Sherlock Imagines & One-Shots

STAGES (Sherlock) PART FOUR

"Well, nevermind, then."
Quinn sighed, rolling her eyes in exasperation.
And then she leaned forward, grabbed Sam by the collar and literally flipped him - and his one hundred eighty pounds of muscle- over the counter. His body crashed to the floor with a muffled thump, barely audible amongst the screams.
Her eyes scanned the room quickly, her gaze scattered as it darted across the room. They flickered over the patrons of the shop, most of whom were scrambling under tables or bolting for the door. Quinn'exclaimed eyes snagged on Sherlock and John's empty table, but she quickly shook her concern from her head. Worrying would do nothing but distract her.
At this point, most people would be at least a little worried at the appearance of a deranged shooter pumping lead at them, but Quinn was entirely impassive. She'd had to deal with situations far worse then this before, and the intensity of such events had unfortunately become mundane. However, she was usually the one doing the shooting, and she wasn't certain she was gone of the role switch.
Nonetheless, there was a shooter, and Quinn needed to do something.
First: Was anyone in danger?
Yes. Everyone.
But was there anyone she could help?
Yes. Everyone.
Anyone you can help without getting yourself shot?
A woman, standing a few feet away, screaming.
Then get moving.
Quinn didn't hesitate in ducking behind a booth as she grabbed the arm of a cowering customer and her son. She tugged both of them down next to her with strength most people would be suprised she possessed. The woman was frazzled and her eyes wide in terror as she heaved heavy breaths from her place under cover. She trembled slightly, her fingers clenching the arms of her son as she held him tightly.
" OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD, I'M GOING TO DIE. THERE'S A SHOOTER. WE'RE GOING TO DIE!" The woman screeched hysterically, looking rather like a fish cornered by a shark. She was blubbering, and swimming in fruitless circles as she awaited death with grating cries of panic. Quinn had to admit that the woman's reaction was the average response to danger, but it still pestered her. She needed to get a grip.
Quinn grimaced, her gaze shifting to the child.
The boy appeared to be about eight or so, with shaggy blond locks and chocolate eyes. He stared up at Quinn- not in fear, or panic, or hysteria- but in surprise. Not likeWHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING kind of surprise, the you just pushed me kind of surprise. The I'm mildly confused kind of surprised.
Quinn liked him.
"Hey, Kiddo," the female detective said, leaning into the child. Her voice was dull over the shouts, but the kid seemed to be able to hear her. "It's gonna be okay. Alright? Stay here for a sec. Don't move until I get back. Lady-" Quinn glanced at the woman, and her features twitched in distaste.
"Get it together. Kid, watch your mom. Don't die. Kay?"
The boy nodded.
She flashed him a smile in response, causing her teeth flash in the light. "Coolio."
And then she was gone. She tumbled out of cover and danced back to the bar, although her trip was slowed with her occasional shove of a customer into cover. Seriously, didn't those people know that freezing up with a shooter on the loose was sort of the stupidest thing they could do? Well, that wasn't true. She supposed the stupidest thing they could do would be to assume they could do any better.
She slid herself over the counter with a thumpassion. Her boots scraped as she hit the floor, and her elbow hit the floor with a painful pop. She rolled to absorb the rest of the fall, the flush of exertion a rosy glow on her cheeks as she pulled Sam further under the counter.
More shots fired, followed by ear shattering screams and the sound of glass splintering.
From besides her, Sam gulped, panic clogging his throat with bile. He blinked, trying to force it down as he gripped the carpet tightly, his nails hitching. "Oh my god. Holy shit. Oh my- there's a shooter. That's- that's not good. Oh my God. Jesus . Oh, fuck, oh my-"
The sound of a pistol cocking drew him out of his delusion, as he turned his head towards the sound.
