#greg lestrade x oc

[newtsniffles]

SAVING GRACE | BBC SHERLOCK

A STUDY IN PINK - bbc sherlock x oc

summary: Grace Carter, the newest and best detective at Scotland Yard meets Sherlock Holmes, the one and only consulting detective. The case of the woman in pink marking the first chapter of their story.

Or in which two pained individuals find each other in amidst some of their hardest times.

WARNING/S: This story will contain mature scenes and discuss themes of mental health, specifically depression, suicide, and drug use. If these topics may trigger you in anyway please proceed with caution or do not read. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

word count: 12.6k

There was a certain dreariness to living in a constant state of repetition. The sun would rise in the east, set in the west, and in between Grace would find herself completing the same mundane tasks. It was boring. Life is boring. Even the persistent feeling of melancholy that swallowed her entire being felt a little empty as of late.

Grace had only taken a few bites of her cereal before deciding that she did not want it to start with. The clattering of a spoon and now-emptied bowl echoed around her small apartment. The sound loud enough to distract her from thought, if only for a second. The niggling voice in her head whispering to do more with her life, find some excitement. The other half of her wanting nothing more than to curl up in bed and never get out again.

Cold fingers clutch onto the strap of her leather handbag as Grace rushes out the door. Dark hair swishing behind her as fresh winds connected with her front. It was unlikely that she’d be late to work. However, who was she to give Anderson something to bitch about? The rain had lightened up during the night, now just spitting in the early morning. There was a chill in the air, the type that you felt down to your bones. Each splash of water as boots hit the ground created a small sound that drew comfort, should you listen for it carefully.

There were too many noises in the morning rush. Grace found it severely overwhelming, but it had been something she had learnt to cope with. The overpowering of her senses that she found completely and utterly unbearable. It sent a shiver up her spine, and her fight or flight spiralling. Perhaps not the best thing to be susceptible to when working as a detective. But oh, how good she had become at concealment. So unbelievingly talented at masking it all. How great she was at getting lost in thought and forgetting the present moment. Such that as she walked into her workplace, Scotland Yard, she felt as though only moments had passed since she left her apartment, and not half an hour.

‘You’re late,’ Anderson tsked from behind his desk.

‘I’m on time,’ Grace spits back. The minute hand on the clock flicking to 9am just as she places her belongings down.

‘For future reference, it’s best to get here at least ten minutes early—’

‘For future reference, mind your own business. And get a haircut.’

‘Now, now, children, play nicely.’ Lestrade exits his office, files in hand. ‘I’m going to need you all on board for this one.’ He drops the files individually down on each desk.

‘The serial suicides?’ Grace questions. ‘I thought you and Donovan had these covered.’

‘So did I, there was another one late last night. Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for Transport.’

‘And you didn’t call me in?’

‘You needed rest, we had it covered.’ Greg lowers his voice before continuing, ‘and I don’t want this case to trigger you.’

‘I’m fine, Greg. I wouldn’t be in this field of work if I couldn’t handle it. I’m not as fragile as you seem to believe.’

Lestrade was aware of Grace’s mental health issues, he had to be as her boss. But sometimes she wished she could erase that part of his memory, so that he’d stop treating her like a child that cannot look after herself. She was capable of resting, she was capable of eating, so why must be bother her so much? One could say it was friendship, another could say he simply worries. Grace would say that Greg just had a very caring nature. He was rough and tough around the edges, but anyone could tell he was a softie at heart. But sometimes, he cares a little too much, and it becomes overbearing.

‘We have a press meeting in an hour, you’ll want to read those files by then,’ Greg gestures with his head.

‘The body of Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for Transport, was found late last night on a building site in Greater London. Preliminary investigations suggest that this was suicide,’ Sally Donovan addresses the gathered reporters. ‘We can confirm that this apparent suicide closely resembles those of Sir Jeffrey Patterson and James Phillimore. In the light of this, these incidents are now being treated as linked. The investigation is ongoing, but Detective Inspector Lestrade will take questions now.’

‘Detective Inspector, how can suicides be linked?’

‘They all took the same poison,’ Grace cuts in. ‘They were all found in places they shouldn’t have been.’

‘Yes, and well, none of them had shown and prior indication of—’ Greg continues, only to be cut off by reporters.

‘But you can’t have serial suicides.’

‘Obviously you can,’ Grace rebuts.

‘These three people: there’s nothing that links them?’

‘There’s no link been found yet, but we’re looking for it. There has to be one,’ Greg sighs. At that moment every phone in the room goes off, signalling the receiving of a text message. There was only one word written across every screen.

Wrong!

‘If you’ve all got texts, please ignore them,’ Donovan rolls her eyes.

‘Just says, “Wrong.”’

‘Yeah, well, just ignore that. Okay, if there are no more questions for Detective Inspector Lestrade, I’m going to bring this session to an end.’

‘But if they’re suicides, what are you investigating?’

God, these people just don’t get the hint.

Grace sits back as the conference continues, the sentences of her colleagues and the reporters all blurring into one as she struggles to care enough about dealing with the press. She may not like Sally but she certainly thanks whatever higher power is out there that it is Donovan that deals with the media.

‘We’ve got our best people investigating—’

Wrong!

Grace smirks as she glances at her phone screen. This must be the famous Sherlock Holmes that Greg had been telling her about when she transferred a few months ago. She had never met the man but judging by the way Anderson and Donovan speak of him, she has a feeling that he couldn’t be too bad considering he irks them in the same way she does.

‘One more question,’ Sally informs the reporters.

‘Is there any chance that these are murders, and if they are, is this the work of a serial killer?’

‘I know that you like writing about these, but these do appear to be suicides. We know the difference. The, um, the poison was clearly self-administered,’ Greg explains.

‘Yes, but if they are murders, how do people keep themselves safe?’

‘Don’t take the poison,’ Grace answers.

‘Daily Mail,’ Sally mumbles under her breath in warning.

‘Obviously this is a frightening time for people, but all anyone has to do is exercise reasonable precautions. We are all as safe as we want to be—’ Greg is cut off once more as all the mobiles trill their text alerts.

Wrong!

However, this time on Greg’s phone, he receives another message.

You know where to find me.

SH

‘Thank you,’ Lestrade ends the press conference.

‘You’ve got to stop him doing that,’ Sally complains. ‘He’s making us look like idiots.’

‘Well, if you can tell me how he does it, I’ll stop him.’

Grace smirks as she walks past the two and towards the exit, ready to start her own investigation of the suicides—if you could even call them that. Any human would have to be blind to continue walking the path of ‘serial suicide.’ They are murders, she just doesn’t know how, yet.

Despite all the obvious signs that point to a serial killer, Grace had yet to find any hint of how or why. There was one thing about killers though, they always make a mistake… eventually. The problem though, is waiting for that mistake to be made. How many bodies will turn up before the killer leaves behind a trace? Too many a lot of the time.

Grace knows how killers work; she’d been this career for a while now. But even despite that, her childhood had been one filled of late nights in her dad’s office at the police station. Reading books and watching documentaries written and filmed by professionals since such a young age. She was quick to complete university, graduating earlier than most. Now, Grace wouldn’t call herself a genius, she would simply say she works hard, perhaps too hard in the grand scheme of things. Burning out was not something infrequent, learning to persevere was the difficult part of it all.

She had been staring at these files for hours, the words had started to go blurry. God, she needed a cigarette, a coffee, something to keep her from pulling her hair out. Something to occupy the mind so that her thoughts wouldn’t. The shrill ringing of her phone is what finally brought her back to the real world.

Greg Lestrade

‘There’s been another one.’ Grace states rather that inquires to the man on the other side of the call.

‘Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.’

‘Be there shortly.’

A monotonous beep indicates the end of the call, as well as the end of being stuck at her desk in a hopeless back and forth of words and papers. Now the real fun starts, it’s time to catch a killer.

It was only early in the night, eight o’clock to be precise. A building and its vicinity had been blocked off by red and blue lights, police tape lined corner to corner. It seemed most of the crew was already here. Had they accomplished anything though? That is the question. Grace approaches the building, slowing her pace and coming to a halt after seeing a fuss at the entrance.

‘Quite clear. And is your wife away long?’ A tall man questions Anderson at the doorway. He has fair skin with dark curls, high cheekbones sharp as knives. His eyes a grateful victim to central heterochromia, beautifully green in the centre, fading out to a cold and calculating blue.

Ah, this is Sherlock Holmes.

Grace struggles to hold in her snicker as she listens in to the conversation, it seems he was as observant as she had heard. Although, it didn’t take much brain power to deduce Anderson was cheating on his wife.

‘Oh, don’t pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that,’ Anderson sneers.

‘Your deodorant told me that.’

‘My deodorant?’

‘It’s for men,’ Sherlock mocks.

‘Of course, it’s for men! I’m wearing it.’

‘So is Donovan. Oh, and I think it just vaporised. Excuse me.’ Grace smirks as she pushes past the quarrelling men. Intrigued blue eyes watching as her form recedes into the building.

‘Whatever you’re trying to imply Carter! —’ Anderson calls out to the woman, but she was too far to hear it.

‘Nothing is being implied,’ Sherlock nudges past Anderson, stopping to look Sally up and down. ‘And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees.’ With a smug smile, Sherlock enters the building, his new flatmate, John Watson, following close behind.

Grace was already upstairs examining the body. Her mind starts running a marathon, exploring all the details, discovering different conclusions. The dead woman sure did love pink… pink nails, pink coat.

Peculiar. Underside of the collar is wet. Rache… German, revenge? No. Rachet? Absolutely not. Ah, Rachel. Who is Rachel? She wrote it with her left hand, so she must be... there’s a wedding ring—

‘—hasn’t been here long. Some kids found her. Grace, found anything?’ Greg asks as he enters the room.

‘A bit, but I’m missing something.’ She stands, taking a step back from the body. Pulling the gloves from her hands, Grace turns to see that Sherlock Holmes and his friend had joined them.

‘Sherlock, Doctor Watson, this is Grace Carter, best detective on our team,’ Greg introduces.

‘Best?’ Grace watches Sherlock’s eyes squint as he observes her. Up and down. She’s more than interested to know if he can tell her entire life story as she has heard from others. Actually, she was observing him herself.

Straight posture. His clothes are neat, crisp. Shirt slightly crinkled, only because it seems a size too small. He doesn’t like things out of place unless it’s his own mess. And those eyes… so cold but so captivating. He’s hiding a lot behind them. There’s a loneliness—

‘Intriguing…’ Sherlock mumbles.

‘What is?’ Greg questions.

‘Nothing,’ he snaps out of his daze. ‘Now, let’s have a look. Shut up.’

‘I didn’t say anything?’

‘You were thinking, it’s annoying.’

John and Greg share a surprised look while Sherlock steps forward, beginning to examine the body. Grace watches as his eyes flicker everywhere, unbelievably quick. Only a few moments of silence pass before Sherlock is standing back up, pulling off his gloves.

‘Got anything?’ Greg asks.

‘Not much.’ Sherlock takes out his phone, using it to search something up. Meanwhile Anderson appears in the doorway.

‘She’s German. “Rache,” it’s German for revenge. She could be trying to tell us something…’

‘Yes, thank you for your input,’ Sherlock slams the door in his face, still typing away on his phone.

‘So, she’s German?’

‘Of course she’s not. She isn’t from London though,’ Grace answers Greg. Sherlock pulls his phone down, staring deeply at the female detective.

‘Coat?’ She watches a brow rise on his face as he questions her.

‘Coat.’

‘Intended to stay in London for one night…’ Sherlock trails off, turning his attention from Grace to Greg and John. ‘Before returning home to Cardiff. So far, so obvious.’

‘Sorry, obvious?’ John’s eyes appear to pop out of his head.

‘What about the message though?’ Greg joins in with his astonishment.

‘Doctor Watson, Detective Carter, what do you think?’

‘Of the message?’

‘Of the body. You’re a medical man, no?’ Grace questions the doctor.

‘We have a whole team outside,’ Greg scolds.

‘I don’t like them.’

‘They won’t work with me,’ Sherlock is blunt in his response.

 ‘I’m breaking every rule just letting you in here, Sherlock.’

‘Yes, because you need me.’ Lestrade stares at Sherlock for only a moment before lowering his eyes in surrender.

‘Yes, I do. God help me.’

‘Doctor Watson.’

‘Hm?’ John looks over to Greg for permission to assess the body.

‘Oh, do as he says. Help yourself,’ Lestrade exits the room. ‘Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes.’

John and Sherlock move to crouch by the body, the doctor painfully leaning on his cane. Grace entertains herself, fiddling with her fingers while they whisper quickly to each other in hushed voices.

‘Yeah, well, this is more fun.’

‘Fun? There is a woman lying dead.’

‘Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you’d go deeper.’

Lestrade walks back into the room, standing beside Grace in the doorway. He gives her a look and she shrugs in response.

‘Yeah... Asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can’t smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure; possibly drugs.’

‘You know what it was. You’ve read the papers.’

‘What, she’s one of the suicides? The fourth…?’

‘Sherlock – two minutes, I said. I need anything you’ve got,’ Lestrade cuts in.

‘Victim is in her late thirties. Professional person, going by her clothes; I’m guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. It’s obvious from the size of her suitcase.’

‘Suitcase?’

‘Suitcase,’ Grace murmurs. ‘That’s what I was missing.’

‘Suitcase, yes. She’s been married at least ten years, but not happily. She’s had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, if you’re just making this up,’ Greg huffs.

‘He’s not,’ Grace cuts in. ‘Her wedding ring. It’s got to be at least ten years old. Her necklace, earrings, all clean. But not the ring. State of her marriage.’

‘Yes…’ Sherlock is now staring directly at Grace as he speaks. She was quick, almost as quick as him.

How interesting.

‘The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside – that means it’s regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It’s not for work; look at her nails. She doesn’t work with her hands, so what or rather who does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover; she’d never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple.’

‘That’s brilliant,’ John admires both the detectives. ‘Sorry.’

‘Cardiff?’

‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’ Sherlock scrunches his nose.

‘It’s not obvious to me.’

‘Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring.’

‘May I take this one?’ Grace steps in, interrupting Sherlock.

‘Be… my… guest.’

Sherlock’s eyes were locked onto her smaller form, waiting for the words to leave her mouth. Where had this woman come from? She wasn’t here three months ago on the last case he took with Scotland Yard. Not to mention he couldn’t read anything about her past the obvious lack of sleep, the slight discolouration under her eyes proving the fact. She had noticed everything he had about the crime scene… she is unreadable... she is a mystery waiting to be solved. The woman is a lack of boredom in which he’d keep documented in his mind palace for later.

‘Her coat. It’s damp. She’s been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London during that time. Under her coat collar is also damp, she turned it up against the wind. Umbrella in her left-hand pocket is dry, and unused.’ Grace paces back and forth beside the body as she speaks. ‘The wind was too strong for it. Now that Mr Holmes has previously mentioned it, I see what I missed. I missed her suitcase, which means she came a decent distance. But her coat is still wet. Where has there been heavy rain and strong winds within that travel time? Cardiff.’

‘That’s… fantastic.’

‘Yes. Quite… remarkable.’ Oh, those eyes. They studied her so deeply. Grace wanted to run and hide from the piercing gaze of the tall consulting detective. But her physicality did not betray her, remaining strong in her stance, continuing to appear unbothered.

‘Not too bad yourself, Mr Holmes.’

‘Please, Sherlock is fine.’

John and Lestrade exchange a look once more, completely confused by the odd situation in front of them. Two stone faced detectives staring into each other’s souls with such intrigue. An exchange that Greg never thought he’d see, Sherlock… complimenting someone? It couldn’t be. ‘Why are you both saying suitcase?’

Sherlock spins on his feet. ‘Yes, where is it? She must have had a phone or an organiser. Find out who Rachel is.’

‘She was writing Rachel?’

‘No, she was leaving an angry note in German,’ Grace rolls her eyes.

‘Of course, she was writing Rachel; no other word it can be. Question is why did she wait until she was dying to write it?

‘How do you know she had a suitcase?’

‘Back of the right leg: tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand,’ Sherlock explains. ‘Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious - could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night.’

