A Fate You Can’t Escape

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Spark| Masterlist

(Gif is not my own! Original poster @thehungergamesrenaissance​)

Total Word Count: 20.7k

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

procrastinating my homework and wrote a non-sensical poem in my notes app again

House x m!reader

mostly angst , house isnt allowed happiness

You were the case he shouldn’t have taken.

Not because it wasn’t interesting—God no, you were fascinating. A rapid, degenerative decline with no clear cause, organs failing like dominoes, bloodwork that didn’t make sense. A real puzzle.

But you were also charming. Razor-sharp. Witty in a way that felt intentional—like you were sparring with him, not trying to impress. You didn’t flinch at his sarcasm, didn’t soften around the edges like most patients did. You met him eye to eye and made him feel seen, which was worse than being ignored.

And now you were dying.

No diagnosis. No answers. Just a firm deadline hanging over you like a guillotine.

House stood at the foot of your hospital bed, watching the slow, mechanical rise and fall of your chest. The monitors beeped softly—too softly. The air felt wrong without your usual quips, your dry smile, your “what do you want now, more blood?”

You hadn’t woken up all day.

Wilson entered quietly. “You know you can’t fix this one.”

House didn’t look at him. “People said the same about cancer. Then someone invented chemo. Maybe I’ll invent something in the next twenty-four hours.”

Wilson was quiet a moment, watching him. “You’re not angry because you can’t solve the case.”

House’s shoulders stiffened.

“You’re angry because it’s him.”

House finally turned, expression cold. “I’m angry because I’m surrounded by idiots who can’t figure out what’s killing a man in front of them.”

“You can’t figure it out.”

The silence between them stretched. Wilson, as always, wasn’t afraid to twist the knife.

House swallowed thickly and turned back to you. “He was making jokes about death three days ago. Asked me if I’d write his eulogy and call everyone at the funeral idiots.”

“That sounds like him.”

“He said he’d haunt me. Said he’d rattle my cane at night just to piss me off.”

House's voice caught at the end, almost imperceptibly. He cleared his throat like he could swallow the grief.

“You cared about him.”

“I don’t care.” The words came too fast. Too loud. “He’s a patient. A dying patient. Dying patients die. That’s what they do.”

“Greg—”

“He’s going to die, and I’m not going to cry over someone I’ve only known two weeks.”

Wilson looked at him for a long moment, then sighed and left.

House stood alone at your bedside, silence pressing down on him like gravity. His hand hovered above yours but never touched.

“I hate you for being smart,” he said quietly. “I hate you for being funnier than me. I hate you for looking at me like you saw right through all of it.”

Your breathing hitched in your sleep. Just slightly.

House leaned in, the tiniest crack in his voice:

“I hate that it's going to suck when you die.”

The room smells like antiseptic and late afternoon sun. You’re propped up in bed, barely able to sit upright without your lungs burning like you’ve run a marathon. Every breath feels like it takes negotiation. The beeping monitors have become your ambient soundtrack.

Then the door creaks open, and Thirteen walks in with something big cradled in a to-go box, grinning like she’s just broken the rules. Because she has.

You raise an eyebrow. “Please tell me that’s not what I think it is.”

She plops it down on the tray table with ceremony. “Bacon double cheeseburger. Extra onion rings. Triple patty. I threw in a milkshake just to make nurses yell at me later.”

You let out a weak, hoarse laugh. “This is gonna kill my cholesterol.”

She doesn’t laugh back right away. Just smiles. Softly. The kind that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

You both know what this is. Not recovery. Not hope. It’s a parting gift. Something indulgent and alive, for someone who's already fading. It means: you mattered. It means: we’re saying goodbye, but not with tears just yet.

Your fingers tremble as you reach for a fry, and Thirteen gently helps you bring it to your lips. It tastes like everything you’ve been denied—grease, heat, life.

You chew slowly. “Tell House he still owes me a better eulogy.”

Thirteen nods, her voice thick. “He’ll pretend he doesn’t care.”

You manage a smirk. “He’ll write it anyway.”

And you both sit in the fading sunlight, sharing the best worst meal of your life.

God, this is such a soft, aching scene. The slow procession of goodbye, disguised in humor and shared memories. Here's how that might look:

You're not sure who sends out the signal, but somehow, one by one, they all come.

Foreman is first. Ever the professional, even now. He checks your chart, updates your IV with practiced hands. You pretend not to notice the way he lingers, as if fixing the machines might fix you too. He doesn’t say much—never really did—but his hand rests on your shoulder longer than necessary when he leaves.

Taub sneaks in next, looking like he’s trying not to be caught. He sits at your bedside, cracks a joke about how *you* should’ve been the one cheating death, not him cheating on his wife. It’s dark, but you both laugh. You knew way too much about that man's love life by now. He leaves behind a sudoku book you can’t focus on, but it smells faintly of his cologne and cigarette smoke. Comforting, in a weird way.

Chase comes just after sunset, sunlight haloing his golden hair. He grins as he flops into the chair beside you, casual as ever.

“You’re my favorite dying guy, you know,” he says.

You grin, weakly. “You’re my favorite Aussie. Don’t tell Hugh Jackman.”

He chuckles, and the sound almost breaks you. “You don’t get many people like you. Smart, sharp. Didn’t let House get away with shit.”

“He’s still gonna win.”

“Maybe.” Chase’s smile falters a little. “But you made it hard for him. He liked you.”

You nod, eyes fluttering closed for a moment. “That’s the nicest insult I’ve ever gotten.”

He squeezes your hand before leaving, thumb tracing a slow arc across your knuckles. “Get some rest.”

The room is quiet when Wilson finally steps in.

No dramatic entrance. No clipboard. No comforting lie.

Just Wilson, clutching a coffee he hasn’t touched, standing in the doorway like he’s afraid crossing the threshold will make it real.

You manage a small smile. “Didn’t think you’d come. Thought you hated watching people die.”

“I do,” he says softly, closing the door behind him. “But I hate missing the chance to say goodbye more.”

He walks over, sits down where Chase sat before him. His eyes are tired. Red-rimmed. You don’t mention it.

There’s a long silence.

