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It had seemed like a good idea at the time.
Mycroft used to try to introduce him to eligible women all the time, but had stopped being so forthright when Sherlock had done nothing but openly disapprove of both the idea of being married and the women that Mycroft introduced him to. After a dozen or so attempts, Mycroft took more care to couch his suggestions, and was more selective with the women that he brought forward as potential matches.
--
Terribly confounding.
A swath of robberies had taken place among some of London’s wealthiest businessmen. Servants had been fired, brought up on charges, but not a single piece of missing goods had been recovered. While Sherlock had been approached by a number of them to reclaim necklaces, rings, silverware, he had yet to respond to a single inquiry. Accepting one would bring on a deluge of irritation from those that had reached out to him and hadn’t received a response; refusing any and all would bring on an offer of raised rates, as well as an equally unwelcome letter from Mycroft asking for a favor toward a someone that he was trying to curry favor with.
One particularly large robbery had been perpetrated only the night before, at the home of Mr. Enoch Mulvohill. It had been written up in the papers; the police had taken a report. Sherlock had met the man once, had found him pretentious and proud, if not a fair bit underhanded. He hadn’t liked Sherlock, either. But the man had not fired a single servant as a result of this theft; he hadn’t raised the alarm. It was for this reason that Lestrade had called Sherlock in.
An entire set of silverware, an antique clock, a purple garnet brooch, a ruby and diamond necklace, and a seed pearl and diamond ring were all that had gone missing.
Not a single charge laid, not a single alarm raised.
There was something terribly confounding about Enoch Mulvohill.
“Sherlock, are you listening to me?” Mycroft glared at his brother. Sherlock glanced away from the article he’d been scanning about the incident, considering what Lestrade had told him about it all that very morning.
“Just,” He nodded. Mycroft sighed.
“I know how you loathe the prospect of marriage--”
Sherlock was careful not to roll his eyes. Ah. Mycroft was back on that tack.
“But this particular situation is one of great advantage. The girl is the only daughter of a very rich gentleman,” As if such matters were of any interest at all to Sherlock, “And I have been told that Ms. Mulvohill is not … Unintelligent.”
Sherlock stilled, lifting his eyes from his paper again.
“... I’ll meet her,” He said after a moment.
“You will?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Sherlock folded the paper, turning to look at Mycroft fully and finding his glare replaced with a look of great confusion.
“I’ve heard of Ms. Mulvohill’s wit,” He fibbed, “I should be interested to see if there is any truth in it.”
That was fabricated entirely; he had no idea Mulvohill even had a daughter. Mycroft hesitated before giving a single nod.
“I’ll make the arrangements.”
--
“He’s supposed to be very handsome.”
You tried to muster a smile. Luella, your maid, was much more excited at the prospect of your suitor than you were. It seemed awfully old-fashioned, a man coming over to meet you this way. All of you friends had met their suitors and husbands at balls or dinner parties. But your mother had been very particular about the men that had come to call on you, and had deemed none of them suitable (which was quite alright with you as you’d been none too fond of any of them).
However, when your eldest brother Thaddeus had told you that his old school chum, Mycroft Holmes, would be coming by for a visit, you hadn’t the faintest idea that it would lead to Mycroft bringing by his younger brother for you to meet - and potentially marry.
You’d heard a lot about Sherlock Holmes, had read his name in the papers (which your other brother, Phineas, often snuck you - your mother didn’t like you reading the paper; she was worried that it would put ‘dangerous thoughts’ in your head and ‘expose you to the evils of the world’); you knew that he was a detective. And maybe Luella was right, maybe he was attractive. The sketches that were done in the paper were not...Unflattering.
“There now,” Luella sighed, looking at your reflection in the mirror, “I’d say you’re quite ready for the day.”
She gave you a bright smile, and you did your best to return it.
--
He was staring at you.
A lot.
Was that good?
Or rather… Well, was that focus that he was fixing you with or was he simply frowning?
It was quite difficult to discern what exactly was going on in Sherlock Holmes’ head when he was saying so little; Mycroft had done most of the speaking that afternoon. You didn’t particularly like Mycroft. You’d met him exactly twice, and both times, he’d been incredibly rude. He’d seemed to manage to do it without realizing it, though.