‘So, where is it? Did Anderson take it?’ Hands on hips, Grace moves to open the door that had previously been slammed in said man’s face.

‘There wasn’t a case.’

Sherlock’s stare narrows, ‘say that again.’

‘There wasn’t a case. There was never any suitcase.’

‘Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?’

Lestrade follows Sherlock down the stairs. ‘Sherlock, there was no case!’

‘But they take the poison themselves; they chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs, even you lot couldn't miss them.’

‘Right, yeah, thanks! And…?’

‘It’s murder, all of them,’ Grace walks downstairs. ‘Unsure of how yet, been exploring the files. But they’re not suicides. They’re killings—serial ones.’

‘We’ve got ourselves a serial killer. I love those,’ Sherlock claps. His excitement unbefitting of the current situation. ‘There’s always something to look forward to.’

‘Why are you both saying that?’

‘Her case, Greg. Where is it?’ Grace, now standing beside Sherlock on the lower level of the stairs.

‘Did she eat it? Someone else was here, and they took her case,’ Sherlock has a sudden epiphany. ‘So, the killer must have driven her here; forgot the case was in the car.’

‘She could have check into a hotel, left her case there?’ Doctor Watson pitches in for the first time in a while.

‘No, she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair. She colour-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She’d never had left any hotel with her hair still looking… Oh. Oh!’

‘Sherlock?’

Lestrade leans further over the railing, desperate to hear whatever realisation Sherlock has come to. ‘What is it, what?’

‘Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake.’

‘We can’t just wait!’

‘Oh, we’re done waiting! Look at her, really look! Houston, we have a mistake. Get on to Cardiff: find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!’

‘Of course, yeah – but what mistake!?’

‘Pink!’

Grace watches as Sherlock rushes out the building, a whispering voice in the back of her head growing louder, eventually shouting at her to ‘follow!’ For once in her life, she decided to listen, a split decision to do what she actually wants. Her feet carry her quickly after him, it took only seconds to catch up to his speedily walking form heading down the street.

‘You’re following?’

‘You’re looking for the case.’

Oh, I’m going to be in so much trouble for this. Forgive me, please don’t fire me, Greg.

‘A correct observation, but as to why you’re following?’

‘That is a question I would think you already have the answer to.’

Sherlock stops walking for a second, his gloved hands moving from his pockets to clasp behind his back. His taller form looked down at the shorter woman. ‘There is a lot about you that I thought I would have the answers to.’

‘One, consider me your get out of jail free card. You find the case without me; Sally and Anderson try to pin the murders on you.’ Grace starts walking again, every two of her steps equalling one of his. ‘Two, you’re aware of how dull working for Scotland Yard can be, they’d never find the case. Three, curiosity.’

‘Curiosity?’

‘You’re a curious person yourself, surely you understand. This case is intriguing. How does this killer work? How does this killer make a person take the poison? We’re running out of time to figure it out, before long another dead body will be on our doorstep, and I will be blaming it on the incompetence of Scotland Yard,’ Grace sighs. ‘I understand the steps they need to take, the protocols. But between you and me, things could be solved so much more efficiently if they turned a blind eye to the rule book, if only sometimes, which I’m thankful they’ve done this time by calling you in. Now, tell me your thought process.’

‘The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention – particularly a man, which is statistically more likely.’ Sherlock turns down a back street, not bothering to look back, knowing the female detective would be following. ‘So obviously he'd feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it. Wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realise his mistake. If we check every back street wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens...’

‘…and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed,’ Grace follows along with Sherlock’s thought process. ‘Back street skips.’

‘You continue to astound me, Detective Carter.’

She watches as Sherlock begins to search around the first skip, moving to help. ‘Please, Grace. Should I call you Sherlock, I think it only fair. I was never one for formalities anyway.’

‘Not this one,’ he announces, stepping back and walking onwards.

‘I heard you can tell everything about a person at first glance, have I been lied to? Greg claims you call yourself a “Master of Deduction.”’

‘I can tell things about people that not even they know.’

‘Well, can you deduce me?’

‘Most people tell me to piss off, yet you’re openly asking me to do so?’

‘I told you. I am a curious individual.’

Sherlock’s head tilts slightly to the side, as he tries once more to deduce things about the woman. But again, he was left with hardly anything. It was infuriating, and yet so exciting. ‘You’re tired.’

‘Yes, but that is common knowledge. I expected to be astonished.’

‘You’re a mystery to me. And it’s maddening.’

‘Well, “All great experience has a guarded entrance and a windowless facade.”’

‘Robert Grudin, 1997,’ Sherlock immediately recognises the quote.

‘Precisely. You can’t deduce anything about me because I won’t let you. Becoming aware of someone’s strength is to find their weakness.’

‘You seem quite adept in the nature of observation yourself. What do you see?’

‘I doubt my skills are anywhere near as I’ve heard yours to be. Although, I can say that you probably won’t enjoy hearing what I think.’

‘Did I not just say people mostly tell me to piss off? I’m quite aware of the consequences. Nobody likes to hear of their hidden complexities so easily read by another.’

‘You have very straight posture; you carry yourself tall because it makes you feel less vulnerable. Your clothes, they’re neat, ironed regularly. But your shirt is slightly crinkled because you buy a size too small. Why? Because you like the way it hugs you. It feels affectionate, something I think you’ve forced yourself to believe you don’t want, but subconsciously crave. You don’t like things out of place, unless it’s your own mess, even then the mess is somewhat organised to your liking.’ Grace could mention that loneliness, that pain in his eyes. But she won’t for the sake of the hiddenly vulnerable man digging through a skip in front of her.

‘I don’t need affection,’ Sherlock spits.

‘Ah, yes. Sociopath. You don’t have a heart, I’ve heard.’ Grace smirks as she sees a flash of pink behind the large bin. ‘But I don’t have to look very hard to know that isn’t quite true.’ She reaches an arm behind the skip, pulling the case out with little struggle. ‘Found it.’

Sherlock reaches out to grab the case from her, ignoring her previous statement. Pulling it away she hums a little ‘ah-ah.’

‘How do you expect me to investigate if you won’t hand over the case?’

‘Where do you live?’

‘221B Baker Street.’

‘Closer than me, let’s go. We have a case to investigate,’ Grace begins walking to the main road for a taxi, pink case trailing behind her.

‘Why must you insist on coming with me? I am perfectly capable, even more so than you of solving this.’

‘Perhaps, and I don’t doubt it for a second. But I have jurisdiction, something in which you don’t.’

Sherlock’s steps fall into sync with Grace’s, knowing he won’t be able to shake her off. ‘Gage won’t be happy.’

‘I think you mean Greg. And he’ll survive. Taxi!’

The two climb into the backseat of a taxi, informing the driver of their destination. They sit in silence for a moment. Grace well aware that Sherlock had no urge to start a conversation.

‘Should I tell you something about me, to make things fair? Even out the playing field.’

‘No. If I don’t figure it out myself, I don’t care.’ Sherlock is blunt, not once turning his head from looking out the foggy window. ‘There is one thing I have figured out though.’

‘That is?’

‘You get bored.’

‘Everyone gets bored.’

‘Not enough to follow a stranger down different back streets to pick up a murder victim’s suitcase.’

‘You called me a mystery, didn’t you?’ Grace grins. The streetlights casted a light glow through the window connecting with Sherlock’s cheekbones, casting a shadow across his face.

‘I did.’

‘You’re a mystery yourself. I’m a detective, a bored one, a curious one.’ Sherlock’s attention finally shifts, casting his gaze at the woman in the seat across from him. Curiosity meeting curiosity. Blue eyes meeting grey eyes. ‘Such are you. Let’s do our jobs and stop another body from showing up, yeah?’ Grace doesn’t continue to elaborate, but he didn’t need her to because he understood.

He is a challenge to her, just as she is to him. Something that intellectual minds gravitate towards. There was a comfort in finding someone that understands your thought process. Someone that could keep up. And then there was John Watson, Sherlock’s mind was running rampant. A man that craves danger, and a woman that seeks mystery. Perhaps he finally found the correct people to surround himself with, maybe he could finally belong somewhere.

No, I don’t need friends. He was simply intrigued, that is all. Intrigued in the face of mystery.

The rest of the taxi ride passed in silence. Both detectives spending the remaining period of time lost within their own minds. Neither had even realised they had reached Sherlock’s flat until the taxi driver let them know of the cost. Sherlock was already walking inside with the case, leaving Grace to pay. Which she did deem fair considering she forcibly tagged along.

‘Hm, endearing,’ she hummed, observing the sight. A small café, Speedy’s, was beside the flat building. It appears to be a nice place to live. Convenient.

Grace enters and walks upstairs into 221B. Sherlock had discarded his coat and suit jacket, his white button-up sleeves pushed up to the elbows. Forearms exposed; three nicotine patches stuck to alabaster skin. He dug through the contents of the pink suitcase, sat with his legs spread on a black leather chair by the fireplace.

What a sight for sore eyes. Snap out of it.

‘Smoker?’ Grace questions.

‘Trying not to be.’

‘Makes two of us. Three patches though?’

‘Three patch problem.’

Grace moves to sit on the armchair opposite Sherlock. Looking through the contents of the bag herself. ‘Found anything?’

‘It’s more what I haven’t found.’

‘Hm?’

‘Grab my phone. It’s in my jacket pocket by the door.’

‘Did your parents never teach you manners?’ Grace asked, doing as he said anyway. ‘Here.’

Sherlock doesn’t look up from his position, hands clasped together under his chin. ‘Text John, “Baker Street. Come at once if convenient.” Don’t forget to sign my initials at the bottom.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Tell him it could be dangerous and to come if inconvenient anyway.’

Grace’s own phone dings. She lifts it up to inspect the message, knowing already who it will be. And as she thought, Greg Lestrade.

Come back to Scotland Yard, right now.

‘And that is my signal to go back and receive a scolding.’ Phone returning to pocket, Grace walks to the entrance. Blue eyes watching her every move unbeknownst to her. ‘If I leave the case here for you to further investigate, you promise not to run off with it?’

‘I assume you’ll be coming back with the Detective Inspector the next time I see you,’ Sherlock lowers his hands, letting them cross over his lap.

‘I’ll stall him as long as I can. You’d best keep me updated, Sherlock Holmes.’

‘How do you expect me to do that? I don’t have your number.’

‘Your excuses fall to deaf ears.’ Grace holds her phone out, shaking it at him. Walking downstairs she calls back out, loud enough for him to hear. ‘I don’t think you had the numbers of everyone at the press conference either.’

Sherlock grinned to himself at her words. She was a smart woman; he’d allow himself to admit that much. Maybe he’d even allow himself to admit her beauty had he not known it to be construct based entirely on childhood impressions. One thing he knew for sure: Grace and John are both completely different mysteries waiting to be solved.

‘You just decided you’d run off from the crime scene?’ Greg scolds Grace. She sat across from him, on a chair at the other side of his desk. ‘I know you’ve been off lately, but—’

‘That’s got nothing to do with it, Greg. People are dying and you’re all being awfully slow about trying to do anything to fix it.’

‘You followed Sherlock, didn’t you?’

‘What about it? You’ve said so yourself, he’s the best out there, and you need him.’

‘That doesn’t mean you just run off instead of doing your job.’

‘I was doing my job, and I was doing it a hell of a lot quicker than anybody else here.’ Grace taps her finger on Greg’s desk in frustration. ‘Who found the case? Me and Sherlock. I’m doing you a favour. I don’t care who sticks their name on the report.’

‘You found the case?’

Oops.

Grace had flaws, of course she did. But one she hates the most about herself? Her inability to not spit things out that she shouldn’t whenever she’s angry.

‘Yes.’ Better to admit it now.

‘Where is it?’

‘With Sherlock, but please, just give him a few hours at least to figure it out.’

‘Why should I? —Grace! This is not how it works. I know you like to work on your own and differently to everyone else, but you do not just give away evidence to people!’

‘Greg, please,’ Grace takes a deep breath. ‘You know my judgment is better than anybody else’s here. As much as you, and I, hate to admit it, Sherlock is what we need to solve this case.’

‘He’s got two hours,’ Greg finally agrees after a moment of thought. ‘After that we’re going to his flat.’

Ding

‘Got a text?’ Both Lestrade and Grace know well who it is. She doesn’t get texts, there’s nobody she really talks to. Apart from work colleagues.

Got a lead.

SH

Attached to the message was an address, a restaurant on Northumberland Street.

‘Go, but I’ll be expecting to be updated,’ Greg sighs, slumping in his seat. He may not be a ‘Master of Deduction,’ like Sherlock, but he wasn’t stupid. He knows Sherlock is a great man, and perhaps Grace is what he needs to be a good one. And potentially, Sherlock may just be what Grace needs. So, for once, he will turn a blind eye to the dos and don’ts.

‘Yes, sir,’ Grace fake salutes before exiting his office and the building, rushing downstairs to get a taxi.

There is a welcoming warmth that encases Grace’s body as she leaves the icy streets and enters the restaurant. A shiver runs down her spine at the sudden temperature change. She gazed around, not taking long to notice Sherlock and John sitting at a booth beside the entrance. Pulling up a chair, and removing her coat, she sits across the table from Sherlock, and beside John.

‘Detective Carter?’ John questions, not expecting to see the woman here.

‘Evening.’

‘Wh—’

‘I texted her,’ Sherlock answers the question on John’s mind.

‘I told him to keep me updated, lest he get into trouble with Scotland Yard.’

‘George knows of the suitcase?’

‘Greg, and yes. But you’ve got time.’

John shakes his head, the poor man struggling to keep up with any events of the day. The clock hands were turning a lot faster than normal, and 6pm had been quick to become 11pm. He decides changing the subject might be the best way to involve himself in the conversation. ‘People don’t have archenemies.’

‘Sorry?’

‘In real life. There are no archenemies in real life. Doesn’t happen.’

‘Doesn’t it? How dull.’ Sherlock’s line of sight does not stray from across the street.

‘So, who did I meet?’

Ignoring John’s question, Sherlock responds with his own. ‘What do real people have, then, in there “real lives?”’

‘Friends? People they know, people they like, people they don’t like… girlfriends, boyfriends…’

‘Yes, well, as I was saying, dull.’

‘You don’t have a girlfriend, then?’

‘Girlfriend? No, not really my area.’

‘Mm,’ John pauses. ‘Oh, right. Do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way.’

‘I know it’s fine.’ Sherlock’s eyes finally move from the street and to lock onto John at his insinuation.

‘So, you’ve got a boyfriend the—’

‘No.’

Grace listens to the conversation, trying to stop herself from giggling. Lips grinning, knowing full well the misunderstanding between the two that it taking place between her.

‘Right, okay. You’re unattached. Like me. Fine. Good.’

‘John, um… I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I’m flattered by your interest, I’m really not looking for any…’

‘No. No, I’m not asking. No,’ John shakes his head. ‘I’m just saying, it’s all fine.’

‘Good. Thank you.’

John turns, giving Grace the most bewildered look she has ever seen, and she couldn’t help the small laugh finally pushing through the restraint of her lips. Sherlock snaps his head to look at her, before quickly turning back to look outside.

‘What about you, Grace?’ John asks. ‘Boyfriend, girlfriend?’

‘No, no. Not at the moment. I only moved here a few months ago. Also, not really an area I’m great at.’ If she couldn’t even love and care for herself, how could Grace ever care and love for another? The feeling was foreign, she longed for it, but found it impossible to find.

‘Oh? Where are you originally from?’

‘Around…’ Grace trails off, not wanting to discuss further.

‘Look across the street. Taxi.’ Sherlock interrupts, saving them all from a lot of awkwardness. ‘Stopped. Nobody getting in, and nobody getting out. Why a taxi? Oh, that’s clever. Is it clever? Why is it clever?’

‘That’s him?’

‘Don’t stare.’

‘You’re staring.’

‘We can’t all stare.’

All three grab their coats before hurrying out of the restaurant. The second the cab starts to drive away, Sherlock rushes forwards, almost getting hit by a car. Luckily, they slam on the breaks and narrowly avoid him.

‘Sorry!’ John yells to the driver. ‘I’ve got the cab number.’

