BBC Sherlock One Shots and Imagines

Preference #1

How You First Meet Them

Sherlock: It was late on a Friday night, and you had just gotten a call from Greg Lestrade about an interesting case. See, you had just been transferred from your job in Ireland, where you were born and raised, to Scotland Yard in London. But you were no ordinary detective. Apparently, you had many similar traits to another man who lived in London. Something Holmes was his name... you didn't bother to remember. But since you were an official member of Scotland Yard, they asked you to check it out, with the help of this infamous detective of course. 

Well you got there, you noticed a tall, skinny (possibly muscular) man crouched over the dead body that were supposed to be examining. Another man was alongside him, poking at YOUR dead body! This was YOUR case! Supposedly, he wasn't even an official detective! So there was no way you were going to let him take this case. No chance in hell, it was way too interesting to pass up. So, you whipped your  black trench coat in a very dramatic flair, making your way towards the mangled dead body and detective that you already dislike. Your black heels made a continuous *clicking* noise on your way over. That must have been what gave your presence away, because before you had a chance to bark at Something Holmes, he stood up quickly and whipped around to face you, surprising you slightly. He visibly tenses before putting his hand out in the open, obviously a sign for you to shake it while he introduces himself and companion, "My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my partner John Watson." I nod in the direction of the blonde haired shorter man as a sign of acknowledgement, before making eye contact with the detective once again. I make no move to shake his still hanging hand. So, Sherlock was his name. 

"Well, Sherlock Holmes, that's MY dead body you're examining." 

John Watson:  

It was raining cats and dogs in London today. I had just left work at Bart's as a forensic pathologist, and was walking home because the weather wasn't this bloody awful five minutes ago! I decided to wait out the storm in a nice little café that I had just walked by, somethings called Speedy's I believe. 

The door opened with a little jingle, a merry sounding sound, and I was greeted with warmth and the bitter-sweet smell of coffee and tea. I looked around for a moment, but found there were no single seats left and only a small booth in the back corner of the little shop. I went over and took my seat, and ordered some tea and  something to nibble on, a lemon pound cake. I knew I wouldn't eat it all, but I was looking forward to taking it home and eating while watching re-runs on the telly. 

I heard the merry little jingle once more, and I looked up to see a suave, handsome looking sandy-blond man standing in the doorway, slightly damp. He quickly closed the door, sealing out the cold, and looked for a seat as I did only a moment ago. He made eye-contact with me, obviously because I was sitting in the only available booth left in the cozy shop, and I smiled slightly and nodded my head once, subtly inviting him over. His frown grew into a smile as he walked over to me and took his eat, watching me sip quietly at my hot tea. 

"Would you like some pound cake?" 

Jim Moriarty: 

It was nearly 3 in the morning when you finally got home, dressed nicely in a long deep emerald green lace dress, burgundy lipstick and long black hair curled and pinned up into an elegant mess. You could feel your gun holster strapped to your thigh chafing, and the knife on your calf wasn't too enjoyable either. 

It was an easy job, an in and out kind of thing. All you had to do was get into the masquerade, get the rich (and sleezy to be honest) business man drunk and seduce him, leave him to a secluded room that was far enough away that no one would be able to hear him scream when I murdered him. 

Not everyone can have nice day jobs, you know. 

I was cleaning my knife when it happened, when I heard something in my living room, the smallest little bump as if someone had knocked into a piece of my expensive furniture. A plus side of being an assassin on the other hand is being paid well and being able to purchase such things. 

I slipped my knife back into it's place on the side of my calf, and carefully slipped off my heels. I tiptoed out of my bedroom, and pressed myself tightly against the wall of my penthouse, silently and stealthily sliding against the wall until the sound came from just around the corner. I slid my hand up my leg until my fingers were met with the cold metal of my pistol, and slipped in out of the holster so it was steady and heavy in my hand. 

In one quick and smooth movement, I slipped from my place behind the corner of the wall and held my stance, both hands on the cold black pistol held in front of my face, gun cocked and ready to shoot.

I was met with a slight gasp, and the man who had intruded into my home dropped the vase he was holding up. 

"That," I nodded my head in the direction of the broken pieces of the white and pale blue vase on the ground, "was very expensive."

The man, dressed sharply in a navy blue and black Westwood suit replied, "Hon, you startled me. I didn't expect you to know I was here quite yet. Thought you'd still be cleaning up from tonight's events. Beautiful work, by the way."

"I thank you. But I am obliged to ask, who are you and what are you doing in my home?"

I see him smirk in the dim lighting before saying. "Darling, my name is James Moriarty. But my friends call me Jim." 

I roll my eyes, keeping my gun trained on him, "You haven't answered my second question, James. Why. Are. You. Here?" 

"Oh, dear me! Would you like to work for me?"

I snort. 

"Work FOR you? I would like to think I was better than working for someone that can't even break into someone's house successfully?"

"Fine, let's make a deal. We work side by side, and you go to supper with me?"