Sherlock was still staring.
You glanced at him before averting your eyes. One of the articles that you’d read had claimed that Sherlock could size up a person in a minute. You couldn’t help but wonder what on earth he’d managed to ascertain about you; you’d hardly said more than five words since you’d entered the room.
--
You seemed a church mouse to him. You’d entered the room, curtsied, murmured a greeting, and then sat down beside your brother Thaddeus. That hardly concerned Sherlock, frankly. What he was more interested in was the discussion that Thaddeus and Mycroft were having about Enoch’s stolen items. He was careful to set his eyes on you, however.
Your hands were folded in your lap, and your eyes set on them, though you’d glanced at him twice now; your dress was pristine, as were your shoes. Clearly you’d yet to leave the house that day, though Sherlock had a hunch that you wouldn’t be undertaking such a trip at all. It was already quite late in the afternoon. You’d have to dress for dinner soon, surely.
“A damn shame-- Oh! Quite sorry, Miss Mulvohill,” Mycroft hurried to correct himself, turning to you. Sherlock watched as you glanced at his brother and gave him a small nod before Mycroft turned back to Thaddeus. Mycroft didn’t catch the way you rolled your eyes, but Sherlock did. His lips quirked into a small smile.
A smile that you didn’t see.
“Well?” Mycroft asked as he and Sherlock strode away from the Mulvohill home.
‘Well’, as if Sherlock could really have any opinion on you, as if he could be flushed with love for a woman that hardly spoken. Instead he declared, “I like her.”
Mycroft had his suspicions, of course. He pressed Sherlock for his reasons, what he saw in you, and Sherlock was able to draw his answers from what he did see: your respectfulness, your quiet grace, your clean appearance, which showed a certain pride in yourself.
“She hardly said a word. You said you were curious about her wit,” Mycroft reminded him.
“Oh, she showed her wit, in a way,” Sherlock thought back to the roll of your eyes.
Mycroft hesitated before shaking his head, “I will never presume to understand the workings of your mind or heart, brother. I will reach out to her father--”
“Better yet, let me,” Sherlock interrupted Mycroft, “If I’m to marry this woman, I ought to go to her father myself.”
“Very well.”
But Sherlock would reach out to Lestrade, first. The game was afoot.
--
It wasn’t the proposal of your dreams.
For one thing, your mother had already told you that your father had consented and given the marriage his blessing, and that your father’s consent and blessing meant that the deal was as good as done.
The deal. Not that your happiness was in hand, but that the deal was as good as done.
Sherlock Holmes had come in, handed you a box with an engagement ring, and given you a firm nod before bidding you a good day.
Your new fiancé hadn’t even stayed to see if the ring fit.
You sat at your vanity, eyeing the gleaming solitaire diamond on the gold band.
You weren’t naïve; you’d always assumed that your marriage would come with some feelings of trepidation. But you’d hoped that you would at least know the man a little better. You’d hardly even spoken to him- and he'd had the chance to stay and speak with you, to propose properly, but he had chosen not to.
You just couldn’t imagine what it was that your father and mother had seen in Sherlock that they hadn’t seen in your previous suitors. He’d certainly spent less time with you than the others; you doubted he had made a good impression on Thaddeus, who had likely been consulted on the matter. Of course they’d go out of the way to consult your brother and not you, who would ultimately have to marry Sherlock.
You sighed, shutting the ring box. You hadn’t tried the ring on yet; you hadn’t even taken it out of the box. All of your friends had perfectly darling stories about how they'd been proposed to. How could you bear to tell them about your own?
Yes, he handed me the box, nodded, and left. It was quite sweet.
--
If this was any indication of how your future marriage was going to be, you were almost entirely certain that your life would be dull, and very, very quiet.
For the first time since your somewhat untraditional engagement, Sherlock had come to visit you. You’d written to him once to try and get to know him better; he hadn’t answered that letter. You’d asked him a couple of questions since he’d arrived, and he’d answered with simple, one-word answers. He had asked you a few questions, but they’d all been about your father.
You’d spent the last week convincing yourself that perhaps this wouldn’t be all that bad, that Mr. Holmes may just be shy, and may need some time to warm up to you. Surely there was something that he had seen and liked about you if he’d chosen to propose. Your father’s wealth aside, he couldn’t find you wholly repugnant if he was choosing to spend the rest of his life with you.
