Peter Parker & Tom Holland Imagines

holland & holmes pt.1 {t.h.}

sherlock au

The cab jostles and bounces through the streets of London, which sends its passengers tossing around inside it. I lean back against the leather of the seat as I try to swallow the building nausea and anger from the situation and pointed looks.

Well, more precisely look.

Uncle Mycroft is far too wrapped up in the contents of his notebook to acknowledge any piece of the situation. Dr. Watson, on the other hand, alternates between looking out the window and glancing at me as if he expects me to leap out of the moving cab at any moment.

Although, I have to admit, it's not an entirely irrational assumption. Because the prospect of tumbling out against the rough cobblestone has a growing appeal in contrast to sitting almost knee to knee against the angry look of Inspector Thomas Holland.

His deep brown eyes bore into me from across the cab as he tries to pick me apart like he used to. It makes me have to bite down the need to fidget or hide in my seat like a school girl caught by the teacher. There's a part of me that foolishly wishes he was looking like that because he still cares but I firmly believe those days are long gone. If they weren't, we wouldn't be so cold.

My eyes fall from his, I've learned meeting his gaze for more than a second only fuels the fire. So I turn my gaze to his constantly moving hands. Although, I quickly wish I hadn't when I notice exactly what he's fiddling with—my grandfather's watch.

It was a family heirloom, which was passed down from my grandfather—a sought after watchmaker—to my mother as a token for her to pass on to her future husband and children. Papa once told me she thought of hearts like clocks. "They always have a constant beat to prove their alive. Additionally, in the wrong hands, they can be broken, but in the right ones, they can be mended as if nothing happened."

The old timepiece is easily recognizable for the intricate engraving that covers the metal faces. Papa gave it to me when I was fifteen as a way to remember the mother that had long ago faded into a ghost of memories. He even made me promise—a very unlikely thing of Sherlock Holmes to do—that I would only give it to someone I trusted implicitly and with all my heart—no one else.

There's an ache in my chest as I remember at time that was Thomas—and how despite so much that's happened, he still is the one I would trust with my life. I open my mouth to say something, ignoring the dull pain radiating from my recently broken lip, but the words fall short when the cabbie shouts, "Baker Street, Sirs and Miss."

I don't bother to wait for the cabbie to open the door or help me down. Instead, I resort to the unladylike action of stepping out on my own. It brings a small smile to my face as no one seems to care or notice due to my masculine garb, which happened to get me into this situation in the first place.

The door to 221 swings open to reveal a flustered Mrs. Hudson with a blanket in hand and face as pale as a ghost at the sight of me. "Y/N Holmes," She sighs as she drapes the blanket over me to cover my lack of 'appropriate dress,' "what on God's green earth happened to you? Do you have any idea how worried I was? I promise, you'll be the death of me one of these days."

I barely manage to hold in a laugh at her final statement. "Really? I was sure that would be Papa's doing." The elderly woman merely huffs at the jest and mutters something under her breath that I can't catch as she moves to welcome the men into the house. "I'll be in my study if anyone needs me."

"Not so fast, young lady. We still have much to discuss about your behavior today." Mycroft interjects before I can make it up the first few steps. "Just because your father allows this behavior and is not currently available, does not mean you can roam free."