You had finally returned to your flat after a few more fast paced cases with Bass. Most of them in Russia and Europe. You felt like you hadn’t taken a breath since you started. You and Bass had been working together for nearly a year now, and you made surprisingly great partners. You had barely unpacked your bag when you heard your doorbell ring and Bass’ voice over the intercom.
“Y/N, it’s me. Gonna let me up?” He asked.
You sauntered over to the intercom and pressed your finger to the button to reply.
“Should I?” You asked.
“Me ringing the bell is really just a formality. You and I both know I could pick this lock in 5 seconds.” He jokes.
“Yes, well you’ve always been slow. The inconvenience is tempting though.” You joked, finally pressing the buzzer to let him in.
Before he made it up the stairs you took your letters to Sherlock out of your duffel bag you were unpacking and stuffed them into a drawer on your TV stand. You were better. Nearly a year and a half had passed and you were able to say his name now without breaking down. You thought that was progress. Your life just felt empty now, even though you were barely alone.
When you were in London between assignments you had tea with Mrs. Hudson at least once a week. She hadn’t let 221B out, and you couldn’t bear to possibly enter it. You’d met John once for lunch since, and he was clearly still not okay. Compared to him you were doing well. Of course he had no idea what you were doing now, though he did know you had quit your job at Scotland Yard. You tried to keep an eye on him, but you were so busy. You had found out that he was seeing someone now and it was pretty serious. You were happy for him. As for you, not much had changed. You worked. It was the one thing you could do to keep your mind off of him.
Bass walked through the door, and after a snide remark about the state of your flat, he made his way over to the couch.
“You know what we need to do tonight?” He asked, putting his feet up.
“Remove your feet from my coffee table?” You asked, and he huffed and moved them back onto the ground.
“We need to go out tonight. Maybe a pub or something?” He said and you rolled your eyes.
“You’ve got nothing better to do than take a recovering alcoholic to a pub?” You asked.
“Well you don’t have to drink, but I need to.” He whined.
“Fine, but we should go now, I’ve got things to do and I’m not staying out all night with you.” You argued.
“I know just the place.” He stood, grabbed his coat, and lead you outside. You both hopped in a cab and headed to the pub. You were okay being around alcohol, and you would probably be okay drinking it. It just brings you back to a bad time in your life, one that you don’t want to remember or repeat.
“No, no, no a blonde drug smuggler who was exposed by an abbot with unusual powers of observation and deduction.” You heard as you entered through the door of the pub, Bass behind you.
“A blonde woman hiding amongst bald monks, that wouldn’t exactly take Sherlock Holmes.” You heard another voice return and quickly whipped around.
“Y/N?” Anderson asked, and your eyes grew wide in surprise.
“Anderson? Greg?” You asked, surprised to see them both here.
“God, how’ve you been?” Greg asked, hugging you.
“Busy.” You smiled, Charles now standing next to you.
“Who’s this?” Anderson asked politely. He had really let himself go: overgrown hair, beard, frumpy sweater. He must have gone downhill after he was fired from the Yard.
“Charles Bass. Friend of Y/N.” He smiled, shaking their hands.
“Colleague.” You corrected him.
“It’s been nearly a year, I think we can be considered friends now.” He joked, and you smiled to him.
“Charles this is my old boss Greg Lestrade, and an old colleague Phillip Anderson.” You formally introduced them.
“So you’re doing well. New job and all. What exactly do you do?” Greg asked.
“We kill people for money.” Charles said casually, and you laughed, panicking inside.
“He’s joking, of course. We work at the Natural History Museum. I run tours and we work on restorations and curations.” You smiled and lied.
“That sounds interesting, I didn’t know you were interested in that kinda stuff.” Greg smiled politely.
“Lifelong passion of mine.” You smiled, looking down to the table and the map Anderson had been showing Lestrade.
“What’s this?” You asked more seriously now. You heard the conversation as you were entering, you knew exactly what this was about. They both stared at you, almost afraid to talk.
“Phillip, he’s dead. Trust me, I wish he wasn’t. Don’t you think of all people I’d know if he wasn’t.” You said, looking to Anderson who seemed unconvinced.
