Sherlock Imagines & One-Shots

STAGES (Sherlock) Part Three

"You British and your tea fetish."
Quinn said, shaking her head in exasperation as they stepped into the coffee shop, shaking the bitter cold off as the fragrant, chocolatey scent of the cozy room flushed over them. Quinn cracked a smile, her cheeks glowing rose from the biting chill. Her shoulders relaxed as she surveyed the familiar turf, the low chatter and warm light a lullaby of comfort in a street of foggy grey.
"You do realize you live in England now, right?" John asked, glancing at the woman in amusement.
"You sure about that?"
"You live with us. I'm pretty sure."
"ARE YOU?"
"Shhh!"
Sherlock rolled his eyes at the woman's antics, flecks of exasperation in his lungs. "You're a British citizen now, Caunter. Get over it."
"Legally, that may be so, but when has the law ever dictated me?"
There was a pause, in which Quinn smirked triumphantly.
"Exactly."
Someone coughed. They turned around to see a lanky, plaid cladded man waiting patiently. "Um, are you in line?"
"No." "Yes."
The air turned cold. Sherlock and Quinn turned to each other, burning searing glares into each other.
"What the hell, Caunter? We aren't here for coffee!"
"Well, if we're already here, why waste the opportunity?"
"Because someone is being murdered as we speak, Caunter!"
Quinn straightened, holding her ground despite the towering height of the detective. "Oh, yeah? Well, screw you!"
"That doesn't even-!"
John groaned, resisting the overwhelming urge to roll his eyes as he turned to the man and offered a worn smile. "We're fine. You can go on ahead."
The man nodded, looking a little disturbed at the scene the two detectives were causing. Luckily, the shop was loud enough not to raise too much attention to the bickering adults- well, more like children, really- as they engaged in a particularly brutal verbal battle.
Sherlock lost.
His argument had been sound of mind and logic, but Quinn didn't give a shit about that crap. It didn't matter how high her IQ was- it was just as massive as Sherlock's ego- if she wanted something, by God, she'd get it. No matter how ridiculous it was.
"He's not even going to be here for another seven minutes, anyways," She said as Sherlock scowled, still sore from losing. The detective merely grunted in reply. She was smirking at him, a stupid, smug little smirk Sherlock was itching to wipe off her face. Either with a punch or a kiss, he didn't really know. Or care. Either. Both? No. None. Nevermind. God, he was distracted.
And it was all her fucking fault.
"Excuse me, are you ready to order?"
A round faced, pleasant looking woman asked, her vocal chords pitched rather brightly. A neatly pinned name tag just below her collarbone assigned her Katie.
Quinn didn't seem to hear the woman, her eyes glued onto her phone as her fingers tapped madly across the screen. Sherlock scowled, nudging Quinn with his boot.
"What?" She asked, glancing up at him. He rolled his eyes in reply, before jerking his head towards the counter. "I don't... Oh, yeah. Sorry. So, let's see. Can I have a... lemme see... oh, shit, you've got pumpkin spice lattes! I didn't realize you still sold them!"
The woman chuckled lightly. "Well, I assume you're ordering that, then?"
"Yes, please. Hey, John, what do you want? Nevermind. I know. He'll have a blonde roast, please. No cream or sugar. And Sherlock..."
She glanced at the lanky detective as he sulked a few feet away, eyes flicking across the room without much interest, glaring daggers at anyone who dared to make eye contact.
"...He'll have a water."
The woman- Katie - nodded knowingly, eyes twinkling.
"Sure. That'll be nine pounds, please."
Quinn dug out a wrinkle bill from her coat, handing it to Katie unapologetically.
"And what name would you like on your drinks?" Katie asked the taller woman, folding away the cash into the register with a satisfying click.
" Sherlock Holmes." Quinn replied, not missing a beat.
"Sherlock? What a lovely name."
"Not as lovely as his looks, dearie." Quinn replied, winking as she turned to the two men.
Five minutes later, the trio were sitting besides the window, Quinn and John on one end and Sherlock on the other, the detectives untouched water beginning to perspire cold pearls on the frosted glass. Quinn sipped her steamy mug, the warmth spreading through her toes and hearing her very core. Her eyes were fixed on Sherlock as he drummed his spindle fingers against the tabletop absently, staring out the window onto the foggy street of london. The pale light illuminated his face, making him look almost angelic. Almost.
Her stomach tightened, contracting her lungs and making her brain a bit dizzy. Not necessarily in a bad way, though. She wondered why. Perhaps she was allergic to coffee. If that was the case, she'd probably shoot herself in the foot.
"Quinn."
Quinn blinked, attention slowly pulsing its way back into her bloodstream. "Hmm?"
"You're spilling your coffee."
She glanced down at the table, where a small puddle of tannish beverage had accumulated.
"Well, would you look at that." She noted offhandedly.
