#greg Lestrade imagine

[specialagentlokitty]

Lestrade x reader - a little confidence

Walking up the stairs, you kicked the door to the flat open and everybody inside turned to look at you as you leant against the doorway, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Took your time getting here.”

You said nothing and you stepped aside so Mrs Hudson could come in.

“(Y/N) how many times do I have to tell you, helmet off inside.” She scolded.

“I’ll be quick, what you want?” You asked.

“You got the text.”

You grumbled pulled one of your gloves off, reaching into your pocket your tossed the packet of cigarettes at Sherlock.

“Don’t give him them!” John scolded.

“Means he stops pestering me.” You shrugged.

You pulled your glove back on and looked around the room, walking over to Mycroft you leant forward and flicked his forehead making him roll his eyes.

Then you walked over and did the same thing to Sherlock.

“Who’s this stiff?” You asked John.

“Greg Lestrade, works for Scotland Yard.”

You nodded your head a little bit and looked him up and down from under the visor of your helmet and turned back to Sherlock.

“Stop texting me.”

“Stop ignoring me.”

You stuck your middle finger up at him and you made your way back to the door.

“Later!”

You jogged back down the stairs and they heard you revving your bike outside before you sped away.

“Who the hell was that?” Lestrade asked.

“That would be their sister, Sherlocks twin in fact.” Mrs Hudson smiled.

“Didn’t know you had a sister.”

“There’s a lot of things you don’t know.” Mycroft said.

The moment you left the flat you could feel your phone buzzing in your pocket, letting you know Sherlock was demanding you do something else.

So you chose to ignore it, and you went back to what you were doing.

For the next week you carried on ignoring your brother up until the point he came by your flat just as you were about to leave.

“What Sherlock?” You snapped.

“You know what this is.”

He held out a phone and you took it, turning around on your motorbike, you resting your back against the handles and a foot on the seat.

“Yeah I know what this is why.”

“I know you know, I want you to take me there.”

You handed the photo back to your twin, and you sighed a little bit.

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re heading there now, and we can’t get in without you. And whatever this is, it’s linked to our case and we can only find it there.”

“Sherlock is trying to nicely ask if you would please take us to the scrapyard you go to so we can have a look for ourselves.”

You looked at John and you shrugged a little bit, picking your helmet off the floor.

“Yeah okay. But you two owe me one, and I’ll be cashing it in at some point. Plus you can’t get in Sherlock but John can, people just don’t like you.”

You gestured for Sherlock to get on your friends bike and for John to get on yours and you gave him the spare helmet sitting nearby.

Heading to the scrapyard, you noticed Lestrade was waiting for you three, and you gestured for him to follow you around the corner where you stopped your bike.

You gestured to the large wall of junk.

“Have fun, don’t talk to anyone and don’t snoop.” You said.

“Wait, wait, you can’t just leave us here.” John protested.

“Why not?” You asked.

“John you’re looking for empathy in the wrong person. She has a better understanding of human emotions, but anything other than anger and you’re not going to get far.” Sherlock said.

“I swear to god I will break your nose again Sherlock.”

He shrugged a little and went quiet as he inspected the wall with John and Lestrade awkwardly looked around the scrapyard.

You heard some bikes coming closer, and you reached out, grabbing his jacket you pulled him back without looking up from your phone and they went speeding past.

“Blood hell!” He yelled.

You let him go.

“Don’t go standing in the middle of the track then.”

“Is this even legal?” He asked.

“Private land, so yeah.”

“Who owns then?”

You pulled something up on your phone and handed it over to him.

“I do.”

Lestrade inspected the documents and he handed the phone back to you.

“You still have to abide by traffic laws.”

“Not on land owned by me I don’t.”

You went back to scrolling through your phone and Lestrade crossed his arms over his chest as he looked at you.

Clad in jeans, boots, leather jacket, gloves and helmet.

There was absolutely no way he could pick a single identifying point about you, you just hid yourself away from the world behind your helmet.

“Who’s got access to the yard?” Sherlock asked.

“Bunch of people, go to the office at the front if you want anything I’m not your receptionist.”

With that you got on your bike and sped away, and that was the last they saw if you for the day.

Though Lestrade did start seeing more off you either at the flat or out and about.

And today was no different, you were sitting by a curb and he happened to be walking past so he stopped and looked at her.

“Hello (Y/N).” He smiled.

You put your phone away and looked at him, still wearing your helmet.

“Lestrade.” You greeted.

“I haven’t seen you around the flat for a while, did you and Sherlock fall out or?”

“I’m just ignoring him to be honest.” You shrugged.

Lestrade laughed a little and stepped back as you got off your bike and took they keys out and stuffed them into your pocket.

“Why you out this way?” You asked.

He held up a paper bag.

“Best coffee in the area. What about you? Thought you lived at the scrapyard.”

You hummed a little and shook your head.

“I don’t, but I’m only here cause damn bike broke down, waiting for someone to bring some stuff to fix it.”

“Well I can wait with you if you’d like, this isn’t really a great place to be broken down in.”

“Don’t you have places to be?”

He shook his head.

“Day odd actually, so I don’t.”

You shrugged a little and gestured to the coffee shop he just came out off and you both walked inside and you ordered a drink then sat down.

Lestrade sat down opposite you, and you pulled your gloves off, setting them aside then you pulled you helmet off and set that aside too.

Glancing at your bike, you picked up a menu and read through debating on something to eat.

“Keep staring, maybe it’ll make it less creepy.” You said.

He quickly looked away.

“Sorry..”

You smirked a little bit and set the menu down, leaning back as you folded your arms over your chest.

“Expect me to look like some monster?” You asked.

“N..no..” he mumbled.

You smirked a little more.

“Are you embarrassed detective?”

“No…”

He looked at you but quickly looked away once more.

You thanked the man that brought your coffee over, and you glanced at you bike to check on it.

“So, Lestrade, if it’s your day off, why come all this way for coffee?”

“I was avoiding your brother too and he knows where I live.”

“First mistake, never let Sherlock Holmes know where you live.”

“He knows where you live.”

“He knows where I keep bike and my tools and all, not where I live, Mycroft keeps that hidden for me.”

Lestrade looked at you.

“So you have two flats?

“Yup, pretty handy actually.”

“And you just happen to have two flats?”

“Mycroft went into government work, Sherlock solves cases to pass time, I own a series of houses and business across the city.”

“How did you manage that?”

“We come from a wealthy family and I wanted to expand my money and spend life actually having fun unlike my stuck up brothers.”

Lestrade smiled and chucked a little bit, nodding his head.

“Doesn’t it keep you busy?”

“Nah, just hire a few people to handle everything, I only come in when there’s real big issues.”

Lestrade nodded again.

“Didn’t think you would be a landlord and business person.”

“You think I got my money from crime?”

“No.”

You hummed a little, nodding your head as you sipped at your coffee.

“Go on, tell me what you found when you searched my name in your system.”

“How did you..?”

“Mycroft.”

“Of course. I didn’t find much, a few DUIs, and something about vandalism?”

“Oh yeah I smashed up one of my bars because I wanted to redo it. The person that rents it didn’t like and it tried to have me done for forgetting I own the place.”

Lestrade nodded his head a little and you leant back in your seat again.

You and Lestrade continued to talk until your friends arrived and you left.

And you began to see him more often, usually by accident, but sometimes he would come just to talk to you.

And since you enjoyed making him embarrassed, you had no issue with this.

It had become a game to you at this point, see how embarrassed you could make Lestrade before the pair of you parted ways.

It was like clockwork for you now, but you had been busy for a few weeks now and hadn’t seen him.

You were working on your bike and you were sitting on the floor when you heard someone approaching.

“Thought you were avoiding me.”

You looked up and pushed yourself from the ground, wiping your hands on your jeans.

“I’ve been busy, what’s up?”

Lestrade sighed a little bit and you gestured for him to sit on the step while you leant against the wall next to him.

“Divorce finally went through a few weeks ago.”

You nodded your head.

“At least you can put yourself out there again you know? Find someone better and all that.”

“I don’t know if I want to.”

“You don’t have to, completely your choice what you do, but the way I see it is make the most of this.”

Lestrade looked at you before looking away.

“Look Greg, at the end of the day you can sit and mope around about it, or you can start meeting people, getting a feel for things. No one says you got to date them, but you’ve basically been single for like a year now, just get back into the swing of things. Get a feel for what kinda person you’d date and crap like that.”

Lestrade nodded a little.

“I understand what you’re saying, I guess… I wouldn’t know where to start.”

You grinned a little and clasped your hand on his shoulder.

“Shove some drinks down you and you’ll be right as rain.”

He laughed and shook his head as he looked up at you.

“That’s your solution for everything.”

“I have issues.”

He smiled a little bit and you looked at him.

“What is it?”

“What if there is a women I’d like to be involved with but not sure how she would take the news?”

You hummed a little and took a small breath.

“Yeah that ain’t my thing, ask him.”

You whistled to get the attention of the biker that just pulled up and you waved him over.

“Ry is this Greg, he needs relationship advice and I suck at that so like help him.”

With that you walked away back to your bike, to carry on fixing it.

When you were done, you put everything back in the tool box and you poured some water some the bottle and wiped them on your shirt to clean them.

Pushing your bike next to the other, you walked back over and grabbed your tool box, setting it by the stairs and both men went quiet and looked at you.

“What?”

“Nothing, I’ll take this up I need to grab something anyway.” Ry said.

You shrugged and tossed him the flat key and you leant against the wall as you took your phone out your pocket.

You stood there quietly for a few minutes and Lestrade stood up, so you put your phone in your pocket and looked at him.

“Leaving?”

“Something else actually.”

You looked at him, and he just looked away with a small huff.

Smirking a little, you grabbed him by his tie and pulled him down to be eye level with you.

“W..what are you doing..?”

“What you’re apparently to chicken shit to do.”

You leant forward and connected your lips with his before you pulled away and left him go, putting your hand on his chest to pushing him back a step.

“Seriously Greg, you need to just be confident for once.”

“I.. how..?”

“Ry texted me when he went upstairs.”

Lestrade nodded a little and he took a step back over, taking your face between his hands he kissed you again.

Then he pulled away.

“Is that confident enough?”

“Try again.” You smirked.

He smiled a little and leant down again to kiss you, and you placed your hand on the back of his head to hold him there before a little longer before you let him move away.

“So… do you want to get something to eat..?” He asked nervously.

“And there goes all that confidence.”

He huffed a little and looked away and you smirked at him.

“Go on, lead the way.”

He grinned and began to walk and you picking up your jacket, tossing it on as you walked along side of him with a little smirk on your face

[epifaniax07]

[saraakpotter]

imagine: meeting Sherlock for the first time and him not being able to 'read' you

*y\f\c= your favorite country

You were one of Lestrade's close friends. you worked as a detective inspector in another country but you had recently moved here and since you were a highly intelligent person he thought you and Sherlock should meet.

And today he decided to go to 221b and bring you with him so here you are, standing at a strangers door.

"this is absurd, why should i come again?" you asked

"for god's sake y\n can you stop nagging for a minuet and do what you're told to do?" he says tired of you constantly asking the same question.

"if you are asking me, no" you teased

"oh shut it" he says and you smirk.

The door opens.

"DI Lestrade!" the man says and Greg nod's walking in and guiding you in too.

"so, this is my friend y\n y\l\n. she moved here from y\f\c" Lestrade explained.

"oh! John Watson. pleasure to meet you." he introduced and you smiled shaking his hand.

As you entered the flat and sat down you saw a man with curly brown hair and a black coat sitting on an armchair, his eyes closed.

Lestrade pointed at the man.

"he is Sherlock Holmes. the man i was telling you about." he says and you nod obviously bored. with that the man opens his eyes and looks at Greg but then quickly glances at you.

"who is that?" he asks

"Sherlock, this is my friend, y\n y\l\n."

Sherlock remains silence, looking you up and down. after a while he raises an eyebrow.

he quickly looks at John.

new coat is sleepy just talked to an old friend has a date is nervous

He turns and looks at Lestrade.

annoyed same coat stressed has 2 mission reports to read has 6 missed calls

The words and random facts kept coming to his mind, he hadn't lost his observation skills.

He turns his look at you.

????

Was all he could see.

He rose an eyebrow and looked you up and down again.

"interesting" he muttered to himself

"what was that?" you ask

"nothing.....so, y\n, right? what do you do? as a job i mean." he asks making John and Greg smirk.

