Sherlock captured her lips, inhaling sharply. He pushed inside her as deep as he could go, as if he wanted to crawl into her skin and stay there, inching her up the rug with the force of his need. He kissed her until her lungs burned and when she broke away, gasping for air, he pressed his forehead into her temple and said, “If you insist,” his voice filled with mirth, and she rolled him over, irked, getting on top of him, determined to make him regret his words, and they spent the rest of the night right there on the floor.