‘Good for you. Right turn, one way, roadworks, traffic lights, bus lane, pedestrian crossing, left turn only, traffic lights,’ Sherlock lists off quickly. He takes off in a sprint, Grace and John quick to react, chasing after him.

They run through buildings, up sets after sets of stairs, across roofs, and back down again. Sherlock leading them around every corner and down every back alley. Eventually, they intersect the taxi. Pulling open the door, Sherlock observes the man in the back. ‘No, teeth, tan. What, Californian? L.A., Santa Monica. Just arrived.’

‘How can you possibly know that?’ John asks.

‘The luggage,’ Grace informs.

‘It's probably your first trip to London, right, going by your final destination and the route the cabbie was taking you?’

‘Sorry, are you guys the police?’

‘Yeah. Everything all right?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Welcome to London,’ Sherlock says sarcastically, walking away from the cab, clearly frustrated.

‘Uh, any problems just let us know,’ John closes the taxi door. ‘Basically, just a cab that happened to slow down.’

‘Basically.’

‘Not the murderer?’

‘Not the murderer, no,’ Grace answers.

‘Wrong country, good alibi.’

‘As they go.’

‘Hey, where-where did you get this?’ John pants, still exhausted, pulling a badge from Sherlock’s hands. ‘Right. Detective Inspector Lestrade?’

‘Yeah. I pickpocket him when he’s annoying. You can keep that one, I’ve got plenty at the flat.’ Grace and John share a glance, both starting to laugh at his words, and the situation as a whole. ‘What?’

‘Nothing, just… “Welcome to London.”’

Sherlock grins at the two before he notices the American man talking to a police officer by the corner. ‘Got your breath back?’

‘We’re ready when you are.’

‘That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.’ John admits, laughing as the trio stumble into 221 Baker Street. They lean against the entrance wall, panting from the long distance they had just ran.

‘And you invaded Afghanistan,’ Sherlock laughs.

‘That wasn’t just me. And why aren’t we back at the restaurant?’

‘They can keep and eye out, it was a long shot anyway.’

‘So, what were we doing there?’

‘Proving a point, from my observation,’ Grace smirks, now noticing John was without his walking stick. Also, him having ran many kilometres.

‘Precisely,’ Sherlock grins at her.

‘What point?’

‘You. Mrs Hudson! Doctor Watson will take the room upstairs.’

‘Says who?’

‘Says the man at the door.’

A knock echoes through the hallway, John glancing between Sherlock and Grace before walking over to answer the door.

‘What I don’t get is why you messaged me?’ Grace turns to Sherlock. ‘If it was a “long shot.”’

‘Because,’ he grins.

‘Because?’

‘Because you’re bored.’

‘That’s not why.’ Grace watches a brow raise on Sherlock’s face, clearly, he wasn’t expecting her to see through his lies. ‘I know a lie when I hear one. You want to try and deduce me. But you can’t, can you?’

‘It’s infuriating.’

‘I try my best.’

‘Sherlock, what have you done.’ An older woman in a purple dress comes into view. Her worried and panicky stature informing everything that something wasn’t quite right.

‘Mrs Hudson?’ One thing that Grace noted was the concern in Sherlock’s voice, and the man had the audacity to say he has no heart, that he doesn’t feel.

‘Upstairs.’

The three rush up the stairs, Sherlock skipping two at a time with his long legs. He opens the door to 221B, finding Greg sitting in his seat, and other Scotland Yard officers searching the flat.

‘What are you doing?’ Sherlock demands.

‘Well, I knew you’d fine the case. I’m not stupid. Plus, Grace slipped up and told me. You’re lucky she convinced me to lay off as long as I did.’

‘You can’t just break into my flat.’

‘And you can’t withhold evidence. And I didn’t break into your flat.’

‘Well, what do you call this.’

‘It’s a drugs bust.’

Oh Greg, that’s low, very low. Grace shakes her head, stepping further into the room to make herself known to Greg and the other officers.

‘Seriously? This guy, a junkie?’ John asks, bewildered. ‘Have you met him?’

‘John.’ Sherlock addresses sternly.

‘I'm pretty sure you could search this flat all day, you wouldn't find anything you could call recreational.’

‘John, you probably want to shut up now.’

‘Yeah, but come on… No?’

‘What?’

‘You?’

‘Shut up!’ Sherlock shouts, turning back to Lestrade. ‘I’m not your sniffer dog.’

‘No, Anderson’s my sniffer dog.’

‘What, An— Anderson, what are you doing here on a drugs bust?’

Anderson peeps his head out from behind a cupboard in the kitchen. ‘Oh, I volunteered.’

‘They all did. They’re not strictly speaking on the drugs squad, but they’re very keen.’

‘Are you serious, Greg? You told me you’d come for the case in two hours, not set up a drugs bust.’ Grace’s annoyance begins to show. All of this was highly unnecessary, and frankly, just mean.

‘Yes well, you didn’t tell me you were running off from the crime scene to find the case with this guy,’ Greg points to Sherlock. ‘So, I guess we both don’t tell each other everything.’

‘Are these human eyes?’ Donovan rounds the corner, holding up a jar.

‘Put those back!’

‘They were in the microwave!’

‘It’s an experiment!’ Sherlock spits.

‘Keep looking, guys.’ Lestrade orders. ‘Or you could help us properly and I’ll stand them down. That goes for the both of you.’

‘This is childish.’

‘Well, I'm dealing with a child. Sherlock, this is our case. I'm letting you in, but you do not go off on your own. Clear?’

‘Oh, what, so-so-so you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?’

‘It stops being pretend if we find anything,’ Greg stands, coming face to face with Sherlock, although slightly shorter.

‘I am clean!’

‘Is your flat? All of it?’

‘I don’t even smoke.’ Sherlock tugs up his sleeve, a nicotine patch stuck to his forearm.

‘Neither do I,’ Lestrade pulls up his own sleeve. ‘So, let’s work together. We’ve found Rachel.’

‘Who is she?’ Grace inserts herself back into the conversation.

‘Jennifer Wilson’s only daughter.’

Sherlock tugs his sleeve back down. ‘Her daughter? Why would she write her daughter’s name? Why?’

‘Never mind that. We found the case,’ Anderson points. ‘According to someone, the murderer has the case, and we found it in the hands of our favourite psychopath.’

‘I’m not a psychopath, Anderson. I’m a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research.’ Sherlock’s head snaps around. ‘You need to bring Rachel in. You need to question her. I need to question her.’

‘She’s dead.’

‘Excellent! How, when, and why? Is there a connection? There has to be.’

‘Well, I doubt it since she's been dead for fourteen years. Technically she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter, fourteen years ago.’

‘No that’s… that’s not right. How? Why would she do that?’

‘Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments? Yup – sociopath, I’m seeing it now,’ Anderson rolls his eyes.

‘She didn’t think about her daughter, Anderson,’ Grace spits, fed up with his shit. ‘She scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails, while she was dying. It took effort, and it would have hurt.’

‘Sherlock said the victims all took the poison themselves, that he makes them take it. Well, maybe he… I don’t know, talks to them?’ John offers. ‘Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow.’

‘Yeah, but that was ages ago. Why would she still be upset?’ Sherlock pauses after his words. ‘Not good?’ He turns to John.

‘Bit not good, yeah.’

‘Yeah, but if you were dying… if you’d been murdered; in your very last few seconds what would you say?’

‘“Please, God, let me live.”’

‘Oh, use your imagination!’

‘I don’t have to.’

‘Yeah, but if you were clever, really clever. Jennifer Wilson running all those lovers – she was clever. She’s trying to tell us something.’

Mrs Hudson stands at the doorway. ‘Isn’t the doorbell working? Your taxi’s here, Sherlock.’

‘I didn’t order a taxi.  Go away.’

Odd. Grace closes her eyes, falling into thought.

‘Oh, dear. They’re making such a mess. What are they looking for?’

‘It’s a drugs bust, Mrs Hudson.’

‘But they’re just for my hip. They’re herbal soothers.’

‘Shut up, everybody, shut up! Don’t move, don’t speak, don’t breathe. I’m trying to think. Anderson, face the other way. You’re putting me off.’

‘What? My face is?!’

‘Everybody quiet and still. Anderson, turn your back.’ Greg demands.

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’

‘Your back, now, please!’

‘Come on, think. Quick!’

‘What about your taxi?’

‘Mrs Hudson! Oh…’ Sherlock’s brain clicks. ‘Ah! She was clever, clever, yes! She’s cleverer than you lot and she’s dead. Do you see, do you get it? She didn’t lose her phone, she never lost it. She planted it on him.’

‘When she got out of the car, she knew that she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer,’ Grace opens her eyes, finishing Sherlock’s explanation.

‘But how?’

‘What? What do you mean, how? Rachel!’ Sherlock exclaims. ‘Don’t you see? Rachel! Oh, look at you lot. You’re all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing. Rachel is not a name.’

John is the first to speak amongst all the vacant faces. ‘Then what is it?’

‘John, on the luggage, there’s a label. E-mail address.’

‘Er, jennie dot pink at mephone dot org dot uk.’

Sherlock sits at his desk, laptop open. ‘Oh, I’ve been too slow. She didn’t have a laptop, which means she did her business on her phone, so it’s a smartphone, it’s email enabled. So, there was a website for her account. The username is her e-mail address. And all together now, the password is?’

‘Rachel.’

‘We can read her e-mails. So what?’

‘Anderson, don’t talk out loud, you lower the IQ of the whole street. We can do much more than just read her e-mails. It’s a smartphone, it’s got GPS, which means if you lost it, you can locate it online. She’s leading us directly to the man who killed her.’

‘Unless he got rid of it.’

‘We know he didn’t.’

‘Come on, come on. Quickly!’

‘Sherlock, dear. This taxi driver…’

‘Mrs Hudson, isn’t it time for your evening soother? We need to get vehicles, get a helicopter. We’re gonna have to move fast. This phone battery won’t last forever.’

‘We’ll just have a map reference, not a name.’

‘It’s a start!’

‘Sherlock…’

‘It narrows it down from just anyone in London. It’s the first proper lead that we’ve had.’

‘Sherlock…’

‘What is it? Quickly, where?’

‘It’s here. It’s in two two one Baker Street,’ John informs.

The phone is here, how? I’m missing something, what am I missing? Grace felt like hitting herself across the head, scratching the skin from her arms. It was in front of her, she knows it, but she can’t put her finger on what she’s missing. ‘How can it be here? How?’

‘Well, maybe it was in the case when you brought it back and it fell out somewhere,’ Lestrade suggested.

‘What, and I didn’t notice it? Me? I didn’t notice?’ Sherlock spits.

‘Anyway, we texted him and he called back.’

‘Guys, we’re also looking for a mobile somewhere here, belonged to the victim…’ Lestrade ignores the facts.

‘Who do we trust, even if we don’t know them?’

‘Who passes unnoticed?’ Grace adds to Sherlocks food for thought.

‘Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?’

‘Oh—’ Grace whispers, but only Sherlock hears. She steps backwards slowly, out of the room. Step, then step, she walks down the stairs and out of 221B. At the same time, Sherlock’s phone dings with a message from an unknown number.

COME WITH ME.

‘It’s you, isn’t it?’ Grace confronts the old man. He stands in front of his cab, pink phone in hand.

‘Took you ‘while. But then again you did surprise me, keeping up with the great Sherlock ‘olmes.’ The old man glances over Grace’s shoulder. ‘Speak of the devil. Taxi for Sherlock Holmes.’

‘I didn’t order a taxi,’ Sherlock’s deep voice sounds from behind Grace. He walks forwards, standing beside her with his hands in his coat pockets.

‘Doesn’t mean you don’t need one.’

‘You’re the cabbie, the one that stopped outside Northumberland Street.’

‘It was you, not your passenger,’ Grace observes.

‘See? No-one ever thinks about the cabbie. It’s like you’re invisible. Just the back of an ‘ead. Proper advantage for a serial killer.’

‘Is this a confession.’

‘Oh, yeah. And I’ll tell you want else; if you call the coppers now, I won’t run. I’ll sit quiet and they can take me down, I promise.’

‘Why?’ Sherlock asks.

‘‘Cause you’re not gonna do that.’

‘Am I not?’

‘I didn’t kill those four people, Mr ‘olmes, Detective Carter. I spoke to ‘em… and they killed themselves. An’ if you get the coppers now, I promise you one thing. I’ll never tell you what I said.’

‘No one else will die, though, and I believe they call that a result.’

‘An’ you won’t ever understand how those people died. What kind of result do you care about?’

‘If I wanted to understand, what would I do?’

Grace steps towards Sherlock, placing a hand on his arm. ‘Sherlock—’

‘Let me take you for a ride.’

‘So, you can kill me too?’

‘I don’t wanna kill you, Mr ‘olmes. I’m gonna talk to you… and then you’re gonna kill yourself.’

‘Sherlock.’ Grace warns again, his face becoming far too curious for her liking. ‘Don’t.’

‘You too, Detective. Get in the cab, come for a ride.’

‘I don’t think I want to.’

‘I ‘on’t really care what you want.’ The cabbie moves his jacket to the side, flashing the sight of a pistol.

Don’t let him know you’re onto him.

Shame Grace didn’t have her own on her person at the present time. Both Sherlock and Grace get into the backseat of the taxi. ‘Phone up ‘ere please, Detective.’ Grace takes her phone from her pocket, placing it on the console of the car. The engine starts, and they’re on a ride.

‘How did you find me?’ Sherlock questions, inwardly judging the driver’s route.

‘Oh, I recognised ya, soon as I saw you chasing my cab. Sherlock Holmes!’ The cabbie exclaims. ‘I was warned about you. Both of ya, actually. I’ve been on your website, too, Mr ‘olmes. Brilliant stuff! Loved it.’

‘Who warned you?’ Grace crossed her legs, deciding it best to be comfortable while potentially heading to her death.

‘Just someone out there who’s noticed.’

Sherlock sits forwards in his seat, eyes brushing over every detail of the cab. ‘Who? Who would notice me?’

‘You’re too modest, Mr ‘olmes.’

‘I’m really not.’

The cabbie glances at his passengers through the mirror. ‘You’ve got yourself a fan.’

‘Tell me more.’

‘That’s all you’re gonna know… in this lifetime.’

‘Wow, how ominous,’ Grace rolls her eyes.

The rest of the trip passes in silence. Each set of eyes wandering out each window, staring into every mirror to avoid surprise. The cabbie gets out of the car, walking around to open Grace’s door.

‘How gentlemanly.’

‘Where are we?’

‘You know every street in London, Mr ‘olmes. You know exactly where we are.’

‘Roland-Kerr Further Education College.’

‘Why here?’ Grace asks.

‘It’s open. Cleaners are in. One thing about being a cabbie; you always know a nice quiet spot for a murder. I’m surprised more of us don’t branch out.’

‘And you just walk your victims in? How?’ Sherlock’s brows furrow on his face, his eyes darting between Grace and the cabbie. He pulls out a pistol, aiming it directly at Sherlock. ‘Oh, dull.’

‘Don’t worry. It gets better.’

‘You can’t make people take their own lives at gunpoint.’

‘I don’t. It’s much better than that,’ the cabbie tucks away his gun. ‘Don’t need this with you, ‘cause you’ll follow me.’

Grace could just run away, take the cab and drive back to Scotland Yard at this moment. Left behind in the car as Sherlock and the cabbie walk into the right-side building. What kind of detective would she be if she left an unarmed man to enter a building alone with a serial killer? She was well aware that Sherlock could look after himself, but her own curiosity needs an excuse. Her own hunt for mystery, and the excessive need to just know. That was the truth behind her rapid footsteps, gradually catching up to the two men in the building.

Lights flickered on in an empty study hall as they entered. Sherlock paced slowly, observing his surroundings.

‘Well, what do you think?’ The cabbie grins. ‘It’s up to you. You’re the ones who’re gonna die here.’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘Bold of you to assume,’ Grace and Sherlock answer simultaneously.

‘That’s what they all say. Should we talk?’

