Doctor Strange Imagines

Elementary

Meanwhile I rack my brain for some ideas for imagines and working in a new one, I have been up to something.

I mean, eventually I do want to do a Sherlock Holmes fic in here but I have been dwelling in tumblr for a while, writing some Sherlock x readers.

I am trying to capture the Sherlock Holmes atmosphere so I've been doing some writing.

Here is the beginning of one of my x readers. For while you wait for the next chapter and receive a look into how I will write it I do believe.

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September 12, 2002

A date he would never forget no matter how hard he tried to erase it permanently from the deepest and darkest corners in his mind. His mind palace stored a library, containing details important enough to be kept forever stored.

But why that memory? What made it stand out from the rest of the dusty untouched books to be kept in a class case right in the middle, where he would see it every time he walked by to retreat information for a case?

He did know, of course he did. And there would be times where his feet would be planted on the parquet flooring that gave his library a bizarre, somewhat mosaic and ordered feeling to the place.

He would stare at it for hours, glimmering eyes fixed on the case for decades. He would always be snapped back to reality by a worried John. The blogger would constantly see that somber and distant gaze that decorated the permanently stoic expression of the consulting detective.

'Wandering at my mind palace Watson.' He would always calmly respond to his assistant's inquiring expression, hands pressed together under his chin. John had a cuppa ready for him when he came back from God knows where he went in that mysterious mind of his.

'Wandering my bum Holmes. We both know you are remembering.' John would wisely counterattack, stirring some sugar to battle against the bitter and strong taste black tea had. To think better. John would always say.

Handing it over to Sherlock, who took a sip of the steaming tea without hesitation, Watson finally let himself relax on his couch, sinking in the comfortable and somewhat scratchy material of it.

'Are you ready to tell me what happened back then, Holmes?' John crossed his left leg over the opposite, setting the porcelain cup with his drink on the small table he had set close for placing anything that came to mind, right now being the relaxing beverage.

'Watson, do you really have to-' The infamous detective stopped mid sentence, like he always did every single time the question was brought up. His eyes would dart to his untouched violin, resting dust fully on its open case, waiting for a tune to be played.

Someday. He thought to himself when he met gaze with his beloved instrument.

With a small sigh, Watson watched Sherlock spiraling into memory lane. By now he would know the detective wouldn't come to be until the next morning so he opted in watching telly.

The channels' broadcasts are crap. John exhaled tiredly, pressing a button on the remote and watching the image change to Sunday's at Tiffany's. Sure why not, it couldn't be compared to the book but there wasn't anything better.

The fire crackled in the well kept chimney next to them, the dim flames casting obscure shadows across Sherlock's face. It created a unique atmosphere for both men. For John it was a calm night. For Sherlock well...

Painful memories.