But now, well. Now you were just running out of patience.
“-- Are you listening, dear?”
You turned your head sharply to look at Sherlock at the use of that pet name. Who on earth did he think he was, calling you that after how he’d dared to act?
“I thought that might catch your attention,” He hummed, turning back to the small bookshelf by your usual chair in the sitting room. You felt your stomach twist into knots at his condescension.
“I asked you what you thought of your father,” He added, plucking one of your books up. Your irritation flared. It was your favorite -- and why was he touching your things? You stood, crossing the room.
“My father is an unfeeling and self-involved man,” You answered. Sherlock turned to look at you, brows rising.
“You have no love for him,” He observed.
“Well, it’s difficult to have any love or respect for a man that would marry me off to the likes of you,” You took the book from Sherlock’s hands, snapping it shut and tucking it back into its place. You looked up to find Sherlock’s eyes traveling your face, a single brow raised.
“... You’re not wearing your ring,” He pointed out. He was right, you weren’t. You’d hardly looked at the damn thing since he gave it to you.
“Oh, is that what was in that thing you handed me?” You feigned ignorance, folding your arms across your chest, “I meant to look, but it slipped my mind.”
Sherlock’s expression darkened just a touch.
“Well, perhaps you’ll find time somewhere in your busy schedule of nattering and needlepoint to give it a look sometime soon.”
Your eyes widened for just a moment, and your face grew hot at the smug curl of Sherlock’s lip.
“Of course,” You answered coolly, “I’ll happily give it a glance once you’ve gone.”
“Am I to be leaving?”
“I think that may be for the best, Mr. Holmes.”
“But we’re just getting acquainted.”
“It’s a wonder you’ve gone out of your way to propose to me when I’m certain you could have ascertained the information you wanted about my father from his doctor, his barber, and any number of gentlemen at his club, of which your brother is a member.”
“What makes you think I’m particularly interested in your father? Perhaps I was merely trying to better understand the family that raised my future wife.”
“Well, then, what questions have you about my mother?”
You allowed Sherlock only a half-second before tacking on, “Of course, you’ll have some about Thaddeus and Phineas as well.”
“Of course.”
“Go on, then.”
“Where was your mother the night of the 17th?”
The 17th? The night of the robbery?
“Interesting that you’ve questioned her location and not her character.”
“Interesting that you’ve deflected rather than answer me.”
“She and I were both at the McKerras’ ball.”
“And your brothers?”
“They were there as well.”
“Why not mention that along with yourself and your mother?”
“Because you didn’t ask about them.”
“And your father?”
“Perhaps you’d best ask your brother that. He knows very well where my father was. Now, if you have no more questions, then I’ll bid you a good day, darling,” You drew the endearment out before you turned on your heel and stormed out of the room.
--
Sherlock watched you go, brow raised. You were quite… Sharp. Quick. Irritatingly so.
His first impressions were rarely wrong, but he had been quite misinformed in your case. A church mouse, he’d thought. No indeed -- a lioness may’ve been more suited to your spirit.
Lioness or not, you were infuriating, and prideful. Had you really not looked at the ring? The shop assistant had reassured him that you’d like it.
No matter. This engagement was a sham - the sooner he pried answers about Enoch Mulvohill out of you, the better.
And Mycroft, what did he know about Mulvohill’s whereabouts the evening of the robbery?
--
“Well he’s quite the gigglemug, isn’t he?”
You hid your smile at your best friend’s scathing question behind your fan. Alice Teague was your dearest confidant. She’d been married the year before (to a man who she had the fortune of actually loving and knowing beforehand - some people had all the luck).
Your family had arranged a small dinner to announce your engagement to your closest family and friends. Your family was in attendance, as well as Alice and her husband; Sherlock, Mycroft, and his younger sister, Enola, were all there as well. You’d only gotten to speak to Enola for a few moments, but you quite liked her. She seemed very unlike her brothers. But there was also an air of apology about her - about what, you hadn’t been able to ascertain; perhaps she simply knew what a brute her brother could be and pitied the fact that you’d be married to him.
