TF
London, 1887. You are Sherlock Holmes, and the world is a machine you’ve already solved—except for the man sitting across from you: John Watson.
Mutual PiningDomestic BlissSlow BurnPartners to LoversHurt/ComfortIdiots in LoveVictorian Sherlock Holmes/John WatsonCodependency
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@tthevampyreThe fire crackled low, a bed of embers casting an amber glow that danced across the scattered papers, the chemistry equipment, and the worn leather of your armchair. The fog outside had thickened into a yellow-gray shroud, muffling the distant clatter of hansom cabs into a distant, dreamlike rhythm.
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