Oneshots, imagines, and ideas, oh my! *discontinued*

Sherlock Imagine

Note: Goodbye movie night, hello normalcy. Song I listened to: Bad Blood, by Bastille. (The album, not the song.) I'm back, and I've got quite a few imagines stockpiled.

Sherlock Imagine

Warnings: Looking back now, I realize it might be considered sad.

Sherlock Imagine

Y/n's eyes opened, slowly, like they were fighting some force trying to keep them closed. At the same time, a groan tumbled through her lips--which she found dry and thick. Her entire face felt like it had gone numb, and she realized quickly that her every joint was stiff as she sat up. Her fingers started fussing with the black cotton sheet below her as she took in her surroundings.

The small bedroom was cluttered, but at the same time it looked like it hadn't been used in quite some time. After a moment, she started searching her memories for any reason she would wake up in Sherlock Holmes' bed--she'd gone in it to dust enough times, but she'd never even sat down.

She assessed herself for a moment, just to make sure she was wearing clothes. Of course, she was, and she didn't really expect anything different. However, it was worth it to figure out early whether or not she'd gotten smashed and made an embarrassing mistake. She was fully dressed, but a close inspection provided that under her black shirt, her abdomen seemed textured.

With a small frown, she yanked up the hem, just to find that her middle was tightly bandaged. It took her a moment, in the groggy haze only morning could present, to remember why. But there had been a confrontation, and there had been a sniper, and there had been an error. She liked to think that the bullet was meant for Sherlock, and she caught it by accident. However, it very well could've been for her.

Very carefully, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and gave them a minute before putting her weight on them. All that was well enough, but she winced as soon as she took a step. She remembered getting shot but not much else--it was entirely likely that she had been given drugs to help her sleep, and their residual effects were annoying and did nothing for the dull throb that broke out in her gut at the action.

She cradled her stomach like an expectant mother as she slowly left the bedroom. The second she opened the door, she heard quiet talking, at it only got louder as she hobbled down the hallway.

"-don't be ridiculous. She was shot, she didn't have her organs torn out, and she didn't get any amputations."

"I'm just saying, she's never been  shot, I don't think she's ever broken a bone! Plus, they said it ruptured a few things."

"It could've been worse. At least it was clean."

"Oh yeah, at least. I'm just saying, three or four days in bed, and then we've still gotta keep her inside."

She smelt eggs, and bacon. Sherlock and John were arguing about her, and when she finally made it into the kitchen she kind of stood there for a moment while they noticed her.

"Y/n! You're awake!" John smiled brightly, and she returned it with a confused expression.

"You were shot in the stomach." Sherlock added, rather flatly. "It's not too bad, but you should go back to bed."

"I-" She broke off as her voice crackled, cleared her throat, and shifted a bit--still holding her stomach. "Why am I bandaged up to my ribs, then?"

"That's the question you're asking? You've been around us too long. They wanted you to stay in the hospital but Sherlock insisted you come back here, so they braced your whole abdomen."

"Hmm. Has anyone made tea?"
"You're not going back to bed, are you?"
"No."

John let out a sigh, like an exasperated parent. "Take her into the living room."

"Come on." Sherlock took her by the elbow like she was an old woman or a small child, and she tossed a glance back at John.