You had to admit that Sherlock looked quite nice in his evening wear. He’d looked quite nice when you’d argued with him a few days prior as well, but you’d been a little more focused on the argument at the time.
“He’s quite the busybody, as well,” Alice added, “He’s been speaking to your father and brothers all evening.”
“Yes,” You sighed, “He’s quite enamored with Father.”
“Oh, come now,” Alice nudged your elbow with her own, “He’s got to cozy up to him some, he is taking you away from him. You are your father’s only daughter, it’ll be difficult for him.”
“This will not be difficult for my father. As mother tells it, he gave me to the man in the course of an hour-long conversation for a ‘lighter dowry than expected’. My father wants me out of the house as soon as possible. I’m a disgrace as it is, making it through three seasons unmarried.”
“What’s that, dear?”
In your discussion with Alice, you hadn’t noticed Sherlock breaking away from your father and walking over to you. You slapped a sweet smile onto your face, returning, “Nothing, darling.”
It was Alice’s turn to hide her knowing smile behind her fan.
--
The more time you spent in Sherlock Holmes’ company, the more you were certain you loathed him. He was nosy, had a habit of rifling through your things, asking questions without any care or tact. You were obliged to see him; you’d faked a headache to avoid him once and had gotten a scolding from your mother, the likes of which you hadn’t had since you were a child.
Luella actually grimaced when she came to tell you that Sherlock had arrived these days.
When you came into the sitting room, you found Sherlock at your bookcase again. He’d taken to lingering near there. You couldn’t help but wonder if did so deliberately, knowing how it irritated you when he touched your things. Rather than walk across the room and whatever book it was out his hands this time, you stayed by the door, watching him for a moment.
You couldn’t help but try and consider the man’s motives. Was it money? Surely it had to be something along those lines. Perhaps the detective business wasn’t particularly lucrative; perhaps Mycroft wasn’t willing to help him when things were difficult. Your father may’ve lowered your dowry price, but Phineas had still told you what Sherlock would receive; it was nothing to laugh at.
You glanced down at the engagement ring on your finger. You hadn’t bothered with gloves - which, in any other circumstance, would be an absolute scandal, but this man was technically to be your husband. He was permitted to be alone with you, to touch your hand, or kiss you, should the urge ever arise. Not that Sherlock had ever given you any indication that he had any interest in any of those things, of course, or you, really.
Something in your chest twisted when you saw him now. It wasn’t anxiety, or anger, it was… Hurt. A sort of hurt that didn’t make you want to curl up and cry, but the kind that sat with you through the day, through your ‘nattering and needlepoint’, as Sherlock had scathingly put it once before. It swirled about you as your mother reminded you of what wedding preparations remained; it sat with you and Alice when you had tea together, so much its own presence that it practically had its own seat, its own saucer, its own cup.
Sherlock glanced back toward the door once, and then again when he spotted you.
“There you are,” He said, turning back down to the book.
“Here I am,” You confirmed with a sigh, finally venturing deeper into the room. You felt Sherlock's gaze follow you as you settled down in an armchair by the fireplace.
--
As much as he’d tried not to absorb them, Sherlock was quite attuned to your moods now. You weren’t the type to pout and give hints, to try and make someone tease out what was bothering you. No, you seemed to prefer to dwell on your troubles in silence. Initially, that suited him quite well; he was able to ply you for answers about your father, and he had ignored whatever little thing it was that was smoothing your face into a neutral set.
But now, after weeks in your company, he found that he preferred that little spark that you got in your eye when the two of you were bickering. He even preferred it when you smiled, though the only smiles he’d ever been graced with were scathing. He’d seen you smile sincerely, once or twice, but never at him; they’d been directed at Enola, or at your friend Alice.
Sherlock hadn’t meant to spend so much time with you or in your company to know precisely what your frowns, glares, scoffs, sighs, or rare smiles meant. He’d assumed that this case would come into focus once he spent more time in Enoch Mulvohill’s presence. There had been a number of thefts since he’d taken the case on for Lestrade, and he’d been to a number of the homes as a result of engagement festivities and visits.
Rather than gaining insights into the case, Sherlock had been able to gather information about you, such as your dislike for your family - well, for your parents, at least. You had affection for your brothers. Thaddeus was a voice of reason for you, a guiding hand where your father had left you rudderless; Phineas offered you knowledge through books, pamphlets, newspapers. Sherlock had found a number of pamphlets tucked away in your books, and while he’d always meant to ask you about them, the two of you always fell into some argument before he could.
