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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It's a disarmingly warm day in London, not that I'm complaining, and also surprisingly quiet inside 221B. When I came over from work I expected the boys to be working on a case or John complaining about experiments in the kitchen, but instead I found them suspiciously quiet.
They'd been playing Cluedo.
I did warn John against it after I played it with the consulting detective; I very nearly tore his head off his body. The victim cannot have done it. What ensued was a long argument followed by an even longer silence - I ended up going for cocktails with Janice. Obviously the Watson didn't listen to a word I said.
A sigh of relief passes my lips when a nice breeze comes through the open window and fans my exposed skin. Inside is almost warmer than out because homes in England are made to conserve the heat and not get rid of it. Also the boys don't own a fan. I tried to convince them to come to my place with the promise of cool air and drinks but had been shot down.
I'm about to make a second attempt when the door knocks. John and I look towards our visitor - Lestrade - with smiles while Sherlock remains in the kitchen. "Sherlock!" I shout on the man, assuming a case has propped up that'll keep him happy.
Sherlock peers out of the kitchen expectantly, eyes sparkling at the thought of a new case. Lestrade clears his throat awkwardly, scratching at the greying hairs on the back of his neck and letting his eyes land on me.
"It's not actually Sherlock I'm here to see..." Lestrade informs us. Said man's shoulders slump but he still walks into the room with narrowed eyes, hands on his hips while he waits for the reason. My lips part when the inspector looks at me, "It's Imogen." He admits.
"Me?" I point at myself with a frown, standing up from the sofa and folding my arms. He looks too serious to be coming over to offer me a job again and I can tell I'm not the only one who thinks so. Both John and Sherlock have their eyes glued to the man, John perched on the edge of his chair.
Lestrade nods, a solemn look crossing his face. "It's Marcus. He uh - he was in an accident." My stomach drops and I know my face must pale slightly.
"Is he okay?" I ask without missing a beat, stepping closer like it'll get the answer any sooner. The inspector stays quiet and I'm left waiting anxiously beginning to assume the worst.
"He caused it - hit and run." Lestrade says.
I shake my head in disbelief. No way. Marcus can be an idiot, he can be selfish, but he wouldn't be that reckless.
"Marcus?" Sherlock interrupts.
"Marcus Fellwood - he's a fire fighter." I give him a very quick run down before looking at Lestrade. "Lestrade, he wouldn't do that. He's an emergency responder, he answers calls like that all the time, if he was involved he would have stayed." I argue his case; it's poor practice as a detective before seeing all the evidence but this is Marcus. He wouldn't do this.