Quinn's back was pressed firmly against the bar as flipped the safety off her gun, veins flushed with the rush of battle. And caffeine, she supposed. But nonetheless.
"What are you- you-" he sputtered, eyes wide as they fixed upon the weapon in her palms.
"And this , love, is why Americans carry guns," She said, ignoring his words as more shouts ricocheted through the room. Stupid British. If this was Texas, that'd bastard would be dead already. "Look, you stay here. I'm gonna go shoot what's his face. Okay?"
"W-What?"
"Don't move."
"But-"
" Shut up and do as I say."
He swallowed, ignoring every instinct to defend the woman besides him. It would probably be useless, anyways. She obviously had some training in this sort of situation, and Sam was sorry to say that even though he was a brave bastard, he wasn't exactly a very helpful one.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Good boy."
Quinn inhaled.
And ran out of cover.
Step one
Access the situation.
Her eyes darted across the room, drinking in every snippet of informations she could.
First, the room. Was anyone dead? Injured?
... no. Although one employee had been shot in the leg, apparently. It was chaos. Some people were hiding, a few others fleeing, and most all of them screaming.
Cowards.
Second, and more importantly : where the hell was Sherlock?
I swear, if he gets himself shot, I'm going to kill him.
Her eyes scanned the room, searching for a familiar head of curls. She couldn't see him, or John. Shit. She shook them from her head. They could take care of themselves. Now wasn't the time to worry. Focus.
She turned her attention to the shooter.
Male, Caucasian, six feet three. Lanky. Roughly one hundred fifty pounds. Weapon? Handgun, Taurus Model 709 .371 semiautomatic. Nice. No, not nice. Dangerous.
Bags under eyes. Doesn't get much sleep. Insomnia? Most likely. He's got stubble, but not purposefully. A few nicks. Cheap razor. No shaving cream. Poor, or unhygienic? His clothing. Jeans, jacket, Polo shirt. Decent, if not a bit wrinkled. Clean. Jeans short. Shoes half a size small. He's poor. Creases in his shirt. Means he folds his clothes instead of hanging. Why? Not enough space. Lives in the city. Obviously a small apartment, he wouldn't be able to afford anything otherwise. Lives alone. He smokes. Not a drinker, though. Interesting. Doesn't see the sun much. Frequently on the computer. Walks to work. Work, where? At coffee shop. Wait... here? Yes. Odd.
Doesn't know how to handle a gun very well. His hands are shaking. Look at his form! Stupid. You see, if he was American, he'd be- no, now isn't the time for national pride.
Wait a second.
What's on his chest?
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
He's got a bomb.
She slid behind a wall, her chest heaving. "Shit."
"Sam Houston!"
A hoarse, dry voice called out, words sharp and trembling.
"Come out!"
"You probably shouldn't, Sammy!" Quinn shouted back.
"Who said that?" The man roared, swooping the room with his pistol, ready to shoot. A few more wails.
"A very attractive, very armed American," She called back, still behind the wall. Stupid man couldn't even use perception.
"Shut the hell up, Caunter!" A familiar voice hissed.
Sherlock.
She let out a very soft breath. So he was alright. John must be with him, too. So at least she didn't have to worry about Watson trying to shoot and hitting the bomb.
"Don't try to shoot! I've... I've got a bomb!" The shooter shouted back.
Quinn resisted the urge to roll her eyes as several more cries echoed through the room.
"Oh, really? I didn't notice." She muttered. Then she raised her voice again. "Listen, man. What do you want?"
"The bastard hiding from me!"
There was a pause.
"Everyone's sort of hiding from you."
"Sam Houston." He clarified, stuttering slightly. He seemed a bit thrown off, although most people tended to be when meeting Quinn. He'd stopped shooting, at least.
"Okay. Why are you looking for Sam Houston?" She questioned casually, as though she was talking to an old friend and not an armed shooter.
Keeping him distracted.
She quietly pulled out her phone, soundlessly texting a few lines to Sherlock and John.