[buckingham-ashtray]

to me one of the funniest things in asip is definitely when sherlock brought the man previously from his flat to the crime scene without even introducing him except for emphasizing "he's with me" and gavin lestrade was trying to decide whether a) if sherlock has really gone round the bend and decided to take a hostage to keep as a pet and he should save this man from sherlock or b) if this man is even more of a dangerous sociopathic nutter than sherlock and he should lock him up and save london from this man

[etrebko]

Would love to write a Mystrade longfic about a post-climate crisis world where people are encouraged by the government to leave cities and build self-sufficient farms

and you have Mycroft, a relatively wealthy landowner who is rich enough to afford chickens, a cow or two, and a horse

and Greg, recently arrived from the city, trying to figure out how to rotate crops with no Internet and a lifetime of living in London at his back

and Sherlock, now a beekeper, who keeps a few practical crops but also weird stuff (he says it's for experiments; people in the village think he's just odd like that)

and John, because (Greg and Mycroft agree) the town needs an in-residence doctor so elder people don't have to go all the way to the nearest city to receive general care, and wouldn't it be easy to collectively pay for a doctor, NHS style, just as they already do with Ms Henson, the primary school teacher

and John and Sherlock meet at a gathering at Mycroft's house, who happens to be the unoficial mayor of the whole thing,

and eventually Greg ends up as the (unofficial) mayor's wife

but unfortunately I know nothing of crop rotation, farming, keeping animals, beekeeping, house renovating, managing politics in a small society, or post-climate crisis worlds.

[nightingale2004]

Sherlock BBC next generation: Johnlock version

Athena Jessica Watson Holmes

Faceclaim: Emily Rudd

Athena is the biological daughter of Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes and older twin of her brother Hamish Scott Watson Holmes

Is the oldest twin by 10 minutes and 32 seconds

She takes after Sherlock but has a bit of Irene in her

Both Athena and Hamish were left on Sherlock's doorstep shortly after they were born

Similar to Sherlock, her deduction skills are flawless (in her words)

Considers John to be her parental figure and compatible with her father than Irene

She doesn't call Irene her mother, only by her first name

Unlike Sherlock, she actually likes learning astronomy

She has a love for art, fencing, and playing violin

She secretly pickpockets the entire London police, including Greg (it's her source of entertainment every now and then)

She hates socializing and finds "normal people" very, very.......boring (her sister, John, Molly, Mrs. Hudson and Greg are the exception)

She is fiercely protective of her siblings

Mastered the art of shutting off her emotions (in her opinion)

Loves experimenting with body parts or dead bodies with Sherlock

Loves to accompany both her dads to crime scenes

She has no filter

She is an extremely quick learner

Has her own mind palace

Is very skilled in martial arts

She takes ballet and art classes (mostly to avoid boredom)

Goes to the library..........a lot

Is a chemistry and science genius

Makes fun of her uncle Mycroft (Sherlock's idea)

Secretly keeps in contact with her aunt Eurus

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hamish Scott Watson Holmes

Faceclaim: Asa Butterfield

Younger twin of Athena and youngest son of Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler

Unlike his twin, he's more sensitive than her and a little more empathetic to people.

Sherlock and John got an Irish setter for their kids and named him Redbeard

He takes after Sherlock in personality but looks like Irene with a hint of Sherlock

He is also very intelligent, like his father

He plays violin, piano and cello

He prefers to observe the crime scene from a distance

When he is in thinking mode, he becomes exactly like his sister and Sherlock

He is Molly's favorite

He knows how to shoot from a crossbow and a long bow

Hamish and Athena destroy their father at clue

He is a little slow on deductions, but he is still good.

Math genius

Extremely adventurous

He shoots arrows and darts at the wall when bored or frustrated

Hamish and his sister's visit their grandparents when they can

Both Hamish and Athena get Lestrade's name wrong every time

Both the Holmes twins correct their teachers if they something wrong in their lesson (which to them, is all the time)

Both John and Sherlock made the twins promise not to say their deductions out loud to their teachers or anyone involved in their educational journey (to avoid suspension or expulsion)

Prefer to be called high functioning sociopaths

{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

Rosamund "Rose/Rosie" Mary Watson Holmes

Faceclaim: Meg Donnelly

Rose is the youngest Holmes in her family and considers herself and her father the only normal and sane ones in the family

She is John and Mary's daughter and Sherlock's stepdaughter

Despite not being related by blood, Rose loves her older siblings very much

Both John and Sherlock taught all their children self defense

She inherited her dad's love for creative writing

Rose has her own blog and even makes posts on her social media about her family and their adventures

Loves reading John's stories

She is sometimes jealous of Sherlock and her older siblings and their intellect

Every time she meets a boy, Athena and Hamish make a deduction about him or chase him away

Has a love for the medical field

Hates when bullies or most people make rude comments or remarks about her family

She and John cook

Rose has a picture of her mom

♤☆♤☆♤☆♤☆♤☆♤☆♤☆♤☆♤☆♤☆♤☆♤☆♤☆♤

+ Mrs. Hudson's grand daughter

Allison "Ally" Martha Hudson

Faceclaim: Virginia Gardner

Allison is the granddaughter of the late Mrs. Martha Hudson

After Mrs. Hudson passed away (R.i.p to the legend Una Stubbs 🙏 you will be remembered). Ally's mom inherited the famous 221b Baker Street building, and now both Ally and her mom moved to London permanently and kept the building running

Allison was originally born and raised in America, but both Ally and her mom would visit Mrs. Hudson to spend some time with her

Allison loved her grandmother very much and held her close to her heart

Loved hearing her grandmother's crazy stories

She knows the Holmes family and has babysat the twins and Rosamund whenever she came to visit over the holidays

Sherlock and John see Allison and her mom as part of their family since Mrs. Hudson was family to them and their kids

Ally feels like she's the Holmes kids' mother and big sister most of the time

Hates it when the twins shoot her wall and keep crazy stuff in the fridge

Knows how to handle a gun

She is a divorce child

Weeks after her parents divorced, she never saw her dad again, and Ally spent a month over with Mrs. Hudson

She loves getting involved with the Holmes kids and their adventures

Reminds them constantly that she is NOT THEIR HOUSEKEEPER

[distinguishedkryptonitecreator]

𝕸𝖔𝖑𝖑𝖞'𝖘 𝖕𝖗𝖔𝖇𝖑𝖊𝖒

Pairing: Sherlock x reader

Series: Sherlock BBC

MASTERLIST

I II

Synopsis: You discover that you are in love, unfortunately with the same man your friend loves. How will you survive that.

Note: English is not my native language, so some words may not make sense, apologies in advance.

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐈

━━━━♡

The name Thomas Beckett made my heart skip a beat.

“Thomas Beckett? What’s going on with him?” I asked, trying to keep calm as I sat on the sofa. The gears in my mind began to spin rapidly, trying to understand why they were mentioning my boss’s partner.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if my words had bothered him, though he didn’t show it openly. His rigid posture and the way he clenched his jaw revealed that something else was going on. Mycroft, on the other hand, seemed impassive, as if he enjoyed my confusion.

“Miss, it’s quite simple. We know for certain that, despite holding a position not so prominent within the company hierarchy, you have certain connections with high-ranking officials,” Mycroft commented with a tone that carried a hint of disdain. I glared at him.

A position not so important? Really? My role as a senior developer was more than relevant. It wasn’t for nothing that I had spent so much time studying, sacrificing sleep and proper meals, taking various part-time jobs with low wages to pay for my studies, and enduring the distance from my family while living in a noisy shared flat. I was proud of what I had achieved and all I had done to get there, so his words only made me boil with anger.

“You know, I’m starting to think I might not want to collaborate with you,” I replied, crossing my arms firmly. Mycroft raised an eyebrow, but before he could respond, Sherlock intervened, surprising even his brother.

“Listen, I know you got your position thanks to that intern program, and also that...” Sherlock paused, his blue eyes locking with mine as if he were unsure about what he was about to say, “that you have a history with Beckett.”

The mere mention of my past with Thomas made me feel as though the ground was slipping away from under my feet. It was true that Thomas and I had been more than friends in college. We were inseparable, and eventually, we became a couple. Thomas had always been the brilliant and attractive one, so his success with women didn’t surprise me. There was something about his charisma that drew people to him like a magnet.

However, everything ended. We went our separate ways, each with our own dreams. There was no sense in holding back. I would never forget the surprise I felt when, years later, I encountered him in one of the hallways of the place, with his immaculate dark suit and polished shoes. A smile from ear to ear that I hadn’t seen in a long time. The Thomas Beckett I knew as a student was now a man who had built his own cybersecurity company.

“What does that have to do with the case?” I asked, trying to sound more confident than I felt.

Sherlock let out a sigh, as if finding it difficult to explain the obvious.

“Everything,” he replied with a coldness that left me stunned. “Beckett is under suspicion, and we need to know how involved he is in certain activities. Your proximity to him, both personal and professional, could be key to uncovering what’s really going on.”

“Suspicion of what?” I pressed, starting to feel that what I was about to hear would not be pleasant.

Sherlock looked at me with a mix of seriousness and something I couldn’t quite identify.

“Beckett is being investigated for alleged involvement in an industrial espionage network. There are suspicions that he has been selling confidential information from several tech companies, including yours, to foreign competitors. And it’s not just about his disloyal behavior. There are indications that this data is being used for purposes that compromise national security. There have been leaks pointing to connections between Beckett and an organization called Argus, known in the underworld for handling military contracts and cyber warfare technology.”

My heart raced as I processed his words. Thomas involved in something so murky. It was hard to believe, but I knew Sherlock didn’t say these things lightly.

“And what does this have to do with me?” I asked, though a part of me already suspected the answer.

“As a developer, you have access to sensitive information, and your past relationship with Beckett could have facilitated his access to what he needed,” Sherlock replied, his words sharp but laden with a concern he was trying to hide. “We need to know if you have any knowledge of something that could incriminate him or if you’ve been used, even unknowingly, to access that information.”

“Look, I understand this is a shock to you, but we’re not here to accuse you,” John interjected for the first time, his usual calm tone. “We want your help because we know you’re not involved, but also because you could be the key to stopping this before it spirals out of control. If Beckett is innocent, we’ll prove it. But if he’s not, you need to know he could be using his relationship with you for his own ends.”

“Exactly,” Mycroft added with a slight nod toward John. “We need someone on the inside, someone who can verify if our suspicions are correct. And who better than someone who has Beckett’s trust.”

My mind was in full turmoil. I knew that working with Sherlock and Mycroft could lead to unimaginable situations, but I never thought I’d find myself in something so serious, and even less that Thomas could be involved in something like this. What would this mean for my career, for my life? The consequences of collaborating with them could be devastating. I could lose my job, and my reputation would be in ruins. But if what they were saying was true, if Thomas was really involved in an espionage network, ignoring it wasn’t an option.

“If I agree to help, what guarantees do I have that this won’t affect my professional life?” I asked finally, looking directly into Sherlock’s eyes, hoping for some sign that he understood the risks I was facing.

Sherlock held my gaze for a moment that seemed eternal before responding, this time in a much softer tone, almost a whisper:

“You have my word that we will do everything possible to protect you. But we need you.”

I knew that getting involved in something like this could have severe consequences. Not only for me but for my career as well. What would happen if the company discovered that I was helping Mycroft and Sherlock in an investigation that could involve one of its major partners? The collateral damage could be devastating. However, there was something in Sherlock’s gaze, an indication that this case was not just another for him, that made me reconsider.

And although part of me knew I should stay away, that getting involved could destroy everything I had worked for, another part, perhaps the one that still cared for Thomas or the one that didn’t want to leave Sherlock to face this alone, decided to take the risk.

“Alright,” I said finally, feeling a knot in my stomach. “I’ll help.”

John nodded with an expression of gratitude, while Mycroft simply gave a calculating smile. Sherlock, however, did not show any immediate reaction. Only a slight glimmer in his eyes indicated that he had been expecting this response. I wondered if there was something more behind that look, something more personal. But there was no time for reflection. I was about to enter a dangerous game, and there was no turning back.

As they prepared to leave, my phone buzzed. I glanced at the screen to see a message from Molly.

┏━━━━•❅•°•❈ •°•❅•━━━━┓

“Hey! Fancy a girls' night out? We haven’t had one in ages. Let me know!” ✓✓

┗━━━━•❅•°•❈ •°•❅•━━━━┛

━━━━♡

NOTE II:

I'm so sorry for missing out. I've been a little unmotivated and university doesn't help. But I hope you liked the chapter. You will hear from me soon, I promise.

