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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A couple of weeks have passed since we cleared Marcus' name and put the real people responsible that night away. Lestrade had taken some leave for a holiday which I was partially glad for because it gave me more time to think about his job offer. Though he's back now so time's running out. The truth is that I have missed being a detective, getting in the midst of it, making sure justice is found for those who can't find it themselves.
My hesitation comes from not being good enough; there's a fear of history repeating and me being the reason someone else gets hurt or killed. I've been through it once and it sent me into a downward spiral, I don't know if I could do it again.
Plus, I like working on cases with Sherlock and John - we're a team. Though Sherlock rolled his eyes when I referred to us as a crime fighting trio.
"Oh God!" Sherlock shouts, thumping the ground with the harpoon he had walked in with an hour previous. The man had come in covered in blood with the harpoon in hand and a look of irritation on his face. I'd dropped my tea in shock.
"Sherlock!" I scold him, wondering what Mrs Hudson must think.
He doesn't apologise, instead fidgeting with the weapon, tossing it hand to hand and looking over at me and John. "John, I need some. Get me some." He requests.
John doesn't even blink before he answers. "No."
"Get me some." Sherlock demands rudely, looking over at me for help. I shrug, scrolling through twitter on John's laptop.
"No. Cold turkey - we agreed, no matter what." John scolds him like a parent. "Anyway, you've paid everyone off, remember? No one within a two mile radius will sell you any." He reminds his best friend, opening the newspaper back up.
Sherlock scowls, crossing his arms and beginning to chew on his nails. "Stupid idea. Whose idea was that?" He retorts. I snort unattractively, disguising it as a cough when he sends me a glare. It had been his idea of course. "Mrs Hudson!" The man suddenly shouts, beginning to toss things aside in search for cigarettes.
"Look, Sherlock, you're doing really well, don't give up now!" John encourages his friend.
"Tell me where they are. Please, tell me." Sherlock straightens up, his face smilier to that of a kicked puppy. "Please." He tries.
I shake my head at his antics, letting John control the situation. I can hardly lecture him on smoking when I do it myself. "Can't help you, sorry." He denies him, lifting the newspaper again.
"I'll let you know next week's lottery numbers." The consulting detective tries.
"Piss off." I chortle at the notion, jumping when he dives to the ground, looking in his shoes for his stash. I may or may not have had a hand in giving away the fact that he hides them there. But he had been the one insistent on quitting.
"Yoo hoo." Mrs Hudson appears and I offer her a smile.
"My secret supply, what have you done with my secret supply?" Sherlock asks with his head still in the fireplace. Mrs Hudson makes a sound of confusion. "My cigarettes - what have you done with them?" He asks her.