Then, his voice cracks like something inside him finally gave way. “I really wish it was cancer.”

You don’t flinch. You don’t laugh. You just nod, slow and steady, because you do understand.

Cancer, at least, comes with a playbook. Chemo. Radiation. Clinical trials. Wilson’s entire life has been about fighting it, taming it, coaxing one more month, one more year, out of the cruel beast.

But you—your body’s unraveling in ways no one can name. There’s no script. No treatment. Just time, and not much of it.

“I know,” you whisper. “Me too.”

He puts the coffee down. Takes your hand like it’s glass.

“You’re not alone,” he says, voice thick. “Even if you want to be. You’re not.”

You nod again. It’s all you can do.

And for a long time, neither of you speaks. He just holds your hand, thumb brushing over your pulse, as if willing it to stay.

You’re barely there when he comes.

Not that you weren’t expecting it—House was always late from what you've heard. To consults, to court, to apologies. You weren’t sure he’d show at all.

The door creaks open. A moment passes. Then the telltale thump of his cane on tile. Steady. Slow.

You don’t bother opening your eyes.

“Thought you were done with the case,” you rasp, voice more breath than sound. The words tug at your cracked lips, forming a crooked smile.

There’s a pause. Then—

“I don’t like unfinished puzzles.”

He says it like it’s a joke. Like it’s still just another day, another file. But the pause that follows is heavy.

He walks closer, and when he sits, the leather of the chair creaks under his weight. You hear him breathe out, shaky. Like he’s been holding it the whole way here.

Your breath rattles in your chest. You manage to crack one eye open—just enough to see the gray in his stubble, the pinch in his brow.

“You look like hell,” he mutters.

“Mirror,” you wheeze, “must be broken.”

House huffs a breath that might’ve been a laugh. He leans forward, elbows on his knees. Doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t need to.

“I ran your bloodwork again,” he says, almost absently. “Still nothing. No 'miracle.' No screw-up. You’re… you’re really dying.”

There’s something unspoken at the end of that sentence. And I can’t stop it.

You let your head roll slightly toward him. “You mad at me for it?”

“No,” he says. Too quickly. Then quieter, “Yes.”

He rubs a hand over his mouth, then down the back of his neck. He looks at you like maybe if he stares hard enough, you’ll get better just to spite him.

Then, finally, he says the thing that’s been clogging his throat the whole time:

“I don’t want you to go.”

And God, it’s not romantic. It’s not tender. It’s raw and bitter and laced with all the things House can’t say right. But it’s real.

You cough, and it hurts like hell, but you manage to smile again. “You’ll have to… find a new favorite terminal case.”

“Already told the others,” he says. “You’re irreplaceable. You bastard.”

You close your eyes, and for a moment, the pain slips beneath the surface. House stays. Silent. Watching. Waiting.

And for once, he doesn’t try to fix it.

He just stays.

Your grip is barely there, papery and trembling in his palm, but House doesn't let go.

He never does things like this. Never lingers. Never touches unless it's necessary—or cruel. But here he is. Sitting at your bedside with his calloused fingers wrapped around yours, thumb brushing idly over your knuckles.

You’re more shadow than substance now. Skin yellowed with jaundice, eyes glassy, voice a thin, rasping ghost of what it was. But when you smile, he feels it like a punch to the gut.

“I should get you a hooker,” he says, voice rough, grating. Still House. Still a dick.

You wheeze a laugh that dissolves into a wet, painful cough. “Only… if it’s one of the expensive ones.”

“Oh, naturally,” he says, faux-casual. “None of that street corner crap for you. I’m talking… a high-end escort. Ivy League education. Can quote Tolstoy while choking on your—”

You squeeze his hand. Barely. But it’s there.

“God, I’m gonna miss your mouth.”

House swallows hard. Looks away.

“Don’t,” he says.

You smile again, smaller this time. Sleepier. It’s all slipping now. Moments draining like sand in the glass.

“You were an asshole from the moment I got admitted.”

“Consistent branding,” he murmurs.

“But you held my hand.”

He looks down at where your fingers are intertwined. Doesn’t answer right away. Then, softly:

“Yeah. Don’t tell anyone. Ruins my reputation.”

Your breath hitches, not from emotion but exhaustion. He can hear it. Feels it. The end’s so close now it buzzes in the air like static.

Still, he doesn’t let go.

Doesn’t move.

Just stays. Holding on for as long as he can.

Your chest hurts more now, a pressure that suffocates rather than aches. It’s sharp, like a thousand needles, each breath a ragged gasp you can’t quite catch. The monitors beside you beep in a steady, heartless rhythm, their sound growing louder and more frantic with each passing moment.

House’s face has morphed into something you didn’t think was possible. His usual cocky, sarcastic demeanor has melted into something raw. Something… afraid. His eyes flick to the monitor, then to you, back and forth, as though willing it all to stop, willing time to go backward, for you to just wake up from this.

You can see it in the twitch of his fingers, the flex of his jaw. He wants to save you. He wants to break every rule, every order, and fight for your life as if it’s one more case to solve. But he can’t. Not this time.

You can’t hold back a weak cough, the sound of it pathetic and wet, escaping your lips in a desperate attempt to make it better—but there’s nothing left to save.

“I—” He stops. His breath catches. “I could—”

“House…” Your voice is barely a rasp, a shadow of sound. It’s hard to form the words, hard to make them come together in your failing throat.

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t need to.

You know what he wants to say. I could break the rules. I could fight for you. I could save you.

But you signed a DNR. A part of you—the part that really knew it all along—is grateful for that. Grateful that you won’t have to endure any more pain. That you’ll be allowed to go. To leave this behind. Without being hooked to machines or held hostage by the life you’ve outlived.

You squeeze his hand—weakly, pathetically, but you do it. The touch is almost nothing. But it’s everything.

“I’m here,” he says, voice thick with something—grief, regret, tenderness—maybe all of it. His thumb brushes over the back of your hand, something like a prayer.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters. A whisper. Too quiet. But you hear it.

You blink slowly, feeling your body grow heavier, the world dimming at the edges. It’s time. You know it is. But you want him to know, somehow, that you’re okay with this. That it’s okay for him to let you go.