[forevers-world]

Imagine attending Greg and Molly's wedding.

[j-eryewrites]

The Dancing Men (II)

Part 16 of The Arbitrary Lives of the Occupants of 221B Baker Street

Previous | Next

SERIES MASTER LIST | MAIN MASTER LIST

Word Count: (9.1k)

Author’s Note: Is this a filler chapter...? yes. Is this chapter over 9 thousand words...? yes. (This was also a chance to explore other characters besides Sherlock, John, and Y/N) 

Also, I did not realize the dancing men code did not insert the last chapter, so I went back an added that. (Thought it might be fun for yall to figure out the code alongside Sherlock.)

Warnings: Drug usage, mentions of drugs, murder, descriptions of blood and injuries, Sherlock is Sherlock (let me know if I have missed anything)

Everything was in place: buttery popcorn, fluffy blanket, lights dimmed down low, and the chosen movie on the television screen. Bjørn sat cozied up on Y/N’s lap. His brown fur was a stark contrast to the white light blue blanket on her lap. Across from the two of them was John. His back was relaxed as he sank into the soft cushion of Y/N’s couch. All worries of the workday were forgotten as they dived into the latest choice for their movie night. 

Bjørn quite enjoyed these evenings. One, John was present and Bjørn liked John very much. Second, Y/N was holding him close and petting his fur; an action the cat loved. Third, Sherlock was nowhere to be found. Bjørn remembers the first movie night they held and, unfortunately, Sherlock had been invited to that, until he predicted how the entire movie would play out, so then John had heroically banned the man from movie nights. 

Mrs. Hudson, one of Bjørn’s favourite people, would occasionally be invited to the movie nights, but those were only the rom-com nights. The cat could easily recall the woman’s fondness of the romance genre from all the soap operas and romance films she watched while watching over Bjørn for the night. Bjørn didn’t mind the sappiness of the movies at all because he was well rewarded by Mrs. Hudson with treats and baked goods that were only meant for pets. 

Bjørn purred as Y/N reached over to grab the remote to play the movie. His owner had heard of the movie from word of mouth. It was something called “The Eyes of My Mother.” Apparently, it was scary good or at least that’s what Y/N had mentioned when telling John. 

Tonight was horror movie night. It was one of two genres both Y/N and John enjoyed watching together. Bjørn preferred horror movie nights. It meant that the people in the room would be fighting to find comfort from the cat as the jump scares and loud scary noises crept up in the scenes on the screen. Bjørn liked to provide comfort. He loved to protect those he loved. Which was why the cat was glad Sherlock was not here. There was something about that man that Bjørn didn’t like. Maybe it was the way his black hair bounced atop his head. No one should have that dark of curls. It could have been the piercing blue eyes that reminded Bjørn of a predator or the man’s peculiar aura. Bjørn could see auras and there was something strange about Sherlock's.

The movie had begun. The two humans in the room jumped at certain jump scares. Bjørn was almost knocked off Y/N’s lap at one point. The cat began to wonder if it would be safer to sit on John’s lap, so eventually he crawled out of his seat on his owner's lap and settled onto John’s. John welcomed the warmth and comfort that Bjørn presented. In trade for the cat, Y/N got the popcorn bowl. The woman was forced to, instead, find comfort in the plastic bowl that carried the buttery goodness. 

Bjørn had just settled into his seat on John’s lap (well, of course, the man had an excellent lap) when he felt a petulant buzzing from underneath him. The movie was quickly paused and Bjørn cracked open his eyes to watch Y/N and John search for the noise. Bjørn contemplated helping them search and putting an end to the noise, but the source was soon found under the mound of blankets. 

Once uncovered,  a horrendous ringtone began to play from John’s phone. A ringtone that he had set years prior, that he meant to change but just never got around to it. John retrieved his phone and Bjørn caught sight of a pellicular look on the man’s face. 

“Hello?” John answered. 

Bjørn, with his excellent hearing, could make out the sound of a woman’s voice. Now, the cat hadn’t gotten used to the British accent. While the cat could understand Mrs Hudson, John, and reluctantly Sherlock, everyone else was a mystery. He blamed his understanding of the human language and the voice of those who found a home in 221B to be a matter of proximity. He willingly got used to John and Mrs. Hudon’s voices. He loved Y/N’s. Sherlock’s? Well, Sherlock’s was like screeching. Bjørn hated it. He hated everything about the man. Hate wasn’t a strong enough word. Bjørn loathed Sherlock entirely. 

“Hello, is this John Watson?” The voice asked over the phone. 

John’s face turned to shock. He was surprised to hear a voice he hadn’t heard in years. It belonged to one Kate Whitney. An old friend of his sister’s (and the girl he dated in his Secondary Educational years, but John prefers to use “a friend of his sister”.)

“Kate?” John asked.

“John? Oh, thank heavens! I don’t know what to do John!” Kate cried to him over the phone. 

John waited for Kate to finish talking. 

“It’s about Isa. He hasn’t been home for about two days and I’m getting worried. I heard from your sister that you were working with that detective now…” She sobbed. 

Isa Whitney. Right. Kate’s husband. Also an old friend from Secondary School. Bjørn looked up at John. The man sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose as Kate cried over the phone. Bjørn’s ears began to hurt from the whining. 

In the back of John’s mind, he knew what Kate was going to ask next the second Sherlock had been mentioned. So John took the preemptive step to ask if she knew where her husband would be. 

Kate answered immediately. “The opium den on the east side of the city. At a place called Bar of Gold on Upper Swandam lane.”

Bjørn could feel John’s actions before they came and the cat regretted choosing to find a seat on John’s lap. The cat quickly hopped off and back onto Y/N’s lap just as John’s body groaned. John’s muscles expanded and contracted shooting into motion as he stood up to fetch his things by the door. 

Kate was overjoyed. “Oh, John. Thank you! I would go myself but that place is not safe for a woman like me.” 

Of course, Kate continued to ramble on as John grabbed his keys and stumbled down the stairs and out of 221B. 

“Yes…Kate…” John tried to conclude the conversation. “I’ll have to…Kate…”

Now, John liked to think that he was a kind man. If one compared John to his friend Sherlock, he would most definitely be the “kinder” out of the two of them. John made sure to thank Mrs. Hudson whenever she brought up tea for him and Sherlock and apologize to others (clients, police officers, Greg, Y/N, Bjørn) whenever he could. Since John made the active choice to be kind, he found himself having a hard time saying no. Well, unless it was Sherlock. Sherlock was easy to say no to. 

Even with this kindness that has seeped deep into John’s bones, he knew he had to end the call soon. While Kate was talking, John cleared his throat and spoke up. “Kate. I’ll go out to find Isa. I’ll bring him home. Got to go.” Without another word, the phone call was over. 

As John tugged on his jacket and shoes by the door. Once he was all set, he turned around to Y/N to apologize. He mentioned she could continue the movie, but the woman refused and insisted on waiting for him to return to finish it. Bjørn could sense the man began to feel guilty about the whole scenario and seemingly so could Y/N.

“John, go. Help your friend. I’ll be fine,” Y/N reassured. 

That’s all it took for John to bid goodbye and leave 221B in search of Isa Whitney. Bjørn hopped up from Y/N’s lap once more and settled on the section of the couch John once sat on. The cat was not content with the idea of being thrown off another lap. As if on cue, Y/N stood up from the couch and moved to the kitchen to make herself some tea. Once the water was boiled and the tea poured, Bjørn watched his owner pick up her phone. 

Y/N scrolled through her phone looking for a worthy distraction. Of course, she could just find something else to watch, but it felt wrong. Instinctively her finger found itself drifting to the messages. There were two messages from Jim asking about their date later that week. She hovered over the messages reading them over and over again, before sending a short reply confirming the time. 

Part of her felt bad. Jim was her boyfriend after all. However, there was something deep within her that wanted someone else. It was a secret she could never admit to herself for fear of the emotions coming up front and centre displaying for all to see. Those very emotions the man in question would sense in an instant. That very man she found herself calling. The phone rang. It rang. Then it stopped. Sherlock’s voice box message played over the speakers and then Y/N hung up. 

She groaned and dropped her head into her hands. She needed to stop. Sherlock was out for a business trip, whatever that was. She and John didn’t press, but Y/N began to think she should have. She missed him. Her finger tightened around the roots of her hair. This was bad. She missed Sherlock. Missing someone was the step just before you had to come clean with yourself; because you could only miss someone if you cared for them. 

_______

It wasn’t the first time John had been called to help Kate. He was well aware of her and her husband’s troubles. At first, Kate had gone to Harriet, John’s sister, until she realized that Harriet and Isa shared similar afflictions. As one does with comfort, Kate found someone who was in a similar boat as her; that someone had to be John Watson.

At the beginning of John’s journey, he hadn't had much of an issue finding a cab that would take him to Upper Swandam Lane. Although he got a few judgemental looks from his cab driver on the way to the location. When John did arrive at the street, that was when things started to take a turn. 

Upper Swandam Lane was a vile place to be. It was an alleyway that lurked behind the high wharves on the north side of the river just to the east of the London Bridge. The alleyway itself was between a slop shop and a gin shop. There was a set of stairs that John had to climb up to reach the alley. There was litter, burnt-up cigarette butts, and mysteriously gooey substances that adhered to the ground. Overall a place that screamed germs, something that just so happened to be a doctor’s worst nightmare. 

As John trekked up the stairs, he was glad that he had chosen to wear his thick boots. He’d prefer it if he didn’t end up with a contaminated needle stuck in his foot. The further John walked through the alley the more addicts he had to step over. People who had come for the high were now suffering the after-effects as they lay on the ground. John’s eyes carefully scoured the area looking for the familiar face of Isa Whitney. 

Eventually, John reached a wooden door. Above the door was a flickering lamp that only added to the alley’s chilling ambience. John could hear the sounds of muffled voices, laughter, and cheers from the other side of the door. He thought it over and assumed that it’d be best to try his luck inside the building. As John reached for the door handle, he prayed that Isa Whitney would be in there. 

The door creaked open to reveal a long, low room. The air was thick and heavy with the smoke of opium and other drugs. The lights were gloomy as they tried to shine through the dark smog. Through the gloom, John could make out figures of all sizes and shapes. They were all lying in strange poses as they all turned their heads to glance at the newcomer. Scattered amongst the haze were little red circles of light at the end of metal pipes. Occasionally a figure would reach out for the pipes and lift it to their lips before inhaling. 

There was a hushed conversation in the building as John made his way around the room in search of Isa. As luck would have it, John found the man. Isa was in the back of the room. He sat on a three-legged stool with his back hunched over a pipe. His fists were clenched tightly around the object as he raised his arms up to shakingly bring the pipe to his mouth. 

John tried to make quick work of reaching Isa but was stopped numerous times along the way. Attendants and other addicts would offer him a smoke or try to lead him in another direction in their delirium. 

“No thank you,” John would reply before returning to his chosen path. Eventually, the crowd and temptation grew too much, so John called out to Isa. “Isa Whitney!” The room fell silent and the people around John drew back from the man. Like the parting of a sea, the crowd moved and John eased his way over to Isa. 

Now that John was closer to Isa and without the presence of the smog, John’s eyes could see clearly the state of the man. Isa was in a haggard state. His eyes narrowed so that they were tiny slits. His clothes were wrinkled and dishevelled. There were even a few brown spots scattered across, what John assumed, was once a white button-up. Isa lifted his head to peer up at John. 

There was a moment of silence before Isa spoke. “My God! It’s John!” Isa said. The man’s demeanour completely changed. There was a spark of life in his eyes as Isa took sight of John’s face. “Why are you here?” The man spoke joyfully. 

John tried to take in a deep breath, but from the smoke, he ended up entering a coughing fit. Once John had collected himself and once Isa stopped hysterically laughing. John explained his appearance. 

At the mention of his wife, Kate, Isa’s expression paled. “John…what time is it?” Isa hesitated. His once joyful expression was now one of guilt and worry. 

“It’s nearly eleven at night,” John said. 

“...What day?” Isa continued with his questions. He seemed more and more sober the longer John and him spoke. 

“Friday, October 19th.” 

Isa dropped the pipe from his hand and started patting his body up and down as if he was looking for something. “No–It’s Wednesday. It is Wednesday,” he phrased it more like a question than a statement.

John sighed and shook his head. “It’s Friday.” He pulled out his phone to show Isa the date. Again Isa paled at the sight. “Your wife, Kate, has been worried sick. Isa, you should be ashamed of yourself.” 

