Sherlock Imagines

Paprazzi (SherlockxReader)

Okay. A bit of a confession to make. I always at least try to do my requests in order, so that I don't have to explain why one is done and not another. I'm stepping away from my own rule, because I'm hitting a wall on the Greg and Moriarty imagines I have in my requested boxes. I will get to them- I swear. I've just had no luck in completing them, so I'm very sorry.
Also, if I'm being honest, this wasn't what I was working on for this request. I wrote it for my tumblr account, and... yeah. I liked it with the song.
Request: Sherlockxreader; inspired by: Paparazzi by Lady Gaga [Not a song Fic]
Requested by: @Crystal19Akiyama
Level: 8/10 I'm putting it out there that I am sorry. I know where you probably wanted me to go with this, but I kinda did the opposite, so, yeah. Also, best place to start the song will be along the line of "•". Okay? We good? Okay, you can read now. Enjoy!

"That isn't fair!" How could he give you a 'C' when you did more work than everyone else? Even he admitted it was the best piece, and most supported article! But no- he gave you a 'C' because it had nothing to do with "current events". Because the brutal slaying of a prostitute doesn't seem to qualify. Does no one else think even they deserve some ink?
"Your essay was supposed to be on a current topic, not the mutilation of a street-" That's where you drew the line.
"So, if I had done the assassination of a diplomat, I would've gotten an 'A'?" You snapped. No one wanted to admit that they thought whoever killed people like her were "cleaning up the place". But that woman had a life, just like any other victim. How was her death any different, or less impactful on the world? She was someone's little girl, a sister, and a mother to two boys. But that's not how anyone else saw it, and that really burned you up inside.
Almost sheepishly, he replied, "Yes." Now you wanted to tear his stupid office apart, but you knew it would do you absolutely no good. You'd handle how the general public saw the people working on the streets when you were an actual journalist. For now, you'd have to find away to fix your grade. Taking a deep breath to steady yourself, you carefully chose your words.
"Can I fix this, in any way?" And that's the question that led you to start researching the one and only: Sherlock Holmes. If you could just get the story to make any other journalists' career- he'd fix your grade. How could you say no to such an opportunity? You couldn't, and that's what lead you to take the flat right below him at 221C Baker Street.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••

The first few days were spent unpacking your new flat, enjoying tea with Mrs Hudson, and gathering any information you could on Sherlock Holmes, without actually talking to the man. Really, at first, you were just collecting photographs and clues on the man. Basically, you were his full time stalker that he never let sleep due to his 3 am violin jam sessions. He does understand the concept of sleep, does he not? Still, your sleep-deprived state didn't stop you from stalking him and John to crime scenes in your spare time, at least, it didn't when you still were.
John noticed you taking pictures along with all the other reporters and physically pulled Sherlock towards all of the reporters, everyone with their cameras flashing- nearly blinding both himself and Sherlock in the process -just to go off on you. In the process, though, you managed to meet Sherlock Holmes, and he was rather impressed with your stalking abilities. After two weeks of following him near everywhere, he'd had yet to notice you'd even came up more than once in his life. You didn't know if that was a compliment or a burn, but damn. Maybe you should've been a professional spy or something.
After that, you'd attempt to get Sherlock to talk to you about his methods- to give you the insider scoop- but to barely an avail. It's not like you were going to give up, though.
"So, what was it like when you were a kid? Being a super-genius, and all?" You brought up once again, making him an afternoon cuppa, hoping the kind gesture would be reciprocated.
"It was fine." Is that literally how he replied to everything?
"Alright... how do you do it, then? Solve all those crimes? I want to know what 'deducing' actually is." You set the tea in front of him, sitting in John's chair, leaning in to listen. He must've been getting rather tired with your constant pestering, because he actually seemed to humor your question.
"Do you want to know what deducing is, or are you asking how it's done?" You thought about the question for a silent moment. If you asked how it was done, the how would lead you to the what- just like a crime scene. How the crime was committed showed you what the main purpose of it was... then, you'd also be able to (maybe) pick up on subtle clues relating to Sherlock Holmes, himself...
"How." You stated simply, and he eyed you carefully. He seemed to take an odd interest in your answer, because he actually looked like he would tell you! Your excitement had to have been clear, because it felt like a whole thunderstorm was whizzing throughout your body. Rain patterned against your ribcage, mimicking a heartbeat, lightning lit up your veins causing thunder to roar your lungs into an unsteady rhythm.
"Okay," He agreed, standing up, "What can you tell about John Watson from this room?" He wasn't even going to explain to you what you should be looking for, first? Well, immersion is the best form of teaching... you looked around, part of you trying to sort out what was Sherlock and what was John. The fridge is what stuck out first.
"He had to have once been in a violent field of work." You pretty much asked, not suggested. He looked at you oddly, trying to pick up on your train of thought.
"He's a doctor, right now. Works in a clinic, and yet, I've never heard him complain about body parts in the fridge. So, he must have a bit of immunity built up to that gory stuff, right?" You tried, receiving a furrowed brow, half smile, and small head nod in return. So, you kept looking.
"Um, he's attracted to danger." You made an inference based on your last deduction, and his relationship with Sherlock. Yet, the detective seemed to be impressed by your skills. And from that point on, whenever you went up to 221B, you and the detective played a game he liked to call "Deductions". You preferred "The Game Sherlock Always Wins, But You Enjoy Nonetheless."