With a final, shaky breath, you exhale the words you’ve never said before, not like this.

“I’m not scared.”

His hand tightens around yours in the final moments. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. There’s nothing left to say as the heart monitor flatlines and the machines scream in silence.

But he stays there, holding your hand, because that's the only thing he knows to do when the one person he couldn’t save slips away from him.

Summary: You saw Five and Lila cheating and end up in a random train station. As a Diner caught your eye you couldn't believe what or rather who was waiting for you inside.

I stumble out of the train, almost tripping over the edge. This can't be, he would never. I hate him, I never thought that I could do this but I do. My heart was shattered, it felt like it was being torn out of my torso and ripped in thousand parts. How could he do this to me? How could he do this to Diego? I have no idea where I am, or rather when I am. But I didn't care I just walked along the train station. My heels clicked with every step they took. The sound echoed with every thud on the white tiles.

I caught them. Five was missing and in my head there where millions of horrible ideas what could be happened to him. I can't believe I worried. We gone through so much shit and he shattered everything just like it was nothing. I traveled so far with these damn trains, no idea how I could possible come home again, just to caught them kissing each other. These assholes! Slowly the sadness turned into anger and every step I take gets louder.

In the distance I see red light reflecting on the floor. I swear to god if this is a trainstation-stripclub I trow myself on the rails. Seeing so much today what I couldn't believe makes me getting the wildest ideas, expecting anything but normal. I step closer and what I see is a Diner. Without hesitation I enter. I would kill for a chocolate croissant and a nice cup of coffee right now. But as soon as I entered everything went silent. Even a fly could be heard.

As shocked as they were as shocked I was. "This can't be", I mumble to myself. Every pair of eyes, which stared me down, were his. The Five which was now coming out of the back, let his tablet fall onto the ground. The sudden loud noise made the other ones fall out of their trance. "Y/n?", a few said, but others were just looking. "She's mine!", one of the Five's screams. Others were already talking him down. Another was punching a different Five and two got them apart. Without hesitation one five stood up and walked towards me. "I am sorry it's been a long time since they seen you", he says confusing me even more. "i...I what the hell is going on?", I ask, not believing what I saw standing infont of me.

"You just kissed Lila and now you are talking with me as nothing has happened? And what is this here? A stupid joke?", I ask him outraged. "Oh no darling I am not the five you know. I am coming out of a different timeline, but wouldn't you like to sit as I explain?", he asks politely. Like it was the most normal thing I go to sit with him at one of the diner tables, ignoring the fact that at least twenty versions of my boyfriend were looking down at me. As we sit down the Five on the counter rushed to our table.

"The black coffee, cappuccino and the chocolate croissant will be on your table soon", he stumbles, while looking at me. "How...?", I begin to ask but he was faster gone than I could blink. I feel more comfortable now as I saw how the attention was no longer drawn to me. "Explain, now", I demand as I was staring the Five before me down. "Feisty, as I remembered you", he says. I can't help myself but smile a little bit. "Why are there so many of you? And why was the one so obsessed", I ask. He crocked his neck. "We are all different Fives, out of different timelines. Most of them lost their Y/n, that's why things got out of hand", he explained. "So your five cheated on you? That's new, none of us did that, guess a new timeline has formed. Why would he do that...?", he asks himself.

I was shocked, overdosed with unimaginable information. "So what happened to your Y/n?", I ask him, just releasing I went to far. "She died in a fight, Hazel shot her", he says. "Five over there, who said you were his. She killed herself", he explains some more. I can't believe what he was just saying. "I would never do such a thing", I say. "No. Yourself in this timeline wouldn't but the on in his did. It's the same with us, we are all the same but different at the same time. I would never cheat on you and that's the point", he looks down on the floor. "I will find him don‘t worry, he will pay for what he did", he says while my eyes get big. "No... no he's still my Five I...", I try to bring the words out of me.

"Darling...", he leans over the table looking me staring into the eyes. "You have no idea what most of the Fives in here would do for you. Every single one of us is better as these little small cocked asshole", he says. I get nervous and have trouble looking him into the eyes. "He doesn't have a small...", I try to say. "I know I know...", he interrupts me.

Let me know what you think in the comments

(you need to view the image or you'll just like the post)

Y/N: We have fun, don’t we, Five?

Five: I have never been more stressed out in my entire life.

paper rings // gilbert blythe

or,

the 4 times gilbert blythe fell in love with you, and the 1 time he knew he’d do it all over again

⋆ ࣪.      ⁺⑅     ⋰˚     *.ﾟ    .˳⁺⁎˚     ˚⁎⁺˳ .    ༺ ˖

gilbert blythe x fem!reader

wc: 5.7k

i like shiny things, but i’d marry you with paper rings

a/n: trying something new here! i’ve never used this format (five times // one time- i tweaked it to make it four and one since i’m exhausted) so i hope you all enjoy <3 also fair warning that this is not historically accurate. but i actually spend my summers in PEI (and have for my entire life) so i think my portrayal of the environment at least is good! also, this is rushed as per usual :)

⋆ ࣪.      ⁺⑅     ⋰˚     *.ﾟ    .˳⁺⁎˚     ˚⁎⁺˳ .    ༺ ˖

one. when he walked you home from school.

the late june air was sticky in the avonlea schoolhouse, clinging to skin, beads of sweat gathering by brows. sunlight spilled through the windows, and even billy andrews couldn’t muster enough enthusiasm to tease anyone in this heat. pinafores too heavy for this weather, the girls gathered in one corner, pretending to read the excerpt mr phillips had picked out for today, but in honesty, you were all just complaining about the summer heat.

