He always knew love was a weakness, he just didn't think it would be his.
Imogen Hargreaves is a former detective that finds herself walking right back into the life she'd left behind. Not only does drama ensue but she manages to catch the eye of t...
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We get back to Baker Street during the early hours of the morning, the sun not quite making an appearance but the moon still out of sight. I'd gotten an earful from Lestrade about swanning off on my own, especially given the fact I'm not part of the police anymore. Though, in all honesty, even his telling off had been moderated given what catching Kromer meant to me.
During all that questioning, all those statements, neither Sherlock or I said a word about them very nearly finding Kromer dead. And not a soul knows about the gun. Although he did reveal how he knew where I'd be and why he got there first. He knew before I even left Baker Street and of course the wonderful Sherlock Holmes was capable of remembering an address. He sent a clueless John ahead before following after me, saying he'd watched me go inside and investigated downstairs thoroughly whilst I kept Kromer talking.
The man had practically been living in the house so god knows what the officers who should have been watching him were doing. Everything was there, pictures of his old and newer victims, items of their clothing, their ears that he'd collected all labeled and in a small freezer, vacuumed sealed separately. What turned my stomach the most is the amount of surveillance he had on me without me even knowing.
Hundreds of pictures of me out in public, at work, in my classroom, at home. He was truly obsessed with some imagined link he saw between us.
Something else I refrained from mentioned was that name - Moriarty. When Kromer said it Sherlock seemed slightly shaken and I decided it was probably something that should be discussed in private. Somehow this Moriarty is responsible for us even meeting in the first place whether it was intentional or not.
I hang up my jacket once we step inside and practically throw myself onto the sofa, "It's actually over." I sigh in relief, or at last that's what I assume it is. It isn't something I've felt in a while.
"Until the trial." Sherlock hums without looking up, switching his blazer for his robe. I don't think he always realises how abrupt he is. Is that endearing?
"Tea?" John changes the subject.
I shake my head with a yawn, "I'm exhausted. Do you think I could stay on the sofa?" I ask the men, eyes more so on John because he looks like he's about to say something.
"My bed's available." Sherlock volunteers, frowning when he gets matching looks of bewilderment from myself and his flatmate. "I should point out I won't actually be in it." He quips with a roll of his eyes.
"Right, okay. Well in that case I'll be off. I've got work in..." John checks his watch and winces, "Four hours." He huffs, muttering a goodnight before disappearing upstairs. I wait until I hear his bedroom door shut and then turn my gaze to Sherlock in his chair.
Of course it only takes him a few seconds to realise what I'm doing, "I've been told it's impolite to stare." He calls me out and I gape at him, rising from the sofa to sit in John's armchair so he has to look at me