It was maybe a month after you and Sherlock began properly getting along that you turned in your completed piece on "Sherlock Holmes: A Mind Like No Other." Sherlock actually appreciated the title, and insisted you let him read it once it was graded. And how could you refuse him with his darling curls, sonorous voice, and eyes that could kill a person with their shimmering beauty? Actually, you were heading back to his flat to show him the pictures of your professor's face when he saw you'd actually manage to get the story on Sherlock Holmes. After you explained the situation with your original piece, Sherlock grew about an equal loathing of the man. It seemed you finally had met a person that hated the politics of police work as much as you did. On your way, however, you heard something in an alleyway that was known to be were "professional dates" picked up johns. Most people would've ignored the sounds of struggle that were atypical for the area, not caring what happened to a street whore... then again, as Sherlock liked to say, you were not most people. By the time you made it to the alleyway, she was already dead, holding pieces of her own intestines in a futile last attempt to survive, and a blonde man stood over her, seeming rather bored with what just happened- not a speck of blood on him. You tried to snap a photo, but none of them showed any identifiable markings... an idea struck you. Quickly, you turned to a woman a few steps away who was carrying a coffee, and managed to exchange the cup for a twenty. Once the man made it to the mouth of the alley, he was immediately crashed into, scalding coffee drenching his white tee and leather jacket. You gasped like this wasn't an intentional thing, and quickly began profusely apologizing. You looked into his eyes, and recalled every romcom, girl-in-love look you could, plastering it onto your own face. His eyes were a dangerous shade of blue, and he had a scar carved out of part of his face, over his left eye. If it weren't for the scar, actually, he would be rather attractive.
"I am so, so sorry about that... I-I don't have any cash on me, but... maybe you could give me your information, and w-we could arrange a way for me to pay for your dry cleaning? M-Maybe pay you back for the, heh, c-coffee fiasco?" You tripped over your words as much as possible, bringing any information that could help you look more love-stricken up. Unsurprisingly, your favorite detective was at the forefront of your mind. The waves in his ocean-coloured eyes narrowed as he pulled out a little notebook and a pen, seemingly a bit skeptical about you.
"Uh, yeah, sure... sounds great.." He scribbled down his name, then his number, his attention still on the notebook as he tore it out and you lifted your camera up, flash on, this time. You quickly snapped your hand out to grab the paper, the flash blinding the Goliath of a man for a long enough moment for you to begin sprinting the two blocks back to Baker Street. You could hear him growl behind you, before beginning to chase you. Three years on track team definitely never paid off anymore than it did in that moment. Making it to Baker Street was a blessing, and you nearly tripped over the steps, you were going so fast. You tried opening the door to 221B, finding it was locked. You could almost sense the murderer nearing, and you started banging wildly on the door.
"SHERLOCK! LET ME IN, PLEASE!" The door swung open downstairs, at almost an identical time as the detective's did.
"Hello, Darling." A smooth Irish accent welcomed. This wasn't Sherlock, obviously not, but he did look awfully familiar. The man behind you chuckled, a sickening sound.
"Nice to see ya, Jim." The man behind you was definitely British, but also seemed to know the man in front of you. The name stuck out as something Sherlock had told you, though... Jim Moriarty. You were most definitely screwed.
"Now, now, Sebby- you knew she was on to you. Though, that little rouse she used was awfully smart~." The raven haired-madman in front of you purred, freezing you in place as his index finger caressed your jaw.
"I'm going to have so much fun with you, pet." He whispered heavily into your ear while the other jabbed you in the neck. The last thing you could remember was everything turning black, and a lunatic giggling jumbled up with the words, "So... much... fun."