#bbcsherlock imagines

You shoved through the crowd, chasing after John. Everything turned to a blur around you; John wailing, the crowd in a panic. The police and the ambulance rushing to take his body away. 

You finally reached the shorter man, and with all your strength, you pulled him backward.

“There’s nothing we can do now, John.” You said, trying to keep him from falling onto the sidewalk, “Come on, I need to get you out of here.”

 That had been two years ago. You’d gone with John to his first therapist appointment a week after the Fall, and then he’d taken the tube home without you.

I’m sorry [Name]

-JW

I think I need time alone 

-JW

Thanks for trying 

-JW

Since he’d left, you’d checked in with Lestrade constantly to make sure the doctor hadn’t given into suicide, and to your relief, he had not. 

You went back to the Baker Street flat you’d taken at 221C. At first, you’d stayed in 221B with John; sleeping in Sherlock’s empty bed and wishing the other side wasn’t so vacantly cold. 

Both John and Mrs. Hudson had been wrecked. Screaming and crying any time Sherlock was mentioned. Sometimes, they did it even when he wasn’t. You wanted to do the same, but Sherlock had given you a single rule before going to the rooftop. If only you’d understood at the time that it would be the last thing you’d head from him. 

“[Name], whatever happens to me, you need to hold England together.” You’d laughed dryly at his comment. 

“Come on, Sherlock,” You’d said dismissively, “Mycroft and the Yard will clear your name. Moriarty, the key code, Donavan; it’ll get worked out.”

“I envy you, always so optimistic,”

“That makes one of us.”

“But I can’t hold it together anymore, Sherlock.” You said into your pillow, “Goddammit, Sherlock Holmes! You tell me to be strong, and what do you do? You jump off of a fucking building because Moriarty got under your skin?”

For the first time since the fall, you let yourself cry. Really, truly, cry and wail and scream like John and Mrs. Hudson had. You fell apart, and no one was there to hold you together.

Time didn’t heal wounds all that efficiently.  Even after two years, the hospital that you worked at still seemed haunted by the body that had tumbled off its roof. 

Molly: I’m not going to be at St. Bart’s today. Sick.

-MH

She used her initials. Everyone did. Everyone had picked up the habit from Sherlock. Even you.

[Name]: Yeah. No problem. Get well soon.

-xx

Usually, it wasn’t too bad. Molly being there always helped. She could hold you together, and you could do the same for her. You could walk into the building with her in mind, not your ex-boyfriend.

You didn’t know if it was right to call him that. Late-boyfriend was probably better. You weren’t quite sure if his death had necessarily been a breakup. Of course, he wasn’t just your “boyfriend” anymore. 

You shook the thoughts from your mind, stepping into the morgue and fighting off chills. You and Molly had worked hard last night, so thankfully, you didn’t have all that much to do. 

Between the exhaustion from your last late night and the heavy sadness of the lonely hospital of memories, you slid onto the floor amongst the corpses and closed your eyes, hoping sleep would do anything to help.

“Wake up, [Name],” You groaned, stirring. “Wake up,” He said again.

Your eyes shot open, and you began to flail, “I’m sorry, Lestrade, I-” You threw yourself to your feet, the world still blurry, your blood rushing. 

“I’m not Lestrade,” he laughed. Your eyes adjusted, and in front of you was someone you could barely recognize. Though you could never forget him.

“Sherlock?” His arms were around you in seconds, and in the shock, you couldn’t do a thing. “Oh my god, you-” You were caught between kissing him or punching him into next week.

“Thank you,” He whispered,

“I think you owe me an I’m sorry, you arse.” You said dryly,

“That, and a thank you,” He said. You looked up, confused. “London’s still together, isn’t it? Thank you, love, you are you are so perfect.” 

Sorry for the bad Gramma, etc. It's 3am and I can't concentrate but I wanted to get a chapter out.

Enjoy...

                                                                                                                                                                      "Are you sure you're alright?" John asked, checking me for injuries again.

"John, really. I'm fine" I said, giving him a reassuring smile before looking over at Sherlock.

He was sat in his seat with a slight frown on his face. His raven curls messy from constantly running his hands through them, and his teal-like eyes holding a state of confusion.

"Are you okay, Sherlock?" I asked, looking over at the older man.

"It doesn't add up" he said, placing his hands together in a prayer-like manner.

"Who would kidnap you?" He asked, mostly to himself.

"Wow thanks, are you saying I'm not good enough to be kidnapped?" I joked, making John chuckle and Sherlock to give me a death glare.

"Okay, calm down" I laughed, placing my hands up in surrender.

"Why you?" Sherlock continued, glancing around the room hoping he would understand.

"Look, I survived. It's fine" I said, shrugging as I did so.

"It doesn't add up. I don't like it when it doesn't." Sherlock said, closing his eyes, most likely going to his mind palace.

"Well, I'm going to go for a walk then." I shrugged, not knowing what else to do.

"No." Sherlock stated flatly, not even opening his eyes.

"Why?" I asked, confused.

