Tom Hiddleston and Loki Imagines - Bk. 1

Tom - Sherlock

        "You seem like an excellent candidate," the tenant said, "but I still need to interview one more person before I confirm anything."

        "Okay no problem."  You escort yourself out of the apartment and run down the stairs.  Apartment hunting was not going so well.  Three people had already rented out their rooms, one potential roommate didn't seem compatible over the phone, and another roommate didn't mention the lack of a working elevator in a fourteen-floor building.  This last apartment only added to your grievances.  You could've sworn someone was murdered in that room, a foul odor radiating from the floors and old, dark red stains randomly decorating the walls and ceiling.

        Good riddance, you thought as you crossed off yet another ad from your newspaper.

        You stuff the ads, a single sheet of newspaper, into your back jeans pocket.  This big move was supposed to be a breeze.  You and your best friend were supposed to room together in London.  She was moving to be closer to her parents and boyfriend.  She still wanted a roommate, and you happily decided to accompany her.  You had even gotten your boss to transfer you to the London office.  Unfortunately, the dream come true turned into a nightmare.  Your best friend was killed in a car crash.  You two had already sold the flat you shared, so you couldn't go back.  You had already gotten your citizenship, passport, one way ticket, and already shipped your belongings to her parents' house.  After the funeral, her parents said you could stay with them for as long as you need, but you didn't want to wear out your welcome.

        You adjust your beanie as you hail a taxi.  One pulls up to you and you hop in.

        "Move," a man says, slamming into you as you start to close the door.

        "Excuse you?!"  He closes the door.

        "I need to ride this taxi."

        "Can't you wait for another one?!"

        "Where to?"  You tell the driver your destination.

        "Baker Street," the man says.  Popping his coat collar, he looks out the window.

        "What was their name?" he asks before you can continue to berate him.  You dial back your tone.

        "I beg your pardon?"

        "Their name.  The roommate who died."

        "Have you been stalking me?"  The man turns back to you.

        Speaking very fast, he rattles, "You seem to have makeup only underneath your eyes to hide dark circles, which also are slightly red.  You're tired, but haven't slept in about a month.  You've had mood changes, going from relieved to irritable in all of ten seconds.  Judging by the redness of your eyes, you've been awake for about five hours, or since five this morning.  You're this tired at only five hours being awake, meaning you had trouble sleeping.  You have insomnia.  If it was medicated, you would be at the doctor's office or on the phone trying to refill your perscription, which takes less than a day to receive.  This insomnia must be recent.

        "You don't know your way around well just yet, but just enough, your search for apartments covering an area of twenty miles.  This must be the farthest for you, because you haven't stopped clutching onto your phone, as if it was your only lifeline.  Moving from a different time zone?  Yes.  Your accent is a dead giveaway; you're from (country).  But, again, you've been here long enough to know your way around.  Maybe you've been in the area on vacations, but highly unlikely that you could afford any if you're looking for an apartment.