“Well then how do you explain this?” He flipped the map. “Signing number 2, The Incident in New Delhi.”
“You haven’t been titling these, have you?” You asked, slightly concerned for Anderson’s mental health.
He then continued to explain how their police inspector had solved a case by measuring the depth of which a chocolate flake had fallen through an ice cream cone. Which in all honesty sounded ridiculous and made up.
“Clever man, Inspector Rajesh.” Greg said, and Anderson scoffed.
“What police inspector could have made that deduction.” He argued, and you and Charles had pulled up a chair.
“Well thank you.” Greg said sarcastically.
“You know how Sherlock never took the credit when he solved all of your cases.” Anderson began.
“He didn’t solve all of my cases,” Greg said defensively.
“He’s out there, he’s hiding, but he can’t stop himself from getting involved. It’s so obviously him, if you know how to spot the signs.” Anderson rambled, and you shook your head in disbelief. If Sherlock was out there, solving inconsequential cases out in the world, he would have told you, but none of that mattered. You don’t jump off a building and live.
“Klein Brothers, the Tower House thing.” Lestrade began listing cases he had solved on his own, or with moderately little help from you.
“The Kensington Ripper.” You helped, adding another.
“You got Tower House wrong.” Anderson stated and Lestrade argued while he flipped the map again.
“Sighting 3 The Mysterious Juror.” Anderson said, and Greg banged his head on the table.
“I’m gonna need a drink.” Charles said, standing to head to the bar.
“Make that two.” You rolled your eyes. What had happened to Anderson? He used to hate Sherlock, now he’s obsessed with him.
You tuned out of this story but according to Anderson, Sherlock swayed some murder trial in Copenhagen. Because obviously in his free time, when he’s not being dead, he’s on jury duty.
“It had to be him! There’s no one else it can be, don’t you see?” Anderson asked as Charles handed you a beer.
“Phillip, I see that you lost a good job fantasizing about a dead man and him coming back to life, and I know why you want that to happen. I want it to happen, but it’s just not gonna.” You said honestly, but something told you he wasn’t going to stop.
Anderson and Greg eventually left and you and Charles now sat at the table by yourselves.
“Has he always been like that?” Charles asked.
“Oh God no. He was an ass and he hated Sherlock. He helped take Sherlock down, planting the doubt in everyone’s mind that he was some sort of killer. Now he’s obsessed. He came and visited me in the hospital and I could tell he felt guilty, but I didn’t know it was this bad.” You answered, you noticed Charles was looking down at his watch.
“Sorry, am I boring you answering your question?” You asked rudely.
“No, I’m seeing if we have time to grab dinner. Hungry?” He asked. You smiled and rolled your eyes. You seemed to be doing that a lot lately when you were around Bass.
“I suppose, but nowhere too nice I’m not dressed for it.” You told him, and he smirked, clearly knowing a place.
The two of you walked down the street, apparently the restaurant was close by or at least walking distance. The two of you chatted before you were interrupted by someone calling your name.
“Sergeant Gregson?” You heard behind you and turned to see Kitty Riley, the reporter from the SUN. You stopped and she ran up to you.
“Sergeant Gregson, I’ve been trying to find you for a while now.” She began and you cut her off.
“Then you’re not a very good investigative journalist. And I don’t work for Scotland Yard anymore so you don’t have to call me Sergeant.” You told her.
“I wanted to apologize. After everything with Sherlock Holmes I tried to find you, but you sort of went off the grid. You quit your job, weren’t in your flat, or the country it seemed-” She said and you cut her off again.
“Is there a point here Kitty?” You sped her along.
“If there’s anything I can ever do for you, I’ll do it.” She said, clearly repentant.
“Clear his name.” You said.
“What?” She asked, shocked.
“Recant your story. Clear his name. Paint Moriarty as the manipulative villain who even got to you and forced Sherlock to his death after smearing his name. He was an innocent detective who saved lives and solved crimes that even the police force couldn’t. I think we owe him at least that.” You said, and Kitty nodded somberly.