Sherlock watched you for a few moments, taking your countenance, your lack of gloves, where your engagement ring sat on your finger. You’d taken to wearing it daily, like some sparkling sackcloth and ashes, a public penance for being a woman in your position. Enola disapproved of his tactics regarding this case, and had told him as much twice over. He’d reminded her of the time she pretended to be his assistant, but she’d argued that that was entirely different.
“When the case is over,” Enola had told him after the engagement dinner, “You will be celebrated. She will be ruined.”
He had thought that Enola was being a touch dramatic. Surely you wouldn’t be ruined. He’d never touched you or acted in any way that could be deemed untoward. Your reputation would surely remain intact.
Sherlock watched you still, even as you turned your eyes up at him, to take in his look and the book in his hands.
--
“You’re awfully quiet today,” You said after a few moments.
“I’m thinking.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that you do that.”
You saw Sherlock’s eyes narrow slightly as he snapped the book shut and replaced it on the wrong shelf. Excellent. You’d have to rearrange those later.
“May I ask you what’s put you in such a lovely mood this morning?”
“Only your company, Mr. Holmes.”
He let out a humorless little laugh, one that grated at your nerves.
“I understand why you’ve yet to be married, Ms. Mulvohill. You’re quite the rose - bright, alluring petals, but riddled from stem to root with thorns.”
You clenched your hands, ignoring the feeling of the band of your engagement ring tightening as you did.
“And I understand why you are not married, as low as you are,” You retorted.
“I take it that that is some comment on my social status, Ms. Mulvohill.”
You rose from your seat.
“No, Mr. Holmes, it is a comment on your character. You may be a clever man, and you may make an excellent outward show to my father -- and that may be all that you care for, but you seem to have forgotten that you’ve gained me in the deal that you made with him. I do not expect you to grow to love me, as I’m quite certain you’re incapable of feeling that for anyone but yourself, but I had expected you to at least make a decent showing of getting to know me, as I tried you--”
“You--”
“No!” You snapped, “I am not through, Mr. Holmes. I did try, at the beginning. I wrote to you, I tried to understand you, but you’ve chosen to shield yourself -- for reasons that I cannot begin to comprehend. You’ve been nothing but unknowable and unmovable from the first.”
Sherlock watched you for a long moment before he lowered his eyes to the bookshelf.
“... I am working with Scotland Yard to investigate the robberies that have been perpetrated against your set and your family.”
It was said so quietly that you almost didn’t hear it. Shock curled around the hurt that had made a home in your chest and squeezed at it until it was choking.
“I beg your pardon?” You managed after a moment.
“Your father’s circumstances were most suspicious, and I…” He lifted his head from your books to meet your eyes again, “I made a choice.”
A choice. He couldn’t have just befriended one of your brothers? You were careful to hold his gaze and not to recoil, to fold in on yourself, or to run and hide as you suddenly wished to do.
“...You were using this engagement as a ruse to get closer to my father because you suspect him,” You clarified.
“Yes.”
You nodded a little.
“Then you’re less than half of the man I thought you were.”
You tugged the engagement ring off and tossed it at his feet before striding out of the room.
--
Damn and blast it, why had he told you?
You were sure to tell one of your brothers, and they were sure to tell your father.
Sherlock left the Mulvohill home flustered and in a huff. He had considered leaving the engagement ring behind, on the mantle, but such an action could invite suspicion - your mother returning it to you, asking why it was where it was. He would have to work, and quickly - gather the insights he had, use the invitations remaining to try and solve the case before you told everyone what was going on. He wouldn’t have much time.
--
“You’ve a letter.”
One glance at it confirmed that it was from you, your home.
“Throw it away.”
“Sherlock,” Enola frowned, looking down at your letter, “What if it’s something useful?”
“It won’t be. Throw it away.”
Enola ignored him, and he rolled his eyes at the sound of the envelope being ripped open.
“...Sherlock.”
“I’m not in the mood, Enola.”
“No, Sherlock… You need to look at this.”
