Sherlock Imagines

Imagine Sherlock Taking you on a Case

"What do you mean it was accidental?" Detective Inspector Lestrade whined as he trailed behind Sherlock like a kicked puppy.

Sherlock's trench coat billowed after him as he flew around the corner of the small flat into the bedroom.

"I mean, Inspector, that it was not a very intentional kill as you naively assumed it to be but rather an accident!" 

You stood in the corner with a little notepad trying not to giggle at Lestrade's "I am about to commit another murder" face.

John was sick and back at the flat under the supervision and care of Mrs. Hudson which meant you got the fun job of being Sherlock's crime buddy this week. He had quite literally dragged you from your pleasant morning coffee to this new crime scene and told you to shut up every time you tried to ask a question.

Needless as it is to say, you were pissed at the detective yet thoroughly enjoying his new verbal attack on Lestrade seeing as it took his attention off of you.

Unfortunately Sherlock heard you snicker and turned to face you. He snapped his latex gloves on and peered at you from over top of them with his analytical blue eyes.

"(Yn)," he said quickly, "Please tell
me that your brain can function marginally better than George's over here and show me what you have found to prove my theory."

"It's Greg!"

Your laugh shriveled on your tongue and dryness replaced it. After two awkward coughs, you manage to come up with a shaky reply.

"Who's to say I don't have a different or dare I say it, better theory?"

Sherlock scoffed at you.

"You?" He asked derogatively.

"Me," you snapped back, feeling white hot anger lick at your insides.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and took a deep breath.

"Fine (Yn)," he snapped, "If your theory is as brilliant as you claim it to be then you wouldn't mind sharing it with the detective inspector and I."

You felt the blood drain from your face. Sweat began to build up in your palms and a thin sheet appeared on your brow. He was bluffing. He had to be.

Lestrade looked just as comfortable about this as you and held up a hand.

"Now wait a minute-"

"No, Lestrade, I insist," Sherlock said firmly as he stared back at you. His blue eyes blazed with silent victory as he took in your nervous countenance. He assumed you would yield immediately.

However, as soon as you saw the glimmer of arrogance in his eye you vowed to win this trivial game.

"Fine," you stated icily, "Shall we begin?"

Sherlock gave you a nod but it was hardly necessary. You had already leapt into your deductions.

"The body before us has marks from where Miss, Davenport is it? Anyway the scars are from where she has been stabbing needles into her veins to administer heroin. She has several old and new scars up and down her left arm from when she has done this before which shows she's an addict."

"Or user," Sherlock interrupted

You sent him a glare and he shrugged.

"Addict means they cannot stop, her scars are relatively old therefore she looks to be more of a user which means she makes use of the drug only when she needs it," he stated smugly.

Your eyes narrowed.

"We are here to discuss Miss Davenport's drug use, Mr. Holmes, not your own."

Sherlock's face turned a faint rosy hue.

"But thank you for bringing that up," you said looking back upon the body, "You revealed that most of Miss Davenport's scars are old which like you said means she has stopped using this drug for a long time. So why would she start now?"

"It was an accidental fatality, (Yn)," Sherlock said irritably as he checked his watch. He glanced up at Lestrade. "Sorry about this, Inspector, I've never let her have this much of a leash before-"

"She committed suicide."

Both men turned to stare at you in disbelief. Sherlock sighed heavily while Lestrade gaped at you than ran a hand across his face.

"Prove it," Sherlock said immediately.

You smiled.

"Her brother hates her. Always has. Felt he was being pushed back while she was uplifted. She was the littlest favorite of the family. Brilliant at everything. He sells heroin on the corners of streets to homeless bums. His sister accidentally found it in his room and got addicted years ago. But she beat it. In recent years, her brother found out and used the memory and threat of it to control her. He made her weak and pathetic. She lost everything. Friends, Grades, Job but never her family. Her mum and dad still loved her. It drove her brother mental. He kept torturing her by threatening to tell the world. Little did he know she'd had a storage of the stuff from when she had been an addict. She overdosed and killed herself to escape the blackmail. Her brother got what he wanted. His family all to himself.

"So, it was murder?" Lestrade said slowly.

Both you and Sherlock glared at him.

"No?" He said glancing between you, "Well then suicide? Are you making all this up?

Sherlock turned back around to face you, his face contorted in a grimace.

"Explain."

You smirked and held up a notepad.

"I found the suicide note," you said smugly as you handed it over to Lestrade, "It has everything I just told you on it."

Lestrade glanced it over before holding it up and nodding at you.

"Well, (Yn), was it? Thank you. It was a pleasure meeting you and I will be sure to phone you for the next case. She rather put you in your place didn't she, Sherlock?" He said grinning at the tall detective.

Sherlock didn't answer and continued staring at the body.

"Speechless, eh? That's a first. Well done (Yn)," Lestrade smirked, before nodding  once at you before striding briskly from the room.

You gently walked over to him and patted his arm.

"Can't win 'em all, Holmes," you said with a small smile.

You gently wrap your arm around his and lean against him waiting for him.

He's quiet for a while before finally speaking.

"The note, how did I miss the note?" He asked irritably pulling you around and walking briskly out of the flat.

You winced as the cold London air hit your face but smiled anyway up the tall detective.

"Because you weren't looking for it."

He grunted in response and dragged you towards a cab.

"Can we go to another crime sce-" you began but Sherlock cut you off.

"NO."

"But-"

"NO."

The man refused to take you on another investigation for another six weeks. It took his precious ego plenty of time to recover before he was willing to let you bash it at the next crime scene.

AN-
Wrote this when I was bored. Most likely won't be more unless I feel like it. This is one of those books I update if I write anything occasionally.