The cabbie takes a seat at one side of the table, Sherlock turns a chair to sit on the other. Grace, who still stands in the doorway walks over, pulling up a chair beside Sherlock. He was a man lacking empathy, yes. A man who struggles to show his emotions. He didn’t purposefully exude comfort. But there was just something about his tall frame, his intellect, that allowed Grace to feel safe in his presence. Or maybe, just maybe, she was simply comfortable knowing the cabbie couldn’t outsmart him.

‘Bit risky, wasn’t it?’ Sherlock removes his gloves, tucking them in his pocket. ‘Took us away under the eye of about half a dozen policemen. They're not that stupid. And Mrs Hudson will remember you.’

‘You call that a risk? Nah. This… is a risk.’ The cabbie lifts a small glass bottle onto the table, containing a singular pill. ‘Oh, I like this bit. 'Cause neither of you get it yet, do ya? But you're about to. I just have to do this.’ Two more bottles are lifted onto the table. ‘Weren’t expecting that? You’re both gonna love this.’

‘Love what?’

‘Sherlock 'olmes. Look at you! 'Ere in the flesh. That website of yours; your fan told me about it.’

‘My fan?’

‘And yours, Detective Carter. Didn’t think you’d be able to keep up, but ya did.’

‘Your compliments are very backhanded,’ Grace snarks.

‘You are brilliant. You both are. A proper genius though, you are Mr ‘olmes. "The Science of Deduction." Now that is proper thinking. Between you, me, and Detectibe Carter sitting 'ere, why can't people think? Don’t it make you made? Why can’t people just think?’

‘Oh, I see. So, you’re a proper genius too,’ Sherlock mocks.

‘Don’t look it, do I? Funny little man drivin’ a cab. But you’ll know better in a minute. Chances are it’ll be the last thing you ever know.’

‘Okay, three bottles. Explain.’

‘There's a good bottle and two bad bottles. You take the pill from the good bottle, you live; take the pill from the bad bottle, you die.’

‘Both bottles are of course identical.’

‘In every way.’

‘And you know which is which.’

‘Course I know.’

‘But we don’t.’

‘Wouldn’t be a game if you knew. You’re the ones who choose.’ Words continue to fly back and forth between the two men. Grace listens intently, thoughts racing although she appears to remain calm.

Grace sits forwards in her chair, inspecting the glass bottles thoroughly with her eyes. ‘Why should we choose? We have nothing to go on. There’s nothing in it for us.’

‘I 'aven't told you the best bit yet. Whatever bottle you choose, I take the pill from the other one, and then, together, we take our medicine.’

‘So basically, two of us die.’

‘Exactly, Detective. Think of it as natural selection.’

‘Nothing about this is natural, old man. I think six feet under is going to be calling for you first.’

‘You don’t believe that do ya? You’ve been ‘ere before, Detective. Tossing up whether to take your medicine or not.’

The racing of Grace’s mind stops only for a split second, thoughts replaced by a single word. How?

Sherlock takes note of the blank expression on her face. His mind formulating its own theories and conclusions. How? How did he miss it, of course. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

‘You of all people should know that you’ve been a lot closer to hell than I ‘ave.’

‘This is what you did to the rest of them, you gave them a choice,’ Sherlock cuts in. The tense form of Grace clearly unlikely to respond any further on the topic.

‘And now I’m givin’ you one. You take your time. Get yourself together. I want your best game.’

‘It��s not a game. It’s chance.’

‘I've played four times. I'm alive. It's not chance, Mr. 'olmes, it's chess. It's a game of chess, with one move, and one survivor. And this...’ The cabbie pushes two of the bottles forwards. ‘This... is the move. Did I just give you the good bottle or the bad bottle? You can choose either one.’

A moment of silence washes over the study hall. Grace had taken the time to collect her thoughts, bringing herself back to the present moment. ‘Who told you?’

‘Your fan has known about you a lot longer than you’d think. So, are you ready yet? Ready to play?’

‘Play what?’ Sherlock spits. ‘We each have a thirty-three-point-three percent chance of surviving.’

‘You’re not playin’ the numbers, you’re playin’ me. Did I give you the good pill? Or a bad pill? Is it a bluff? Or a double bluff? Or a triple bluff?’

‘Still just chance.’

‘Four people in a row? It’s not just chance.’

‘Luck.’

‘It’s genius. I know ‘ow people think. I know 'ow people think I think. I can see it all, like a map inside my 'ead. Everyone’s so stupid – even you. Or maybe God just loves me.’

‘Either way, you’re wasted as a cabbie.’ Sherlock interlocks his hands and rests his elbows on the table. ‘You risked your life four times just to kill strangers. Why?’

‘Time to play.’

‘Oh, I am playing. This is my turn.’

Grace sits up straight. Was she finally going to witness Sherlock Holmes’ full skill set? Indeed, she was, and that excites her. Her emotions were spiralling at this moment. She is worried, excited, scared, thrilled. A little bit of everything that is slowly going to cause her to overload.

‘There's shaving foam behind your left ear. Nobody's pointed it out to you. Traces of where it's happened before, so obviously you live on your own; there's no one to tell you. But there's a photograph of children. The children's mother has been cut out of the picture. If she'd dead, she'd still be there. The photograph's old but the frame's new. You think of your children, but you don't get to see them. Estranged father. She took the kids, but you still love them, and it still hurts.’

Oh, he’s good. Much better than her. Grace watches the side of his face with wide eyes as he continues deducing the old cabbie. Once again, his prominent cheekbones casting a mysterious shadow over his face that makes him all the more enticing. He’s like forbidden fruit, so dangerously tempting. Hosting his own set of consequences should you ever take a bite.

‘Ah, but there's more. Your clothes: recently laundered but everything you're wearing is at least... three years old? Keeping up appearances but not planning ahead. And here you are on a kamikaze murder spree. What's that about? Ah... Three years ago. Is that when they told you?’

‘Told me what?’

‘That you’re a dead man walking.’

‘So are you.’

‘You don’t have long, though. Am I right?’

‘Aneurism. Right in ‘ere.’ The cabbie points to his head. ‘Any breath could be my last.’

Grace scoffs. ‘And because you’re dying, you’ve just killed four people?’

‘I’ve outlived four people. That’s the most fun you can ‘ave on an aneurism.’

‘No. No, there's something else. You didn't just kill four people because you're bitter. Bitterness is a paralytic. Love is a much more vicious motivator. Somehow this is about your children,’ Sherlock deduces.

‘Oh. You are good, ain’t you?’

‘But how?’

‘When I die, they wont get much, my kids. Not a lot of money in driving cabs.’

‘Or serial killing.’

‘You’d be surprised.’

‘Surprise me.’

The cabbie leans forward, speaking his sentence slowly. ‘I ‘ave a sponsor.’

‘You have a what?’

‘For every life I take, money goes to my kids. The more I kill, the better off they'll be. You see? It's nicer than you think.’

‘Who’d sponsor a serial killer?’

‘Who’d be a fan of Sherlock ‘olmes? You're not the only one to enjoy a good murder. There's others out there just like you, except you're just a man... and they're so much more than that.’

‘What do you mean, more than a man? An organisation? What?’ Grace questions.

‘There’s a name no one says, an’ I’m not gonna say it either. Now, enough chatter. Time to choose.’

‘What if we don’t choose? We could just walk out of here,’ Sherlock threatens.

‘You can take the chance, or I can shoot you both in the ‘ead.’ The cabbie lifts his pistol, aiming it directly at Sherlock. ‘Funnily enough, no one’s ever gone for that option.’ Grace and Sherlock share a glance momentarily, little smirks on their faces.

‘I’ll have the gun, please.’

‘I’ll take the gun too.’

‘You’re both sure?’

‘Definitely. The gun.’

‘You don’t want to phone a friend?’

‘The gun.’ The cabbie pulls the trigger but is quick to sigh after realising he’s been discovered. The pistol, not real, but a cigarette lighter instead. He tosses it to the side.

‘I know a real gun when I see one.’

‘None of the others did.’

Grace stands from her chair. ‘Clearly.’

‘Well, this has been very interesting. I look forward to the court case.’ Sherlock walks to the door but stops at the cabbie’s taunting.

‘Just before you go, did you figure it out? Which one’s the good bottle?’

‘Of course. Child’s play.’

‘Well, which one, then? Which one would you ‘ave picked, just so I know whether I could have beaten you? Come on! Play the game.’

‘Sherlock—’ Grace whispers warningly for only the tall man to hear. ‘Don’t fall for it.’

Sherlock ignores Grace, walking back over to the table, he picks up the bottle that is closest to the cab driver. Grace rolls her eyes. Could this man ever just listen? A bit hypocritical of her to think actually.

‘Oh, interesting. So, what d’you think? Shall we?’

Grace watches as both Sherlock and the cabbie take the pills out of the bottles. She is quick in her movements, walking over to Sherlock, grabbing his arm in an attempt to pull him towards the exit. ‘Sherlock, come on. It’s not worth it. We can have the pills tested if you’re so desperate to know.’

‘What do you think? Can you beat me?’ The cabbie continues to taunt, ignoring Grace. ‘Are you clever enough to bet your life? I bet you get bored, don’t you? I know you do. A man like you… So clever. But what’s the point of being clever if you can’t prove it? Still the addict.’

Sherlock was much stronger than Grace. Lifting his arm to inspect the pill under the light, her hands falling in the process. He didn’t even bat an eyelid, like she didn’t exist in that moment. Just a speck in an indifferent universe. Hopeless, little Grace, she couldn’t save the ones she loved, what makes her think she could save someone who chases the danger?

You think you can stop him? You think he cares about what you want? Nobody cares about you, never did, never will. Stop trying. Get over yourself. Pathetic, and weak, is all you are.

Shut up.

‘But this… this is what you’re really addicted to. You’ll do anything… anything at all… top stop being bored. You’re not bored now, are you? Innit good?’

Just as Sherlock was about to place the pill in his mouth, Grace understands that he truly will go through with this. Ignoring the voice in her head, the instincts kick in. She forcefully slaps the pill out of his hands. At the same time, a gunshot rings out and the cabbie falls to the floor.

Sherlock rushes over, inspecting the gunshot in the window. He steps are quick to carry him back over to Grace.

‘You’re not hurt?’ He asks, hands grabbing each of her shoulders. She shakes her head, unable to voice her thoughts as her heart pounds against her chest. The gunshot having startled her, unaware of any backup that had been heading their way.

Sherlock scurries around, finding the pill that had been slapped from his hand. He stands over the cabbie, holding it in front of his face. ‘Was I right? I was, wasn’t I? Did I get it right!?’ When he doesn’t receive a response, Sherlock harshly throws the pill at the dying man’s face. ‘Okay, tell me this. Your sponsor. Who was it? The one who told you about me, my fan? I want a name.’

‘No.’

‘Give us a name,’ Grace demands.

‘You're dying, but there's still time to hurt you. Give me a name.’ Sherlock presses his shoe to the cabbie’s gunshot wound when he continues to refuse. ‘A name! Now! The name!’

‘Moriarty!’ The cabbie screams in pain.

Moriarty?

‘I’m fine,’ Grace nudges the paramedics hands away from poking and prodding. ‘Please stop touching me.’ She watches as Sherlock speaks to Lestrade in front of another ambulance, the orange blanket around him a striking contrast to his dark hair and clothes.

‘We have to make sure you’re not injur—’

‘I’m not injured!’

She feels overloaded, overwhelmed in this moment. Her senses clashing with each other in an all-out war. The flashing lights were too much, the different conversations were too much. Grace wants to run away and hide and never come back. The whole ordeal so confusing.

She was doing fine. She was doing so much better until very recently. What has gone wrong? That’s the scary thing about depression. It creeps up on you so quickly, so unnoticeable, and then you can’t see yourself anymore. It’s no wonder Sherlock couldn’t deduce her; she doesn’t even know who she is at this very moment. She doesn’t think she’s known for a while if she’s being honest.

I’m fine. I’ll be fine. Just breathe. What can I see? What can I feel?

Grace’s eyes were trained on her hands, fingers picking at fingers in attempts to ignore all the heightened senses. A soft warmth falls over her coat-covered shoulders, looking up to find Sherlock has draped his ‘shock’ blanket over her.

‘For the shock.’

‘I’m not in shock.’

Sherlock grins, ‘I know.’

‘Thanks.’ Grace tries to smile at him, but her attempt falls short.

‘It’s very busy here. A lot happening…’

‘Yes, well, we did just catch a serial killer… sort of.’

‘There’s a good Chinese, Baker Street. Open till two. Should we see if John wants dinner? He’s a growing boy.’ He pokes fun at the doctor’s height.

Grace chuckles and looks up, directly into Sherlock’s icy irises. They were so cold but so warm, so inviting, yet so standoffish. She was stupid to think he wouldn’t realise, especially after the words of the thankfully now dead cab driver. This was Sherlock’s way of trying to help, to get her out of this situation that had made her fight or flight go off the rails. This was him… trying. ‘Chinese sounds good right now, I won’t lie.’ She stands, blanket falling off her shoulders and back into the ambulance.

Sherlock looks down at her shorter form with a soft expression. There was something about her head only reaching his chin that he found… endearing? And by Gods did he despise it. Who does she think she is to waltz into his life only a day ago and inspire such thoughts.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t read her earlier, he had discovered. It was that he had stopped himself from doing so subconsciously, as she reminded him of himself. And even he wasn’t immune to the fear of looking so deeply into oneself. Even he wasn’t immune to insecurity. She was as broken as he. She has learnt to put on a mask just like him. She was lonely, in a constant battle with herself. Grace was smart, and she was misunderstood. Sherlock knew the feeling better than anyone.

‘Come on.’ Sherlock and Grace walk over to John who stands behind some police tape. ‘Good shot.’

‘Yes. Yes, must have been, through that window.’

‘Well, you would know,’ Grace smirks.

‘Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers. I don’t suppose you’d serve time for this, but let’s avoid the court case. Are you all right?’

‘Yes, of course I’m all right.’

‘Well, you have just killed a man.’

‘Yes, I… that’s true, innit?’ John looks up at Sherlock. ‘But he wasn’t a very nice man.’

‘No. No, he wasn’t really, was he?’

‘And frankly a bloody awful cabbie.’

‘That’s true. He was a bad cabbie. Should have seen the route he took us to get here.’ The trio start walking away from the scene, giggling.

‘Stop it! We can’t giggle, it’s a crime scene. Stop it.’

‘Well, you’re the one who shot him. Don’t blame us.’

‘Keep your voice down! Sorry, it’s just nerves, I think.’ John apologises to the passing Sally Donovan. ‘You were going to take that bloody pill, weren’t you?’

‘Course I wasn’t. Biding our time. Knew you’d turn up.’

‘No, you didn’t,’ Grace rolls her eyes. ‘You were going to take the pill.’

‘It’s how you get your kicks, isn’t it? You risk your life to prove you’re clever.’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘Because you’re an idiot.’

Sherlock smiles, ‘dinner?’

‘Starving.’

‘End of Baker Street, I was telling Grace, there's a good Chinese stays open 'til two. You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handle.’

‘Sherlock, that’s him, that’s the man I was telling you about.’ John gestures towards a car. A tall, posh looking man in a suit climbs out.

‘I know exactly who that is.’

Grace watches onwards, completely confused. ‘I think I missed a chapter.’

‘So, another case cracked. How very public-spirited… though that’s never really your motivation, is it?’

Ah, sounds posh too. Must be the “archenemy” from earlier.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘As ever, I’m concerned about you.’

‘Yes, I’ve been hearing about your “concern.”’

‘Always so aggressive. Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?’

‘Oddly enough… no!’

‘We have move in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer… and you know how it always upset Mummy.’

‘I upset her? Me?’ Sherlock exclaims. ‘It wasn’t me that upset her, Mycroft.’

‘No, no, wait. Mummy? Who’s Mummy?’ John asks.

‘Mother. Our mother. This is my brother, Mycroft. Putting on weight again?’

‘Losing it, in fact.’

‘He’s your brother?!’

‘Of course he’s my brother.’

‘So, he’s not… some criminal mastermind?’

‘Close enough.’

‘For goodness’ sake. I occupy a minor position in the British Government.’

‘He is the British Government, when he’s not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis.’

‘Huh? I never heard of him,’ Grace mumbles.

‘What?’ Sherlock’s head snaps in her direction.