She swallowed another sip of caffeine, eying it with a shadow of a frown. It just wasn't the same as whisky, no matter how hard she urged it to be. Well, she supposed coffee was a slightly better addiction. It kept her distracted, at least.
"He's here," Sherlock suddenly said, gaze fixed on something- well, someone- trotting down the street.
"Wonderful," Quinn replied monotonously.
A chill of a draft breezed over the trio as the door swung open, the hinges squeaking slightly at the motion.
Standing in the doorway was a model of a man with chestnut, playfully ruffled hair and a smile that could stop traffic in times square. He shifted his backpack higher up onto his broad shoulders, creasing his burgundy button up and bringing out the light in his chocolatey irises.
Quinn's eyes trailed over him with heightened interest, drinking in his solid frame and scruffed, chiseled jaw before letting out the softest of appreciative whistles.
"Sweet Jesus. Get me a piece of that eye candy," She remarked dryly, lips tugging into a rather dirty grin.
Sherlock glanced at her, eyes narrowed dangerously.
Something dark had begun stirring in his gut, a boiling, feral creature prowling, resentment bubbling red hot in his stomach and thickly clawing its way up his throat.
Stupid.
Sam Houston walked up to the counter, catching almost as many glances as Quinn's entrance. He ordered a iced coffee, thanking the barista before sliding down at a stool.
Quinn stood, Sherlock and John's gaze snapping to her. "What are you doing?"
"What does it look like?" She replied, hips swaying ever so slightly as she stepped over to Sam, her boots clipping against the chocolate floorboards.
"What should we do?" John asked Sherlock, brows knit as he watched Quinn leave.
Sherlock didn't respond, a dangerously dark shadow cast over his face. John glanced over at his uncharacteristic silence, eyes widening at the detectives expression. Like he was ready to snap the neck of the first person who smiled at him. John shrunk back, taking a nervous sip of coffee as he watched the scene unfold.
Quinn leaned over onto the bar, her glistening locks tumbling over her shoulder like spun gold. Her lashed orbs twinkled as she rested her jaw on her palm, scanning the brunet sitting next to her wryly.
"Why iced?"
His eyes shot up from his drink, blinking as they settled on the smirking woman staring down at him. His eyes widened ever so slightly as his gaze flickered over her face, although he quickly turned it into an easy smile.
"Why not?" He replied, twirling the straw in between his fingers.
Quinn's lips twitched. "Touchè."
She slid just into the seat next to him, head tilted to the right. "And what's a pretty boy like you doing here all by himself?" She asked, taking another sip of her drink.
The corner of his mouth tugged upwards. "I like coffee."
"Not as much as beer, though."
Sam rose a brow. "How'd you know I like beer?"
"Oh, it's obvious. You like alcohol, but you're obviously not a very heavy drinker. You also frequent quite a few bars, judging by the creases in your shirt. Not to mention the stain on your right sleeve. It's a dead giveaway. You're also proudly a- well, a man, and men drink beer. Well, most men. Beer's fine, I suppose, but I personally prefer something stronger."
Sam seemed impressed, a dimple beginning to form in his cheek. "Well, aren't you a clever one?"
"Sherlock?" John asked. Sherlock ignored him, his eyes fixed firmly on the conversation in front of him. His fingers had begun to lose feeling with how tight he was clenching his fists, but he barely noticed. His head had begun throbbing, painful, scarlet pulses of- something- blurring his sight.
"So I've been told." Quinn winked.
Sherlock had the sudden urge to sock Sam in the eye.
Sam leaned forward slightly, propping up his elbow upon the table. "What's your name?"
Quinn drew a sly smirk across her face, the one same one she used ever so often on Sherlock. "I suppose I could tell you. But that's really not much fun, is it?"
His eyes twinkled. "Mysterious, huh? I like that."
Sherlock's teeth were gritted together so hard it hurt. His mouth tasted metallic, bitter with bile, and his fists were just itching to deck Sam in the throat. But why?
Because he was jealous.
Sherlock Holmes, jealous?
Ha.
Of course he wasn't jealous. Why would he be? It was just Quinn. His Quinn. No, not his. Just Quinn. His colleague. Roommate. Platonic companion. That was all. This wasn't new. She flirted with anyone with a pulse. That was all this was. Quinn, flirting with another idiot. Smirking at him. Laughing with him. Probably going to go sleep with him-
"Sherlock!" John snapped him out of his daze with a painful elbow to the ribs. "You're spilling all over!"
Sherlock glanced down at his fists, where the plastic cup had become completely crushed by his trembling fists, spilling ice water across the table. He completely ignored the spill, adrenaline still raging in his eardrums as tugged out his phone, texting furiously. A cheerful little ping came from Quinn's direction as she checked her messages.

