Archive of Our Own ^beta

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They were curled up together on the sofa, enjoying the peace and quiet. She was engaged in her favorite pastime, running her fingers through his silky hair, when a random thought occurred to her. “Hon?”

“Mm?”

She had to smile — her ministrations were already making him zone out. “Why don’t you write me love letters anymore?”

He turned The Eyebrow upon her. “I was under the impression that love letters were to cease upon matrimonial commencement.”

She tilted her head, still smiling. “They don’t have to stop. I kind of miss your letters — they were surprisingly and delightfully romantic.”

He snorted, though a smile lurked in his grey eyes. “I must confess that I turned back to The Sign of the Four for aid,” he murmured. He lifted his hand and ran his fingers through her hair.

She tilted her head back and hummed softly in pleasure, her own hand stilling. “They were beautiful.” She turned her head and kissed his wrist. “Just like you.”

He blushed slightly, but he didn’t stop stroking her hair. “Then it appears that I must continue to write them if they gave you so much pleasure,” he breathed. He leant in and kissed her gently on the lips.

“Yes, please,” she whispered, and kissed him back.

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It doesn’t take him long to deduce many aspects of her life and history, but, of course, he is always learning. Just when he thinks he knows her, warts and all, she surprises him. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get her limits.

In literally another life, that might have bothered him. In this life, however, he looks forward to the adventure.

He discovers, two months before their wedding, that she loves to dance. (He obliges her and discovers that he loves to dance, too.)

Her turpentine-strength coffee is legendary, but no one else knows that she keeps it up for show, and really prefers coffee that won’t peel paint off of walls. (He buys her cafe mochas often and hides it underneath the Inverness when he joins her at the Yard.)

She’s far softer and more sentimental than she ever lets on to the world. (So is he — they fit together well.)

She has scars, as does every Yarder who sees half the action she does, and each mark tells a tale of her courage. (He once had scars, but they weren’t at all noble.)

She would rather deal in abuse cases than be New Scotland Yard’s go-to detective for Moriarty matters. (He understands — he always felt the strongest about abuse cases, himself.)

She loves him. (And he’ll be happy to spend the rest of his life in returning that love.)

Chapter Text

She couldn’t help brooding over the latest criticisms even as she lay curled up in her husband’s arms. People just didn’t understand. She knew that her marriage was highly controversial — not among the public at large but rather among the fandom. No woman, fictional or real, could cross Sherlock Holmes’s path without repercussions, and she’d done far more than simply cross his path.

They didn’t understand that he was fully capable of being romantic, and he had simply chosen never to pursue a relationship in his previous life. They didn’t understand that, in his old age, he’d regretted that, that he’d been a lonely man.

Or — and this hurt even more — they resented the fact that she, rather than Watson, had claimed Sherlock’s heart.

He must have sensed something, because he began to stroke her hair. She tilted her head up and smiled gratefully, and his answering expression was one of concern. “What’s wrong, Beth?”

She shook her head. “Just… stuff.” She sighed. “People.”

“Fans?”

She nodded wordlessly.

He tightened his hold on her. “Oh, Beth.” He kissed her forehead and murmured, “I wish I could spare you this, love.”

She shook her head again. “I knew what I was getting into when I told you ‘yes,’ sweetheart.” Doesn’t make it hurt any less, she wanted to add but didn’t. He felt things deeply, and he’d had enough pain in his life — both his lifetimes. He didn’t need hers, too.

“Take bread away from me, if you wish,” he murmured, and she couldn’t help smiling. “Take air away, but do not take from me your laughter.

“Do not take away the rose,

the lance flower that you pluck,

the water that suddenly

bursts forth in joy,

the sudden wave

of silver born in you.”

She reached up for his hand and twined her fingers with his. They had been on their honeymoon when she discovered that he enjoyed Pablo Neruda. “I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,” she answered softly. “I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride…”

He picked it up then and they finished the poem:

So I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,

so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,

so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

The love in his eyes was overwhelming. In moments like this, all the pettiness of people did not exist, all the pain, all the evil… Just their love.

And she could be content.

Chapter Text

He’s like fire.

Funny how very few people ever realized it. Everyone always thought he was ice.

But he’s really fire.

I’ve seen him play his Stradivarius, once we tracked it down for him. I’ve watched as he throws his soul into his music, and it is… beautiful… and awe-inspiring… and humbling… It’s special. He plays with this incredible, consuming passion… and it’s wonderful.