‘Nothing.’

‘Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home – you know what it does to the traffic.’ Sherlock storms off, Grace chuckles and follows him with John close behind.

‘So, it runs in the family then?’

‘What?’

Grace grabs the lapel of Sherlock’s coat playfully, pulling it to the side to expose his suit. ‘Weird names and an affinity for suits.’ She drops the coat back into place.

‘Shut up.’ He pretends to be annoyed but cannot help the smile that rises on his face.

‘So, dim sum?’ John brings up dinner.

‘I can always predict the fortune cookies.’

‘No, you can’t.’

‘Almost can. You did get shot, though.’

‘Sorry?’

‘In Afghanistan. There was an actual wound.’

‘Oh, yeah. Shoulder.’

‘Shoulder! I thought so.’

‘No, you didn’t.’

‘Left one.’

‘Lucky guess.’

‘I never guess.’

Grace cuts in, ‘yeah, you do. Gonna tell us what you’re so happy about?’

‘Moriarty.’

‘What’s Moriarty?’ John questions.

‘I’ve absolutely no idea.’

‘I don’t think I want to know, to be honest.’

‘Come on, Grace. Not the least bit curious?’

‘I might be after getting some food in my stomach, but right now I’m hungry and tired,’ Grace groans. ‘By the way, I’m crashing on your couch.’

-

like my work? consider tipping me for a kofi!

#sherlock x reader #bbc sherlock imagine #benedict cumberbatch imagine #benedict cumberbatch #fanfiction #sherlock x reader fanfiction #bbc sherlock #bbc sherlock fanfiction #bbc sherlock fluff #sherlock imagines #sherlock

[make-me-imagine]

Requests

Status: CLOSED

Alright, requests for all of my fandoms are open. Send some in while you can, they will not be open long!

Writing Prompt List #1 *210 prompts (fluff/romance; angst/emotional; Misc/Humor; & Scenario Prompts)

Writing Prompt List #2 *200 prompts (fluff/romance; angst/emotional; Misc/Humor; and Scenario Prompts)

Sensory Prompts #1 *125 prompts (nature ambiance; fluff/relationship; angst/sad; scary/horror; comfort; and Misc.)

Sensory Prompts #2 *around 130 prompts (nature/outside ambiance; relationship/fluff; angst; scary/horror; comfort; and Misc.)

Rules Page *Basic Rules: - I only write 'x reader' inserts; no ships or oc inserts - GN!Reader only - I do not write specific body types, or for other specific physical characteristics, since I try to keep my inserts as neutral as possible - No nsfw; no pregnancy/children, no readers/character fics below 18

-

You can request for fics/oneshots or headcanons.

You can send in your own plot, and/or 1-3 prompts. Feel free to mix and match from the prompt lists!

-

Full Fandoms List Below Cut:

9-1-1 (FOX show)

Evan “Buck” Buckley Eddie Diaz Det. Lou Ransone Howard “Chimney” Han

The Boys:

Serge “Frenchie” Hughie Campbell Billy Butcher

Bridgerton

Anthony Bridgerton Benedict Bridgerton Simon Basset Colin Bridgerton *maybe others? 

Buffy the Vampire Slayer

Spike Angel

Criminal Minds  (I have only watched seasons 1-11)

Spencer Reid Aaron Hotchner Derek Morgan

Doctor Who

Ten Eleven Twelve

Elementary

Sherlock Holmes *I have not watched the whole series so I wont write much for in-show plot points

Firefly

Malcolm Reynolds Simon Tam

Lark Rise to Candleford

Daniel Parish Fisher Bloom Sir Timothy Midwinter Alf Arless Mr Rushton

Leverage 

Eliot Spencer Quinn Alec Hardison

Magnificent Seven Tv Series (1998-2000)

Chris Larabee Ezra Standish Vin Tanner Buck Wilmington

The Mandalorian + TBoBF

Din Djarin Cobb Vanth Boba Fett (prefer platonic)

M*A*S*H (Tv Series)

Hawkeye Pierce BJ Hunnicutt Trapper John

Merlin (BBC)

Merlin Arthur Gwaine Percival Lancelot

Moon Knight

Steven Grant Marc Spector Arthur Harrow

Person of Interest

John Reese Others; platonically is preferred

Prodigal Son 

Malcolm Bright Gil Arroyo 

Shadow and Bone:

Kaz Brekker Matthias Mal Alexander/Kirigan ?

*I have read the Grishaverse books, so I am willing to write around that plot. But the characters will be in character for the show, and the characters will be written as 20+ as their ages are not stated in the show but it feels as though they are aged up in the depiction. 

Sherlock (BBC)

Sherlock Holmes Greg Lestrade Jim Moriarty

Star Trek: Discovery

Christopher Pike Gabriel Lorca (willing to write for an alternate ‘Prime’ version of Lorca) Sarek Spock **I’m in the process of watching Disco and am currently on Season 3. I will be watching Strange New Worlds when I can. **please make sure to specify which Spock you are requesting for (Disco or AOS.)

Star Trek: Enterprise 

Captain Archer Trip Tucker Malcolm Reed 

Star Trek: Voyager 

Chakotay Tom Paris

Stargate Sg-1

Jack O’Niell Daniel Jackson Jonas Quinn Cameron Mitchell 

Stargate Atlantis

John Sheppard Carson Becket Ronon Dex

Supernatural  *Have only watched seasons 1-9

Sam Winchester Dean Winchester Castiel Gabriel Gadreel Balthazar Crowley Lucifer Caine

Teen Wolf 

Derek Hale Peter Hale

Vampire Diaries & The Originals

Elijah Mikaelson Klaus Mikaelson Damon Salvatore Kol Mikaelson Lorenzo “Enzo” St John Finn Mikaelson

**Never watched The Originals’, so I only know the Mikaelsons from TVD.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

- - - - - Franchises/Movies - - - - - 

MCU:

Original Avengers:

Tony Stark  Steve Rogers Thor Bruce Banner Clint Barton Natasha Romanoff

Others:

Bucky Barnes Sam Wilson Helmut Zemo Loki Heimdall Vision Scott Lang Peter Parker (Garfield and/or Hollands; aged up) Dr. Stephen Strange T’Challa Agent Ross Shang-Chi Peter Quill

*** Feel free to ask about other MCU characters; I will write for most (depending on if I like the request as well) ***

X-Men

Original Timeline Movies:  Logan/Wolverine Scott Summers Kurt Wagner “Nightcrawler” Viktor Creed “Sabertooth”

First Class Timeline: Charles Xavier Eric Lehnsherr Hank McCoy Alex Summers Azazel Peter Maximoff “Quicksilver” Warren Worthington III “Angel”

**Many of the younger characters ages are not obvious in the First Class movies, so everyone will be written/suggested as 20+

The Eternals

Druig Ikaris Kingo

Venom (1 & 2)

Eddie Brock

Deadpool (1 & 2)

Wade/Deadpool  Ajax/Francis Cable Domino

- - -

Star Wars Universe

Episodes I-III

Anakin Skywalker Obi Wan Kenobi

Episodes IV-VI

Luke Skywalker Han Solo

Solo: A Star Wars Story

Han Solo Lando Calrissian Dryden Vos

Episodes VII-IX

Finn Poe Dameron Ben Solo/Kylo

- - -

The Hobbit/Lotr

Thranduil Thorin Kili Fili Bard Legolas Aragorn Eomer Faramir Elrond

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Fantastic Beasts:  ((JK Rowling is a bigot and anything I write regarding the wizarding world is of my own imagination and a continuation of a world I want untainted by her bigotry)) 

Newt Scamander, Percival Graves *So far I have only seen the first movie

**I will possibly write for characters from Harry Potter or Marauders, such as the Weasley twins, Malfoy, Cedric, Remus, Sirius, etc. But if I do, it will be after they leave Hogwarts and are 18+.

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Star Trek AOS

Cpt. Jim Kirk Dr. Leonard McCoy Spock Montgomery “Scotty” Scott Pavel Chekov Hikaru Sulu Khan *please make sure to specify which Spock you are requesting for (Disco or AOS.)

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The Outsiders

Darrel “Darry” Curtis Maybe: Sodapop Curtis Dallas Winston ^^Aged Up

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Pirates of the Caribbean (1-4)

Captain Jack Sparrow Will Turner James Norrington Elizabeth Swann/Turner

- - - 

Magnificent Seven (2016) 

Joshua Faraday Billy Rocks Goodnight Robicheaux Vasquez Red Harvest

- - -

Maleficent I & II

Conall, Borra, Diaval, Maleficent

- - -

The Man from U.N.C.L.E 

Napoleon Solo Illya Kuryakin

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Kingsman: The Secret Service and The Golden Circle

Eggsy Unwin Hamish Mycroft “Merlin” Jack Daniels “Whiskey”

- - -

Jane Austen/Period Movies: 

Pride and Prejudice (1995 & 2005) Characters: Mr. Darcy and Mr Bingley (other characters if requested)

Mansfield Park (1999 & 2007) Character: Edmund Bertram

Sense and Sensibility (1995/2008) Character: Edward Ferrars 

Emma (2009 & 2020) Character: Mr. Knightley

Persuasion (2007) Character: Captain Wentworth

- - - - -

Outside Characters: 

Actors who have multiple characters outside of the listed fandoms that I am willing to write for!

Charlie Hunnam:

Arthur (King Arthur: Legend of the Sword) Raymond Smith (The Gentlemen) William “Ironhead” Miller (Triple Frontier) **Will also write for Ben Miller

Oscar Isaac: 

Santiago “Pope” Garcia (Triple Frontier)

xx

#scheduled post #will update bio and ask box when I log on #requests #delete later #star trek #marvel #star wars #lotr #stargate #911 #bridgerton #magnificent seven #the boys #tvd #teen wolf #avengers #moon knight #xmen #venom #kingsman #jane austen #leverage #disco #shadow and bone

[bullet-prooflove]

Coming Up This Week - WC: 5/12/22

Monday 5th - Solace - Greg Lestrade x Mycroft Holmes: Mycroft offers Greg a moment of solace.

Tuesday 6th - Chasing Fires: Chapter Twenty One - Brian Zvonecek x OC: Kat and Kenny’s conversarion doesn’t go the way she planned.

Wednesday 7th - Smile - Sonny Carisi: Sonny’s told to smile for the camera.

Thursday 8th - Past Mistakes Part 3: California - Mike Durate x Reader: You and Mike reflect on the past.

Friday 9th - Deal Breaker - Mike Durate x Reader: Mike reveals he’s been thinking of the future.

Saturday 10th - Truth - Joe Velasco x Reader: Joe decides to tell you what happened to him whilst undercover. 

Sunday 11th - Choose - Horacio x Reader: You tell Horacio to choose.

#joe velasco x reader #joe velasco x you #joe velasco #horacio carrillo x reader #horacio carrillo #horacio carrillo imagine #mike duarte x reader #mike duarte x you #mike duarte #maurice compte #sonny carisi x reader #sonny carisi #brian otis zvonecek #brian otis zvonecek x reader #brian otis zvonecek imagine #brian zvonecek imagine #brian zvonecek #mystrade #greg lestrade #mycroft holmes

[mottlemoth]

Hi Moth - thank you for writing all the fabulous Mystrade! Sherlock was first fandom I wrote fic for, across a few OTPs - Mollstrade, Sherstrade, Lestrade x OC, Mollcroft, and Mystrade (probabIy my favourite!) I haven't written for a while, but rereading a couple of your fics has inspired me to maybe writing a new fic or two, alongside my other fandoms. Thank you! I must confess that I wish I hadn't watched season 4 of Sherlock. Is that a terrible thing? It didn't spoil the show for me, but I was a bit 'meh' about that season. I haven't watched any episodes for a long time. Do you rewatch them at all? I love to immerse myself in the fanfic creations instead, and I love your fics with all my heart!

Howdy, secret person ❤️ It's been Quite A While since I actually watch a whole episode from start to finish. I'll admit that I find Sherlock the character to be pretty unlikeable at times. I only really pay full attention when Mycroft or Greg are on screen xDD Is that terrible?

I hope you have fun with your new fics :D Happy writing!

#secret people

[dryizzle]

In search of some Mycroft x OFC or Lestrade x OFC fanfics

Y’all, I am in the longest fucking hauls. Love slow slow burns and beautiful prose. Tbh I am just in LOVE with these two and looking for any writing that exposes all their wonderful beauty (and flaws ;)) 

#bbc sherlock #sherlock imagines #Mycroft Holmes #mycroft x oc #greg lestrade #greg lestrade x oc #sherlock oneshot #bbc sherlock imagines #bbc sherlock oneshot #fluff #smut

[weasleywinchester]

Chapter 2 - The First Case

Chapter One

Overall Summary: Jamie Luna is an American in London. She’s managed to get herself stuck within Mycroft’s web and is sent to watch Sherlock’s every move. What She’s not prepared for is the love and friendships of a life time.

This Chapter: Jamie is given a warning about her newest colleague. 

(I promise Lestrade will 100% be in the next chapter!!)

*ping*

John: crime scene, this address. Better hurry

I quickly grab my keys and my coat and bolt out the door. I manage to hail a taxi and by the grace of god get to the crime scene before John and Sherlock. There’s several police cars, marked and unmarked, parked in a semicircle in the street. The paramedics look to be on standby, most likely waiting for the detectives to be done. All lights are flashing like a rave party, but the atmosphere is quite the opposite of a good time. 

“I love me a good murder in the evening.” Sherlock bellows to the whole street.

“Well, I guess for some it is a good time.” I smile at the boys, raising my eyebrow at Sherlock. 

“I assume Mycroft knows.” Sherlock offhandedly asks.

“It’s my job is it not?” 

“We’ll be inside.” He abruptly says, lifting the caution tape out of his way.

“I’ll let you know if we run out the back,” John says, squeezing my shoulder. He ducks under the caution tape and trots after Sherlock.

“Bringing the whole fan club to the crime scene are we now?” a woman asks as they walk through the door. John gives her a pointed look as he and Sherlock enter the building.

I let my eyes wander around. A few onlookers gather at the edge of the caution tape, whispering about what finally happened or what should have happened. A few police mill about, their faces not showing much; I expect most are a little numb to this whole experience after a while. 

“Who are you?” I turn to see a black woman with brown curly hair giving me a very cross look like she did to John.

“Jamie Luna, friend of Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson.” I hold my hand out to her, but she ignores it. 

“Sherlock doesn’t have friends.”

“Well, more of a colleague then.”

“Wow, now he has two of those.” I frown, she must be referring to John.

“I guess so.”

“I’ll tell you what I told John Watson. He gets off on solving crimes. It’s not normal to take so much glee in solving a murder. One day we’ll be standing around a body and Sherlock will be the one to have put it there.” Her accusations sink into my bones. I know Sherlock is a bit off his rocker, but I don’t believe he’d kill anyone just for the fun of it. Plus John seems to bring him balance. 

“Well, I hope you’re up to the challenge of figuring out how he put that body there. Seems that Scotland Yard needs his help quite often.” I say, letting my words come out flat. She flexes her jaw and walks away. I look back towards the entrance to the building and Sherlock comes flying out. I yell after him but he doesn't stop.

“Run Jamie!” John tells as he flies by. I immediately break into a run, not stopping until my lungs are on fire and I see Sherlock stop in the distance.

“Good, you finally made it.” Sherlock comments. I glare at him trying to get a grip on my breathing but no luck. Sherlock is already deducing away, mumbling to himself. 

“Anything happen while we were inside?” John asks, both of us watching as Sherlock checks every single speck of the street.

“Actually yes, I received a warning about Sherlock.” John raises his eyebrows at me so I continue. “A slightly older than myself black woman, with curly hair said one day we’d be standing around a body that Sherlock put there.” 

“Ah, you’ve talked to Sgt Sally Donovan. She asked me to heed the same warning.” John abruptly walks after Sherlock before he’s gone too far.

“I assume that since we’re both standing here that you decided to ignore it.“ We share a look, John doesn’t say anything but the little twinkle in is eye tells me everything I need to know about him. He hurries to Sherlock’s side, as the lady he’s talking to seems extremely put off by Sherlock. 

*ping*

Mycroft: Drugs?