"You just got kidnapped and you want to go outside. No." Sherlock replied, crossing his leg over the other.

"Fine." I said, smiling as John let out another chuckle.

"So, I'm just meant to sit here doing nothing?"  I questioned, taking a seat on the couch at the back of the room.

"Do what you want, but don't leave the flat." Sherlock responded.

"Do you want something to eat?" John asked, to which I shook my head.

"I'm okay, thanks." I said, giving John a small smile.

Sherlock and I sat in silence for several minutes, before my phone buzzed, notifying me that I had received a text.

Unknown number: I forgot to tell you, I took your phone number. J

I smiled, as I saved his number before responding.

Good to know.

Smiling to myself, I grabbed a book from the table beside me.

                                                                       *

A few hours later, I had finished the book and Sherlock was still in his mind palace. I decided now would be a good time to try and leave the house.

Quietly, I stood up from my previous position and began walking towards the door. Just as I placed my hand on the doorknob, Sherlock spoke.

"No." He said.

"But I'm bored, and I want to leave." I said. Sherlock let out a small sigh, before jumping up onto his feet.

"Come on then." He replied, swiftly putting on his coat, scarf and shoes before following me down the stairs.

                                                                                       *

"So, where do you want to go?" Sherlock asked, as we walked down the rather quiet streets of London.

"I don't know anywhere." I shrugged, looking at Sherlock.

"I have an idea." He smirked, quickening his pace.

You were fascinated with the man now, leaning forward on your elbows and crossing your hands beneath your chin, “I can see why you don’t have many friends,” You said jokingly, “Most people don’t notice when they start writing their life story all over themselves.”

The mystery man smiled, “You have short nails; not kept that way by a manicure, as your job doesn’t pay all that much, I assume. They’re short because you bite them, and I know you bite them, and you’re not just keeping them short because of some demand for manual labour. Your nailbeds are too clean for that.”

“You’re good at this,” You marvelled, wondering why all your customers couldn’t be this interesting. You couldn’t even remember the last time that you’d been invested in a conversation. Yet with him, this blue-eyed, ingenious, curly-haired stranger, you were infatuated. You hung on every word.

“You were married,” He said next, and you just pursed your lips into a cold smile as he continued. “A golden band around your finger. Cheap, though, the kind of thing you’d find at a yard sale or something. But it’s also dirty and quite old. My guess is that you got married to some high-school sweetheart; that would explain the age of the ring. However, you both realized that you were stupid to marry so young, so your partner abandoned you, leaving your heart broken. However, you’re still attached, and perhaps you hope your partner will come back?”

A smile played on your lips, “Nope, absolutely wrong.” The man looked horrified at your words. “The gold band,” You explained, “Is a replica of the One Ring from Lord of the Rings. I’m a bit of a reader, obviously.” You gestured to the bookstore encircling you both, “It’s off of eBay;  that should explain both the age and quality.”

“Yes, that makes sense.” He nodded his curly-locked head in thought, “Funny, I’m not usually wrong about these things.”

“Well, if you’re usually right about predicting peoples’ failed marriages, then your lack of friends is starting to make sense.” You mused, reaching over to the side of your desk and picking up the book you happened to have been reading. “It seems you need to brush up on your observations, though. May I recommend a book?” You extended your hand, wrapped around the book you had been reading. The Art of Deduction. “No charge - just make sure to return it once you’re finishing reading. And don’t remove my bookmark.” 

He smiled coyly, chuckling in his throat. “Yes, I’ll make sure to. I-” He was preparing to say something else, but you cut him off.

“You play a stringed instrument,” You mentioned, cutting him off and jerking your chin towards him, staring down the bridge of your nose at the long-fingers hands that had taken the book from you. Calloused, fileted fingertips on only the left side, it seemed. 

“Yes, violin,” he answered matter-of-factly, glancing down at your nail-bitten, un-manicured, un-laboured hands again. “And you do not.”

“Nope,” You answered.

Then you both stood there. Shifting your weight to foot to foot as you both remembered that neither of you was quite equipped in the art of conversation. You glanced around from his eyes to the book, to your desk...

And then you both began to laugh hysterically. The wipe-tears-away, clutch-your-stomach type laughter.

“I must come to this place more often,” He smiled, “The other bookkeepers are just so boring compared to you.” He complimented. 

“Well, I look forward to it mister . . .”

“Sherlock,” He answered, “Sherlock Holmes.” 

“[Name],” You said in turn, “[Name] [Surname],”

                                                   Four years later

Sherlock walked with you through the park, his right hand held gently in yours. With each step and its bouncing movement, he could feel the familiar scrape of your ring against his intertwined finger. 

“Ah, don’t tell me it’s going to rain,” You said irritably, “Can’t I just have one sunny day in the park with my boyfriend?” You grinned up a Sherlock, mist sprinkling down over your brow. 

“Hmm, you should expect it.” He mused, “It is England after all.” Leave it to Sherlock to answer literally. Objectively. No emotion or insight is given to the rain, for he is just stating the facts. That is what had made you fall in love with him, of course. 