Isa narrowed his eyes at John in disbelief. “I’ve only been here a few hours…I’ve only had two–four, no six pipes? I forgot how many…” Isa began to trail off as he wondered about how many pipes he had smoked. 

Before Isa could spiral any further, John reached for the man’s arm and yanked him up to his feet. “Let’s get you back home,” John muttered before lugging Isa to the door. 

Isa stumbled into John, nearly knocking him over as they scuffled over to the exit. “I’ll go with you, John,” Isa said as he wrapped an arm around John before leaning his entire body weight on John. 

John grumbled as he tried to get solid footing underneath Isa. 

“Kate must be so frightened–poor little Kate…my love.” Isa gazed off into the distance thinking about Kate. 

By some miracle, John had led Isa out of the building and the two of them were now walking down the alleyway back to the street. 

“John! Give me your hand!” Isa exclaimed. 

John cried out as Isa lunged for his hand and was now holding it hostage. “Isa!” 

Isa ignored John’s outcry. “Do you have a cab?” 

“Yes, Isa. I have a cab.”

“Good!” Isa squeezed John’s hand. “I owe you, John. I owe you!” 

“Yes. I heard you the first time, Isa,” John said. 

Then John continued to lead Isa out of the alley and to the cab that was waiting for them. The alleyway seemingly got darker the longer they walked. It was a narrow lane that made it hard for two grown men to walk side by side. In turn, John walked behind Isa making sure that the man didn’t trip over his feet or stop moving forward. 

Even though they were outside and no longer in that horrific building, John felt his lungs begin to burn from the smoke. He found it hard to breathe. Instead, John took to holding his breath. He deemed that it would be better to not breathe in the smog than to breathe at all. That was until he heard a voice speak to him. It was a voice that was too low to have ever come from Isa. 

John reluctantly took his eyes off of Isa and looked around the alleyway when the voice spoke again. 

“Walk past me, and then look back at me.” 

John froze before doing as the voice said. He turned around and looked down. His brown eyes fell upon a tall figure hunched over. There was something familiar about how the figure on the ground sat. John would have expected someone who sat upon the vile ground of Upper Swandam Lane to not sit with an air of arrogance. 

The whole scenario piqued John’s curiosity. He found himself leaning over and getting a closer look at the man who had spoken to him. It took all of John’s self-control to not grab the man and cry in astonishment. 

It was Sherlock Holmes. The man who had told both Y/N and John that he’d be away for a business trip. Sherlock turned his head so that John could see him clearly now. There was no doubt about it. There were the striking blue eyes that seemed to glow in the dark of the alley, the curly black hair, and that wicked smirk. 

“Sherlock!” John harshly whispered. “What on earth are you doing here?!” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his friend’s concern. “Speak as quietly as you can. I have excellent hearing. Also, get rid of that…” Sherlock turned his head to look at Isa who was now leaning up against the wall of the alley. “...friend of yours. Then I’ll talk.” Sherlock said it with such pompousness that John scoffed. 

John was considering just leaving Sherlock there and taking Isa back, but then John thought of Y/N. He knew he wouldn’t be able to face the woman without spilling the news about Sherlock. 

“I have a cab, Sherlock,” John whispered. 

“Good. Send him home in it.” Sherlock’s eyes flashed with disgust as he looked Isa up and down. “He won’t do anything mischievous. He appears to be limping to hold his own body weight up.”

“Which is why I should make sure that he gets home!” 

Sherlock tsked. “Quietly John.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose tightly. This was a moment where he should have said no. He should have taken Isa home in the cab. John should have arrived back at 221B and then spilt the news about Sherlock to Y/N. That’s what any good friend should do when they find someone they care about in a compromising position. But John knew Y/N had too much to worry about. He was her friend too. John clenched his jaw tightly before huffing in agreement. This time, he’d agree with Sherlock. He’d save Y/N some worry. It was the least he could do. 

It was surprisingly easy to place Isa Whitney in the confinement of the cab before sending him on his way back home to his wife Kate. Out of courtesy, John texted Kate telling her that her husband was on his way home in a cab. As John finished the message, Sherlock appeared beside him. 

The two of them didn’t speak a word as Sherlock led John down the street. It seemed the two of them were going for a stroll. The longer the silence progressed, the longer John grew worried. He knew of Sherlock’s addiction. The nicotine patches. The side comments from Mycroft offered a brief picture of Sherlock’s past. 

About two streets later, Sherlock stopped moving and let out a light chuckle. John whipped his head around to look at Sherlock like he was insane. (Although, John did think that Sherlock was partially insane most of the time). 

“I suppose, John, “ Sherlock said. “You’re imagining that I have added opium smoking to my nicotine patches.”

John’s jaw was slack and his eyes wide at his friend’s words. “What the hell were you doing there Sherlock?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Sherlock replied. 

John placed his hands on his hips and stared at Sherlock. “I came to find a friend.”

Sherlock raised his brows letting John know that he already knew that. “I came to find an enemy,” Sherlock stated. 

John was unimpressed. The last ‘enemy’ of Sherlock’s that John had met was his brother. It was more likely that the said enemy was someone else from Sherlock’s past. A cousin, a friend, another relative of some sort. “An enemy?” 

“Yes; one of my natural enemies.” Those words from Sherlock’s mouth sealed the deal in John’s mind. This was another Mycroft situation. “John,” Sherlock continued, “I am in the middle of a case and I hoped that I could find a clue from the incoherent ramblings of these addicts. Something I have done before.”

“What case, Sherlock? Cause if I remember correctly, Y/N knows about every case you take and she made sure that you’d be free so you could go on this business trip.”

It seemed like the mention of Y/N’s name ticked off something in Sherlock because the man began to walk again ignoring John’s question. 

John sighed. “What case, Sherlock?!”

“Follow me, John!” Sherlock called out as his long legs took him farther and farther away from John. 

_____

It seemed like the place Sherlock took John was back to Baker Street. How the two of them walked all over London to get back to their flat that late at night astounded John. He was sure how exhausted he was feeling while watching the horror movie with Y/N that he’d have enough energy to travel all the way back home physically. He knew Sherlock had the energy. The man seemed to have a never-ending reserve of energy. 

Once the black door of 221 B Baker Street closed, Sherlock began to strip off his coat and scarf. He marched up the stairs with a passion beckoning John to follow. John winced as the stairs creaked loudly underneath his and Sherlock’s steps. If Y/N and Mrs. Hudson weren’t already awake, then they would be now. 

“Sherlock!” John hissed at his friend. He was careful of his own volume. 

Sherlock turned around to John as he flung his coat and scarf on the hanger by the door. 

John stood expectantly in the doorway. His hands crossed over his chest as if he was urging Sherlock on for an explanation that was due long ago. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes before answering John. “A few years ago, a man named Neville St. Clair came to London. Not long after he got married to the daughter of a local brewer, someone he has two children with now. I have been told that he’s a good husband and affectionate father and that the family is in a good financial situation. This means that there is no reason for him to be worried about his family or money troubles.”

John pursed his lips and raised a brow at Sherlock. In all honesty, John had no idea where Sherlock was going with this. 

Sherlock tilted his head as he remembered something. Suddenly he pulled out his phone to show John a photo of Neville. John peered at the picture. Neville was a man with flaming red hair and sad-looking eyes. His face was filled with freckles and covered every inch of skin. Yet the thing that drew John’s attention the most was the long scar that ran from the tip of Neville’s forehead down to his chin. 

“Last Monday,” Sherlock continued, “Neville went into town to run a few errands. Meanwhile, Mrs. St. Clair had her lunch near Upper Swandam Lane. Afterwards, she did some shopping, and at exactly 4.35, she was walking back through Swandam Lane on her way back home. Are you following me, John?

John’s brow raised higher as he continued to stare at Sherlock. He still had no clue as to why a certain Nevill and Mrs. St. Clair had anything to do with a case. In fact, John was positive that there was no case. 

Sherlock took John’s silence as a yes, so he proceeded. “If you remember, Monday was a cold day, so Mrs. St. Claire took extra care in looking for a cab. While she was walking around Swandam Lane she heard a loud cry from above her. She saw her husband frantically waving at her from an opening in the window. She also described him as being terribly agitated before a force from behind him tore him away from the window. She tried running after her husband and soon found herself in the same building you were in tonight. She tried making her way up the stairs but was stopped by an attendant and forced back out onto the street. Filled with fear and concern, the woman called the police.”

John finally took a step forward and closed the door behind him. His intrigue was piqued. 

“They arrived and searched the place but there was no sign of him there. In fact, there was no one to be found. The police were determined that Mrs. St. Clair had been delusional. That was until they stumbled upon a watch that belonged to Neville. Mrs. St. Claire confirmed that it was her husband based on the engraving on the inside of the watch. After further inspection, the police found some blood as well as all the clothes of Neville St. Clair. There were no signs of violence and there were no more signs of Neville. According to witness accounts, the last one to see Neville St. Clair was a man named Hugh Boone.”

By now John was sitting in his chair. His hand rested underneath his chin as he watched Sherlock pace back and forth as he recounted the information about the case. 

“Boone is a professional beggar. He claims that he was not the last one to see our missing man. Detective Gavin–”

“Greg,” John corrected. 

“-searched Boone and found traces of blood on his clothes, but the man told Lestrade that it was from a cut on his hand. One that was still bleeding. An injury from the window, where the traces of the blood had been found. Lestrade also took the opportunity to have the nearby area checked. Neville’s coat was found in an alleyway. Inside the pockets was the man’s wallet.”

“So then where’s the body?” John asked. He was sure that finding all of Neville’s clothes and blood but no wallet meant that the man was dead.

“There was nobody, John.” There was a sparkle in Sherlock’s eye as he said it. “However, Boone was arrested and taken to Scotland Yard, but there was nothing against him. The blood had been his own. The only thing that could be used as evidence were Neville’s clothes, but even so, that is substantial enough.”

Everything clicked in John’s brain. “That’s why Y/N didn’t know you had a case. Greg called you himself.” 

Sherlock halted his pacing and looked at John. John was right of course, so Sherlock nodded. 

Now that John was satisfied with that answer he asked another question. “Why was Neville St. Clair was at an opium den and what does Hugh Boone have to do with the disappearance?”

Sherlock smiled at John. “Now you’re asking the right questions.”

“Sherlock…” John began to fiddle with his hands. “Do you think Neville is dead?”

“Yes–” 

Suddenly there was a banging on the door downstairs. John and Sherlock made their way downstairs. It seemed like the knocking had woken up the other residents of 221B for Mrs. Hudson and Y/N were peering out of their doorways at the noise. Mrs. Hudson was in more of a dazed state than Y/N with her overnight hair curlers and cosy pink pyjamas. The elderly woman’s tired eyes quickly acknowledge John and Sherlock making their way down the stairs. Satisfied with what she saw, Mrs. Hudson crept back into her flat and shut the door. 

Y/N, on the other hand, seemed to grow more conscious the longer she looked at the scene in front of her. She thought that her mind was tricking her. It couldn’t be Sherlock. Could it? Sherlock caught sight of the woman from the corner of his eye. He could help how his brain tuned out the sound of the banging door to look at Y/N. 

She had that same tired look in her eye as she did when she slept over in his flat. Her hair was slightly ajar from sleep and her pyjamas were scrunched up in just the right way. She looked comfortable and for a moment Sherlock felt guilty about waking her up. 

“When’d you get back?” She mumbled. Her voice was filled with sleep. 

Sherlock smiled and took a step towards her. “Not long.”

“I called you…” Y/N said. She nervously ran a hand through her hair. Internally scolded herself for acting like a schoolgirl. So much for not showcasing her newfound feeling. No, Y/N couldn’t have feelings for Sherlock. She couldn’t. She was dating Jim. Jim was perfect. He was kind, gentle, witty, and handsome. But Jim wasn’t Sherlock. She winced. She was screwed. 

“You called?” Sherlock replied a little too quiet for his liking. He hadn’t checked his phone. His mind was too busy with the case. His mind was a little too preoccupied with a case that was purely a distraction from the chemical defect called sentiment. 

John cleared his throat reminding Y/N and Sherlock that he was also present and so was the knocking on the door. Sherlock and Y/N turned to look at him, both of them hiding a blush that crept on their faces. John took that as a sign for him to be the one to open the door. 

In front of him stood a woman. Her dark hair was a frizzy mess and two dark circles underneath her eyes made her look like a skeleton. John peered at the woman with a confused look but before he could ask her anything, Sherlock pushed him to the side letting the woman enter. 

“Mrs. St. Clair,” Sherlock stated. 