Jamie: No. Just his charming personality. 

Mycroft: Anything Else?

Jamie: He has made an old woman very upset. And he hasn’t had anything to eat in the last two hours. 

Mycroft: And?

Jamie: He should get a haircut soon. Otherwise he won’t be able to see!

Mycroft doesn’t ask anything else. I imagine he’s ready to fire me after just one evening since most of our conversations follow this pattern. But he has an extra pair of eyes on his baby brother AND he failed to specify in his contract. 

“Jamie hurry!” John shouts as a cab pulls up. I throw my phone in my pocket and run. This job is going to be a thrill! 

#greg lestrade x reader #detective inspector greg lestrade #Sherlock Holmes #bbc sherlock #john watson #greg lestrade x oc #mycroft holmes

[leahchampagne]

#sherlock and mycroft #sherlock edit #sherlock holmes #bbc sherlock #sherlock #moriarty x reader #mycroft x reader #mycroft and greg #mycroft holmes #mycroft x lestrade #mycroft x you #mycroft x greg #sherlock x irene #sherlock x mrs. hudson #sherlock x john #sherlock x molly #sherlock x moriarty #sherlock x you #sherlock x oc #john watson #john x sherlock

[imaginedilestrade]

AMALTHEIA X GREG IS A PERFECT OTP SHOW THEM

A special fic for @rikkachloechan HAPPY BIRTHDAY! 😁❤️🎉 I hope you had a lovely day and enjoy the fic! (This is also my first time doing a OC fic so please be nice 😂😅)

————-

Theia heard a knock on her door and placed down her mug of tea to answer it. She smiled seeing Molly on the other side of the door. “Hey! Come in! Come in! You want a cup of tea?”

“Oh I’d love one thanks, just finished my shift there.” Molly collapsed onto Theia’s couch but burst back to life again when she received her tea. “You off today?”

“Yeah,” Theia replied and perched herself up on the other side of the couch, “I’m off tomorrow again…”

“Ahh yes,” Molly smirked “Special day tomorrow!”

“Oh hush! Not that special!” Theia lightly nudged Molly with a giggle.

“Any birthday is special!” Molly nudged her back “What are you planning to do?”

“Well I know Mycroft and Sherlock won’t come out with me because you know what they’re like with social interaction,” Theia rolled her eyes “I might do a bit of shopping or something. Treat myself!” She winked and drank another mouthful of tea. Molly sat for a while and the two girls decided to phone in something for dinner. The door rang and Theia went to answer it, assuming it was dinner.

It was dinner…with an unexpected guest.

“I saw the delivery driver in the corridor, you owe me twenty five pounds…” Sherlock barged in and passed his sister the bag full of food. Theia let out a loud sigh and shut the door behind her.

“What are you doing here?” She exasperatingly asked following him through to her kitchen. Molly sent Theia an uneasy and confused expression.

“I came here looking for Molly. I was about to knock on her door but I saw the man delivering your food and I noticed there was enough for two. Naturally, I assumed she would be here.” Sherlock rambled and sat down at the dining table picking at bits of food from the bag. Theia swatted his hands away and he looked up to his sister with furrowing brows “What?”

“You’re seriously asking me that?” She said “I should be asking you the same thing! What are you doing here and what do you need Molly for?”

“I need her to wheel out a body for me…” Sherlock trailed off and turned to Molly “If she would very kindly do that.” He added with an almost sarcastic undertone.

“She can help you after dinner,” Theia grabbed plates “You can stay if you want.”

“No,” Sherlock breathed out “Digestion slows me down. Molly text me when you’re at Saint Barts.” Sherlock swiftly stood up and departed.

The front door slammed shut “Bye then…” Theia sarcastically uttered while rolling her eyes.

“I still can’t believe you’re related to him and Mycroft. You’re so different, in a good way!” Molly reassuringly smiled “Not to mention you’re a brilliant paediatric nurse and incredibly loving and loyal!” She gushed over Theia who playfully nudged Molly’s shoulder. The two had dinner together before Molly left to deal with Sherlock. Theia cleared up and let out a sigh seeing it was nine at night and she was stuck in her flat with nothing better to do than sit and mindlessly stare at the Tv.

That was until three knocks at the door disturbed her. She knew who it was already by the knocking and ecstatically jumped from the sofa to answer the door. “Greg! Hey! It’s so good to see you!” Theia extended her arm and brought him in for a quick hug before inviting him in to her flat.

She raised a brow at the brown bag in his hand that was marked ‘Police Evidence’. “So what brings you here?” She asked.

“Well I was wondering if you wanted to grab a drink? If you’re busy that’s-”

Theia cut him off with a giddy grin “I’d love too!” She was a bit too enthusiastic and cleared her throat nervously. “Shall we head?”

“Sure!” Greg smiled and Theia grabbed her jacket and bag before locking up her apartment and heading to the tube station with Greg. When they both emerged from the station, Theia stopped when Greg did in the middle of the street and looked up to where he was looking. She could feel the smile forming on her face “Do you remember this place?” Greg asked, peeling his gaze away from the building he was looking at. He was pleasantly surprised when he saw Theia looking back at him.

“This is the pub where I first met you…” she trailed off “I was helping out Sherlock and he dragged me here to find you. That was how we met,” she giggled remembering Greg downing his pint so he could rush after Sherlock as he sped off. Greg smiled when he remembered that Theia waited for him.

Greg opened the door and held it open for her like the gentleman he was. She grabbed a booth while he grabbed the drinks. He returned and placed the evidence bag beside him “So what’s in the bag?” She asked full of curiosity.

“Aren’t you going to deduce what’s in the bag?” Greg teased.

Theia rolled her eyes with a half smile “I’m not my brothers…”

“I know,” Greg smiled and leaned forward “That’s why I like you the most out of them…” he whispered and laughter bubbled in Theia’s throat and she shyly turned away.

The two sat and chatted away, mainly about work. That was until twelve struck and Theia heard faint singing. She turned her head slightly and let out a groan while placing her head in her hands with embarrassment and laughing.

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you,” some of the bar staff sang while carrying a cupcake with a lit candle in it. “Happy birthday dear Theia, happy birthday to you!”

Some of the people in the pub cheered and Theia blew out the candle with bright red cheeks “Thank you,” she smiled to everyone and turned back to Greg “I’m going to kill you!” She shook her head with a grin. The person carrying the cupcake placed it down on the table in the middle of her and Greg.

“Happy birthday! The landlord is a friend of mine and owed me a favour and I asked him while I was up getting the drinks if he could do something special.” Theia felt her heart swell at Greg’s kind gesture.

She leaned over and pecked his cheek, now Greg was the one going red. “Apart from the sheer embarrassment, I loved it. Thank you.”

They sat until closing time, just before the pub closed, Theia gasped hearing her favourite song play over the speakers. “My god I love this song!” She smiled and tapped her fingers to the beat of 'Chasing Cars’.

“Closing time guys!” A man walked over to the table.

“Can we at least stay till this song is over with?” Greg asked “It’s her favourite, Steven.”

He must have been the landlord Greg mentioned.

The landlord smiled and nodded his head “Alright! Anything for the birthday girl!”

Theia gasped with delight “Thank you!” She turned to Greg “You’re going to have to dance with me now, you do know that don’t you?”

Greg stood up with the corner of his lips tugging upwards. He held out his hand and Theia gladly took it and Greg pulled her in close. It was the closest they had ever been and Theia would be lying if she had said she wasn’t nervous. She was almost trembling with nerves. There was was no denying she felt something for Greg. She kept it to herself however, with the exception of Molly. After sharing two bottles of wine with Molly it was hard not to disclose her feelings about Greg.

Theia loved him.

Theia could feel Greg’s hand slowly move up and down her back whist his heart was like a drum beating against her own chest. His breath lingered around her ear, even after he pulled away when the song finished. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Theia felt her eyes widen and her right cheek burn as Greg placed a kiss to it. “Happy birthday.”

—

The paediatric nurse folded her arms around herself, as if she was giving herself a hug. Greg walked Theia back to her flat. It was close to freezing and patches of hazy condensation gathered in front of their faces. It left a trail down the street before fading away completely. Greg’s arm occasionally made a rustling noise as he shifted the evidence bag he still had so it wouldn’t fall.

“Well,” Theia looked up to her apartment building “This is me. Thank you for a great night!”

“My pleasure…” Greg trailed off and the two stood in silence for a moment.

“Do you want to come up for a coffee or tea?” She asked in a quiet voice but it was amplified since it was the only noise being made.

Greg nodded with a smile and the two made their way up to Theia’s flat. She out on the kettle and ushered Greg to the sofa while it boiled. She walked to her room and changed into her pyjamas before returning to the kitchen and pouring out two cups of tea. She carefully grabbed them and walked over to Greg “Here you-” Theia cut herself off with a smile “-go…” she breathed out the rest of her sentence. Greg was lying on the couch with his mouth slightly opened and making faint little snores.

Theia smiled to herself and put down the cups of tea. She grabbed a blanket and delicately draped it over Greg “Sweet dreams…” she kissed her hand and placed it on his cheek before making her way to bed.

It felt as if Theia had just shut her eyes when she felt the sun radiating off her skin. She let out a tired moan and stretched her limbs out across the warm mattress, her duvet restricted her movement a bit.

Theia eventually opened her eyes and squinted them slightly as the sun blinded her. It wasn’t often she woke up to sunshine. Or to the smell of bacon.

She sat up in bed and furrowed her brows before she remembered about Greg. Theia grabbed her dressing gown and hurried to the living room “Greg?”

“Morning!” Theia spun on her heel and smiled at the sight before her. “I’m making you your favourite since it’s your birthday…” Greg smirked and plated up breakfast for them both “Plus you let me sleep on your couch last night so it’s a bit of a thank you too!”

His laugh made Theia’s heart flutter as she sat down across from him. Her eyes were soon drawn to the plate in front of her filled with bacon and French toast. “Looks and smells amazing!” She praised and started to devour it.

She slowed down when she noticed Greg mining the police evidence bag towards her. She sent him and the bag a questionable glance.

“Unconventional wrapping paper…” Greg bashfully confessed.

Theia carefully tore open the bag and took out the thing inside. She gasped and covered her mouth with her hand while tracing her free hand over the book cover.

“I know it’s your favourite…” Greg trailed off and scratched the back of his neck. Theia scanned her eyes over the cover of a Greek mythology book. “Happy birthday Theia.”

“Thank you Greg, I love it!” Theia got up off the chair and gave Greg a long hug. “Thank you so much,” she mumbled into his chest.

“Don’t mention it, you deserve it.” He pulled back and held her in his grasp. They didn’t say anything but they felt themselves being pulled towards the other. Greg’s lips crashed against Theia’s first and it took her a moment to register what was happening.

Greg pulled back “Sorry I shouldn’t ha-” he was cut off by Theia’s lips and they soon synced with each other. Greg’s hands held onto her face and he kept stroking it. A little reminder to himself that she was real and that this was happening.

They pulled back when they both decided they needed a break to breathe. As they did their chests heaved and their lips tingled. “Best birthday ever,” Theia smiled before kissing Greg again.

#imaginedilestrade #request #Greg lestrade x OC #Lestrade x OC #greg lestrade imagine #lestrade imagine

[high-functioning-lokipath]

SH - Platonic!Sherlock x reader - Piss Off - Long Drabble: 753

You were so excited for your first day working at the Yard. You'd known Greg since you were little and, after pulling some strings, he managed to get you in his division.

"Not my division!" You heard him yell as you walked towards his office. "How many times do I have to tell you, Donovon, don't bother me with that crap!" Moments later a very angry young lady walked out of his office. She was holding a cup of coffee so you stepped out of her way. She glanced up at you briefly and then purposely walked right into you!

"Look at that mess! You spilled coffee all over my new shirt!" She cried. "You need to watch where you're going! Who are you and what are you doing here anyways?" She yelled.

'Ok, maybe not a lady with the way she's acting,' you thought. "Y/N and I work here for your information." Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. "And if you want to keep working here, you may want to get your head out of your bum. You purposely walked right into me. Don't you have anything better to do than cause problems?" She gasped in surprise and stomped off.

"I've never seen her shut up so fast," You heard a voice say.

"Greg!" You said running up to him. He held you at arm's length, checking for coffee. You chuckled. At finding none, he pulled you into his office and gave you a big hug. "It's so good to see you again!”

"Good to see you too. I missed you those 3 months you were in the US." He smiled and you both sat down. "So, your first day. This should be interesting. I just got word of a double homicide. I want you to come along because I know this will be at least an 8 for him and then you can meet."

"Sherlock?" You replied. "Are you certain he'll be there?"

"Quite certain."

"Sounds wonderful!" You said excitedly. "Well, not the murder but, um-"

"Don't worry, I'm used to him grinning at murders. I think you two will get along quite well." He frowned for a moment. "Either that or you'll butt heads completely." You both laughed and headed out. 20 minutes later Greg's latter theory proved correct.

"You cannot be serious! How could she have been strangled when there's not even any marks on her neck?" You yelled. "It was obviously suffocation!"

"Then where's the weapon?" Sherlock struck back.

"He took it with him you twit!"

"Him? You figured out the gender now too?"

"Of course it was a him! She was a strong woman and only a man could have subdued her!"

"So you think she struggled?"

"Oh for goodness sake just piss off, Sherlock!" You yelled stomping off. Once outside you leaned against the building and took a few deep breaths. Closing your eyes you rested your head on the wall behind you. Hearing the door open, you opened your eyes but looked away. The footsteps stopped right next to you. "What do you want?" You said attempting to sound angry.

"You were right," Sherlock whispered. Your head snapped to look at him. His eyes, surprisingly, seemed sincere. "I'm sorry I upsetted you. I'm just not used to someone so similar to me."

"Maybe we're too similar," You commented sadly. "You've been a role model for me, you know. Maybe we just need to keep a distance though."

"No!" He exclaimed. "I mean, I think we should try to see if we can figure out how to work together. After all, you're in Lestrade's division and he's the only DI I can stand. I wouldn't want to make you transfer."

"Alright. We can try," You replied, smiling a bit.

"Would you like to have dinner with me?"

"You should know that, while I am single, I don't date."

"Me neither. Sentiment is a chemical defect on the losing side in my opinion. I simply think it would be wise we have some time together to talk."

"That's fine. And we can discuss that love theory of yours too," you smirked. "I have a slightly different philosophy that you may find interesting."

"Excellent! I'll let Gavin know that we're leaving."

"Gavin?"

"Yes, Lestrade. I, erm, can never seem to remember his name," he replied somewhat embarrassed.

"That's fine. It's Greg, by the way. Maybe we can work on that together. I'll help you with his name and you help me with my deduction skills. Deal?"

"Deal."

#sherlock #sherlock bbc #sherlock x oc #sherlock imagine #sherlock x reader #sherlock fanfic #greg lestrade #sally donovan

[pickledpascal]

There's a She-Wolf in the Closet

Chapter Fourteen: You Shook Me All Night Long

Summary: After a particularly interesting dream, Sherlock investigates a particularly interesting case.

Warnings: Light smut, 18+ themes, Sherlock trying to play off his h wordness, descriptions of blood.

Word Count: 1.6k

TASWITC Masterlist

Previous Chapter Next Chapter

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Sherlock breathed in heavily, letting out small, strained moans. Something he never thought he’d do in his life. For pleasurable reasons, at least. The man held onto the sheets, his head buried into the pillow in front of him. Yes, Sherlock Holmes was on his hands and knees in the middle of his own bed. “Please….” Came from Sherlock’s mouth, a foregin word on his tongue but it made the sound all the more sweet. The depth of his voice made a simple, pleading “please” mean that much more. It was a foregin emotion in this circumstance. Desperation. In times of high stress, big cases, were usually when it came to him. Not…. this.

Irene Adler may have thought she would bring Sherlock Holmes to beg for mercy, and be the first to get to him. And maybe she could. But fate was funny, it had that scenario playing with another woman in mind.

Someone much different than The Woman.

“Please what, sweetheart?” A very familiar voice to Sherlock. She pulled slightly on the man’s restraints, the ropes tightening slightly which would create bruises he would most likely cherish in the morning.