“i can’t wait until i have my hair up,” ruby gillis sighed, casting a longing glance across the room towards the boys. “my ribbon does suit my complexion, of course- but it’s much too hot in summer to have my hair down.”

murmurs of agreement spread throughout your little group. “i tried it one time,” whispered anne dramatically, “when marilla was away. it was rather romantic, but the pins hurt a great deal.”

sitting in between jane andrews and tillie boulter, you tried not to zone out. gaze drifting across the classroom, you caught gilbert blythe’s eye from where he was sitting with the boys, and he shot you a quick smile. you gave him a shy one back, and looked away before you could blush. you’d known gilbert forever- his family was close to yours- but something had changed recently, and you couldn’t quite put your finger on it.

mr. phillips finally dismissed the class, and in a rush of rowdiness, the boys all excused themselves from the schoolhouse, whooping and hollering about a potential skinny dip in the wild waves. in a flurry of giggles and secrets, your friends gathered their books and rushed outside (in a rather unladylike manner- but it was summer and the world was their oyster, so who cared). you knew diana was hosting a tea party over the weekend- complete with ice cream, she’d said!- but as far as you knew, there were no plans for tonight, save the beach trip the boys had talked about. trying your best to avoid the heat for as long as possible, you lingered in the coatroom, taking the time to adjust your hat into place. but you weren’t alone, and you startled as a familiar face appeared over your shoulder.

“gilbert,” you said, his name sweet on your tongue. “you’re not going to the beach with billy?”

he shook his head. “i’m not quite in the mood for that today. but i was wondering. do you want- can i- would you like some company on your walk home?”

heart in your throat, you looked at the boy you’d known your whole life. was gilbert blythe asking to walk you home? you nodded wordlessly, and his eyes immediately softened. there was a nervousness you’d never seen in him before, a cautiousness, as if he were treading on eggshells and was terrified to break them. “i- i’d love that, gilbert, thank you.” a smile slowly spread across his face, and you seemed to see him in a new light. noticing the things you hadn’t before. the softness of his dark eyes and the way they sparkled. the gentle curve of his jaw. the way he smelled like rosemary and mint soap and the blythe farm’s apple orchard, mixed with a hint of cinnamon. the way gilbert blythe was the prettiest boy you’d ever seen.

“great,” he said, finally breaking you out of your reverie. “i wouldn’t want you to get heatstroke, after all. it’d be ungentlemanly of me to let you go home without making sure you’re alright in this heat.”

your stomach erupted with butterflies, and you walked in silence with him as you left the schoolhouse. treading along the path, your footsteps settled into the same rhythm, and eventually gilbert spoke, his voice clear among the songbirds and crickets. 

“how’s your family? i haven’t seen them in a fortnight.”

his tone was proper and gentlemanly, but curious and kind. you looked shyly up at him. gilbert was tall, taller than you, sturdy with broad shoulders and a grin that showed off a lopsided roguishness once in a while on his otherwise serious face. you gripped your books a little tighter, trying to focus your thoughts back to the conversation. “they’re good, thanks for asking. mother’s been wondering about you, though. she’s wanted to drop soup off for your father, but wasn’t sure if he’d appreciate it. it’s been a while since you were over, so she doesn’t know if he still likes biscuits or bone broth.”

gilbert scuffed the ground with his boot a little bit, looking down at you contemplatively. “that’s kind of her,” he said. “he’s barely been able to keep anything down, but he likes soup. i’m not sure about the biscuits, but i’d certainly like some. i wouldn’t mind some of your mother’s plum preserves either. i haven’t had much time to go into town for food lately.”

you’d noticed. there were shadows under his eyes, and he’d always been on the lanky side, but since gilbert had taken on more of the farm work you’d observed his cheeks grow more drawn. his muscles had grown, too- another result of all the wood chopping you knew he was doing- but he lacked energy, and your heart ached for the boy. cicadas chirped as you walked in unison through the path, minding the garden snakes slinking through the tall grass, and an idea sparked in your mind as you passed the field signaling close to home.

“gilbert,” you said thoughtfully, stopping in your tracks. “mother was going to make a layer cake today, with raspberry preserves and clotted cream. i’m sure it’s cooled by now. we can have a little picnic, you and i- we have lemonade at home too, that rachel lynde brought us, and father thinks it’s too tart, so he wants to get rid of it. you can bring some home for your father as well. mother wouldn’t mind, i promise- i can make us a picnic basket, and we can sit in that field.”

gilbert turned towards you, and you couldn’t quite decipher the expression on his face. “i don’t want you to pity me,” he said quietly. “much less drag your family into it.”

“no, no,” you said quickly, fearing he’d interpreted your invitation the wrong way. “just a picnic, to catch up, as friends. we haven’t talked in a while. i miss you.”

he bit his lip. you could almost see the gears turning in his head. “alright,” he said finally. “it’s almost summer, after all. i think- i think i’d like that.”

when you reached your house, your mother was more than happy to oblige, giving gilbert a big hug and fussing over how much taller he’d gotten since the last time she saw him. you cut two pieces of cake and put them on plates in the straw picnic basket along with the bottle of mrs. lynde’s infamous lemonade. your mother even let you bring the crystal glasses used for special occasions- she trusted the both of you well enough to know that you wouldn’t break them. covering up the basket with a red checkered tablecloth, you and gilbert set off again, waving goodbye to your mother and finding a spot in the field where there was a tree with enough shade to sit under. clover and goldenrod and cornstalk bloomed in the field, and the cool, sweet grass tickled the bottom of your dress. gilbert, beside you, leaned back against the tree, his broad shoulder touching yours, and spooned a large amount of cake into his mouth. it was the happiest you’d seen him in months. the thin layer of ruby jelly in between the vanilla layers coloured the cupid’s bow of your lips, and gilbert realized in that moment that he wanted very badly to take you into his arms and kiss you. but the moment was fleeting, and gilbert was left with the idea of love lingering on his mind.

that was the first time gilbert blythe realized he was falling for you.

two. when you showed up on his doorstep in the rain.

rain poured outside, streaking the windows and trickling down the roofs of avonlea’s houses. sorrow hung in the air, and black clothing had dominated the church the day prior. it was not often that avonlea had funerals, and when they were, they were a somber affair, impacting every one of its citizens. especially now. it seemed as though the whole world had watched mr. blythe’s casket descend into the soil, and now the rain was fertilizing it. perhaps flowers would bloom on top of his grave. the entirety of the little town hoped so- anything to bring comfort to the blythe’s only son.