John’s eyes widened. Y/N wore a confused look on her face. One that John pitied. She still had no idea. Without another word, Mrs. St. Clair was ushered up the stairs into John and Sherlock’s flat with Y/N in tow. She was curious as to why a strange woman appeared on their doorstep in the early hours of the morning. 

“ He wrote me a letter,” was all Mrs. St. Clair uttered before shoving the letter into Sherlock’s hand. 

_____

Lily, 

Do not be scared. Everything is fine. There is a huge error which may take some time to fix. 

Love,

Your Neville. 

_____

Sherlock took the letter and scoured over the letter. His blue eyes took note of every detail. John looked over Sherlock’s shoulder trying not to notice, Y/N’s puzzled look. He could see the gears in her head turning as she put the pieces together. 

“Whoever addressed the envelope had to go and ask about the address.”

This caught Mrs. St. Clair’s attention. “How can you tell?”

“The name is written perfectly in black ink. The rest is in a greyish colour which means that the paper was blotted. Whoever wrote it was not familiar with the address. Are you sure that this was your husband?” Sherlock asked. 

“There was a ring. His wedding ring.”

Sherlock nodded. “And this is his handwriting?”

The woman nodded. 

Sherlock’s brow pursed at the confirmation. This didn’t make sense. He was so sure that Neville was dead, his body missing. “If Neville is alive, then why has he not returned?” Sherlock asked. 

“I…I don’t know.”

Before Sherlock asked another question, Y/N cut him off. “Hold up, what’s going on here?”

“Not now Y/N–”

“Sherlock–” Y/N warned. 

“I’ll explain later. Mrs. St. Clair. On Monday your husband said nothing about leaving you?”

“What do you mean you’ll explain later? Sherlock a strange woman showed up on our do–” Y/N hissed. John shot her a look letting her know that he'd explain later if Sherlock didn’t. 

“No.” Mrs. St. Clair replied. 

“Were you surprised to see him in Swandam Lane?” Sherlock questioned. 

“Yes.”

Sherlock looked to the side before coming up with another question. “He only cried out to you?”

“Yes.” Mrs. St. Clair nodded. 

“A call for help?”

“Yes. He waved his hands at me.” The woman explained. 

The longer the interrogation continued the more confused Y/N grew. She was much too tired to deal with anything right now. 

“Couldn’t have been a cry of surprise? He could not have expected to see you in such an area.” Sherlock noted. 

“That’s possible, but…” 

“And you thought he was pulled back?” Sherlock continued. 

“He disappeared so suddenly.” Mrs. St. Clair’s voice began to grow quiet as Sherlock’s questions intensified.

“He could have leapt back. You didn’t see anyone else in the room,” Sherlock noted. His height towered over the woman and he began to lean over her small figure. 

Mrs. St. Clair shook her head. “No, but that horrible man confessed to having been there.”

“Right. Your husband was wearing his clothes?”

The woman gulped, unsure of where these questions were going. “Yes, but he wasn’t wearing his tie. I remember seeing his throat.”

“Has he ever spoken of Swandam Lane?” 

“No.”

“Has ever shown signs of taking Opium?”

Mrs. St Clair looked from Sherlock to John and then to Y/N. She bore a nervous and confused look on her face. 

“John. What are the symptoms of some who have taken Opium?”

John had been startled by Sherlock’s sudden question that it took his mind to process what he had been asked. “Mood swings, irritability, changes in appearance, risky behaviours, dizziness…”

Sherlock cocked his head to the side. “Well?”

“Um…no. No Neville hasn’t,” the woman said. 

Sherlock snapped back into his upward position. His back was tall and straight as he walked to the door and swung it open for Mrs. St. Clair. 

“Very well, Mrs. St. Clair,” He looked to the door and then at the woman before flashing a tense smile. 

Mrs. St. Clair took that as her cue to leave for the night. Once she removed herself from the flat, Sherlock shut the door and turned around to face John and Y/N. 

“John, Y/N. Pull out your phones.” Sherlock instructed. 

“Sherlock you haven’t explained–” Y/N began. 

“Phones.”

John and Y/N grumbled as they did as Sherlock asked. Once that was complete they looked up at Sherlock. They were half expecting he’d take their phones and do whatever he liked to them. So when they saw that Sherlock had his own phone out, the two of them were confused. 

Before they could ask any questions, Sherlock continued his instructions. “I’m going to call Grayson. Then John. Then Y/N. We will continue to do this until he picks up.”

“Sherlock, it’s 1 o’clock in the morning. Greg is not going to answer,” Y/N said. 

“Call,” Sherlock commanded as he dialled Greg’s number.

______

Greg quite liked his days off of work. Typically he would start it all off by sleeping in. A luxury he was not used to having in his everyday life. Then he’d wake up and lie in his bed for a moment, sometimes he used the time to read a book or scroll through his phone checking the daily news. Then maybe he’d make himself breakfast or go out to a local cafe. He had all the time in the world and he had the power to choose what he did with it. 

However, this was not Greg’s ideal day off. It seemed like the world was out to get him as his phone deafeningly rang on his bedside table. He was sure he silenced his phone before falling asleep last night. Blinded by his tiredness, Greg let the phone ring until it eventually ended about thirty seconds late. Again it was silent and Greg was well on his way to fall back into a deep sleep. That was until the phone rang again. Greg groaned and rolled over in his bed. His eyes peeled open to look at the time displayed on the alarm clock next to his bed. It was 1.15 in the morning. His mind began to fumble around thinking about who could be calling him at such an hour. It couldn’t have been Scotland Yard. It couldn’t have been…. Greg would have finished the thought if the phone continued to ring. Once again it stopped and the man’s body came crashing back down on the mattress. 

There it was again. That boisterous ringtone. Greg shot out of bed and grabbed his phone, yanking the charger out of its socket. 

“What in the hell do you think you’re doing calling me at one in the morning!” Greg grumbled into the phone. He hadn’t bothered to check the caller ID, so when a soft voice from the other end of his phone started speaking he felt incredibly guilty. 

It was Y/N. She hardly ever called and whenever she did it was always for a good reason. 

“Sorry Greg,” She whispered, taking into account the early hours of the morning.

From the sound of her voice, Y/N wasn’t fairing any better than he was. 

“No…forgive me…sorry. Why are you calling?” Greg began to rub the sleep from his eyes. 

There was a pause as Y/N thought of the best way to say it. “...Sherlock needs you to meet us at Scotland Yard.”

Greg groaned. He should have known that it was Sherlock’s doing. Only one man would have the audacity to call Greg this early in the morning, especially, on his day off. 

“Sorry, Greg, but he says it’s urgent. Something about the St. Clair case.”

Now this caught Greg’s attention. The case that had been plaguing his desk ever since he received the call a few days earlier. He would have been glad that Sherlock wanted to see him. It meant that there was a breakthrough. However, Greg was tired and had been woken up from a deep sleep. 

“Couldn’t this wait until tomorrow morning?” Greg voiced. 

Sherlock’s voice spoke over the phone loud and clear. “It is the morning Lestrade.”

“Oh, Sherlock it’s you,” Greg said with disdain. 

“Of course, it’s me. Meet us at Scotland Yard in twenty minutes. I’ve solved the case.”

With that, the phone hung up. Greg had no choice but to remove himself from the comfort of his bed. He had to forgo any thought of a nice morning sleeping in topped with a warm breakfast. He knew Sherlock had commanded that he be at Scotland Yard in twenty minutes, but that was the same amount of time as the commute there. If anything, Greg wanted to take as much time as he could before having to confront Sherlock. 

As Greg changed and prepared himself for the day, he prayed that the coffee machine in Scotland Yard had been fixed like it should have been weeks ago because Greg knew that he could not deal with Sherlock without a little help from caffeine. The praying was more for Sherlock’s sake (Not that Greg was contemplating murder or anything.)

_____

One of the first things Greg took notice of that morning was that the coffee machine was still broken. However, it seemed like an angel was smiling upon him that morning, that angel was Y/N. She handed him a warm cup of coffee that she had made herself. He couldn’t help but smile at the woman for her kind gesture. A smile that seemed to sour Sherlock’s mood. 

“You’re a godsend, Y/N.” Greg thanked her. 

“Oh, Greg there’s–” Y/N tried to reply. 

“You’re late,” Sherlock stated. 

“I know that, Sherlock,” Greg said. “It wasn’t physically possible to arrive here in twenty minutes. Speaking of, why am I here?”

“I need to see Boone.”

Greg took a sip of the coffee. The warm, quite frankly delicious drink made quick work of waking Greg’s body. He raised his brow at Sherlock’s request. 

“The beggar?” Greg asked.

“Yes. I know he’s here.” Sherlock replied. 

“He is,” Greg confirmed. 

“Is he quiet?” Sherlock questioned. This earned a few strange looks from his friends. 

“Quiet? Yeah, I guess so. He is a dirty scoundrel though…” Greg trailed off thinking about how dirty the man was. 

“Dirty?” John asked. 

Y/N looked between the three men. She was beginning to think that this was all an elaborate prank Sherlock was pulling. She had been dragged from her flat and still had not been told what was going on. “Hold on. Before anyone says anything else. What is going on?!” She exclaimed. 

Sherlock sighed and looked at John, causing John to sigh as well. It seemed to the job of an explanation landed on John’s shoulders because Sherlock couldn’t be bothered when he was on a roll. So as John pulled Y/N to the side to let her know what was going on, Sherlock and Greg continued their conversation. 

“He’s dirty?” Sherlock repeated. 

“Yes,” Greg scoffed. “All we can do is make him wash his hands. His face is covered with soot and dirt. The man needs a bath.”

“I need to see him.”

Greg raised a brow as he took note of Sherlock’s seriousness. “Alright, this way–” 

“Sherlock Holmes!” Y/N yelled. “You were in an opium den?!”

Sherlock winced at the noise and turned to glare at John. In Sherlock’s mind, explaining things meant the case, not the whole situation. Hesitantly, Sherlock turned his gaze to Y/N who was staring right at him. 

“For the case.” It was all Sherlock could say. 

“For the case my–” Y/N grumbled as she marched up to Sherlock. 

“Y/N! Sherlock! It is too early for this.” John stepped in as the voice of reason. 

Greg looked at the scene before him. Then he took a long and loud sip of coffee in an attempt to diffuse the tension. After a few moments of silence passed, Greg deemed it safe enough to speak again. 

“As I was saying, Boone’s this way,” Greg said. The group followed him as he led them to the back of Scotland Yard where the holding cells were. 

It was a very whitewashed corridor. On each side of the wall, there were barred doors as far as the eye could see. A large majority of the cells were empty, something that Y/N noted as Greg led them down the hallway. 

Soon the group's pace began to slow. “Here it is.” Greg pointed to the sleeping figure behind the bar doors. 

Boone was huddled on the cot in the room. His legs were held close to his body. His chest rose and fell slowly. The man was in a deep sleep just like one would be this early in the morning. But from what Y/N could see, he was dirty. The man was covered in dirt and soot from head to toe. The grim did little to hide the broad old scar that ran across his face. Y/N scrunched her nose. She couldn’t fathom how someone could stand to be covered in such filth. 

“A beauty, isn’t he?” Greg said sarcastically. 

“Certainly needs a bath…” Y/N mumbled. 

Suddenly, Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out a large bath sponge. 

“Sherlock! Where’d you get a bath sponge?” John asked. 

“Don’t you recognize it?” Sherlock questioned as he tilted his head in John’s direction. 

John’s face turned red as he tried to control the sudden wave of anger. 

“Lestrade, open the door very quietly. We’ll make him much more… tolerable.” Then Sherlock turned to look at Y/N. 

Y/N’s eyes widened. “No, Sherlock. There’s no way I’m–”

“Greg, the door,” Sherlock commanded. 

Greg’s mind was in shock at how quickly he opened the door for Sherlock. It seemed as if his body was moving on its own. Once the door was open, all of them made their way into the cell. Sherlock quietly turned on the sink in the cell to wet the sponge before raising the sponge to Boone’s face. 

Y/N was surprised that Boone had not woken up from how vigorously Sherlock rubbed the grime off the man’s face. Once Sherlock was satisfied with his work, he stepped back and dropped the wet sponge to the floor.

“Let me introduce you to Neville St. Clair.” 

John and Greg’s faces all bore the same expression of shock. Y/N, on the other hand, was a bit puzzled as she looked at the sleeping man. Before them lay Neville. The scar from the man’s face, one that his wife declared was his most identifying trait, was present. 