And when he’s on a case! He is so energetic and excited, so thoroughly alive. He still loves what he does. He’s still passionate about what he does.

…I’ve seen him angry. Oh, he’ll still be calm, of course — he’ll be so calm that, unless you know him, you might not think him angry at all. But he is. It’s there in those stormy grey eyes. It can be scary. He can be scary.

It’s like in Narnia, when they say that Aslan isn’t safe, but he’s good.

Sherlock Holmes is certainly not safe, but he is good.

But…

But I’ve seen him unmistakeably furious. Rarely, but I have, and may the Lord have mercy on the soul of the offender, because he will not. All bets are off, then. He’s going to destroy you, or he is going to die trying.

…quite obviously, he’s still here.

It scares me. What if something happens to me, or Watson, or any of the kids? What kind of terrible force of nature would that turn him into? I don’t want him to lose himself to his own fire. I couldn’t bear it if he lost himself to his own fire.

Sherlock… Sherlock, please… don’t let that happen to you. Please don’t.

Chapter Text

The first time he kissed her, it was a chaste kiss upon the forehead. There was no mistaking the affection behind it, but it was simple and kind. Comforting. She had woken up, screaming, from a nightmare during her recovery at the hospital, and he’d been there.

He slid onto her bed and pulled her to him, holding her close and stroking her back comfortingly while she sobbed. Then he kissed her forehead.

It took her breath away. She glanced up at him uncertainly: who are you, and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?

He smiled back, blue eyes sad, and began to hum and to rock her. Limp and exhausted, she swiftly fell asleep, feeling so safe that she did not remember her dreams afterwards.

As far as she could tell, he never left her room. She had tried to kill him — never mind how unwillingly — and still he stuck by her.

Silence weighed heavily the next morning. She drew her knees up to her chest and tried to speak, only for her voice to crack. Thoroughly self-conscious now, she cleared her throat and tried again. “You kissed me,” she murmured, coloring slightly even as she said it. “Last night.”

He had looked up from his book and was now reddening a bit, as well. “Yes. I did.”

She nodded, unsure of what to say next. Everything floating around in her head sounded inane.

After half a minute of awkward silence, he put his book aside and sighed. “Elizabeth, please be assured that I hold you and your capabilities in the very highest regard, and I would not dream of condescending to you in any way.”

She couldn’t help staring at him, not having expected that at all. Obviously, the Great Detective’s deductive skills still failed at times… “I didn’t think you were condescending,” she said softly. “I… really appreciated that. What you did for me last night. I just… you took me by surprise with your kiss.”

“And I should not have done so.” He colored further. “Conventions of this time period — or lack thereof — be hanged.”

“I liked it.”

She had said that hardly above a whisper. He heard it, however, and his eyes widened. Vulnerability throbbed between them for a moment, and she realized that it was a moment. It made her heart soar, and it scared her. She managed a slight smile, which elicited the briefest of smiles from him.

“Beth.” He glanced down, and she noted the long fingers rapidly drumming some sort of tune on his knee. “May I…” He looked up, the look in his eyes indecipherable. “May I kiss you properly?”

Her eyes widened. “Do you really want to?” she breathed.

For the first time, she watched as his expression became completely open, nothing held back, eyes filling with a longing that she could not believe was for her. “Yes.”

The love and the need behind that one word nearly overwhelmed her. She nodded slowly, and he approached nearly as slowly. He sank onto the bed and then appeared not to know what to do with himself. She leaned forward, and that seemed to encourage him to likewise. She lifted trembling hands tentatively to his arms and stroked them for a moment, scarcely aware of what she was doing. The sheer depth of emotion in his eyes captivated her.

He raised a hand to her cheek, and she leaned into his touch, eyelids half closing in bliss. His hand was warm and soft, pulsing with a life that was not yet four months old. Then he leaned in further, still slow, still hesitant, and touched his lips to hers.

Heart racing, she pressed her lips back to his, her hands settling on his shoulders. He drew her closer, the touch of his lips still light and soft, his gaze indescribably warm and full of love. She realized then that, somewhere in the process of getting to know her lifelong hero, her infatuation had matured into a genuine romantic love.

Emboldened by that knowledge, her kiss grew passionate. His eyes widened briefly before he, too, kissed more fervently. It was incredible. It was the most important moment of her life.