you’d seen gilbert at the funeral, features etched with sorrow, tears brimming at the corners of his eyes. but he’d looked resigned as well- putting on a strong face for those who could not. ruby had sobbed hysterically, as had rachel lynde, and even marilla cuthbert had shed a tear. normally, you would have talked to gilbert. you’d been over the day before mr. blythe had died, bringing with you a sweater you and your mother had knit together to help keep him warm. you’d known his health was declining, but it was even more heart wrenching seeing gilbert that way- expression unmoving, body stiff as he accepted the gift. you’d only had a moment with him before mr. blythe erupted into coughs again- a second in which gilbert’s mask slipped and you truly saw the fear plaguing his mind. you’d wished you could have said something to make it all better. but you hadn’t. you couldn’t.

and now you were on his porch, clutching a package of baking soda biscuits and a small posy of forget-me-nots in your hands. you were shivering from the cold rain, and you’d gotten soaked on the way over, but it was worth it. there seemed to be barely any movement in the gray house- you couldn’t spot any candles lit inside from the windows- and you were wondering if gilbert was even here when all of a sudden the door swung open and he appeared.

his expression was unreadable, brown eyes deep with emotion and seeded in sadness. “hi,” he said. “gil,” you breathed back. 

after a moment of silence, the words came back to you. “these are for you,” you said, reaching out. your hands were shaking, and whether they were from nerves or the cold, gilbert couldn’t tell. he took the flowers and the parcel from your outstretched hands, almost unsure what to do with them. “they’re biscuits,” you said, mouth dry, trying to fill the quiet. “mother’s baking soda ones. you mentioned you liked them one time, and we were out of plum preserves, but i-”

“thank you,” gilbert said, and although it sounded slightly robotic, his words felt genuine. you looked at your shoes, unsure of what to say next. your parents had always taught you to say “i’m sorry for your loss” to someone grieving, but the phrase felt too unfamiliar. “i- i’ll leave you to it, then,” you stuttered, backing away from the door and turning to go. you didn’t want to intrude- even if he was your friend. because that’s what you were, right? friends. friends visited during difficult times. friends didn’t want to hug all the sadness out of him. but gilbert’s voice cracked when he spoke next, and you turned around.

“no,” he said clumsily. the words are rushed and jumbled from his mouth, and he stumbles over the next ones too. “please. you’re freezing, and soaking wet. come in.”

up until then, you’d hoped you didn’t look that bad. your straw hat had managed to protect the top of your head, but the rest of your hair was stringy and dripping over your shoulders. your cheeks were also flushed, and even in what should have been a moment focused on his own grief, gilbert found himself worrying that you’d catch pneumonia in this weather. he hadn’t expected anyone to visit today, especially not in a rainstorm. 

seeing the concern in his eyes, you realized that walking all the way home in a thunderstorm was probably not such a good idea, so you stepped in cautiously per gilbert’s invitation. the house was warm, but everything seemed dim and gray. the door you knew led to mr. blythe’s bedroom was closed, and you could see gilbert’s eyes darting towards it as well, as if he were praying you wouldn’t say anything. gilbert set down the parcel of biscuits on the kitchen table and looked around for something.

“do you have a vase?” you asked quietly. “i can fill it up with water for you. i thought the forget-me-nots would bring a little light.”

gilbert nodded, but sucked in a breath. you turned to him with a questioning look. “the vase,” he said, voice dry. “it’s in his room. mrs. lynde brought some peonies over while he was still sick, and i didn’t take them out. he’s always hated peonies- he thinks they’re too big and bold. but he would’ve loved these.”

you lightly touched the small forget me not bouquet, felt the soft petals under your fingertips. “you don’t have to use a vase,” you replied softly. “a mug will do.” gilbert stood motionless in the middle of the kitchen, and you maneuvered around him, carefully filling up the pottery with water and placing the flowers in it.

he seemed rooted to the floor, even when he focused his gaze on the posy. your glance met his, and the sorrow was evident. gilbert hadn’t cried at the funeral- you’d never seen him cry. but now tears were brimming at the corners of his soft chocolate eyes, threatening to spill over, and in a moment your body overtook your mind and you had wrapped your arms around gilbert in a hug.

for a moment you regretted it. but then he was hugging you back, clutching your arms, holding onto you as if you were his lifeline. and in a way, you were. you could feel his hot breath on the back of your neck, hear his muffled cries. due to his height, your face was nestled in the crook of gilbert’s neck, and the two of you stayed like that, intertwined, for several long moments. 

when gilbert finally pulled away, he knew that for better or for worse, you would be there for him until the day he died. 

three. when you exchanged christmas presents in the snow.

to be honest, you hadn’t expected gilbert to come back from the steamer, or trinidad. you’d kept in close correspondence with him, saving the letters he sent you in a special drawer in your writing desk. you memorized his handwriting- the candid tone recalling his tales- the stamps on the envelope. but it still came as a surprise when he’d arrived back.

everything had been awkward at the start, but as soon as gilbert told you all the tales of his travels, you’d slowly slipped back into your old dynamic. there was still a line the both of you were toeing, trying to test out the boundaries between platonic and whatever the two of you were. when you’d met bash, he’d given you a quick wink and told you he’d heard all about you, but other than that, you were positive gilbert just wanted to stay friends. “he can’t love me,” you’d told the avonlea girls a few days prior. “the letters didn’t mean anything, he was just lonely.” but all of them agreed, even ruby- who had been zoning in on moody spurgeon ever since gilbert had left- that there was something more in his words, that it wasn’t all in your head.

and now it was christmas. gilbert, bash, and the shirley-cuthberts had all come for dinner (you’d grown close to anne the past year, and it had taken some convincing but since your father knew matthew so well, marilla had deemed it acceptable). the dinner had been lovely- your mother had brought out all the stops for gilbert and bash- roast goose, scalloped potatoes (island ones, of course), cranberry jelly, chicken pie, spiced gingerbread. flames crackled in the fireplace, biting gusts of wind rattled the windows, and blurred glittery ornaments adorned the pine tree in the center of your living room. dinner was over now, and the adults were gathered around the table and swapping stories of old. anne was there too, heavily engaged in a discussion with bash, but the social aspect was getting to be somewhat exhausting, so you quietly slipped out the back door to have a few moments alone.

in a rather unladylike fashion, you got up and sat on the fence by your house, snowflakes tickling your nose, watching the sun slowly begin to set. hues of pink and orange tinged the sky, and you were surprised you could even see it right now- the weather suggested a cloudy sky. the sound of snow crunching came from behind you, and to your surprise, gilbert was coming towards you. he had his brown cap and his red flannel on, and he looked so cozy that you somehow wished you were cuddled up in his arms. pushing the thought away, you greeted him as he came to sit on the fence beside you.