You began to walk away and you felt Charles grab your hand. What you didn’t know was that Kitty took a photograph. You also didn’t know that it was going to be published in the SUN tomorrow with the headline ‘Hello Detective: Gregson Returns and Who’s Her New Arm Candy?”.
“Can you believe this? That bitch!” You yelled, throwing the paper down on the coffee table, Charles trying to calm you. He had slept on your couch last night after having a little too much to drink.
“Well think of it this way. Normally women are objectified in these kind of papers, and I’m the arm candy and you’re the smart, powerful lead. I’d take that as a win for the feminist movement.” He said, and you didn’t know whether to slap him or not.
“Like I give a damn about that! I’m an international assassin, I can’t have my face plastered on Page 6 everytime I leave my flat!” You ranted.
She needed to be taken care of. No, you weren’t going to kill her. There were worse things you could do. You had to see Mycroft, he would have this taken care of. You didn’t care if he paid her off or got her fired, but Kitty Riley needed to learn her place. As an undercover government asset, this threatened the safety of not only yourself but of the nation.
You threw on a dress and stepped outside your flat to call a cab to take you to the Diogenes Club when you saw a black car pull up. You rolled your eyes, did he always have to be two steps ahead of you?
“Hello Giles, it’s been an age.” You said, sliding into the car.
Does anybody else ever stop to think about Klaine fanfics? On the show, Blaine says “As if every lifetime you and I have lived, we’ve chosen to come back and find each other and fall in love all over again, over and over for all eternity” and it got me thinking??? Klaine fics aren’t just “I liked the show and wanted to take a shot at writing a fanfic”, they’re “this is another lifetime that Kurt and Blaine have lived in together and have met and fallen in love with each other” and idk I just think that’s really beautiful. We create all of these different scenarios and make unusual pairings sometimes (skank!Kurt + librarian!Blaine, or pro-golfer!Kurt + constructionworker!Blaine)(I haven’t seen those exact pairings, just making up examples) but they always end up falling in love, no matter what the circumstances. We got to see one of the lifetimes they lived on screen, and now we get to read about and create the other lifetimes. No matter what we read or write, it all still ties in with the original Klaine storyline. Idk, that’s just something I think about a lot.
What did she tell about Mark that makes you assume they are not best friends?
“A spiritual adviser encouraged me to start thinking of [him] as my “beloved”, that regardless of our separateness we will be raising two children together for the rest of our lives and that makes him one of the most important people in my life, whether I like it or not. As you can imagine, this is not easy, but the times I am able to communicate with him from a place of love and appreciation rather than resentment, or as he says “againstness”, the more my perception shifts.” (x)
They’re making it work because they have to, but no, they’re not best friends.
Everyone Has Something To Say When You Fall In Love
From this request: Could you write sherlockxreader and it’s similar to the mycroftxreader you wrote but everyone gives him a hard time about it. Like John, mycroft, Mrs Hudson, Molly, lestrade, literally everyone.
Sherlock never considered himself to be the type to fall in love.
Falling in love (or having any emotion, really) was something for weaker people. For boring people. For people who didn’t have so many things to think about.
People like John.
But there was something about you that Sherlock found… intriguing.
He actually enjoyed spending time with you.
And you were relatively easy to spend time with. You could easily sit on the couch in his flat, reading some novel or biography while Sherlock did his experiments. You would listen and watch in rapture when he would play his violin. You would sit quietly while he was working on a case, occasionally giving him a small smile when he would glance over at you.
You were quiet.
You were simple.
You were… his.
Sherlock believed that the feeling you gave him was ‘happiness’.
Unfortunately, having you around seemed to make everyone else unbearably insane.
Mrs. Hudson bustled in with the tea tray, more chipper than usual.
“Oh, Mrs. Hudson, you didn’t have to,” you said as you stood from the couch, going to help her.
“Nonsense, dear. I’ve grown used to bringing Sherlock and John their tea.” She set the tray down on the end of the table after you carefully picked up some of Sherlock’s papers. “Besides, I’m just so happy that you’ve become a steady part of Sherlock’s life.”