Sherlock Holmes loved her, and she loved him.

He pulled away first — for air, she thought — and smiled shakily. She returned the smile, feeling full to bursting.

“Beth…”

She lifted her hand to touch his cheek and smiled. “Sherlock.”

His gaze was affectionate in a way she’d never seen before, not even with Watson or the Irregulars. “Beth, I am well aware of the romantic customs of this era, but I must ask this. May I court you?”

She smiled widely at him — she wouldn’t have it any other way. “Yes. You may.”

Chapter Text

“Lestrade, it is not Christmas yet. It is, in fact, still November.”

Beth Lestrade stopped and set down the box she’d been carrying to look Sherlock Holmes in the eye. “Yes, it is. Your point?”

“Why are you dragging an artificial Christmas tree into my sitting room?”

Beth tilted her head, considering. “It’s the most wonderful time of the year.” She flashed him a grin and picked the box back up.

“Good heavens, Inspector!” came Watson’s voice from the corridor. “Let me help you with that!”

“Watson,” Holmes groaned, “don’t encourage her!”

“Holmes, for shame,” the robot chided as he picked up the dragged end of the box.

Holmes decided to try logic, although heaven knew that tactic had only a fifty percent chance of working with his professional colleague when her mind was set on something. “Lestrade, doesn’t the Christmas season start after Thanksgiving Day in the States?”

“It does—okay, Watson, down, carefully.” They set the box down against the wall opposite the bow window, then Beth gave Holmes a Cheshire grin. “Lucky for me, I work in the UK.”

Time for a different tack, then, and before the madwoman finished spreading her fake branches around the carpet! “I absolutely refuse to have a Christmas tree set up in my own setting room nearly two months before Christmas!”

“Sherlock, it’s just six weeks, chill. It’s not gonna hurt you.” The stand was out, the spine of the tree was in place, and she was already starting to fit branches into their slots—and Watson, the traitor, was helping her.

“Why don’t you put up a tree in your own—” Beth gave Holmes a Look, and he sighed. “You already have.”

“Yup,” she nodded cheerfully. “Watson, if you could just keep building, I’m gonna go get the lights and star from my car.”

“Aye-aye, Inspector.”

“Thanks.” She dashed off, leaving Holmes glaring at his flatmate.

“Watson, of all the nerve!”

“Really, Holmes, you could simply humor her.”

Holmes folded his arms. “I don’t want a tree. I don’t need a tree.”

The door shut again downstairs, and Beth’s voice followed it, singing:

Frooooost-ed windowpanes!
Candles gleaming inside
Painted candy canes
On the tree

The analytical part of Holmes’s brain catalogued Beth as a mezzo-soprano, nothing special but pleasantly within the range of decent singing voices. That only took a fraction of a second, barely noted, because the thought filling his mind was not analytic at all. I’ve never heard her sing before.

She breezed back into the room with two shopping bags, still singing.

It’s that time of year
When the world falls in love
Every song you hear
Seems to say:
“Merry Christmas!
“May your New Year’s dreams come true!”

And this song of mine,
In three-quarter time,
Wishes you and yours
The same thing, too

Watson clapped, and Beth bowed dramatically, eyes shining. Holmes had never seen her so unguarded and relaxed, even when he’d been living in her flat those first few weeks… or so joyful.

Watson had finished building the tree while Beth had been gone, so she now took to stringing up strands of multi-colored lights. “This is gonna look great when it’s done, promise.” She finished with the ease of someone who’d completed the task many times before, and bent down to plug the lights in. “Perfect!”

Holmes had to admit that the lit tree was rather aesthetically pleasing. “Very nice, thank you,” he said dryly.

Beth turned to him with a roll of her eyes, but even that didn’t wipe the smile off her face. “Grinch. You know, they’re selling tree ornaments in stores—we should go get you some. I would have grabbed some when I was out getting the tree and the lights and star, but I wasn’t sure what you’d like.”

“I’d like not to have a tree,” was Holmes’s first thought, but it would have been cruel to voice it, with Beth having gone to all this trouble already and looking so bright and happy. Gone soft in our old age, have we? ...well, that we knew literally centuries ago, thank you.

Her large blue eyes were watching him expectantly, and his heart gave the faintest flutter without his having any idea why. He sighed. “Very well. I see I shan’t have any peace until your sudden obsession is appeased.”