“enjoying the night so far?”

“quite,” gilbert replied. there was a sparkle in his eyes that danced, one that had been noticeably absent since his father died. you suspected it had something to do with bash’s uncle-like presence, and maybe anne’s too- it was well rumored that he’d fancied her for a while when they’d first met. gilbert looked off into the sunset, puffs of his breath materializing in the cold air, and you shivered involuntarily. he offered you his wool mittens wordlessly, and you gratefully put them on, although they were too big for you.

“oh,” you said, remembering something. he turned towards you, watching you intently as you pulled out a small package from your coat pocket. it was wrapped in festive paper, and you’d written his name on it in swooping calligraphy.

“for me?” gilbert asked. he carefully unfurled the wrapping paper to reveal a small leather bound book embossed with “the complete illustrated medical dictionary (pocket edition)” on the front. “i’ve had it since you left,” you said, breath catching in your throat. “i kept it for you. all this time.”

genuine joy shone in gilbert’s eyes. he flipped through the pages delightedly, marveling at the drawings inside. “thank you,” he grinned. “i actually have something for you too.”

breathlessly, you awaited your gift, snowflakes fluttering down and landing on you. they decorated your hair and its festive ribbon for one fleeting moment before melting, and you swore there was nothing as beautiful as this moment, exchanging gifts with gilbert in the snow, watching the sunset sweep across the dove-gray sky. finally, gilbert found what he was looking for in his pocket, and produced a tiny box.

“it doesn’t look like much,” he warned, “but i found it on my travels. i was waiting to give it to you. i wanted it to be the perfect moment.”

carefully opening the small box, you gasped as the lid revealed a necklace with a pendant. a small silver locket shaped like a heart, the kind one could put a photograph in. “gilbert,” you breathed. “this is- this is beautiful.”

and it was. the locket lay on a delicate chain, and it was engraved intricately, with elaborate designs. your mittened hands fumbled to take it out of the box and inspect it more, but gilbert took it from you with a small smile. “let me help you,” he murmured, and made to fasten it on you. you stood still, hyper aware of how close gilbert’s hands were to your face. his fingers brushed against the back of your neck, securing the necklace, and you caught yourself from flinching. you didn’t know what to say, except for thank you, so you repeated yourself again. 

“a thing of beauty is a joy forever,” gilbert quoted, somewhat uncharacteristically. “keats,” he added after a moment, referencing the poet he’d read the phrase from. “i wanted you to have something to remember me by.”

“to remember you by?” you laughed. “what, are you going on the steamer again?”

he could tell the thought sobered you, so he shook his head, shrugging. “no. i just think…you’re a wonderful girl. the loveliest in avonlea.”

“i think you’re wonderful too,” you said shyly, which was about as many words as you could manage right now. the loveliest girl in avonlea? goodness. 

the sun had almost set by now, and the sky was turning dark- a good cover for hiding the red tint spreading across your face. “we should go back inside,” you said hurriedly, and the two of you made your way over to the door. you stopped before opening it, basking in the glow of the oil lamp on the porch.

“gilbert, i-”

overcome by sudden anxiety, you handed back his warm mittens. “thank you,” you said, the words lingering on your tongue. “for everything.”

quickly, so fast you almost missed it, gilbert leaned down, brushed a stray wisp of hair away, and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. “merry christmas,” he said simply. and then, the two of you went back inside, as if nothing had happened at all.

as soon as you entered, bash noticed the locket and smirked. gilbert shot him a warning look, lest he say anything. the two of you immersed yourself in separate conversations- you with anne, him with marilla and your mother, while matthew silently observed your father and bash discuss politics. but you kept stealing glances at each other as if you were speaking a secret language that only the two of you knew, and each time it filled you with comfort.

it was a cold christmas, but you felt the warmest you had been in a while– and, as luck would have it, so did gilbert.

four. when you climbed a tree.

and so summer rolled around again, fading into august. university loomed on the horizon. childhood was over- gone were the days of butterflies, bumblebees, and scraped knees. yet you could pretend, and so you did. 

the soft salt breeze tickled your face, sending a pleasant feeling down your spine. you were with gilbert- on his farm, in the orchard. it was just the two of you- most of avonlea were in charlottetown for the island county fair, granting you the opportunity to do whatever you wanted, since no one was around to see.

so you took advantage of that. no more were the stolen glances, the sneaking around, your only physical touch with gilbert being brushed hands- and even then you’d both deemed it risky. neither of you wanted word to get around yet. sure, there had been rumors and some of your best friends knew (only the ones you were sure wouldn’t spread anything around). but here, now, the world was your oyster. and the two of you soaked it up blissfully.

you were lying on the grass with your head in gilbert’s lap, weaving a flower crown as he read a book- an old poetry collection ms stacy had lent him. the clouds were glorious fluffy shapes in the blue sky, and you pointed them out to gilbert every once in a while. your fingers deftly twined the daisies and their stems, finally tying them all together in a knot, creating a perfect circlet, and setting it teasingly on gilbert’s dark hair.

he smirked, leaving it on. “made it for me?”

“a pretty crown for a pretty boy,” you replied, smiling from your position in his lap. he was solid, sturdy, his hand resting securely on your waist. you felt safe with your body close to his, arms and legs intertwined. and he was pretty- “the prettiest boy in avonlea,” you said, mimicking his words to you from last christmas. he laughed and set the book down, taking the flower crown off and resting it gently on your hair. “it suits you,” gilbert said softly, and he was right.

the two of you stayed like that for a while, absorbing each other’s presence. you charted the rare freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose as if they were constellations, tracing them with the tip of your finger. it tickled him, and he smiled down at you. he finally returned to his book- “i want to read you something”- and blissfully, you obliged, settling down to listen.