Stop being an idiot, Caunter. Get to the point.
SH

Quinn was unfazed, lazily typing in a response.

Nah.
Q.

Sherlock growled, his brow twitching. John seemed mildly concerned for his friend, glancing to him with a knit brow. "You alright, Sherlock?"
"She's being stupid," He retorted, tucking his phone back into his coat.
"So, what should I call you, then?" Sam continued, the stubble on his jaw rather distracting as Quinn swirled her cup of coffee.
"My friends like to call me asshole, but you can take your pick."
He laughed. "By who, your boyfriend over there?" He didn't blink, gesturing over toward Sherlock and John's table.
Shit.
Quinn was unfazed.
"Looks like you're pretty clever yourself." She said dryly.
"Nah. But I know when a guy likes a girl. Besides, the good ones are always taken."
Quinn smiled, but her mind was somewhere else. "That's sweet. But no, he's not my boyfriend. I work with them, though. Well, when they aren't being complete shits."
He chuckled. "And what, mystery girl, do you do for work?"
"Detective."
"Detective, eh? So, then, I'm assuming you didn't come over just for a chat."
"Not just for a chat. Though this is rather lovely. Do you know a woman by the name of Christina DeMarco?"
Sam looked a bit off guard. "Who- oh. The barista. Sort of. We went out once or twice. But- well, she sort of went out with everybody. Why? Oh God. Did something happen?"
"No."
There was a pause. "Well, yeah, actually. She's dead."
Sam swallowed. "Oh my God. What- how did this happen?"
"Someone poisoned her."
"Thats... oh, shit. Thats..." he shook his head. "God. I barely knew her. I mean, yeah, we hooked up once, but..." he bit his cheek, pushing the shock away. It wouldn't be helpful, anyways. "So, you haven't found the culprit yet, I'm assuming?"
"Not yet. Well, sort of. We found his next victim, at least."
"Who is it?"
Quinn smiled. "Why, you, sweetheart!"

....

He blinked.
"Me?"
"Yup."
"Well... shit." He said, glancing down at his coffee. Or lack of one. His gaze flickered back over to Quinn,who'd somehow managed to sneak his latte into her hand. She noticed his confusion, her heels clicking against the stool. "Oh, yeah. You probably shouldn't drink this."
"I'm glad I didn't. Wait, why would anyone want to kill me? I mean, maybe Gary, but how was I supposed to know Sarah was his sister?! But- hold on- does this have something to do with Christina?"
Quinn swayed, her head bobbing a yes.
"Why? I mean, we were barely friends. Yeah, we sometimes... but she did that with everyone. Why would anyone want to kill me?"
"Well, remember all those 'suicides'? They were in the papers a while back."
"I prefer electronic news."
"Well, anyways. A few men, from twenty five to thirty two- all suddenly decided to kill themselves. None of them had any relation or connecting factor, besides the fact they were all male and all killed themselves with a bullet to the brain. But it didnt make sense. Most of them were doing pretty well for themselves. Rich-ish, attractive, pretty stable jobs. Their families were shocked. So- well, the police thought they'd just all offed themselves, but we- me and curly, anyways- we were thinking serial killer. Makes more sense, you know? I mean, you don't just wake up one day and decide to blow your brains out. So serial killer it was."
She continued. "But then Christina turns up dead- murdered- with all the dead men in her contact list. And a bottle of birth control in her purse. She's sort of what you'd call a- well, she liked certain... activities. Nonetheless. She had sent quite a few emails to her best friend- Apparently someone was stalking her. Had been for a while. And then every guy she'd ever slept turned up dead and- well, she started freaking out. She never knew who was her stalker, besides his gender. Considering how many men she had in her life, that narrows it down to half of london. So that was sort of a dead end. Luckily, we know where the killers going to be today!"
"Where?"
"Well, he's going down the list. The last guy was Carlos, and he was murdered at his favorite club's bathroom. So the killer knew his schedule. And it just so happens that his next victim has been going to the same coffee shop at five fifteen every day for the past two years."
There was a pause, in which Sam took a moment to process this new information.
And then it hit him.
"Oh, shit."
Quinn's grin broadened as she took another sip of her coffee, swishing the drink between her teeth lazily. "Yup."
Sam inhalded, glancing around the room for potential suspects. "Should I call the police?" He asked anxiously, eyes slightly wide.
"Nah. You'll be fine. Don't worry. It's not like the killer's going to just walk into here and start shooting."
BANG.
A hole piercing the wall just barely above Quinn's skull, a bullet wedged firmly in the plaster.
Another shot fired, barley missing Sam. Screams filled the air, terror ricocheting across the shop like steam. Bodies clamored for cover, scattering like ants at a picnic.
Quinn sighed, setting her coffee down at the bar in exasperation.
"Well, nevermind, then."