No Strings Attached: Doctor Strange x GN Reader (Marvel and Sherlock Crossover)

Chapter Eleven: Rendezvous

The rest of the night was uneventful, Sherlock and you rode back to Baker Street in silence, texting Lestrade that details would be given in the morning.

It was always like this after a bust, silence, the both of you pushing yourselves harder than before, thinking you could have done better.

Having an intelligent mind was sometimes the greatest torture method.

Theories flooded your thoughts, what you could have done, every mistake, every choice torn into pieces. If you could describe it out loud it would be like one of those boards in television shows, with red string connecting every interwoven piece of evidence.

The cab pulled to a stop, sludging up the stairs to 221B, nothing mattered except the case.

Sherlock unlocked the flat door, you headed straight to your chair, grabbing the notebook that rested on the stool beside it. Scribbling down words on the pages, they were torn out one by one, put to the side until you were satisfied.

Sherlock took them from you, hanging them up on the wall. Names and areas that might help organized in a strange manner only he could understand.

"I'm going to bed, you should too," softly closing the door behind you as Sherlock hummed, not bothering to change out of your clothes from the previous night.

–

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson's loud voice woke you up, "You have a package!" The soft London morning light making its way through your thin blinds. Stretching you slowly got up, the outfit somewhat more restrictive than your normal night clothes.

Groggily making your way to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee, Sherlock's loud food steps let you know that he had gone to retrieve the package.

Pouring a cup of cold brew, and lazily sipping on it you made your way to the window, watching the street below. The room was a mess, Sherlock obviously did not sleep, papers were scattered everywhere, strings connecting every picture notes written on open notebooks, and case files stacked on the table.

Looking around the tv remote caught your eye, flicking the device on, already set to the news channel, reports of a new murder came through.

"Lestrade is going to be calling me in," you told Sherlock as you heard him enter the flat, carrying a large brown parcel carefully wrapped with a note taped to the top. "What is it?"

"Not sure," Sherlock set the package down on top of the coffee table, swiping the papers on it off and onto the floor. "Want to do the honors?"

"You can," yanking the knife off of the fireplace mantle, and throwing it to him, after closing it of course. "I'll read the note."

Sherlock tore open the package as you carefully opened the note, trying not to destroy the envelope. "Y/N, I think you need to see this."

"Wait," holding up your hand to stop Sherlock, the note not making sense saying, "If you want to know, come to the water -SM"

"What in the package, Sherlock?"

"A glove. With blood." There it was, it must have been connected to the murder that was on the news.

"Get dressed, we're going to a crime scene," moving past Sherlock to your bedroom, you slammed the door behind you, heart racing from excitement or fear you knew not.

—

Getting into the taxi cab, Sherlock was already buckled in and in his classic thinking pose. "Do you know anyone by the initials of SM?"

"Sebastian Moran," you admitted after you had been busy thinking about it for the past few moments since the note was sent, "Old family friend, it would make sense for him to be working for James. But he-"

Sherlock raised his eyebrow, wanting the answer. "He what?"

"He was killed in action. A Colonel in the army, a bomb went off and the mortar was to embedded so he bled out."

Shuddering you remembered the report from the army, the manilla folder that held all the gruesome details of your friend's death on the field.

Sherlock pondered the case, knowing that the both of you didn't have many other options for who the sender of the letter could be, "Official death records?"

"I asked for them, but they never sent me them, told me they were confidential, strictly for armed forces members."

"We'll be needing that file, if it exists," Sherlock furrowed his brows as he realized who would need to get those files.

Already on it, you found the contact on your phone, M. Holmes, "I'll call him, but we really are going to owe him so many favors."

Silence was met on your end as the phone rang, he must be busy. 

"He's not picking up, I'll text him," you informed Sherlock, sending a quick explanation and asking for the files if they even existed. "What water does the note mean?"

"The pool."

It made sense, if the man, or woman, whoever it was, was working with James, it would be best to meet at a familiar spot for both parties. "Sherlock, when are we going?"

"Who knows, whoever it is, if they really want us to find out can wait until we're done with this scene."

"I'll call John for backup," sighing, you dialed in the ex-soldiers number, needing every bit of skill he had. "And Mary too."

—

The scene was boring, and dull, whoever it was, was an amateur, ruling out highly skilled people that normally seemed to work under your brother.

"This is to simple," you paced back and forth, Sherlock leaning against the wall, hands clasped as he thought.

"It was a set up, whoever sent the note is distracting us, giving them time to get ready."

"At least we're somewhat prepared for this rendezvous," you sighed, walking under the tape of the crime scene to hail a cab to pick up John, Mary not able to come because of Rosie.

A flash appeared on your phone screen.

Glancing down as a cab pulled to a harsh stop in front of you, the words caught the corner of your eye. There are no official death records for Sebastian Moran, and no confirmations of death from any superiors.

"Well," you chuckled, making the cab driver send you a strange look as Sherlock looked confused, "Looks like we have a suspect."

AN: yeah I forgot about this book tbh