“Christ, Sherlock. It is him,” Greg stated. His voice was much louder than a considerate whisper. 

This seemed to wake up Neville. The man took one look at the four people standing over him, and he yelped out in fear. 

“Lestrade, don’t you think it smart to let our missing man go home?” Sherlock asked. 

Neville gulped, waiting for Greg’s answer. 

Greg sighed. His coffee was all gone. “We have no case if the missing man was Boone all along…which brings me to ask. What happened on Monday?” 

Neville looked down at his feet. “I’m an investigative journalist. I write about what it’s like being a beggar, addict, or anyone suffering from the poor conditions of life. My alias is Hugh Boone…” Neville’s voice grew quiet as he admitted his secret. 

Greg pursed his brows. “Great, but that still doesn’t answer my question about what happened on Monday.”

“I had finished work for the day in Swandam Lane when I looked out my window and saw my wife. I cried out before covering my face and running away from the window. I ran to my confidants in the building asking them to hide me just as I heard my wife downstairs. In a hurry, I threw away my clothes and once again entered my persona of Boone. Doing so, I cut my hand on a nail in the window sill. Before I knew it the police were involved and I was arrested as my own murderer,” Neville explained. 

Sherlock stepped forward. “What about the letter?”

“We were told we could contact someone. I was too ashamed to call my wife. She’d hear my voice and know where I was. Instead, I wrote a letter and placed my wedding ring inside.” Then Neville buried his face in his hands. “She must have been so worried. I need to get home to her and the kids.” 

Greg hated seeing how guilty Neville felt. It was too much for one morning. “Alright, up you go,” Greg motioned for Neville to stand up and follow him out of the cell. Without another word, Neville was let off. The case was solved and everyone went their separate ways: Greg back to his warm bed to sleep the rest of the day, and the case-solving trio back to Baker Street. 

_____

A few days later, a thank you email appeared in Sherlock’s inbox. Of course, Y/N was the one to find it as it was part of her job to search and organize Sherlock’s emails. It was a heartfelt message thanking Sherlock for his work. Not very many clients thanked Sherlock after the case was solved, although Neville’s case wasn’t a normal one. 

Speaking of emails. That was the worst and probably the most entertaining part about Y/N’s job. Yes, she was also hired to clean, organize, and follow Sherlock around on death-defying cases, but emails were the bane of her existence. Dealing with her own emails was enough, the inbox filled with incessant ads and subscriptions she never remembered signing up for. However, Sherlock’s emails were much worse. There were the subscriptions: newsletters from all over the world, daily notifications about new updates on bizarre websites that would concern even the best of people and ads for the strangest things that would somehow eventually end up in Sherlock’s flat. There were also emails about potential cases, those tended to be mundane things or crazy outlandish stories to get attention from someone online, or people asking for favours.  In fact, the hardest thing was finding a job that Sherlock, John, or Y/N couldn’t solve the second the email appeared in the inbox. 

Y/N groaned as she swore to God that she’d gouge her eyes out if she had to read another email from a concerned elder about their missing cat or jar of cookies that mysteriously went empty. 

Ding!

Clenching her eyes shut and whispering hopes and prayers that this wasn’t a bogus email, Y/N opened her eyes and peered at the screen. It seemed that God or some angel watching over her liked her eyes right where they were on the screen was an email from Hilton Cubitt. The visitor from Ireland, who stopped by two weeks ago. Y/N couldn’t help the triumphant cheer that left her mouth. 

“Did you win the lottery?” Sherlock asked without peering up from his latest novel, 100 Ways to Kill Your Employees. A book of many that displayed his loathing of the whole scenario. His tone matched the underlying threat of his choice of light reading, unamused and with a pinch of disdain for his imprisonment. 

This confinement began the moment Y/N discovered where Sherlock’s business trip had been. Upon returning to 221B, John began to scold Sherlock. The man in question stood in the doorway to his own flat without a care in the world. John’s words of concern and fear never reached his ears. However, it was when Y/N began to speak up, Sherlock began to listen. Eventually, it was agreed that Sherlock would be watched over just to make sure that he had not been taking opium. (Something that was proposed by Mycroft, but Y/N had been under strict instructions to not tell Sherlock that.)

“No, Sherlock. I didn’t win the lottery, but it looks like Cubitt did,” Y/N said. Sherlock froze in his seat. He gradually moved his gaze up to look at Y/N with a burning fire of curiosity in his eyes. He looked down at the computer in her hands and looked up at her once more. In the blink of an eye, the novel in Sherlock’s hand was replaced by his computer. 

Front and Center on the screen was an image depicting more of the code Cubitt had presented Sherlock with two weeks prior. Along with the message of urgency. 

______

Come to Clifden. It may be worse than I thought.

Hilton Cubitt

______

“Y/N pack your bags and book us a flight to Ireland,” Sherlock began as stood up from his seat to grab the paper Cubitt had given him of the code. 

“Sherlock–” 

“Cubitt needs us there to solve the case. Time is of the essence.”

“Sher–”

“Oh and call John and tell him to prepare a bag as well.”

“Sherlock!” Y/N yelled. 

Sherlock froze in his step as he turned around to look at her. He raised his brow up as if saying “Why are you not doing what I asked?” 

“Sherlock…” Y/N cleared her throat. “We’ll go to Ireland, but only…”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at the woman. 

“Only if you promise to never lie about a business trip again.”

Sherlock scoffed at Y/N. “I don’t know what–”

“Yes, you do! Sherlock. You’ve been grumbling about being kept here in your flat, so you know full well why. I…” Y/N’s voice grew quiet. “I was so worried, so just promise that you’ll take one of us with you.” Sherlock winced at her words, “ OR at least tell us where you are going. Please.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a sharp intake of breath through his nose. His mind was in torment. This whole scenario was ridiculous. He was being treated like a child. Everything from Y/N’s, not so secret, hovering, Mrs. Hudson’s checking in, and John’s horrific attempts of spying on him all put Sherlock on edge. In his mind, he had done nothing wrong. But she had said please. She said she was worried. She cared. Now, if Sherlock had been given this treatment two months ago when she first came on board as his assistant, he would have fired her on the spot and uttered something about her worry being misplaced. However, time is a funny thing. Now, all Sherlock wants to say is yes. But a singular yes is too harsh, too noticeable, and an easy entrance into the hard-kept secret in Sherlock’s heart. So he settled for a simple…

“Alright.” 

It was enough for Y/N to order three tickets to Ireland and transportation to Clifden. In a moment, bags were packed, an inn was booked, Bjørn was placed in the care of his great-grandmother, things were settled, and notice was made of their departure. The game was afoot. A new case was brewing, and Sherlock couldn’t wait.

_____

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[letthewhumpbegin]

The Perks of a Broken Mind Palace

Fandom: Sherlock (BBC) Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Greg Lestrade Prompt: this was written for the prompt "Panic Attack" for @whumpril Day 1. Word count: 1103 Warnings: descriptions of panic / anxiety attack.

He opened every door of his Mind Palace and walked down every corridor of it, searching every inch, every nook and cranny, but kept coming back empty-handed.

Sherlock stood in the middle of Lestrade's office, pressing his fingertips hard against his temples. He closed his eyes and willed himself to think harder. Lestrade needed his help in this murder case, and Sherlock knew he had recently read something important about the victim. But what was it again? If only he could find it in his Mind Palace!

Sherlock growled softly in frustration. "Sherlock?" Lestrade sounded slightly worried. Even for Sherlock this current behavior was off. "Shut up," Sherlock snapped back. He could feel everyone in the room staring at him. Lestrade, Anderson, Donovan…

Again, Sherlock willed himself to go down deep into his Mind Palace. Again, he searched every inch of it, and again, he came back with nothing. This had never happened to him before. He had always been able to rely on his Mind Palace, but now it let him down. And that scared him beyond anything...

Sherlock felt his mind get foggy, and his breathing was getting faster. The trembling which had started in his fingertips rapidly spread to the rest of his body. Sherlock already knew what was coming. He was cruelly, vividly aware of it, but could do nothing to stop it anymore.

He quickly lost awareness of his surroundings now, as all he felt was the anxiety coursing through him. His breath caught high in his chest, making him feel short of breath, and his heart was nearly hammering itself out of his chest.

Lestrade watched the consulting detective visibly spiral out of control in front of him. He had no idea how to handle this, but what he did know was that they did not need an audience right now.

"Get out." Lestrade ordered Anderson and Donovan. They, too, had been staring at Sherlock in horror. "Why?!" Anderson immediately retorted. "Because this does not concern you!" Lestrade barked back, ushering his colleagues out of the office.

As soon as Anderson and Donovan had grudgingly retreated to the hallway, and the door had fallen shut behind them, Lestrade shifted his attention back to Sherlock. He had only once before seen the consulting detective have a panic attack, and that had ended with him crashing to the floor and knocked out for a short while. Lestrade would do everything in his power to prevent that from happening again today.

"Sherlock." Lestrade kept his voice as calm as possible in their current situation. "Sherlock, calm down." The consulting detective did not respond. He still stood in the middle of the office, with his eyes tightly shut, and his hands pressed firmly to his temples. He was shaking all over, and breathing as if he had just run a marathon.

"Sherlock." Lestrade tried again, taking a few tentative steps closer, and carefully reaching a hand out for the consulting detective's shoulder. "It's okay, calm down. I need you to look at me." Sherlock reacted as if he'd been burned. He staggered backwards, fleeing from Lestrade's well-meant hand on his shoulder, until his back hit the wall on the opposite side of the office.

"Don't..." Sherlock whimpered softly, sliding down the wall to the ground. He never opened his eyes and never took his hands from his temples. Sitting in a heap on the floor, Sherlock's wheezing, panicked breaths filled the office.

Lestrade stared helplessly at the dark-haired man. How the hell did one handle this? Where was John Watson when you needed him?! Because John would surely know what to do.

All Lestrade could think of was to distract Sherlock and hope that that would be enough to bring him back to his senses. He knelt down in front of Sherlock, and gently wrapped his hands around the consulting detective's wrists. He could feel the clamminess of Sherlock's skin and the pulse racing beneath his fingers. Sherlock sat like a child afraid of the monster under his bed: knees drawn up to his chest, head bowed low and eyes squeezed shut. His panic attack was still running high, and no matter what Lestrade did, he could not get through to him.

Lestrade began to realize it was time for more drastic measures. What he had in mind could go both ways, but the situation couldn't get much worse than this, so he would give it a try.

Lestrade tightened his grip around Sherlock's wrists, and yanked the consulting detective's hands away from his temples in one confident motion. Sherlock gasped softly at the sudden action, and slowly opened his eyes. "John?" He muttered wearily. "No, it's Greg," Lestrade answered, "or Graham, or Gill, or whatever you want to call me today." Sherlock chuckled softly, and Lestrade gladly realized he was finally getting through.

Sherlock's breathing slowly regained a more healthy rhythm, and his hands were no longer trembling. Still, Lestrade stayed where he was, kneeling down in front of the dark-haired man and making sure he truly was alright. Sherlock gently freed his wrists from Lestrade's grip and passed both hands over his face. "Take deep breaths," Lestrade spoke softly, "it will help you calm down." Sherlock only nodded wordlessly in reply, but did follow up on the advice.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock mumbled after a few more minutes of sitting on the ground. "I cannot seem to find the information you need." Lestrade waved the apology away. "Don't worry. Don't torture yourself about it." Sherlock shot him a glaring look in reply. "Okay, just saying..." Lestrade mumbled in defense, before standing up and moving over to sit on his desk chair. This surely looked like the usual Sherlock again.

Sherlock remained seated on the ground, gradually regaining the last bit of control over himself. It had been a while since he had last had a panic attack like this, and it had drained him of quite some energy. He needed a moment to recollect himself and get his thoughts straight again.

After about ten minutes Sherlock slowly rose to his feet, buttoned up his coat and put up his collar. Lestrade watched him silently, but closely. "I'll still find it," Sherlock announced determinedly. The detective inspector simply nodded in reply at that. Without another word, Sherlock turned around and left the office.

Lestrade watched as Sherlock exited and stared at the door long after the consulting detective had left. It was clarifying to him that Sherlock, too, could lose control like that. And that somewhere beneath all his flaws and peculiarities, Sherlock Holmes still was a human being…

Make a request from my prompts list Useful Links Section | Writing masterlist

[specialagentlokitty]

Lestrade x Male!reader - the crime lover

Hey! Pretty please could you write about a meet cute between the reader and Lestrade, during the week leading up to Halloween so there are horror mazes and VR experiences, Halloween Parties and gatherings all over London. Lestrade gets a case at one of them and one of the witnesses is a Horror/true crime buff staff member (Reader) who catches his eye! Thanks in advance! Hope it’s the kinda request you were looking for - @the-imitation-blog 💜

Standing behind the desk, you flicked your gaze to the security cameras before looking back at the papers in front of you.