Sherlock let out a small, deep whine, “I-I-” This was hard for the detective…. In many ways. Emotionally, though, he wasn’t used to having someone else in such control over him like this.

Sex wasn’t something he’s fully experienced before and, as far as he knew, he would be the one in control. But in one fell swoop, she changed his mind. No, he would be the one begging, pleading, wanting, whining while she made him like that. It felt…. Freeing. Good, even. Like it was meant to be that way. She showed him a side of himself that he didn’t think he had.

“P-Please, M-Mistress Violet!” Yes. He’s letting go. She’s letting him let go. Sherlock let out a breathy whine as his lips released those words.

Jayden is not an inherently sexual creature, even though it was her job. But she has a better insight than anyone about what a simple experience can do to someone. She was just hoping this would be a positive outcome. And right she was….

—-------------

“Sherlock?!” John banged on his bedroom door, his voice muffled from within the four walls. Was he really not up? It was eleven am. Sherlock had to be. That would be a new record for the detective.

Speaking of, the man inside the room let out a deep breath, not realizing his face was flushed. It was a dream…. All of it? Why did it seem so vivid? Like…. Like Jayden was right there, making him feel good. Making him lose control and give it to someone else in the sweetest way possible.

Sherlock looked around his room, trying to calm himself with simple deductions but that was not working so he got dressed…. Careful of himself. He didn’t want to seem hot and bothered. Because he was surely both. Now, John was a man as well but the detective wasn’t ready to reveal himself to be sexually inclined yet. After all, the first time Sherlock was sexually active in some way was when he met Irene Adler and he didn’t do anything with her besides see her naked.

Which John saw as well so it wasn’t private anyway. Not that he wanted it to be, it was a surprise. Something he didn’t anticipate. Like his dream. He didn’t anticipate he would have it. Sherlock barely dreamt in the first place so it was shocking he had one, especially like that.

Another deep breath as the man opened the door to his room, coughing to gain John’s attention as the man took a sip of some tea he made. “There you are, thought you were dead.” He chuckled softly.

“Somehow I doubt my death will be as…. Boring as dying in my sleep.” Sherlock coughed for a moment, realizing his voice sounded much more husky than usual.

John wasn't an idiot, as much as Sherlock decided to call him so. The man's eyebrow cocked at the sound of Sherlock's voice, "You alright?" The doctor observed the detective for a moment, not missing the way Sherlock's cheeks were slightly flushed and–he realized this because of the detective's own ramblings–the way his pupils were dilated once he came out of the room, not to mention the slightly harbored breaths.

"Just fine." The detective gritted his teeth, trying to sound less irritated but failed. Sherlock could tell John was observing him and was one step away from finding out exactly why his pupils were dilated, why his skin was flushed, and why his voice was deeper than usual.

Thankfully, the doctor was not as cruel as Sherlock would be in such a situation and decided not to comment on it. "Alright, well, we have a case to get to." John said, his mind already clicking everything in place.

Sherlock nodded, coughing for a moment before he went to grab his coat and scarf. London was frigid in the winter and with the snow, the air had a certain bite to it that most everyone hated. But, for once, Sherlock was quite thankful it was cold outside. It should be able to distract him from the scene still lingering in his head.

"Please what?" The sickly sweet sound of her voice echoed in his head. Sherlock has never even heard Jayden say something similar to that in a tone so…. distracting.

Sex was something Sherlock didn't really acknowledge until Irene and after, he started to question it was something he wanted in the first place. Indifference seemed to be a struggle after The Woman arrived, naked with only some heels on. For a moment, though, the detective landed on a hard 'no.' That only lasted for a few years.

Jayden came along and messed everything up. In the best way possible. Sherlock's attraction to her was like nothing he's ever felt before. He wanted to do everything and anything with her. Whether that included sex or not was up her.

If he was honest, Sherlock wouldn't blame Jayden for not wanting anything sexual from him. It was a part of her job, it could be–was–tiring. She needed a break from it all. It was more than healthy to take a break…. From anything really. Especially if you do something for days on end.

—--------------

The crime scene was brutal. It's been a while since Sherlock has seen something this bloody. Stains of red were all over the walls, floors, and even the ceiling.

Just goes to show how good of a weapon a guitar can be when trying to kill someone.

Although, it did take some time for Sherlock to realize what the murder weapon was. The images of his dream and the sultry sound of Jayden's voice haunted his mind, distracting him from the task at hand. The man had to press his palms into the temples of his head just to get his brain to start working properly again.

"Something up with him?" Greg asked John as Sherlock began pacing around the scene, rattling off simple deductions like what Sally had for breakfast or the state of a police car to calm himself.

It was nice that Greg was concerned and so was John, but he knew the deeper meaning as to why Sherlock couldn't focus. "Yeah…. He'll be fine though." He hoped. John shrugged, keeping an eye on the detective to make sure he didn't say anything stupid just to get his mind working again.

When Sherlock did start to focus, he rattled off the deductions like they were fleeing from his mind as soon as he realized them. "Clearly a physical altercation with things being broken or askew, as well as the bruising on the woman's knuckles, head was beaten by something heavy and large…. An electric guitar judging by the size and width of the indents. Possibly something expensive like a Fender but not too flashy, perhaps in the color black…." He explained, his eyes scanning over the woman's body yet again.

It was someone she didn't know, that much was clear. Someone going to the music shop, perhaps to buy or…. Reminisce in a time where they could play. "Check inventory and see if any guitars are missing that match the description." Sherlock said, looking over at Greg who finally paid attention.

Sherlock looked to the wall of the shop, eyeing some of the guitars on the wall. It reminded him of Jayden's…. Jayden! Right, she knew her guitars from inside and out. She was able to manipulate them in ways no one else could, or, he thought only she could. The soft melodies that were played on her acoustic greatly complimented the appearance of it. A soft white with the black painted accents being chipped away after the countless times she's used it, the gloss fading away to a nice matte. It was loved. Loved for years.

But Jayden's electric guitar…. That was something that hung on the walls of her apartment, barely used unless in the mood for it. It was in immaculate condition, in the style of something more retro than anything newer. It was a light mint color with white encapsulating the strings and a wooden neck that was meant to play chords. Sherlock has never heard nor seen Jayden play it. Perhaps it was more of a trophy for her or she only played it when she felt a piece called for it. For instance, something more Rock N' Roll? Or something more like Pop? Sherlock knew she listened to an artist called Doja Cat….

Sherlock totally didn't search up the song on Google for the sole purpose of bonding…. And he totally didn't listen to any others made by her.

Totally.

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taglist (open)

@thewinterpoet2

#oc #sherlock fanfic #sherlock holmes x oc #sherlock holmes #benedict cumberbatch characters #benedict cumberbatch #john watson #greg lestrade #jayden wayne #taswitc

[thesleepy1]

Plants For Company

A/N: I wrote this ages ago and can barely remember where I got the prompt from. But hey. I haven’t posted in a bit and this wasn’t the worst thing I’ve done this week. Unbeta’d. Also when I say I unbeta’d I mean I found this is one of my notebooks and copied down what I could read out of my crap handwriting. 

 Pairings: Mycroft Holmes x Reader

 Summary: How would you go about setting up a vigilante group to death with local drug dealers?

 Word count: 1340 

 Warnings: Mentions of kidnapping, injures, gore, blood, body horror

 The briefing room in Mycroft Holmes manor was unlike the one in your family home. Instead of a pristine stainless steel table that stretched across the room with cushioned rolling chairs tucked underneath. There was nothing but the knotted dark oak table, chairs that were more like thrones and cute little plants that you had started naming, that were similar. You had been in his manor before, having named every other plant but you had not yet entered the double doors on the foremost end of the manor. 

Kingston, the potted catnip kept you company as the Holmes brothers, Dr. Watson, Dr. Hooper, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, and your best friend and flatmate, Bert sat at the table with tension so thick, you could cut it with your nails. It was silent, as if everything that needed to be said could be with the look of an eye. Kingston disagreed with that statement, but you would rather not break the silence if not absolutely necessary.  

“So how are you, Molly?” Dr. Watson the ever brave soul broke the silence, but the tension only grew. 

“For being attacked at home, I’m fine, a bit bored,” Dr. Hooper replied, clearly uncomfortable in the older Homles’s brother’s home.

Kingston averted his gaze and you followed suit.

“Just admit it, Grend. You failed! Stayed out with that coffee brewer across town for too long. Two hours and twenty six minutes to be exact.” 

Lestarade shuffled in his seat, guilt pushing his head down.

“Molly was under your care!” Sherlock shouted, a fix of rage boiling over.

“Sherlock, enough,” Mycroft said, exasperated, rubbing his eyes. From the gravel tone of his voice you knew he had lacked sleep. For several days if you heard correctly.

“Oh you shut up, Mycroft! First Mrs. Hudson, then Molly! This is why I should’ve never listened to you.” Sherlock sprung up from his seat, his chair scraping against the floor. 

“I’m surprised he listens to anyone,” Lestarde mumbled to Dr. Watson.

“I’m surprised he came here on his own free will,” Watson replied. 

“If you’d listen, Molly would be at home, but she isn’t is she?” Sherlock blamed, ignoring the two men.  

All eyes except yours and Kingston’s darted towards the noticeable bruises on the doctor’s skin. Molly caved into herself with the attention. Mrs. Hudson whose own bruises had yet to heal rubbed her shoulders gently in that motherly way she’d mastered after being the landlady of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

“She would have been safe with me!” 

“She isn’t property, Sherlock. She’s a proud doctor that can make her own choices,” Mycroft tried to reason.  

“Her choices left her hospitalized!” Sherlock raised his voice above everyone else’s. If Kingston had hands he would have covered his ears. If he had those too.

“At least I wasn’t running around with so many drugs in my system that would put an opium den out of business,” Molly spoke in a brisk and stern tone which was out of character for the collected doctor.

“In Sherlock’s defense, he was sober this time. I checked,” John added, looking to his flatmate to confirm. The man in question blinked a reply and the doctor groaned, slamming his head to the table. Mycroft looked at his brother exasperatedly and Sherlock handed him a list.

Mycroft glanced it over, “He’ll live, though I don’t know how long.” Molly and Mrs. Hudson perked up at that.  

“Sherlock-” Molly began, but Mycroft couldn’t hear the rest as you spoke to him in a contrasting calm tone. 

“You know exactly how long he’ll last. And with the way things are now he doesn’t have much time left.” 

“I know,” Mycroft sighed. 

“You knew he was overdosing?” Dr. Watson asked in confusion, the look on his face was like a puppy with fangs sharper than a butcher’s knife. 

Mycroft looked to you once more before speaking, “I didn’t know that he was overdosing, but I knew what he was up to. When Mrs. Hudson’s safety was compromised; Sherlock stopped at nothing to assure her safety.” 

“None of this would have happened if I hadn’t listened to you,” Sherlock seethed, recalling his landlady’s call for help. Her voice would haunt his mind for the weeks to come. Sleep was no longer an option. 

“If Mycroft knew what was going on then shouldn’t we listen to what he has to say?” Lestrade added, speaking above the mumble. 

“No-”

“Yes-”

“He knows nothing,” Sherlock just about shouts, spit flying from his mouth. 

“Think about it Sherlock, first Mrs. Hudson, then Molly. They’re going after people who mean something to you,” Lestarde continued.  

Molly timidly blushed as Mycroft contributed to the detective inspector’s statement, “We both know who they’re after.”

“Dead Mycroft, absolutely and undoubtedly dead,” Sherlock screams almost as convincingly as Mycroft’s Lady Blackwell. Mycroft gave him a look that told as much.

“Are you talking about who I’m thinking we’re talking about?” John asks his mind connecting the dots. 

“No, John, we’re talking about Redbeard, of course we’re talking about her!” John rolled his eyes as a reply.

“W-who are we talking about?” Dr. Hooper asks, looking between the men. Sherlock locked his eyes with Mycroft’s before answering.

“Irene Alder.” 

You and Kingston looked up to Mycroft in question.

“Your brother fell for Irene? I’m not surprised to be trueful, but how do you two know she’s alive?” You asked, Kingston nodding along with you. Mycroft raised an eyebrow but decided against asking. 

“I thought she was killed? You tested her head and everything,” Lesterade said, astonished. 

“Irene’s alive but the organisation is after her as long as Mycroft keeps me here.” 

“How is he keeping you here? Why aren’t you out with Irene right now?” John stares at Sherlock, dumbfounded. 

“Because he knows why he’s here,” Sherlock points at Bert who up to this point no one has noticed or heard from. 

“That is Bert,” Mycroft explains, Bert waves awkwardly. “He has dealt with the group before-”

“This much is obvious Mycroft! But why is he here, what does he matter?! Just look at him, he looks as if he just finished proofing a pot with glaze. Not fighting with a world wide gang!!!” 

“It was a mug, and I didn’t use glaze, just a white wash. My mugs are better than that,” Bert defended his honor. 

“Shut up,” Sherlock yelled, pointing at him again. “Why are you here?” Bert said nothing but looked over to the elder Homles brother. 

“He’s the worst case,” Mycroft explained as if those four words were enough. 

“The worst case? What’s that supposed to mean?” Sherlock spat, shaking with an uncontained anger.

“Their right arm was sent to me last night,” Bert said with melancholy. To his surprise everyone in the room looked to him. 

“I-I was attacked last night,” Dr. Hooper stumbled, cradling her right arm. Mycroft’s eyes softened to yours, he let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding in. 

“You said their arm, but as far as I can see, being a doctor and all, Molly still has it,” John directed at Bert who looked to Mycroft for guidance.

“He is referring to Y/N,” Mycroft said with a heavy tone, “They were taken by the same organization that attacked Molly and Mrs. Hudson. Only, pieces of them have come back,” Mycroft finished, his eyes glistening with tears. 

Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and Molly swallowed at the comment.

“I was sent their eye once word traveled that they were taken,” Mycroft stated, looking over to you and Kingston, who looked to be guilty for whatever reason. 

“I prefer if you see me with an eye and arm. Sort of difficult to carry Kingston when you only have one arm. A prosthetic is fine if you were considering,” you said with ease, as Kingston nodded along, agreeing with being carried with two hands.

“You keep looking at that plant. You see them, don’t you?” John asked, glancing at Kinston with sympathy. 

“I’ve seen them everyday for the past sixteen years.

#mycroft x reader #mycroft fanfic #mycroft holmes #mycroft x you #sherlcok #sherlock holmes #bbc sherlock #john watson #john hamish watson #william sherlock scott holmes #greg lestrade #lestrade #detective lestrade #molly hooper #dr hooper #mrs. hudson #oc #writing prompt #scenario #kiddnapping #injuries #injury #gore #blood #body horror

[pendragonfics]

Consulting Girlfriend

Consulting Receptionist: Chapter One | Chapter Two

Paring: Greg Lestrade/Reader

Tags: female reader, undercover Sherlock Holmes, undercover as a couple, male + female friendship, the opera, Scotland Yard, gun violence, fluff, romance

Summary: Reader and Greg have been going strong for a while, and she has a reputation as a sort of relationship advice guru. Enter Sherlock, who requires you for a case. And catastrophe. Of course, that's just the perks of befriending a Holmes.

Word Count: 2,092

Posting Date:  2016-06-27

Current Date: 2017-05-15

It began when someone blurted out to Anderson that you had banged the boss and won his heart over. Those exact words bled from Donovan's mouth, and forever in Scotland Yard thereon you were no longer the administrator, the gopher, the coffee collector: you were _______ ________, girlfriend of Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, and now immune to their complimentary jabs.

You were _______, a tea lover and enthusiast (a passion shared with Triplet and Rogers) and nobody nicked your nice brews anymore.

And, most importantly, you were ________. The best relationship advice giver (according to Nina Lordy from HR, who you accidentally got to split from her abusive ex).

The funny thing was, though, that everyone went out of their way to just speak to you, in the most inconspicuous ways for your words of unadulterated pure wisdom. It had been known around the Yard that if a someone bought you a bribe of exotic tea, or faxed you a sneakily-taken, attractive photo of DI Lestrade, you would take the case. It had been almost a year of this; your locker was jammed with jars for your tea bags, and unsorted loose papers of your hot boyfriend the cop all over the place.