Clear the building.
Q.

"Why should I tell you?" The shooter responded harshly.
"Because you strapped yourself to a bomb. You wanted to die, right? Might as well tell us why. Otherwise, what's the point?"
There was a pause, in which the man seemed to be struggling to find fault in her logic.
"He didn't deserve her." he finally stated.
"Didn't deserve whom?"
" HE DIDN'THE DESERVE CHRISTINA !" He suddenly screamed, his eyes wild, almost animal. A few muted whimpers came from the patrons, but he didn't seem to notice them. "None of them did! Those stupid, disgusting, pervets. Pigs."
"Is that why you killed them?" Quinn asked, the same way someone might ask if someone had bought milk. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw John ushering a couple outside. She let herself wonder if Sherlock was safe, just for a second. She almost laughed at herself. No, of course he wasn't. That asshole wouldn't dare leave such a show at halftime.
" They needed to die."
"Did she?"
There was a silence.
"T-that was a- I didn't mean to- the poison wasn't for her. It was for him. Sam. It's his fault she's d-dead! I'm going to kill him. I'm going to kill him. "
"Are you going to kill me?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
" Because I want to."
Quinn sucked in a breath.
Stall.
"Would Christina have wanted that?"
" SHE'S DEAD."
His voice was more startling than any of his bullets, sharp and ringing. Quinn winced.
"She's dead because of him." The man continued, words trembling. He was far more unstable than Quinn had realized, going from insane serial killer to timid victim in two seconds.
Quinn swallowed.
"Did you love her?"
He let out a soft laugh. " Love her? She was my whole fucking world. She was perfect, and beautiful, and perfect, and she made me happy, and smiley, and normal, and bright, and when people touched her I just wanted to snap their necks in half."
"That's very... sweet of you." Quinn lied, feeling a bit nauseous.
"She didn't think so. She didn't even know. She would always tell me that someone was following her, giving her gifts, stealing her stuff, and she didn't even realize it was me." He giggled.
And then he changed, morphed, his eyes darkening. "And now she's dead. Because of him. And I'm going to shoot him in the eyes. Then I'm going to blow him up. I'm going to kill him, and then you, and then me, and then everything will be perfect!"
"But-"
"SHUT UP!"
She could feel his patience wearing thin, and she knew she didn't have much time.
Quinn took a moment, mulling over her options in her head.
1: shoot him
He had a bomb. Like hell she was going to risk it while Sherlock- while people - were still in the building.
2: talk him out of it
Who, this insane bastard of a man? No, that wouldn't work. Perhaps hinder him, buy them some time, but he was far too unstable to work any agreement out with.
3: Do something incredibly, undoubtedly, stupid.
...Yeah, okay.

And so stupid she did.





.........................




"And then we all died."

