BBC Sherlock Imagines

Sherlock x Reader | It's Her

Description: Sherlock gets a call from Lestrade about a homocide, and when he gets there, he's unhappily greeted by the sight of your body.
Warnings: You Die, Sad, Swearing, Hostage.
Word Count : 974
This story will be from several POVs.
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:Your POV:
The binds around my wrist are agonizingly tight, pairing with the uncomfortable gag around my mouth. My captor is standing over me, beating me. I have no idea who he is, at least I think I don't. My eyes are blurred with tears, as I take every boot kick to my stomach, and every slap to my cheek. After a full twenty minutes of full on rage being delivered by him to my body, he stops and looks at me. He bends down so he is my height, and I feel my limbs go numb with fear. It's almost impossible to think I could be anymore terrified than I am right now, but my proposition is challenged as he takes out a hand gun from behind him, and presses it between my eyes. I squeeze my eyes shut and wish for death, wish for this to all be over so I can be finally met with piece. And then it happens, and I feel my body hit the pavement, and a warm liquid engulf my surroundings.

:Sherlock's POV:
I sit in my chair and listen as I hear Lestrade come through the door downstairs, and greet Ms. Hudson. It's been weeks since I've had a case, and hearing him stall downstairs was equivalent to torture. Eventually he comes up the stairs, and before he knocks in up and almost yanking him in the door, eager to hear about any sort of case he may have.

"Is it a case?" I ask.

"Yes." He says, then continues to tell me about the murder of a woman that had happened a few night ago. I don't hear much of the story for I am out the door by the time he he mentions 'murder'. I get in a cab and make my way to the scene, staring out the window in thought as we swivel through the streets. A long while later we arrive, and I get out, paying the cabbie as well. I look over my shoulder and see Gavin, or was it Gabe?" Whatever, Lestrade is trotting towards me and joining my side on the way to the body.

"By the looks of her body, this must have happened a few nights ago. The victim was held hostage as shown by bruises on her wrists and the gag that was left around her mouth, and she struggled. She was killed by a gunshot wound straight between the eyes, and left there." He states.

I walk towards the body and begin my purpose. The woman is layed on her side facing away from me, the floor surrounding her stained a red colour, along with the edges of her clothes. The bruises on her hand are prominent, and her top is lifted enough that I can see more bruises littered on her back along with small scrapes. I kneel down to get a better look. I notice there are patches of hair that have been pulled out, I'm guessing from the captor dragging her. Her fingernails are short, but not bitten short so the captor must have cut them to prevent her from cutting him. She seems a tad familiar but I brush the thought off as it is not work related therefore not important. Lestrade is talking in the background, so I zone him out and continue my deducing. I walk around her to look at her front side, and I am out off with her appearance. Her entire face is swollen with bruises and cuts, her bones are protruding telling me that her captor has had her for a while, and seldom fed her.

Suddenly a wave memory is washed over me. I look back at her face and begin to unscramble her face in my mind. Think of how she would look without the wounds and such. My mind clicks back to a few years ago, to a memory with my girlfriend at the time. It was the moment I last laid eyes on her when I was stood at the top of St. Bartholomew's Hospital, about to fake my death. In the phone receiver all I could hear were her weeps. Her cries for me not to jump, for me to step back from the edge. I'll never forget the unearthly scream she'd made when I threw myself down. That was the last time I ever had seen her. I thought she would be somewhere far away by now, living a new life without me. I never bothered to check on her or call her in case that would accidentally bring her back into my mess of a life, but here she lay. Her cold, lifeless body left on the pavement to suffer.

"What is it, Sherlock?" Says Lestrade.

"What did you say her name was?" I ask, wanting clarification.

"Y/n, Y/n L/n."

As he says the words, a tear falls from my eyes. I let it, as I'm distracted by the thoughts spiralling my mind like a hurricane. I never got to say a proper goodbye, never got to say a last formal I love you. I sit down next to her and allow a sob to escape my mouth.

"Sherlock, you alright?" Lestrade asks.

"I'm so sorry." I say, but not to Lestrade, to Y/n.

"What have I done."

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Hey!

GUYS THIS BOOK HIT 400 READS OH HELLLLLL YEEEEhhh!!!!

Thank you so much, I'm trying to even out the amount of imagines in all of my books but I want to work on this one since it's so successful!

May we meet again.

- SW