She smiled even wider, and his chest tightened fractionally. “Terrific. Let’s go, then!”

As Holmes followed Beth out of the room, he refused to look at Watson, whose smug elasto smile he could just feel. “Not one word,” he warned.

Chapter Text

“You expect me to believe that?”

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Beth Lestrade didn’t care for being jerked out of sleep on a Saturday morning by a chorus of clomping and chattering downstairs. Those noises could mean only one thing: the Baker Street Irregulars were in the building.

She pulled the covers over her head and moaned, “Nooooo. It’s my day to sleep in.”

She couldn’t see her husband, but she could hear the fond smile in his voice. “I’ll go see to them.”

She peeked her head back out of the covers as Sherlock Holmes slid out of bed, and couldn’t help smirking sleepily at the view as he threw his nightshirt on and hastily donned his dressing gown. He noticed and blushed a little. “Yes, all right. You’d best get into something yourself, just in case.”

“Oh, come on. They have to know barging in here wouldn’t be safe.” Beth frowned — and on the other hand, those kids could do the dumbest things… “They do know that, right?”

Sherlock hesitated. “Probably?”

Beth gave him a look as she threw back the covers and went for the nearest nightgown. “You, mister, need to have a talk with your kids.”

“You know you adopted them when you married me, right?”

Her nightgown now in place, she lobbed his pillow at him in response. He batted it away and left the room laughing silently, zed him.

Groaning, she flopped back onto the bed. The week had been long, Chief Inspector Grayson had been as frustrating as ever, and Moriarty had thrown a particularly irritating scheme their way. One which her husband — her husband, she was still getting used to that! — had tied up in good time, but still… Forget cryptnosis, she so wanted to land that creep behind bars…

She was zoned out and well on her way back to sleep when her comm buzzed. With a growl, she picked it up and squinted at the message — it was from Sherlock.

I think you are going to want to come down.

That was the moment it finally registered on her senses. The smell of eggs, bacon, and something else indefinable but definitely delicious. Eyes wide, she pushed herself up off the bed, grabbed her robe, and left the room. The smell of a big breakfast was stronger in the hallway.

As she went down the stairs, she heard the kids chattering merrily with Watson in the direction of the kitchen. She made it to the doorway and stared. Wiggins was scrambling eggs on the stove and Deirdre was flipping pancakes on the electric griddle Beth had had since college. Watson was playing virtual chess with Tennyson, and Sherlock was seated at the head of the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a coffee mug.

Tennyson noticed Beth first and chirped a greeting.

“Oh, hi, Detective Inspector!” Deirdre chimed.

“Good morning!” Wiggins added cheerfully.

“Good morning, Lestrade,” Watson smiled.

Beth gave a disbelieving laugh. “What the heck are you guys doing?”

“Making you breakfast!” said Deirdre.

“We heard you had a long week,” Wiggins continued, as he pulled the pan off the stove and scraped the eggs off into a serving bowl.

Beth took a seat next to Sherlock, who had already risen and was busy fixing her a cup of coffee. “You did this for me?”

Tennyson beeped something.

Deirdre nodded. “Yeah, Watson said you love a good big breakfast but you don’t usually have the time or energy to do it. So, we thought we’d do it for you. Just this once,” she added, a mischievous glint entering her eyes. “Or we may have to charge you for the service.”

Beth snorted. “Too rich for me.” But she was touched. She and the Baker Street Irregulars 2.0 hadn’t always gotten along, but they were good kids, mostly, and she and they agreed on one thing: they loved Sherlock Holmes, and Watson, and 221B. Regardless of whether or not their home lives were happy, Beth knew one thing: the kids had adopted the Great Detective as their dad.

And he, in turn, had all but adopted them in law as well as in his heart.

Coffee was set down in front of her, followed by a plate of bacon, scrambled eggs, and pancakes swimming in syrup.

“Thank you, guys,” Beth said feelingly. “This is terrific.”

Wiggins: “You’re welcome!”

Deirdre: “Happy to help!”

Tennyson whistled.

Beth scooted her chair over to crowd with Sherlock at the end of the table, and leaned her head on his shoulder. She was still tired down to her bones, after all. He made no protest, but wrapped his arms around her and held her close as they watched the kids (their kids? their kids) bustle around the kitchen.

Life with Sherlock Holmes was never dull, but it sometimes held some very nice surprises.