“Well, England or not, we should get inside.” You said, breaking into a light jog. “We shouldn’t catch a cold,” Trying not to trip on the pavement, you let go of Sherlock’s hand, striding back towards 221B.

Sherlock said some generic statement about how temperature would not bring on any viral illness as he stalled you. When you broke away, he smiled, reaching into his coat pocket, checking, again and again, to make sure you weren’t watching as he removed a small velvet box from the depth of his overcoat. 

He flipped the top open by it’s hinged. Inside sat a golden band, inscribed in elvish that he had learned and translated to the jeweller himself before he had put in the request for the band. 

Love, Sherlock 

“[Name],” he called out softly into the rain. You turned around, wondering why your lover had fallen so far behind you. And yet your questions were quickly answered as your eyes fell on the box. Right as you watched Sherlock Holmes smile and extend it in front of him, sinking to a single knee on the wet park sidewalk. 

“Oh my god, Sherl. . .” Your grin was uncontrollable. The kind of grin that you’d had when you had first met in the bookstore. The kind of hysterical, core-aching laughter sitting on the edge your tongue. “Yes!” 

 “Freak!” A voice yelled from behind me. It was one of my bullies. They were usually in the year above me. It didn’t bother me at all, of course.

“Says the guy whose mother beats him” I deduced, turning to face him. His name was Angelo, he was fourteen. He had bullied me since primary school, mainly because of my ability to deduce, but also because his mother regularly beat him and this was his only way to feel powerful.

“Shut it freak” Another boy, around my age snarled. His name was Daniel, he was Angelo’s ‘partner in crime’.

“Whatever” I said, walking over to a tree where I usually sit at lunch.

“Don’t ignore us! Get back here you little- “

“Excuse me?” An older man smiled, waking me up from my slumber.

“Yes?” I asked, sitting up straighter and stretching.

“The plane is about to land” He said, smiling before sitting back in his seat.

“Thank you” I said, giving him a slight smile and looking out the window.

I was flying into London from my home in Ireland. I had never left on my own, so this would be the first time. I had bought an apartment in Baker Street. 221C. It was cheap, and needed quite a bit of decorating, but I was determined to make it my home.

It took 3 minutes and 14 seconds exactly for us to land. Passengers began to pile out, so I remained in my seat until they had all left. Once they had, I stood up.

“Welcome to London” A flight attendant smiled, handing me my papers. Fake smile obviously, having an affair with a pilot.

“Thanks” I muttered, taking them from her hand before grabbing my case.

“Here we go” I said, inhaling a deep breath before pushing the door open. London was, busy. Well that’s an understatement. It was extremely packed with people. Most people were going to, or from work with a few others meeting up with friends and/or relatives.

I began walking down the busy streets, attempting to locate a cab. It took a while, but finally I traced one down.

“Where to miss?” The cab driver asked, turning to face me and giving me a crooked smile. He had grey hair, with a hat and glasses on along with shaving foam behind his ear. Obviously had no-one to point it out to him.

“Baker Street please, 221C” I smiled, to which he nodded and began driving.

-X-

“Hello, dear. I’m Mr Hudson, the landlady” A woman, around her 50’s smiled, opening the door to allow me in to which I smiled. The first genuine smile of the day.

“Excuse the mess, the guys upstairs have been wreaking havoc” She sighed, moving some loose papers.

“If you’d like to follow me” She laughed, grabbing a key from the nearby counter.

The house was almost identical to the one in the photos, except it had been dusted and cleaned, obviously to make a good impression.

“It’s £110 per week, but if you need time I can wait until the end of the week.” She said, rubbing at the back of her hand, which had slight ink stains.

“It’s brilliant, thank you” I said, taking the key which she was holding out.

“When will the movers bring your things to the flat?” She asked, brushing herself down.

“Sometime before next week” I smiled, brushing myself down as she had done moment ago.

“I’ll leave you to it” She smiled, before leaving the room. Looking around, I placed my case on the floor and collapsed onto the couch. I had, had a stressful wee. It had been filled with packing, flight arrangements, job hunting and flat hunting, leading to many sleepless nights.

Deciding that it would be better to get something to eat, I stood up and grabbed some money before heading out.

I took a short walk to the local supermarket, which was filled with everything you could need. I spent around ten minutes walking around, occasionally grabbing items.

By the time, I had finished shopping, I had spent £43. Cheap. After that I took a walk around the area, making sure to figure my way around. By the time, I arrived back at the flat, I had memorised around 4 miles of London.

I sighed to myself, as I began unpacking my food, it was mostly microwavable things as I didn’t want to spend my first few days at Baker Streets cooking.

After I had done, I sat on the couch glancing around the room, until I heard shouting from upstairs.

“Sherlock! A head!” A voice yelled.

“Tea please” The other guy, who I assumed to be Sherlock replied. This disagreement continued for a few minutes, before the man, whose name I did not know, sighed and went into a different room.

-X-

It was around 10:15 when I decided I should probably get some sleep. I had spent the past 38 hours awake, and if I continued, I would most likely sleep for weeks.