Lestrade blinked, shaking his head slightly.
"What- Excuse me?"
Quinn didn't waver, her gaze unyielding as she fixed it upon the officer, her face an emotionless mask. Her eyes flickered in the pale light of the moon, the gold of her iries a streetlamp in the dark.
" We all died ." She said, frighteningly serious.
John slapped his face into his hand.
Sherlock, on the other hand, didn't seem to find her behavior odd- or at the very least, unexpected- unblinking. "No, we didn't."
Quinn immediately snapped up, suddenly smiling brighter than the sun.
"No, we didn't! We survived!" She exclaimed, dimples creasing as she grinned.
John let out a soft little chuckle despite himself, shaking his head slightly. No matter how ridiculous she was, she was still one of his best friends. And he loved every bit of her oddness.
Lestrade paused, wondering if he should say anything. He decided against it. Who knows what went on in the disturbed, pretty little head of hers? Who wanted to know? Not that he didn't like her. No, everyone liked her. Not that they understood her, but they liked her.
"Oh, really? What a pity." Donovan interrupted from the sidelines, arms crossed across her chest haughtily as she made a rather dramatic show of rolling her eyes.
Well, mostly everyone, anyways.
Sherlock sent her a glare that would make a grown man piss himself. Donovan's eyes widened slightly as she shrunk back, and though she kept a sneer on her face, she shut up.
"Oh, I dunno, Sally," Quinn replied cheerfully, obvious to Sherlock. "We sort of save England a lot. Six times, so far, I think. I feel like our demise would lead to chaos in the crime department. I mean, it's not exactly like Scotland yard can handle it. I mean, no offense, but you guys are sort of the most incompetent human beings I've ever met.
John let out a snicker, quickly turning it into a coughing fit.
Sherlock glanced at Quinn, a little surprised- and perhaps just a tad proud- at her statement. She seemed to notice his attention, her grin broadening ever so slightly.
Lestrade shook his head, sighing. "Sherlock's rubbing off on you, love."
Quinn's lip twitched, eyes twinkling. "I'm afraid so."
Sherlock glanced at her.
"But- wait a second- how did you survive?" A paramedic asked, rapt with attention. He'd been listening to the tale the whole time, and was now waiting wide eyed for her to continue her story. She had, after all, ended it on a cliff hanger. To him, it felt like a week had passed since her last words.
Quinn waved her hand. "Oh, it's not important. John had gotten everyone out to safety- even Sam- and then I used the magic of being a total kickass to take what's-his-face down. I shot a few people, got out of the room, and then he blew up. Oh, and Sherlock helped too, I guess."
Sherlock scowled. Quinn laughed lightly at his response, hooking her arm into his and giving it a firm squeeze. "Aww, no need to pout. You helped tons, Sherl."
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
Although John could have sworn his cheeks were pinker then they had been a moment before. Then again, it might have just been the lighting.
"May we go now, Inspector?" Sherlock asked, trying to sound bored and not dwell on Quinn, who's hand was still lingering on his arm. "It's getting rather dark out. And I do believe Caunter is in need of a shower."
"So are you, idiot." She replied, grip dropping to Sherlock's slight relief. Or disappointment. Perhaps a mixture of both.
"Wh- no, you can't go! You're-!"
"Look, mummy! It's that lady!" A high pitched, excited little voice called out, interrupting Lestrade's words.
A familiar little boy with shaggy hair ducked under a few officers, running over to Quinn staring up at her with flushed cheeks and a bucktoothed grin.
"Hullo," The boy said.
Quinn's face brightened. "Hey, buddy! How you doing?"
The boy's smile widened just as his mother, a flustered woman with frizzy blond hair and stress lines hurried after her son.
" Jackson! What are you-" The woman glanced up at Quinn, her eyes widening. She quickly straightened herself, slapping a smile across her face. "Oh! Hello! I didn't recognize you!" she said, a little too preppy to be causal.
Quinn shrugged. "Don't sweat it." She said easily.
"Can you sign my shirt?" The boy- Jackson- suddenly asked, eyes still glued on Quinn.
Quinn looked a bit surprised. "Uh, sure! Do you-?"
Jackson stuffed a sharpie into her palm, apparently very prepared for this encounter.
Quinn ignored the glances boring into her neck as she quickly scrawled out her name upon the fabric. Jackson's face lit up at the signature, a grin spread from ear to ear. "Thanks, Miss!"
"Quinn."
"Quinn!" He beamed at her a second longer before bouncing off, his mother looking rather worn as she plowed after him.
John rose a brow. "Looks like somebody's got a fan."
"Look who's talking, Mr. Blogger." Quinn retorted, sticking out her tongue childishly.
Lestrade coughed, interrupting the friends. "Listen, you guys- girl- people, I'm going to need to to stay a little longer. "
"No, you don't," Sherlock replied dully.
"Yes, I do! You three are key witnesses-"
"-And so are fifteen other perfectly functional human beings. Go bother them." Sherlock said, re-adjusting his scarf around his neck.
"But-"
Sherlock was already walking away.
Lestrade groaned. " Sonofabitch." He muttered, wiping a hand over his face.
Quinn had the decency to look apologetic before jogging after the taller detective, ducking under the yellow police tape to stride besides him, leaving John with the police.
John coughed, fidgeting uncomfortably. "Um- yeah. I'm gonna go follow them. Sorry, Greg."
John hurried away, not daring to look back.
Sherlock snuck a glance down at Quinn out of the corner of his eye, observing her steps without really noticing.
When Sherlock had first heard the gunshot, all he could think about was her. Whether she was alright. His mind went scattered, stretching and straining and sweating over her and the fact that she was out of his sight. And he'd acted stupidly, irrationally, almost gotten his head blown off before John pulled him under cover. He was a mess, struggling to contain the panic clogging his neurons. And then she'd gone and almost gotten herself killed, and he had been quite sure he was going to vomit. Because if she died- he wasn't sure what he'd do.
He wasn't sure who he'd be without her. If he'd lost her.
But here she was. Safe.
For now.
She began whistling, a soft, sweet melody- one ever so familiar to the detective. And then he realized it was the song he'd been playing that morning.
She really was something.
And as he watched her, his mouth tugged a little. Pulling upwards ever so slightly, forming into almost a smile.
Not quite.
But Almost.



......




Mrs. Hudson hummed happily, sweeping the dust off the counter with her goose feather duster. She carefully set back down the book she'd lifted off the shelf, sighing as she stood back to examine her work.
A loud thump came from downstairs, followed by a groan and a snicker. Steps clipped up the stairs of 221 B, words clattering like cymbals.
Mrs. Hudson's face brightened as she quickly set down her cleaning supplied, bustling to the door and swinging it open. "Oh, are you three finally back? Lovely. I've been wondering where you've been. There's a-"
The woman froze, her gaze traveling over the trio as her mouth slowly fell open. She didn't miss an inch, motherly eyes finding the bruises and smoke and scratches.
For a long while there was silence.
Then, finally-
"What on earth have you been doing?"