White Rose / Sherlock Holmes x Reader Fanfiction

Chapter One: The Letters

It was a Saturday morning that Dr. John Watson found out Sherlock Holmes's deepest secret. And it had started off as a very nice day with many promises of fair weather and bright prospects for Dr. Watson. A bright sunny sky when he got out of bed, the eggs were cooked exactly the way he liked them and Holmes hadn't done anything to annoy him all morning. In fact he was sitting in his armchair, quietly looking through a book that he didn't seem to be reading at all. His eyelids drooped and he would only flip a page once every thirty minutes or so.

Watson looked at him suspiciously but decided not to do anything to wake him from his trance. It was rare to have a nice quiet morning all to himself like this without any of the Scotland Yard thumping up the steps and Holmes not in any of his moods. So Watson contentedly sat down in his seat as quietly as possible and continued to read the book he'd just started a few days ago.

He happily read and was so immersed in a new surgical technique that he was surprised when he looked at his watch to find that it was well into the afternoon. He looked up at Holmes to find that the man was still sitting in the exact same position as when he had sat down. His book propped high on his knee and his head resting slightly on his chest.

"Perhaps he's sleeping." Watson thought, but nearly jumped out of his skin when Holmes's hand moved to flip the page. Watson breathed a sigh and got out of his chair and went up to get changed out of his sleeping clothes and robe.

As he took off his robe, he remembered that the elder Holmes had sent a letter. Actually, several letters in the past few days. Mycroft was unlike his younger brother in that he sent letters instead of telegrams. Holmes had forbidden him to open them in a very strange way so he had avoided them.

"Watson, I beg of you." He had said. "I command you with all due respect to never open those letters. Throw them in the fire, tear them to shreds and scatter its remains to the wind. I repeat. Do not read them."

But now, his curiosity got the better of him. "Anyway, Mycroft sent them to me, not Sherlock. And it doesn't mean that it's going to have anything to do with him. Well, it probably will but it doesn't mean it has to. I mean, these are for me! I'm not some slave that has to do his every bidding!" So he opened up the letters and in each one he received a similar message.

He read through each one several times before putting them down and going to Holmes. When he opened the door, in the seat where Holmes had been reading was only the book he had held. Instead, he heard a clink of china from the kitchen and so went to look and found the man was making himself some tea.

"I see you've finally read those letters I firmly instructed you not to read." Holmes said, putting the cup to his lips and sipping it.

"I will not ask you how you know but I will ask you why you told me not to read them." Watson asked, standing his ground.

Holmes clicked his tongue several times while shaking his head. "I will answer both questions. This honey has gone off." Holmes said, dropping the cup into the sink with a crash.

"Honey doesn't expire." Watson said, going to look at the honey. However, Holmes had of course walked off. Watson picked up the honey pot and followed after him.

"First, you went upstairs. I noticed you looking at me before you got out of your seat. I was sitting in a position that you have always seen my brother sit in. Which inadvertently would have made you think of my brother. I knew you had read them since I did not hear you take off your slippers and that you stood in one place for a very long time, presumably reading something. Perhaps, some letters." Holmes turned around and made a waving gesture in the air.

"This is not honey! It's some kind of...wax!" Watson exclaimed, holding up his fingers that were sticky with the honey colored substance.

"I knew for sure when you came down hurriedly and missed the last step which you only ever do when you are distressed. Aah, I believe that that is the wax I made to wax off some fingerprints. I developed it from some honey and tree sap."

"I've been using this for the last two weeks!" Watson exclaimed.

"As I was saying, you read the letters and I am disappointed in you." Holmes sighed, picking up the book lovingly and sitting back down in his seat.

"Well," Watson put down the 'honey pot' and picked up a handkerchief, starting to wipe off the sticky glue that was starting to harden from his fingers. "I'm glad I read them. Mycroft sent me several letters, each of them stating the same thing. 'Tell my brother to meet me on Saturday at he knows where and he knows when. Tell him that she's waited long enough.' And then he proceeds to write a location anyway. Now, of course, sentences like that would spark my curiosity, including the fact that this is the first time in my memory that Mycroft has mentioned a woman. The only time I've ever seen him connected to anything feminine was when he asked if Mrs. Hudson could get him some tea. And he didn't even call her that. He called her 'it'! So, what are those letters supposed to mean and why didn't you want me reading them?"

Holmes stared quietly at the book he held, giving Watson the notion that it wasn't just some  book as he had thought. Holmes's eyes dimmed and Watson looked at him worriedly.

"That is why I did not want you reading those wretched letters. Because I would proceed to have to tell you something that I wished never to talk of again." Here, Holmes sighed, his fingers caressing the book. "However, seeing as we have been friends for many years and that we will be friends for many years to come, I will explain to you. Beginning, with a single photograph."

He opened up the book and to Watson's astonishment, he realized that it was a type of scrapbook. Holmes flipped the pages and eventually passed it to him. Watson took the book gently in both hands and looked at the single photograph of a woman. On the white edge of the photograph were two faded words but he could see what the name was. (Y/n)(Y/l/n)

"Deduce." Holmes said, getting up and walking to the window.

Watson huffed a sigh of disapproval and observed the page. "The page is slightly yellowed with age, perhaps ten to fifteen years and the ink on it is a faded purple. The writing, written by a woman." He sniffed the page. "It smells of flowers. Not exactly perfume. The main scent I can tell is," he sniffed again, "Roses, Lavender and a whole range of others I know but cannot put my finger on."

"The photograph man! The photograph!" Holmes snapped. Watson's jaw tensed but he did as he was told.

Watson looked at the photo properly and stared at the woman. Her face was not beautiful but there was something enchanting to it. Her (color) hair was neat and orderly, done up in the fashion of it's time and was woven with snowdrops. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap and the way she raised her head gave her an air of dignity. Her bright eyes were full of youth and splendor and unlike most photographs she was smiling brightly, a smile that took Watson's breath away. However, she looked tired.

"Well?" Holmes said, his voice slightly amused.

"The woman is young. She is also extremely pretty, however, she is too thin and her face is sallow. The bones of her hands are noticeable due to her thinness and her eyes are bright, almost with fever. Perhaps she is ill?" He looked up at Holmes and the standing man nodded. He then proceeded. "Her clothes are of high cost, for the lace on her shawl is delicate. The dress she wears is also very fine and the way she holds herself shows she is of refined taste but a bit of a rebel for she is smiling which is not the ladylike fashion."

"That was very accurate. Though you missed all the important details." Holmes smiled at him warmly. He took his seat again and Watson gave him back the book. "Yes, she was indeed suffering through quite a serious bout of illness then. The photograph was taken at my brother's request the very next day after I met her. He had been wanting a portrait done for a long time. She could not stand or sit long enough for a painting which would have taken hours and days so he commissioned for a photograph. This was the first photograph I ever had of her."

Holmes eyes clouded as he stared at the picture, his strong fingers caressing the name ever so gently. They sat there in a silence for a few minutes. Watson, his fingers starting to tap his leg impatiently finally spoke the question that had been lingering in the air.

"Who is she?"