Walking to the other side of the office, you sat down on your desk as you looked through the updated contracts for the new adult only horror game sessions.

“Oi (Y/N).”

“Get lost Markus, busy.”

He scoffed a little bit and walked over, taking the papers from your hands.

“There’s some police here asking about video footage from a few days ago, you know relating to the murder from across the street.”

“Oh right, yeah send them in, also can you take those clues over to room four, they’ve been at it a while trying to escape and I feel kinda bad for them.”

Markus laughed and took the cards from your hands as he made his way back towards the door.

You turned back to what you were doing and heard the door open once again.

“I’m detective inspector Lestrade I’m here about the security footage.”

“Yeah, I’ll send Caroline in to show you, she knows how to do that.”

You pulled out your phone and texted said woman to come and help you, then sat in your chair as you began to make some notes on the contracts.

Lestrade glanced around the office, and he looked at you, watching you for a moment.

You were tall, dressed in some joggers and a baggy jumper, you looked pretty scrawny to him, probably similar to Sherlocks build in a way.

“What exactly do you do here?” He asked.

You looked up from your paperwork and you grinned a little at him.

“We offer a bit of everything, from escape rooms and VR experiences, to lectures on true crime from the past, and game nights revolving around them where the customers have to try and work together to figure out who really committed the crime.”

“Who runs those?”

You raised your hand and got up, heading to the other side of the room to get a drink, offering him a bottle of water which he took.

“I studied criminology in university, and I really enjoy reading and watching things about true crime. We only use case fifty or more years old however.”

Lestrade nodded his head and he looked around.

“Is there a possibility that somebody would try to recreate one of these events?” He asked.

You thought for a moment.

“Well, we do take the names and ID’s for everybody attending one of these sessions, and it’s strictly no photography or phones, you have to leave them with security. But I suppose if one of our customers were fascinated by one of the cases they could have taken it away for more research.”

“You let them take things?”

“No, no. We email out the tickets with the name of the event and what it would include, it’s part of the company policy so people can’t try to sue us for anything, they know what they’re getting into.”

Lestrade nodded his head, sitting opposite you when you sat down at your desk.

“We keep recordings and documents from all these events for up to three months, I can show you everything from that night if that helps you.”

“We’d have to look at everything you have from before then if that’s possible.”

You nodded your head.

“Of course, I have send it all over to you by the end of the day.”

“Thank you so much.”

You smiled at him and you carried on discussing the case with the detective, offering him all the information you possible could.

Lestrade realised that you were well versed in everything, you really were a fan of true crime because you were able to help him narrow down what events he needed to be looking for.

You have him your own alibi and proof as well, including what you could for the rest of the workers at the centre.

Caroline came inc and you let her take him through the footage while you carried on with your work.

But every so often when you walked past Lestrade would glance at you.

It wasn’t that he suspected you, they had already ruled out all of the workers, so he knew that it wasn’t you.

But your vast knowledge and your dedication to it all amazed him, and in a way he was captivated, curious and wanting to know more about you.

But once he had to footage he had to leave, and he was sure that was the last time he was going to see you.

Until that evening when you came by with a box in your hands and you set it on his desk, grinning from ear to ear at him.

You had changed from your jumper into a sleeveless hoodie, and Lestrade couldn’t help but eye up your biceps.

They were huge, considering you looked like a man without muscle he was impressed to say the least.

“I have a few more boxes for you, I’ll bring them in now.”

“Thank you so much.”

You grinned at him again and carried on bringing everything in.

“This is the last box, you can keep these until you’re ready to give them back we only keep them for reasons such as this.”

“You’ve been a huge help (Y/N), really.”

“If you need anymore help, just ask.”

Lestrade found himself talking before he thought it through.

“Maybe you can tell me more of what you know over a drink, like a coffee.” He blurted.

Laughing, you nodded your head.

“You’ve got my number, just let me know when and where.”

With that, Lestrade watched you leave, and he sat back down at his desk with his head in his hands.

He couldn’t believe he had just done that, especially while he was supposed to be working a case but something about you drew him in and he wanted to know more

[epifaniax07]

[holmesianlove]

Chapter 26 -  Alternate Meeting

The fresh fall of snow had made the streets quiet, and cold. They had come out tonight, despite the snow - and much whingeing from John - to meet Lestrade for dinner at a pub in the centre of town. A catch up before Christmas. Every year, they treated it like they would all be going on vacation and wouldn’t see each other for a couple of weeks, but invariably, each year, there were murders at Christmas time - heightened emotions and all of that - and they would be called back to help out. So the dinner meeting was usually unnecessary, but it was nice to take a moment away from death and casework, and acknowledge they had become more than just colleagues now. They were friends. 

After a hearty meal which had helped warm them and polishing off two bottles of wine between the three of them, they had capped of the meal with a whisky. With a lovely buzz in their systems, there had been much laughter and merriment: stories of the mad cases they'd dealt with across the year, and memories of older cases too. Greg regaled them with tales of his cheating wife and how much fun his Christmas with the in-laws would be.

And finally, after three hours together, Sherlock and John had stepped back out into the cold together. The walk back to the tube station was a few blocks, but there weren't many cabs floating around, so they began to walk.

“I always feel for poor Lestrade. He seems to like being married and in a family, but she’s clearly still cheating and he knows about it. How is that happy?” Sherlock sighed heavily.

“Everyone has their own threshold, I suppose,” John said. “Sometimes being alone is the most painful way to live. I suppose he’d rather be with her than without her.”

“How romantic,” Sherlock scoffed sarcastically.

“When we met - you and I - I was so very lonely, returning from war, and while I don’t like people, I couldn’t bear being that alone. If we hadn’t…” John let the thought drift into the cold night air, his breath creating clouds of condensation.

“Do you ever think of other ways your life might have been?” Sherlock asked. “You know, if you hadn’t got shot? If you hadn’t joined the army at all? Or what if we hadn’t met? Do you think we might have still met at Barts - if you’d stayed on after studying? Not joined the army at all? Imagine that,” Sherlock chuckled. 

John couldn’t help laughing at that too. He smiled, stopping the walk and turning to Sherlock. He had absolutely thought about this already - their possible alternate meeting and what it would have been like. He nodded. “Sometimes I think—"

It suddenly occurred to John, as the cold soaked into him, that he had left his gloves and scarf back at the pub. His lovely new warm things. He was about to turn back towards the way they had come, his words for Sherlock forgotten, when a voice stopped him in his tracks.

“John? John Watson?” The voice interrupted him. John sighed. Probably another bloody reporter. John made a decision in that instant to be on his best behaviour this time, and say nothing, as Sherlock had directed him he should from now on. He was never as calm and collected as Sherlock in these situations. Not for things like this. He spun around to flash the reporter a winning smile, just in case there was a camera at the ready again, but instead, he was greeted by a group of people, coming out of a nearby restaurant, at the front of which stood a tall man, quite respectably dressed. His salt and pepper hair coiffed perfectly, a sophisticated cashmere scarf twirled beautifully at his neck. 

John froze to the spot. His brain was working overtime and he could feel Sherlock watching him for his response, but he felt like he was going to disappear into himself. His body felt disconnected. All the blood ran out of his face to his toes. He felt hot and cold all at once. He could hear Sherlock say his name, beside him, but it sounded like he was miles away. 

“It is you. John!” the man said, rushing forward.

“Alex?” John choked out, knowing full well who it was. His voice sounded weak and raspy.

He felt Sherlock tense beside him at the mention of the name. John absolutely regretted having told Sherlock about this, now.

“John.” The man rushed to him and hugged him tight, although John didn’t move a muscle. His hands didn’t wrap around and reciprocate. “How have you been?” he asked, as he stepped back again.

“Fine,” John said stiffly. 

Alex looked next to him and took in Sherlock’s equally stylish figure. John made no moves to introduce them so he held his hand out. “Hi, I’m Alex.”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

There was a moment of silence and then: “Oh good lord, the detective fellow? Oh, of course. I had heard about your blog, come to think of it,” he directed at John. “I’d clean forgot about it. Guys it’s Sherlock Holmes - the detective!” he called out to his friends who all murmured and seemed excited. “I’ve read about you both in the papers.”

“Ah. Funny. I know nothing about you,” Sherlock said coldly, pointedly. 

John still made no move to talk. The air was thick between them all. He knew Sherlock would have deduced plenty about Alex - and him - just by standing there in silence.

Alex nodded, the encounter now incredibly forced and awkward. He was definitely assessing the two of them standing together. But it was clear John wasn’t going to speak. “Well. I won’t keep you both. It was just such a surprise… I had to come over. Lovely to meet you,” he said to Sherlock. He reached out and touched John’s arm. “So good to see you. You’re looking well,” he added in a slightly condescending tone. John’s spine straightened slightly. “I should get back.” He paused, seemingly hoping for John to still say something.

Sherlock also looked to John waiting for him to say more, though he had apparently become comatose, and then offered a stiff smile to Alex, in place of John’s response.

And with that, Alex returned to his friends and got in a cab. The street was silent again. But John remained still, silent, staring into the distance where Alex had been moments earlier.

“John—“

“Don’t,” John warned. His voice was flat, and cold and angry.

Sherlock stood beside him in absolute silence for as long as he could but John didn’t move a muscle.

“Sooo… Alex was…”

John sucked in a breath at the sound of the name. He turned to look at Sherlock, his eyes so lost all of a sudden, searching Sherlock’s face for something, for some way to escape this. He couldn't find a single way to start this conversation comfortably. So before Sherlock could speak, John rushed away, without a word, crossing the road and moving at quite a pace.

“Not a woman then,” Sherlock sighed to himself, processing the information. 

The big relationship in John Watson’s life, that could have become marriage-and-kid-worthy… and apparently broke his heart… was not with a woman at all. Alex was a man. A slightly older man, too, if Sherlock’s judgement was right. And, assuming it was pre-Afghanistan, it would have been back before marriage was legalised.

All the pieces were falling into place and Sherlock felt almost sick with understanding.

“John!” He called after his friend, but John had already disappeared around a corner into the cold night. Sherlock let out a heavy sigh and took off after him.

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[calaisreno]

His Move

1557 Words / Prompt: Manipulate

He shouldn’t have been surprised. Mary was an assassin, the business of her past never quite behind her. She’d run away once, and Sherlock had insisted they go after her. At that point, John was willing to let her go. They were never going to have the future he’d imagined when he bought her that ring. 

She was already dying when he arrived at the aquarium, and said the things you would expect a loving wife to say. You were my whole world. 

He felt a dull sense of relief, and hated himself for it. The problems of your future are my privilege. 

A future, cut short. And still, her problems would haunt him.

When Sherlock reached out his hand towards John, his eyes wide, John saw the horror-stricken expression on his face.. 

You were my whole world, he thought. 

Her body was lifted, put on a stretcher, and carried out. John followed.

Sherlock texts him: I’m so sorry. SH

John doesn’t reply.

Please talk to me, John. SH

He feeds Rosie, gives her a bath, puts her to bed. She fusses; she’s old enough to sense something is wrong. Now she has only her father to keep her world stable.

John, please. SH

He plans the funeral; there’s no one else. Mary has no family, only a few friends. It’s his responsibility. This keeps him busy, gives him space to work out what comes next.

Sherlock is actually sorry. This John doesn’t doubt. He’s not a sociopath, regardless of what he says.

John’s words at the aquarium were spoken in anger; he doesn’t blame Sherlock for Mary’s death. John is the one who brought her into their orbit. He can’t change that, but sometimes he thinks about what would have happened if Sherlock had returned six months sooner. Of course he would have been angry, and would have expressed how he felt about watching his best friend die, being abandoned for two years. Six months earlier, maybe he wouldn’t have paid attention to the new nurse, the one who kept flirting with him. 

He has no doubt that he would have come back to Baker Street if Sherlock wanted him. The compromise, as always, would have been on John’s part. Sherlock is never going to change. He will always treat John as a convenience, a habit that doesn’t require thought. 

Sherlock is rarely solicitous, never bestows compliments, only flatters someone if he’s being manipulative. The speech he gave at the wedding nearly knocked John over. Maybe Sherlock was only trying to do what was expected of him, but it was unexpectedly touching. 

