This book may have Imagine, Preferences, and one shot.
Don't trust the tittle!
WARNING
SOME chapter might have : ANGST, SMUTT, FLUFF , DEATH, BLOOD, DEPRESSED, SELF HARM, FIGHTING. AND MORE!
Also, the property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for Sherloc...
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She couldn’t remember the last time she saw the Baker Street boys, or the last time she shared a cup with them, less to say the last hand shake. She wasn’t sure they would remember as fondly as she remembered them; after all, she had been dragged out of London from a day to the other, and didn’t even give her time to say good-bye. But that was what the MI-6 did. They got you into suicide missions, away from your friends and family, away from the world and the life you knew.
How would they react when she knocked? Would they be pleased or angry? How would they have changed in the time she was gone? Maybe John had finally settled down, or maybe Sherlock and Irene were back together – if they ever really dated -, maybe Mrs. Hudson found a new husband, maybe Mycroft had finally decided to wear a wig, or maybe Lestrade had stopped calling Sherlock… Whatever had happened would remain a mystery for her unless she knocked the door.
It had been a long time, but even so, she missed them with all her heart. When they moved her to London from America, she thought she would never feel as home-sick as she did in that time, but now she knew she was wrong. She missed those all-nighters with the boys, trying to solve a mystery, watching crappy telly or playing heads up. She missed those morning talks with Mrs. Hudson, and playing cards with Watson. But most of all, she missed when Sherlock played for her.
She remembered him, waltzing around the flat, playing the most beautiful melody with his head tilted to the side and his eyes closed. She remembered him flowing with the sound like a feather flows with the wind. She remembered how her stomach tickled whenever he opened those mesmerizing blue eyes to see her, his voice making odd questions out of nowhere. The way he would roll his eyes at the clients with boring stories or his intensity when he couldn’t find an answer. (Y/N) missed his smell, and that laughter… He barely laughed, but when he did it was so full of joy she couldn’t help but to laugh as well. She missed those little, almost accidental touches, and his face whenever he caught her staring. She missed Sherlock Holmes.
And there she was. Her back curved, both hands pressing her left ribs, trying to keep the blood from spilling. How would she explain? “Oh, hi boys, remember I disappeared? The MI-6 took me, fun times, then someone shot me in the plane back and now I’m here and I need some stitches.” No, that was ridiculous.
The door opened violently. “Would you come in already? I don’t have ti…” Sherlock stopped talking. His mouth fell into an O as he saw the woman he had once admired right in front of him. He thought it was a client, she never stood up like that, but of course she would always surprise him. “(Y/N).” He whispered.
“Hi, Sher.” She muttered shyly. His expression, the shock in it was absurd. His eyes stared at her for longer than she wanted, but she couldn’t blame him; as far as her concern, it would’ve been less awkward to take her for dead.