--
Eight. Eight additional robberies that had never been reported to the police that you’d known of and never told anyone about. They’d been perpetrated against Alice Teague, a few of your other friends, and another two against your father, at your country estate. He hadn’t reported them, as they’d been quite small. Your mother had insisted on reporting the robbery in London.
You’d taken pen to paper, listed off the items and dates to the best of your recollection, and done so to get Sherlock out of your life as quickly as possible. The sooner he solved the case, the sooner this ruse could end.
--
“Where is that sweet, ever-smiling fiancé of yours?” Alice asked as she settled on the settee beside you. You’d arrived at the Blakely’s dinner party alone, had made no mention of Sherlock, and was quite hoping you’d be able to get away without talking about him that evening.
“Oh… He’s--”
“Incredibly sorry that he’s late,” Sherlock’s voice cut over yours and Alice’s. You turned to see Sherlock smiling down at the two of you. You lowered your eyes, turning away from him as he and Alice greeted one another properly.
“May I borrow you, dear?” He asked.
“No,” You answered flatly.
Alice’s brows rose.
“It’s quite important,” Sherlock pressed.
You sighed heavily before you excused yourself, rising off of the settee and following Sherlock out of the room. He took hold of your hand, hurrying you down the hall and into a study. He didn’t say anything as you tugged your hand out of his; he was more set on making sure there was no one else there.
“What on earth are you doing here?” You asked, folding your arms over your chest.
“I’m quite certain the robber is here tonight,” He said, turning back to you, “But I need your help.”
“Why would I help you?”
“Because the sooner you do, the sooner you’ll never have to see me again.”
Well, that was tempting.
--
Sherlock had managed to keep it quiet. Well, quiet enough.
Enoch Mulvohill was no longer the primary suspect, but rather quite complacent in a plot perpetrated by one Mr. Larkin Teague. Your eyes had widened when he told you; he had assumed that you would tell him off, that you would insist that your father was blameless and that you knew Larkin well, that he could never be the man Sherlock was looking for.
What had, instead, come out of your mouth was, “Alice will be devastated.”
For all of your rage and anger toward him the day before, all that had settled over your features in that moment was concern for your friend. And in that moment, Sherlock found himself quite taken with you.
He nodded, dislodging the thought in favor of the matter at hand.
“The Blakelys are quite known for the jewels that they acquired during their last trip to the continent, are they not?” He asked.
“They are, yes. What can I do?”
“Keep everyone in the parlor. If you see Larkin leave, do not raise the alarm. I have police from Scotland Yard surrounding the house and waiting for Larkin.”
He watched you nod and take a deep breath.
“Alright.”
You left him without further instruction or another word.
--
The night’s end found you comforting a weeping Alice; your mother seemed too stunned to cry, and you were certain she’d never dare let herself show that sort of emotion in front of you, anyway. You stayed at Alice’s that night; you didn’t see Sherlock after you spoke to him in the study; you didn’t care to. You were quite certain that you’d be happy to never see Sherlock Holmes again.
--
“Mr. Holmes is in the parlor-- Though I cannot think why,” Luellla told you.
You frowned. You couldn’t think why, either. You hadn’t seen the engagement ring since you’d thrown it to him, so he couldn’t possibly look for its return; all of your family’s missing items had been returned to you, as well as the other families that had lost items. Sherlock’s case and your engagement had been written up in the papers. It had been positioned that you had been in on the plot, working with Sherlock to help crack the case from the start, and a wave of suitors had followed once the story and the engagement had officially broken.
“Thank you, Luella,” You gave her a small smile, “Please tell him I’ll be down in a few moments.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
You watched her go before you turned back to the mirror and looked yourself over. You’d seen neither hide nor hair of Sherlock since that night at the Blakely’s home. He hadn’t reached out to you through a letter or an invitation (though Thaddeus had received precisely two letters of apology from Mycroft, and you one from Enola). You really couldn’t imagine what the man could possibly want from you now.
--
Sherlock was at your bookcase again. It seemed to be his customary place. You cleared your throat as you entered the room, but he didn’t bother to look away from whatever it was that he was looking at.
“I did always wonder about this,” he said, holding up one of the many pamphlets that you kept hidden. It was one on foreign trade that Phineas had brought you from father’s office. Your eyes widened, and you darted forward, snatching it from him and smoothing out a wrinkle in it. You glanced up at Sherlock to find him smiling at you, amused.