Sitting there, hearing the two people who love you most, he’d had this thought: I would have waited for you, if I’d known. 

In his own way, Sherlock does love John. He also knows how to manipulate John, to get him to do what he wants. To keep John in the dark when he doesn’t trust him. 

Loving Sherlock has always meant giving something up. It means following him into danger. John isn’t sure he can afford that any longer, not with a child to care for. 

He has to be sure.

It doesn’t surprise John to see Sherlock at the funeral. Mrs Hudson sits with him, and Lestrade joins them. Molly slides into the pew, whispers something to Greg. It’s a protective entourage; they all know what John said.

Harry is home, watching Rosie. John sits alone, in the front row. 

Sherlock has texted him daily, and John hasn’t replied. That’s why Sherlock is here. He wants John to accept his apology, for everything to be as it was before he ruined it all by dying. Not that Sherlock understands it this way; he doesn’t think that dying ruined things. He’s convinced that he had to do it, that John would have died if he hadn’t. In his mind, there was no alternative. 

Maybe he’s right, but for two years, John carried the weight of grief. That’s just feelings, sentiment; Sherlock wan’t dead; he was saving John, saving the world, winning the game. He left John behind, let him grieve, because that was the only way to solve what happened at Barts that day. 

Sherlock will still leave John behind at crime scenes, run heedlessly into danger, and probably get wounded at some point. He will question John’s intelligence, talk to John when he’s miles away, text him impatiently while he’s treating patients. He will dismiss John’s concerns as frivolous, insist that sentiment makes him weak. He will break John’s heart again and again. That’s just the reality.

And John could break his heart, too. He has a temper, and letting go of anger is hard. Will that anger still be simmering in a year, two years? It’s hard for him to forgive; even in death, he hasn’t really forgiven Mary. 

Can he say he forgives Sherlock and really mean it?  

John prayed for a miracle, and hit the ghost when he returned. Sherlock didn’t hit back; he made a joke. He missed the point. 

But he pulled John out of a bonfire. His look of panic is something John won’t ever forget.  

He tricked John into forgiving him—but has also tried to be worthy of that forgiveness. 

He has expressed his love for John in front of a hundred people. 

These are not the acts of a heartless man.

Sherlock needs him. Maybe two years away was as hard for him as it was for John. 

Does John need him?

He imagines a life without Sherlock. He weighs it against a life without Mary. One is possible, one is past.

His wife was a master manipulator. He’s only beginning to realise the extent of that. He’d had doubts, but couldn’t put words to them until he was in Leinster Gardens, hearing her admit that she’d shot Sherlock, that she would do anything to keep John in the dark about who she really was. 

The woman he fell in love with saved him from despair.

The woman he’d married was a facade. 

He never forgave the woman who shot Sherlock. 

The woman he went back to gave him his daughter. 

So. Mary’s gone, and what he feels about that is a confusing mixture of guilt and sorrow—and relief. At some point, he loved her. Or the idea of her. He chose her. 

She made choices as well. She chose death, rather than allowing Sherlock to take that bullet. When John came back to her, she understood that he would never completely forgive her, that he was doing it for Rosie. She’d chosen to save Sherlock, to die rather than live with John’s grief over losing him a second time.

Sherlock didn’t kill her. She chose to die.

But when he stood at her grave, he didn’t ask her not to be dead.

What he wishes now is that they’d never met, that he could rewind time and make a different choice. That she was still alive, a stranger living somewhere else. 

But then he wouldn’t have Rosie. He loves his daughter completely, protectively, without rhyme or reason. He wants the best life for her, the carefree childhood he never had. And he imagines her growing up without a mother—with a father who has chosen to be alone. 

He pictures her, a child with pigtails and a stubborn streak. A teenager able to go toe-to-toe with her father and still see reason, take a small step back when she’s wrong. A young woman with curly blond hair and a teasing smile. She leaves for uni, and he’s alone again. He grows old, and remembers.

Does he need Sherlock? 

Absolutely, desperately. Like air. 

Can he trust Sherlock? 

Probably not. And he won’t change him.

He misses Sherlock. Whatever they have been to one another, his heart wants him. 

Is it worth the risk?

He’s standing in the church reception hall, drinking a cup of terrible coffee. Sherlock is across the room, looking at him. His expression is sorrowful, not the fake sorrow he can put on during a case, pretending he cares. His hands are stuffed in his coat pockets and he’s slouching against the wall, watching John.

Coworkers from the surgery express their condolences. Mrs Hudson hugs him tearfully. Lestrade tells him they need to get together over a pint. He accepts their sympathy, makes small talk because that’s what people do. All the while, he feels Sherlock’s eyes like a magnet, pulling on him. 

As the hall begins to empty out, he can resist the pull no longer. Sherlock looks up, surprised, as John walks towards him. His pale eyes fill with tears. 

John has given up so much already. He doesn’t blame anyone but himself. Maybe he’ll never fully trust Sherlock, but he’s already forgiven him. 

Setting aside all his objections, laying down his anger and his regret, he surrenders.

When he pulls Sherlock into the hug he’s always wanted, this time Sherlock hugs back. John makes deductions. He can smell a cigarette, maybe two (nervous). He feels his ribs, still too prominent (unhappy). He’s trembling with the emotion he hates (love). The world may have lost a fine actor when Sherlock Holmes became a consulting detective, but this is not acting.

“Please come home,” Sherlock whispers.

John smiles into his shoulder, his own tears beginning. “Oh God, yes.”

[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom. (TW: domestic violence)

Building Walls

Both had been scared as boys. John of the dark, Sherlock of the light. 

John’s vivid imagination made up monsters under the bed and kidnappers in the woods around the tent when the Watsons went camping. 

“Fear is a weakness,” John’s father growled when his son was shaking and sobbing, terrified of the horrors of the darkness around him.

The solution was to beat the fear out of John while using spite words like coward, squeamish, queer, faggot, weak.

It took some time before it worked. For every stroke from his father’s hand or belt, John’s protecting wall was reinforced with a new brick, until his father was satisfied, and John’s fear had dissipated. So it seemed anyway.

***

Sherlock was a night owl from an early age but was forced to live in the light where others could see his aberrant behaviour. His cousins, aunts and uncles all called him freak, queer, weak, abnormal.

He just wanted to be left alone with his experiments, which he preferred to conduct in the dark hours.

“Fearing the light is a sickness,” his mother told him, and caught him in an iron grip before he could abscond and ordered him to sit in the conservatory with her and his cousins for hours.

When he finally was released, his head throbbed, his eyes stung, and he felt bone tired. He cried when he woke in the morning, realising that he’d been too exhausted to escape sleep.

“You must not let them see your weakness, brother mine,” Mycroft advised him, so Sherlock built a wall around himself and called it his Mind Palace.

***

In the dark Afghan desert, John met many soldiers who were afraid of what they could not see, and with good reason. He knew he should be terrified, and deep down he was, but he had a responsibility as a captain. His wall was strong and didn’t crack until a bullet came out of the velvet night and found his shoulder.

Back in the radiant city that was London, John’s wall crumbled. His mind was a dark hole even if he was surrounded by light.

“Nothing ever happens to me,” became a mantra he lived by, until he met Mike Stamford, and later Sherlock Holmes.

The brief and totally ridiculous encounter in the lab at Barts, lifted a vail, and a glimpse of sunshine entered John’s mind.

***

For years Sherlock lived in the blissful darkness, but people still interfered and made his life miserable. His mother and brother in particular. So, he sought out company that at first was a relief, but later put him on the path towards addiction and destruction.

Stumbling over Greg Lestrade’s crime scene, high as a kite, but still capable of observing and deducing what had happened, saved Sherlock’s life. For the first time in years, someone was interested in the knowledge he possessed; signs that a victim had been poisoned, different traces of mud or ash. 

“Get clean, and I’ll call you when we’re out of our depths,” Lestrade said.

Mycroft probably ensured Lestrade’s promotion after that, when Sherlock explained, and begged Mycroft to take him to rehab.

The incongruous scale Sherlock used to categorise the crimes Lestrade called him about, wasn’t all about how interesting a case was, but had more to do with the time of day. Only a serial killer could make Sherlock attend a crime scene in broad daylight. The darkness was his friend, and his dramatic persona thrived and added mystery to it all when he whirled around in his beloved Belstaff and polished Italian shoes.

John was like the sun and should frighten Sherlock with his warmth and incandescence. Instead, Sherlock felt an instant calmness fall over him when his fingers brushed John’s as he took the phone John offered him the day they met. 

***

John’s fear of the dark night vanished when he saw Sherlock together with Jeff Hope, and his hand was steady when he shot the awful cabbie.

Sherlock’s case scale suddenly changed, and he and John turned up at crime scenes at all hours, even when the sun shone bright and clear.

The only fear they had left, was losing each other.

----------------------------------------------------------------

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[theladyofmanyfandomsfanfiction]

Imagine trying to warn Sherlock that Moriarty is free…

The verdict was in - not guilty. You honestly wanted to shake the jury by their shoulders and ask why they had left their rational thoughts at home. The judge slammed the gavel, signalling for Moriarty to be free of his bonds and when you looked at the man, you could have sworn that he winked.

John nudged your arm, reminding you that it was time to follow the rest of the courtroom out. Once the pair of you were out on the street in much cleaner air, John pulled out his phone and began punching in a number.

“I’m calling Sherlock. He needs to know that this maniac is going to be walking about like a free man.”

Giving him a nod, you pulled out your own device. “I’m going to head back to Scotland Yard.”

John instantly pulled his phone away from his ear as it started to ring.

“What? Y/n we need to stay together.”

“I know but I need to set up a protective detail on Sherlock and Baker Street. Moriarty doesn’t care about collateral damage.” You reminded the good doctor.

Pointing at you, John’s expression was stern and serious. “Okay but be careful. I’ll see you back at the apartment.”

You gave the man a brief hug before turning and bolting down the street to hail a cab. Thankfully, the area was crawling with the vehicle you required. Once you had hopped in, you dialled Lestrade’s personal number and hoped with each ring that he wasn’t otherwise engaged. Your heart was pounding in your ears, the traffic felt slower than normal and the phone wasn’t being picked up as if the matter wasn’t of import.

“Come on.” You edged nervously, staring outside at the pedestrians huddled on the sidewalk.

When the signal turned green, the call was answered by the man you had been trying to reach. “Greg? Oh, thank god.”

“Y/n, I just heard the news. How are you holding up?” The detective inspector asked.

“Honestly I’m pissed but we can get into that later. Listen, I need a favour. I need a-“

“You need a protection detail on Sherlock, I know.” Lestrade guessed correctly. “I filed in the paperwork as soon as Moriarty’s trial started and got it fast tracked. It felt appropriate since you, Sherlock and John have thwart his schemes the most.”

You frowned. Something didn’t feel right about the way he was talking about the detail. “And?” You prompted.

“And it got rejected as soon as Moriarty was acquitted.”

You were mad and disappointed - in all honesty, you wanted to scream. But you pushed it all down and did what you could to tackle the problem. Leaning forward, you tapped the driver on the glass to get his attention.

“Yes, dear?” The elderly man smiled.

“Change of plans - take me to 221B Baker Street please.”

“Y/n, what are you doing?” Shit, you almost forgot Lestrade was on the phone.

As the car turned left onto Baker Street, you kept a tight grip on the device. “If Scotland Yard won’t help, I’ll do it myself.” You told your friend before hanging up just as the taxi pulled up to the curb.

Paying for the ride, you made a mad dash to the front door, pushing it open to get inside. It was mostly quiet. Mrs Hudson was running the cafe and it was clear that John wasn’t home from the lack of his coat from the hallway rack.

There was an absence of people and yet you heard teacups being set upon saucers and very low voices speaking. Heart leaping into your throat, you raced up the stairs and burst into the open flat of 221B.

“Sherlock-”

The rest of your sentence died on your tongue, ice running through your veins when you saw the man who had almost killed you and your friends without any remorse standing in the living room.

“Hi Y/n.” Moriarty greet when his eyes laid on you. “I take it that your little bid for a protection detail fell flat?”

He knew and he was mocking you for it. Stepping into the flat, you scowled at the enemy. “I’ve kept my friends safe from you before. I can do it again.”

Moriarty smirked. He moved away from Sherlock and across to you on his way to the door. His eyes skimmed over your features before he inhaled.

“You’re just delectable. Ready to give your life for a man who isn’t ready to return the favour. A pity really.” He commented and walked off.

~ More imagines here ~