“i almost wish we were butterflies and lived but three summer days- three such days with you i could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain,” gilbert read from the poetry collection in his lap, a break from the constant medical anatomy books he was usually seen carrying around. you recognized the fragment of poetry- “keats,” you said, “just like what you said to me last winter. when you gave me the necklace.”

a smile tugged at gilbert’s lips, and you pulled out the locket from under the neckline of your dress to show him. “i’ll never take it off,” you promised him, right then and there. “it’s like a little piece of you with me, all the time.”

“you better not,” he teased. “cost me a fortune, that one. even more than all of those romance books i’m always secretly buying you in town.”

you sat up and shoved him jokingly, tousling his dark curls to purposely peeve him. gilbert’s hair wasn’t tidy all that often, but he’d let it slip once that he always tried to make it look nice for you. struck by a sudden flash of inspiration, you jumped up. “let’s go pick some apples.”

the blythe orchard was infamous for their strawberry apples, the only place in avonlea where they were available. contrary to popular belief, this was simply a variant of apple, and not a strawberry hybrid. all too happy to appease you, gilbert took your hand and led you to the best tree on the land. most of the other boughs were still blooming with apple blossoms, but this tree was different.

he pointed to a low-hanging branch, one blessed with red fruit. “my father always picked the first apple on this tree in august,” he told you, tone contemplative and wistful. “he said this was the tree he kissed my mother under for the first time. he thought if the first apple of the season was picked here, at this tree, it brought the harvest luck.”

nostalgia flickered in gilbert’s eyes, and you knew he was missing his father more than usual. “let’s do it, then,” you said, finding your voice, fingers delicately intertwined with his- giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “we’ll each pick one. in honor of him. a new tradition.”

the words you’d spoken may have been simplistic, but to gilbert they meant the world. without his father, it had been so incredibly difficult at first to do anything- carry on old traditions, much less creating new ones. but here you were, by his side, looking up at him with adoring eyes, and giving him the opportunity to heal and grow. gilbert knew he could never put into words how much it truly meant to him.

you let him go first, watching him scamper up the tree like a squirrel. he seemed a boy again, plucking an apple from the highest bough and descending nimbly. when you started climbing, you found your footing easily, but doubt wracked your mind- imagine the horrors if mrs. lynde and her posse heard about this, climbing trees like a chimpanzee! - and so you opted for a lower branch, reaching it deftly. you reached for an apple and held it high victoriously. some hint of pride shone in gilbert’s eyes.

“to making new traditions,” he said- a toast with the notable absence of glasses brimming with champagne. “to making new traditions,” you repeated, and in that moment, you in the tree and him on the ground, you swore you could see hints of a future- one with new traditions and old traditions, little feet running around and everything in between. today was flawless.

and it would’ve been perfect, except for the sound of the branch cracking under your weight. you weren’t too high up in the tree, but inevitably, you landed on the ground, a crumpled heap of petticoats and ribbons, crying out softly upon impact.

you’d never seen gilbert this way, in ‘doctor mode’, simply put. he was immediately beside you, voice laced with concern, checking you over for scrapes and bruises. you were fine, mostly- just a little shaken up and scared, save for the red-hot throbbing in your wrist. the pain didn’t exactly warrant crying, but you weren’t used to the funny feeling, and tears welled in your waterline anyways. gilbert, telling you to take deep breaths, helped you sit up.

he’d noticed straightaway the way you held you wrist, cradling it slightly away from your body, and murmuring words of comfort, he started prodding your knuckles, gently examining the swollen area. you winced, but it wasn’t too bad. “i don’t think it’s broken,” gilbert said finally, deeming it a sprain after careful inspection. “but let’s get you back home. i have some bandages- i’ll wrap it just in case.”

tears threatened to spill over again as the two of you walked from the orchard to his home. gilbert noticed, and stopped. “hey,” he said softly. “it’s okay. i’ll make you some herbal tea. that should help with the pain a bit.”

“it’s not that,” you made out, a small pout forming on your lips. “we were having such a wonderful day, gil, and i ruined it all. i’m sorry.”

“whoa, whoa, whoa,” he said, his brow furrowing. “you didn’t ruin anything. you got hurt, it happens. and we have the rest of the afternoon to be together- i’ll tell you what, how about once we get back to the farmhouse, we’ll make the most of it, okay? we can still have some fun.”

a wobbly smile formed on your lips, and you nodded. gilbert cupped your face gently, and looked into your eyes. “i love you,” he said, voice nervous but firm. “just let me take care of you.”

your heart caught in your throat. he’d never said that before. contrary to the rumors, he hadn’t even kissed you properly yet. “i love you too,” you whispered, voice hoarse. and before you could think about it too much, you went up on your tiptoes and pressed a small kiss to gilbert’s lips.

they were soft and sweet and filled with promise and hope, and he leaned into it, your bodies closer than they’d ever been. his hands ghosted the small of your back, your hips, your shoulders, and it felt like home. when you finally pulled apart, there was a twinkle in his eye you’d never seen before. a twinkle of something called joy.

when you got back to the farmhouse, he finally settled you on the couch, comfortably sipping a cup of tea and trying wholeheartedly to braid your hair. he’d always wanted to learn, and since you were currently unable to do it yourself, he deemed it the perfect opportunity. it made you laugh- his fingers, usually nimble and clever, were clumsy in your locks, and the braid you ended up with was slightly sloppy, but filled with adoration. a realization fluttered through your mind, and set its claws into your future. you loved gilbert- gilbert loved you- and though you wouldn’t say it out loud, at least not for several years, he would make a wonderful husband.

five. when you said “i do”.

the spring skies were blue today- flowers were blooming- grass was green. “a lovely day for a wedding,” mrs. lynde had told marilla that morning, and all of avonlea agreed. 

you were walking down the aisle in a few minutes, getting ready in reverence. a delicate white veil lay on your hair, the one passed down through your family for almost a century. the lace dress fit you perfectly, intricate embroidery accentuating your waist. your mother’s simple pearl earrings adorned your ears, glowing in the morning light. in your hands were a bouquet- a single spray of forget-me-nots, periwinkle blue, an ode to gilbert’s father, who had loved them so. and at the same time, a tribute to your past together, that awful rainy day after the funeral filled with grief and tears and emotion, yet what had brought you closer together. something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue. all was well. you were ready.

the springtime realm of gilbert’s yard was immersed in devotion. petals decorated the grass down the aisle. your dearest friends and family observed, and the wedding itself passed in the blink of an eye. there was not a dry eye during the vows, and gilbert’s words were even more poetic than you had ever hoped. he promised to love you- to care for you- in sickness and in health, to be your rock. it was not the fanciest wedding- there were no messes of tulle and satin and roses- but it was yours, and you couldn’t be happier.

you were husband and wife. the dawn had come anew. and that night, when gilbert fell asleep watching you breathe, finding solace in the rise and fall of your chest, he knew without a doubt that he would do it all over again.