“What would a businessman’s daughter want with a pamphlet from The Mercantile Guardian Office?” He added.
“Phineas brought it to me so that I could better understand how father operates his business, and what he could be doing differently.”
“Of his own volition?”
“I asked him to.”
You glanced up at Sherlock before you took the book from his hands and tucked the pamphlet safely away again.
“What are you doing here?” You asked, stepping between him and the bookshelf to put it away. You’d never bothered to get this close to him while the two of you had been engaged, but now that he had been clear about his intentions, you didn’t see any reason to shield yourself from him. He hadn’t told anyone about any of the pamphlets that he’d clearly found, you were certain he wouldn’t now.
“...I wanted to speak with you.”
“What about?” You turned around to face him and found him close by, still.
Gigglemug, liar, or no, Sherlock Holmes was quite nice to look at. And if you didn’t know any better, there was a touch of remorse in his handsome features.
“I should have been clear about my intentions from the first,” He said quietly, leaning against the arm of the armchair behind himself, “I… I was not considering your side of this when I undertook this case with such an approach. It was shortsighted and unfair of me to prey on your feelings in such a way. I apologize, Ms. Mulvohill. It was, indeed, quite low of me.”
You were taken aback for a moment. You certainly hadn’t expected that.
“I accept your apology.”
Sherlock gave a nod of thanks before adding, “I also wanted to thank you for assisting me the evening of the Teague arrest. It went off without a hitch, and I would not have been able to do so had there been people wandering the house. I couldn’t have done it without your help.”
Criminy, you weren’t anticipating that, either.
“Well, your...Particular method aside, I’m glad that you were able to undertake and solve the case. Many of my friends and my family are grateful to you, Mr. Holmes.”
Sherlock chuckled, nodding a little.
“I was happy to assist.”
He watched you for a moment, and you watched him in turn. For the first time in all of your acquaintance, you didn’t have the urge to look away from him.
“Am I to understand that congratulations are in order yet?” He asked. You raised a brow.
“Excuse me?”
“My brother tells me that you’d… Had quite a number of suitors since our parting.”
“Well, your brother is something of a gossip. But, no, no ‘congratulations’, as you’ve put it. I think I should like to actually talk to someone before I become engaged to them this time.”
Sherlock smiled, and you felt your stomach fluttering, and your own lips pulling to mirror it.
--
You were smiling - really smiling - at him, because of him. Sherlock needed to see that again, and again, and again, and again.
“I must be off,” He said, glancing at the clock, “But… Might I call on you tomorrow?”
Your brow furrowed at the question, and you asked him, “Whatever for?”
“Well, so that we might actually talk before I speak to Thaddeus about you.”
He watched you take that in, the narrowing of your eyes, the slight parting of your lips, the hesitation - and damn the hesitation, but that was his own fault. It was his own fault you didn’t trust him, it was his own fault that he’d lost you, and his own fault that he’d have to win your trust back. He’d work for it, though. He’d find a way to come by every day, if you wanted him. The ring that you’d thrown at him had been burning a whole in his pocket since you’d tossed it at his feet, and he was itching to do this properly, to slide it onto your finger and look you in the eye.
“...Tomorrow should suit fine,” You finally answered him. He felt a burst of warmth in his chest at your answer, and he grinned.
He glanced back toward the door. No one had been by to disturb the two of you; perhaps it was their habit, the two of you had had the right to be left alone when you were engaged, but now that that had ended, the two of you technically shouldn’t have been.
Sherlock straightened and stepped closer to you. You were watching him like he was a living puzzle, a walking mystery. He leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to the corner of your mouth.
“I will be back tomorrow, then, Ms. Mulvohill,” He murmured as he leaned away.
--
“I will see you then, Mr. Holmes,” You answered in your steadiest voice. You watched Sherlock leave the room, smiled as he turned back to look at you before he disappeared from the study. As soon as you were certain he was gone, you raised your fingers to brush where his lips had lingered briefly.
Sherlock Holmes was coming back to see you, simply for you. He planned on asking for your hand again, not for a case, but because he wanted it.
Sherlock Holmes wanted to marry you.
Terribly confounding.