Shows [Reverse Harem x Reader]

Fifty-Eight

Your eyes snapped open to a world that wasn't yours, and a single message burned itself into your transportation device by a person with a cruel sense of humor.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.

-Castiel

You wanted to scream. To curse his name to take him to hell.

He had thrown you into another universe, again and this time, you woke up in Victorian London with a head full of memories that didn't belong to you.

Her memories, The version of you that existed in this world. She would have loved Lana Del Rey.

She would have played 'Young and Beautiful' on repeat, romanticizing her own tragic obsessions while staring out rain-streaked windows, because this version of you was nothing if not hopelessly, devastatingly romantic.

And her greatest romantic interest?

Sherlock Holmes.

She was his assistant. Not by his choice, not at first. She had shown up at 221B Baker Street, brilliant, stubborn and absolutely relentless, and she had bagged him into taking her on through sheer force of will.

When that wasn't enough, she solved a case before he could, laid the evidence at his feet like a cat presenting a kill, and proved herself worthy of standing at his side.

He had been impressed, and decided to mentor her and later on she became his assistant, but being his assistant was never enough for her.

She was obsessed with him, not just with his mind, but with him. Every deduction she made, every observation she offered, was a performance.

A desperate, aching plea for him to look at her differently, and to see her as something more than a clever protégé, despite the age difference.

Despite knowing he might never be capable of giving her what she wanted. Despite everything.

She chased his approval like it was the only thing keeping her alive, and now you were trapped inside her skin, feeling the echoes of that longing like a bruise that wouldn't heal.

However, Sherlock wasn't the only dangerous man in her memories.

There was also Professor James Moriarty. She had attended his mathematical lectures at the university, the only woman in a room drowning in male judgment.

The other students had stared at her with disgust and dismissal, their gazes sharp enough to cut.

She should have left. Any sensible person would have. But Moriarty had allowed her to stay. And the way he had looked at her it still sent chills down your spine.

His gaze had lingered with something far more dangerous than mere curiosity. It was satisfying, quiet, patient, and utterly predatory.

The look of a man who had already chosen his prey and was simply waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

It wasn't sexual, it was something completely different.

And your version? She had noticed. She had known. And she had gone back anyway.

The strangest part of all? There was no tragic backstory to explain her taste in dangerous, unavailable men.

No childhood trauma, no broken home, no absent father figure to psychoanalyze. She had grown up in a happy, healthy family who loved her completely.

Some things, you supposed, were simply a matter of personal preference.

Lucky you. Now you were living her life, trapped between a detective who observed everything except what was right in front of him, and a criminal mastermind who saw far too much.