In that lovely apartment, where greenery blooms, and sunlight streamed through the windows like banners on a parade, you found your sanctuary. It was much like a greenhouse, brimming with life in every little sense, even a purring grey cat, head propped on the marble tile, cooling its body from the still glowing embers from last night.

Oh how the day had been perfect.

You’d awoken in that bed of soft cotton and heavy furs, encased by none other than you’re fiancé, no trace lingered of your silk nightgown, although - ah, there was. Just on the floor beside his-

Your cheeks flushed.

Lazy kisses had darkened your already blushing cheeks, and evoked breathy moans and pleads from you at barely ten in the morning. Once you’d wobbled out of bed, thanks to the handsome Lord who shared your bed, you went to dress.

A lovely navy dress and a cream cotton shawl, and a few long minutes fixing your hair and your makeup. Once kissing you gently by the door, you took your Lords’ arm and he whisked you away into town.

A quaint little bookshop, a cafe with lovely cakes, and at last a walk through a park he’d seemed adamant not to waste time in- but he persisted after you uttered the words ‘please, darling’. He relented whenever you did that.

He’d assured you that you had plenty of time till dinner; and you should bathe in the mean time. He even prepped it for you, with a lowly lit cinnamon candle and some potpourri, floating amongst the warm, bubbly water.

Once bathing and slipping into a simple rose coloured silk dress - if it could even qualify as such, there was a knock on the door. A postman? At six O’clock?

You slipped on the matching robe, silk lined with paler pink lace and removed the pin holding up your curls, letting them tumble down your shoulders. You carefully stepped out of the bathroom to hear a vehement voice say, “I need your help. Please, it’s important-“

“Enola,” The soft yet rough timbre of your betrothed’s voice. He sounded irritated, and slight pained, if discomforted. “I-“

“Tewkesbury?” His name left your lips in a soft enquiry. “What’s going on?”

“Darling,” He breathed, turning to you, features strained taught, went lax. “This is-“

“Who are you?” The young woman blurted, her hair a curled mess, her clothes creased and- Holmes. She was Sherlock Holmes’ younger sister, his ward too. You had spoken with Sherlock before, your father and him went back, so it was told to you.

“She’s my wife.” He said, voice a touch raw.

Your lips parted, and your eyes widened - in shock - not to mention arousal. The utter assurance, dominance and confidence in the way he uttered you as his, made your core go molten and your thighs feel slick for a moment - before you straightened remembering the young woman.

“Fiancée.” You corrected, walking to him, wrapping your hands around his arm. “We’re to be wed in December.”

“Ah, oh. Alright. Well,” She looked a little alarmed and looked back to Tewkesbury. “I still need your help-“

“We have dinner.”

You almost melted. “My fiancée is my priority, Enola.” He said, fingers finding yours.