And maybe that was going to end.

"I heard from two people that knew people that you are a good relationship advice-giver," a familiar voice entered the foyer of your administration desk. "So I've come for a consultation."

At this, you glance up. And your face pales.

"Mr - Holmes," you stutter.

Sherlock Holmes was notorious for not caring. Or, maybe caring too much and not telling anyone he felt different. But with him and his cheekbones and tall collar and smirk; you almost felt the shadow of greatness mixed with a smidge of arrogance had swallowed you whole and was going to gargle you out.

"Yes, that's my name. You're _______, the administrator John couldn't help babbling about?" He demands.

Your lip twitches in a sort of smile. Only last fortnight John accompanied Greg to the station (something about seeing crime scene evidence to help write his blog). And before you knew it, Bob was your uncle and John had handed you a nicely crafted teapot for advice to keep the love alive with himself and Mary.

"Well, Mr Holmes," you start, gazing at his mass of midnight curls, "If you'd just read my name badge," you tap it with a green pen, "you'd know it. What can I do you for? You usually forgo me and go straight to the Detective Inspector."

He tilts his head. "Yes, I suppose you're correct. I'm not here for George -,"

"Greg."

"But for you. It's for a case. I'm not so...good at attachments in love like I would like to be, and I was wondering..." He trailed off. For a moment all you could think about was how annoying and egocentric he was, and how Sherlock possibly would rank number one in the most selfish men list. All he talked about was his all-important cases, even now to your face. "...you just need to assess some people for me."

You take a deep breath.

"Mr Holmes," you start, "you do know that I'm not a professional love expert, or dating advisor," you remind him. "I'm a secretary. For Scotland Yard."

He nods. "Ah, yes, you are. You're just a secretary. But it's your instinct that I need. So, are you in?" The consulting detective asks you. "Or are you out?"

You huff. "Mr Holmes, I'm supposed to be working right now -,"

"Nobody will notice. It's not a problem if you're busy with me. So? What is your answer, Miss _________?"

Your eyes drift to the picture on your desk, framed away from the eye of the public. It's a shot of yourself and Greg, on one of the first dates he took you on. The both of you looked so happy; his eyes sparkling in the camera flash light that the waiter snapped, your smile unreserved and bright.

Greg would be okay with this.

Wouldn't he?

"If I accept, will it interfere with my work hours?" You probe.

Sherlock takes a moment to think, and leans his elbows on the tall bench that separates him from you. "No. But it happens late at night."

You hesitate. It's been years since anything exciting or fun has happened to you - and no, having a shooter rush in five months ago and blow up half of your foyer wouldn't count as fun.

"Sure." You agree. "I'm in. Where am I required to be, Mr Holmes?"

The curly haired detective rolls his eyes. "Please, don't call me that, I'm not my brother. As for the details of the case, I've them in this envelope here." Sherlock slid a crisp periwinkle blue package toward you. It's the size of a regular envelope, but this seems to bulge with contents, swollen with possibilities. "My phone number is in the inside. Text it when you are ready to undergo this."

There's a kerfuffle upstairs and for a moment you wonder if that's Greg dealing with press and the precocious serial killer of the month. He'd be swamped with telephone interviews and paperwork until midnight. At least.

He wouldn't notice much if you went gallivanting around for the greater good.

"Gotcha," you beam. "Text you, keep it on the DL from my boss, be a love guru."

Sherlock sighs. "I wouldn't -," but he's interrupted by his phone, screeching a factory-set ringtone from his greatcoat. From his numerous pockets, he withdraws a small phone, and answers just as smoothly - ,"...John, I'm working. Yes, actually working, not pretending this time, I told you I am busy this week, with the -,"

He's silent.

In fact, everything is silent. The phone isn't ringing for a change, and the hubbub upstairs has lowered their din. Even London outside the doors and the sprawling city has held its breath in Sherlock Holmes' pause, waiting.

"On my way. Miss ________, you're required far earlier than I previously expected, we have to go." He hangs the phone up, and shoves the blue envelope to your now-standing chest.

Over your shoulder, you call out to your fellow secretary co-worker, Magellan. "I'm just popping out, you have to man the desk!"

And then you're off.

---

The evening went on to become something you never expected; Sherlock dragged you into a boutique for a evening dress, and a handed you a wig a shade opposite to your natural colour. Maybe it was then, or the fact he handed you the tickets to an opera soon after, when you felt slightly off. 

"What exactly do you require me for, Mr - Sherlock?" you ask, trying to keep up with his long legs. "I thought I was on as a ... romance consultant. Not a spy."

He clucks. "You're just an accomplice, _______. I need you to observe a couple we will be seated with for the show. They are serial killers, and based on their mood swings, the more casualties. I've you with me to assess what they are going through." Sherlock pauses, and adds in a lower voice, "I'm no good at reading emotions like that."

You nod. "It's okay. Not everyone are."

Sherlock manages a small smile. "Thank you, _______. Gareth is lucky to have you."

"Greg and I are lucky to have each other," you blush, noticing where the two of you have marched yourselves. "Holy shit, this is the seriously posh end of London, Sherlock, what in God's name are we doing here? I can't afford to breathe here, let alone pretend to be your fiancé for this case!" A bead of sweat falls behind your neck. "I don't think I can do this. I'm no silver spoon."

Sherlock takes a deep breath, and turns to you. "Take a deep breath, and ... pretend you're about to go meet the Queen of England." he tells you. "You wouldn't mess around if you were about to see Her Majesty, would you?"

You shake your head.

"Good. Think of the royal family and those babies. Now, here's where we go. Remember, you're Carrie Branson, and I am -,"

"Henry William Reuben," you parrot, and taking a breath, get into character. "Are you ready, my darling? I'm positively dying to see the opera tonight."

 ---

Nearly three hours later, and in the observation section, there still was no couple. Every second you focus on the fact that Sherlock keeps pointing out people; snipers, fake opera watchers, security guards turning a blind eye, and you feel your pulse escalating.

After he gestures that there is someone behind you, you realise that speaking is out of the question.

We should leave, you write on his trouser leg. 

"I know you need to relieve yourself, darling," Sherlock drawls, his voice sickly sweet in a way you'd never expected him to be able to act, "But it's nearly over, and my favorite part is the end. You know that."

You nod. "Yes, dear."

Not five minutes later, though, your phone silently buzzes, your little screen filled with texts from Greg. 

Where are you?

______, Maggie says you went off with Sherlock, where are you?

Don't tell me you're at the opera!

Oh f-

______ text me back as soon as you get this. 

It's a hostage situation-to-be. Get out if you're in. Greg

"Dear," you tell Sherlock under your breath, "I have to insist on going to the ladies' room."  

But just as you stand, you feel a hard barrel placed against the small of your back. Slowly, you raise your hands in defeat. You know a gun against your body, anywhere. "And I have to insist otherwise, Mrs Sherlock Holmes." 

"Actually, she's Mrs Greg Lestrade," a familiar voice rejoins. Greg. "I have the place surrounded. Tell your people to stand down in the next thirty seconds or I will arrest you."

---

Twenty three hours later, and you're in Greg's bathtub, ears underneath the water, nearly submerged. After writing and giving the statements as to why you were at the almost-siege and not your post at the front desk, you are doing your best to try and forget the feeling of seeing the end so close. 

"Love? Is now a good time to come in?" Greg calls out. He knocks twice. 

"Yeah, come on in," you reply. Your hair is all wet, and drips down your nose. "I'm sorry."

The face of your boyfriend steps into the room. He's out of his tactical gear (not that that isn't a bad look on his body) and into a pair of pajamas you'd picked out for his birthday. You remember thinking they would bring out the brown in his eyes in a better way. Now, they only make his eyes wider, sadder.

"Don't apologise," Greg whispers. He sits beside the tub, head level with yours. "You're just like me, wantin' to fix things the best way you possibly can. I don't blame you for going out with Sherlock and doin' what you did, but ..." He takes a breath.

"I really thought that man was going to shoot me," you breathe. "I felt like he was going to blow me away and I wouldn't have said goodbye or anything to you. I -," you choke. "I love you, Greg."

He nods. "I know, ______. I can't bear the idea of losing you."

"It's almost funny, you know?" You sniffle. "We both live such dangerous lives."

Greg smiles. "Yeah. But I just can't picture m'self as the next Bond, you know?" he nudges your head lightly. A smile spreads. "There she is. My gorgeous girlfriend."

That's when you remember. "Greg?"

He hums. 

"Back in the siege, you said something, about me being married to you, or something?" you prompt. "What was that about? Are we - do you really think you're going to do that one day?"

Greg rests his head on the bath tub ledge. "Of course, _______. I'm going to marry the shit out of you. Do you? Want to -,"

You nod. If you didn't know any better, there's a ripe red blush across your face. "One day. I've had enough excitement for one today, but Gregory Lestrade, I will marry the shit out of you too."

"I love you," He reaches over, and kisses your nose, and goes to rise. "Now, don't stay too long in the tub, consulting girlfriend, fiancée to be, future wife. You'll catch a cold." Greg winks.

"I love you more!" you shout back. 

>> NEXT CHAPTER

#greg lestrade #greg lestrade x reader #lestrade x reader #greg lestrade/reader #greg lestrade x oc #bbc sherlock #bbc sherlock fanfic #chaotic--lovely #pendragonfics #Female reader

[savvy-devine666]

Sherlock Fanfic - NEW

Preview/prologue

https://archiveofourown.org/works/29356809

#Sherlock #sherlock BBC #sherlock holmes #sherlock mycroft holmes #sherlock greg lestrade #sherlock jim moriarty #mycroft x oc #sherlock mycroft x female oc #hurt/comfort #romance #psychological torture #friendship #humor #angst #drama #fanfiction

[fanfictiontrashwhore]

The Fall Is Yet To Come (Chapter 19)

of my Sherlock x OC fanfiction: Say Something

The full fic on ao3! The full fic on wattpad

Extract:

Then something catches Kate’s attention. A short flash in the corner of her eye. Mycroft must’ve seen it too cause they check the window beside them. There it is again. A light reflection from one of the roofs. Shit. Without another word they both scream “DOWN!” and Kate throws herself on Sherlock while Mycroft pushes his parents to the ground. Bullets rain over them and they just cover their bodies as good as they can. Kate has a hard time keeping Sherlock down since he tries to get to the suspect, who’s currently robbing towards the exit, and keep him from getting away. “Stay down!” Kate growls and pushes Sherlock's head onto the ground with her healthy hand hard. With her other hand, she fumbles in her bag and gets out her gun. “I need him alive.” Sherlock mumbles. “I know.” Kate says, aims at the man and shoots. He stops moving. It takes a few minutes for Mycroft’s team to get there but when they do the sniper is already gone.

Watch the Trailer!

#sherlock #sherlock holmes #sherlock fanfiction #sherlock holmes fanfiction #sherlock x oc #john watson #moriarty #Jim Moriarty #greg lestrade #mycroft #mycroft holmes

[2kitkat4]

“We have met actually, Mr Holmes...”

[ Chapter 1 of Defusing the Ice Man ]

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Click here to return to the masterlists.

[☆]

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters in this story except Katherine Watson. All other characters belong to BBC Sherlock and Arthur Conan Doyle.

[☆]

John and Katherine stumbled into the apartment in fits of laughter. They continued to giggle and utter incomprehensible jokes to each other that only induced more hilarity into whatever had caused their outburst in the first place. They both glanced up with tears in their eyes and Katherine stopped short as she noticed someone sat facing Sherlock who was sprawled in his usual seat. John’s laughter eventually faded, and Katherine noticed him cough and stand ever so slightly in front of her as he too noticed the stranger in their apartment. He was yet to take a liking to Mycroft and their encounters thus far had not done much in the elder Holmes’ favour. John opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock got there first. “My brother has a habit of inviting himself places. Therefore, I was not expecting him.” “I doubt you would have told us anyway if you were,” Katherine smirked knowingly, visibly relaxing as she saw Sherlock had the situation under control. Sherlock returned her expression with a small grin of his own. Despite not particularly liking humans in general, Sherlock had quickly decided upon first meeting Katherine that Watsons were an exception to this; they were not as ordinary or infuriating as most people. Mycroft finally turned himself properly to address the two by the door. Katherine blinked in sudden realisation obviously enough for Sherlock to raise an eyebrow at her in enquiry, however, she either didn’t notice or simply ignored this, likely the latter. “John, how nice to see you again,” he drawled with no real sincerity behind his greeting. John just inclined his head in acknowledgement. “I see you’ve brought along…” he paused as his eyes scanned over Katherine rapidly, provoking John to stand further in front of her with a hard glare at Mycroft. “…your sister? Pleased to meet you, Miss Watson.” He noticed with slight disappointment that she did not react to his slick deduction, though, admittedly, it was quite elementary. She had seen it all from Sherlock before, and she had quickly decided she wasn’t going to give this man the satisfaction of impressing her. “We have met actually, Mr Holmes, but you clearly don’t remember,” she scoffed, huffily. Mycroft raised his eyebrows; she’d successfully caught him off guard twice in one sentence: he was rarely called out for his mistakes, usually because he made so few, and he hardly ever forgot things – not the important ones anyway. He swiftly concluded that this woman had been of no real significance to him on whatever other occasion they had met and was just about to brush it off when yet another remark from the woman shocked him. It was hard to hear, as she muttered it, but it sounded an awful lot like: “Ungrateful snob…” and from Sherlock’s amused snort, he decided it had been exactly that. He stood up abruptly, doing his best to keep his anger unseen, but the smirk on Katherine’s face told him he had failed. He took a step forward, but quickly stopped as she did the same, stepping away from her protective brother. “I saved your life actually,” she stated matter-of-factly. Mycroft raised a stern eyebrow indicating that he still had no idea who she was. “I was an agent for the MI5 when they were jeopardised. The corruptors ordered me to assassinate you, but clearly I didn’t. I knew something was up – why on earth would the government want to kill off the human version of itself?” “Hang on a minute,” John interjected. “You’re telling me that Britain’s Secret Service, supposedly the safest and most tight-fast agency in the world, was jeopardised?” Mycroft glared down at Katherine. “That is confidential information,” he said through gritted teeth. “You could be killed for that.” He blinked in annoyance as the woman before him merely shrugged. “I’d like to see you try.” Sherlock beamed as he watched his brother stunned into silence for what must have been the tenth time in the last five minutes. “I think you probably owe Katherine a thank you then, by the sounds of it, Mycroft,” he piped up, grinning. Mycroft turned to glare at his cheeky younger brother, but before he could say anything, Katherine had interrupted him yet again. “Oh, don’t worry, Sherlock,” she smiled. “I doubt we’ll get one out of him anytime soon. I need to be off anyway. I’ll see you all around.” She gave Sherlock a small wave, patted Mycroft’s arm and gave John as swift hug as she walked out. Mycroft watched her go and realised that he hadn’t flinched away when she touched his arm like he usually does with any human contact. Sherlock had been watching Mycroft carefully and noticed him start slightly as he spoke. “You like her then, do you, brother?” Mycroft frowned, but before he had a chance to reply, John had loudly drawn his attention and greeted him with a furious glare. “He’d better not!”

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#sherlock #bbc sherlock #bbc #sherlock holmes #john watson #greg lestrade #mycroft holmes #jim moriarty #molly hooper #irene adler #eurus holmes #mycroft holmes fanfiction #mycroft holmes fanfic #mycroft holmes x oc #holmes x watson #johnlock #sherlock x john #katherine watson #kath watson #defusing the ice man

[dryizzle]

Between Bloods - AO3 Fanfic

“I’m literally telling you how to fix this, Mycroft.” My voice shakes and tears are poking at the corners of my eyes. “Two words and I am yours.”

“Two words and I will always be yours,” he whispers.

Looking for an angsty, stressful, slow-burn fanfic about the sex symbols we know as the Holmes brothers? Click here.

AO3 fanfic. 30/35 chapters complete.

#mycroft x oc #mycroft holmes #mycroft fanfic #greg lestrade #bbc sherlock #sherlock #sherlock x oc #gif #ao3 fanfic #the sherlock fandom is still alive #sherlock fanfic