The Bet- Sherlock Holmes x Fem!Reader

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Fem!Reader

Genre: Fluff

A/N: Welcome to another episode of sounded better in my head, but idk

20 pounds

20 pounds and dinner 

20 pounds dinner and ice cream 

Deal. 

Deal. Y/n L/n grinned, shoving her phone into her pocket, entering Scotland yard.

"Hello I'm Agent y/n y/l, I'll be joining in on the case." she called out as she entered the detective inspector’s cabin, the DI sweetly smiled at her, nodding and handing her the file.

"May I ask why?" y/n turned to look at a lanky man with dark curls, along with a man who seemed rather apologetic of his friend’s behavior. 

"One of the victims is Interpol's person of interest, so let's get this over with and be on our merry way." she faked a smile towards him. 

“Sherlock behave.” his friend warned, lending a hand towards her “Dr. John Watson.”

“Pleased to meet you.” she shook his hand.

“That's my partner Sherlock Holmes, we’re consultants of sorts.” he explained with a lopsided smile.

“Well, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt for you to help me out.” she nodded, holding up the file.

“You’re not from here are you y/n?” John asked as they sat in her temporary office, crime scene images sprawled across the floor. 

“I’m from London, I just work in France.” she said, earning a hum from Sherlock, the two looked at him just in time to see him look away with the tips of his ears turning red, John’s eyes widened at his friend with a theory. 

“How did you get to know about this case?” y/n asked, handing both the men their coffees, taking a sip of her own. 

“My idiot brother wanted my help in it. And when I solve it I can rub it in his face” Y/n laughed, nudging Sherlock. 

“I’m impressed by your motives for crime fighting.” she giggled, John looking at the two’s absolute obliviousness.

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“Those marks are from a wheelchair.” Sherlock spoke up from his place next to the woman, the trio and Lestrade stood before a board now, with the map of London stuck up. 

“You’re telling me our guy is handicapped?”

“One of them anyways.” y/n and Sherlock spoke in unison, sharing a soft smile with each other. 

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“Here.” Sherlock offered her his coat, once they had walked out from the abandoned warehouse, well abandoned after they arrested the serial killer.

“Thanks.” she whispered, hugging the material close to her body.

“Are you alright?” he asked suddenly, as though he forgot to ask before.

“I am, you?”

“Never been better.” he grinned at her, making heat rush to her cheeks as she looked down with a bashful smile.

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“You like her.” John shut the door to 221b “and for all I know you’re probably in love with her.”

“John I've known her for roughly a week, statistically the average time-”

“Except you don’t usually fall under the statistics do you?”

“I suppose I don’t.” Sherlock smirked, walking to his room.

“If you don’t tell her, so help me god I will!” John threatened, huffing when he heard the door slam close.

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Y/n sighed as she shoved the papers into her bag, clearing her temporary desk, she had just gotten a call from her boss praising her for her good job. Despite how good of a job she did, people died and all she wanted was a dinner and ice cream date. “You truly did a good job y/n.” Mycroft Holmes stood by her desk.

“You should give your brother some credit.” she said, continuing her haphazard packing which she noticed bothered the British government.  

“I’m doing it you stubborn git!” y/n’s head shot up at the noise as she watched John drag in Sherlock who was grumbling “Mycroft.” John greeted before turning to y/n “Sherlock here likes you.” 

“What?” “what?” Both y/n and Mycroft asked in confusion.

“He clearly fancies you and you fancy him, so please go out on a date.” John flailed his arms around, making Sherlock groan and y/n look at him with wide eyes.

“Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes, I’m sorry to disappoint…but I’m married.” she informed, showing the ring which she wore as a necklace rather than on her hand as a display. Mycroft sighed face palming. 

“Oh.” John blinked at her while the whole room went into an awkward silence “I’m so sorry, I genuinely thought you liked sherlock and I-”

“Oh for the love of god will you two grow up!” Mycroft scolded the woman and the grumbling man. And then, the chaos started

“She was the one who placed the bet!” Sherlock pointed at her.

“Oh my god you’re such a snitch!” She pointed back at him “He was the one who escalated it!”

“She made the deal!”

“You’re a sore loser!”

“You’re so mature.”

“You’re so mature.” she mocked, sticking her tongue out to him. 

“Enough!” the two went silent at Mycroft’s voice “can you two behave like grown married adults for once”

“Ew that’s so boring” the two said in unison, now collectively trying to get on the oldest Holmes’ nerves 

“I’m sorry married?!” John interrupted the family drama.

“I married her.” “I married him.” the two pointed at each other nonchalantly.

“What?!” John was freaking out and now all the three Holmes enjoyed it “when?!”

“5 years ago.” she shrugged.

“before I met you.”

“But people don’t have secret spouses.” 

“Consulting detective.” he pointed at himself “Interpol agent.” he pointed at his wife “works.” 

“I don’t know why I agreed to them getting married.” Mycroft rubbed his face.

“You didn’t.” the two said in unison, glaring at the older Holmes 

“Well, you can pester him with the questions.” she moved forward, leaning up pressing her lips to her husband’s “pick me up at 8 loser.” she said in a sing-song voice.

“He made me!”

“Oops, don't feel like taking the excuse train tonight!” she called back, laughing to herself, faintly hearing the sounds of a confused Watson the annoyed Holmes brothers.