“Well, I’m happy to have met you. I can’t thank you enough for keeping Sherlock in line when I’m not here.”
Mrs. Hudson laughed her bubbly little laugh as she headed downstairs. You picked up the two cups of tea and walked into the kitchen where Sherlock was looking into his microscope. You carefully set the cup down next to him and gently placed your hand on his shoulder. You’d found that it was often your job to remind Sherlock to do things such as eat when he was in the midst of his experiments.
Sherlock looked at you, the smallest of smiles tugging at his lips. “She means well.”
“Oh, I don’t mind. She’s sweet.”
“You should hear her when you’re not around. Constantly talking about you. It’s quite annoying, really.”
You smiled at Sherlock over the rim of your cup, the steam rising, your eyes shining at him.
“Molly, I need to use some of your corpses again.”
Molly looked up. “Oh. Right. Come on, then.”
Sherlock followed her down to the morgue and watched her pull out a few bodies. He set his bag down and began to pull out the different instruments he’d brought with him, all the things that may have caused the strange pattern of bruising on the latest victim found in a dank alleyway.
He could feel Molly’s eyes on him, feel that there were unsaid words in the air. “What?” he asked.
“I just… I think it’s nice.”
“That you’ve found someone. Y/N is a wonderful person. It’s nice to see you happy.”
John and Sherlock approached the newest crime scene, ducking under the yellow tape.
“All right, Sherlock here’s what we’ve got,” Lestrade said as he led Sherlock down the hall to the room where the body was laying in a pool of blood. Sherlock took in the basic facts Lestrade gave him before dipping down to the ground, examining the body more thoroughly.
“So,” Lestrade said after a few moments. “Who was that girl I saw you with the other night?”
“What are you talking about?” Sherlock asked, pulling the magnifying glass out of his pocket.
“That would be Y/N,” John said. “She’s Sherlock’s girlfriend.”
“What? Since when do you have a girlfriend?”
“Almost four months,“ John said.
“I don’t see why it should be any business of yours, Lestrade,” Sherlock said, moving around the body.
“I just… I never thought I’d see it. But I’m happy for you.”
“Please tell me I misheard something,” Anderson said, poking his head in. “Did someone say that Sherlock has a girlfriend?”
“Apparently,” Lestrade said.
“Is she a real girl, Sherlock, or did you make her in a laboratory?”
“What, you dating?”
“No, you knowing anything about classic nineteenth-century literature.” Sherlock spared a glance up. “Oh, who am I kidding? You’re obviously referencing the horrid Hollywood version.”
Anderson glared down at Sherlock before disappearing back out into the hall.
Lucas Friar is in dire need of a promotion when his boss announces an important position is opening up. But of course, there’s a catch. His boss is only hiring someone who is a responsible family man and encourages his employees to try to impress him at their companies annual couples retreat. Lucas, afraid of letting the opportunity for a promotion pass him by, signs him and his wife up to attend the retreat. The only problem is…he’s not married. So he turns to one of his oldest friends for help and she agrees to be his fake wife for the weekend
Lucas couldn’t think straight. It was like he was
overcome with adrenaline. All he could hear was his heart pounding and the
sound of his feet hitting the gravel as he ran to his office building. It was 5
o’clock, he knew his boss didn’t leave the office until around 5:30 so he had
just under a half an hour to catch him and tell him the truth. He didn’t know
what he would say and he didn’t care.
Up until early he hadn’t realized how selfish he was
being. He thought he was ready for a big promotion after just six years of
being there but the truth was; there were so many more deserving candidates.
Men and women who have given their whole life to
that company. Employees who have been there since he was in middle school. It
wasn’t fair. He got so caught up in the job that he forgot what was really
He wanted more than just financial stability. He
wanted to make people happy, take care of animals, he wanted to be his own boss
and run his own practice, he wanted happiness and more than anything he wanted
Riley. So much so that he was willing to give up his promotion and his job just
so he could tell her that.
the grand budapest hotel is not a hipster flick but then again i saw it in an almost-empty old theater in ithaca fricking new york after eating macarons so i guess the wes anderson hipster lifestyle is what you make it out to be