This is a little something that was inspired by this tumblr post, and I just had to write it up.
post/42077816528/gaytectives-imaginary-verse-lestrade-is
Sorry for the long wait on all my other stories things have just been busy, but i promise to get them online soon.
Disclaimer; i own nothing.
There was a new murder. Something interesting had finally come along and Lestrade had called him in for help. He had showed up at Sherlock's flat disheveled and it had obviously been days since he went home and even longer since he slept. A string of murders, all scattered across London. The victims had nothing in common, and as far as they could tell seemed to be chosen at random. They were all struck on the back of the head with a heavy blunt object that had never been found. All the victim's skulls had nearly been caved in from the force of the blow. Scotland Yard had been unable to find any clues, but that wasn't very surprising. The police really were hopeless.
Sherlock quickly climbed out of the cab. Lestrade's car was already there, and he must be waiting for them in the morgue. John walked behind him, ever the comforting presence. They walked down the sterile white hallways, John remaining silent leaving Sherlock with his thoughts. Sherlock had never realized how lonely he had been running around solving crimes by himself. Now that he had John with him things seemed so much better. Donovan's words didn't sting as sharply, Anderson's stupidity didn't grate on his nerves like nails on a chalk board, well they did but not as badly, and everything seemed brighter.
Sherlock banged through the doors of the morgue striding in with a swirl of coat tails. He could feel John roll his eyes behind his back, but he chose to ignore him. Lestrade was leaning against the wall waiting for him. He handed Sherlock the clipboard and motioned to the victim after he grumbled something about Sherlock taking his time. Sherlock wanted to respond, but John just shook his head so Sherlock ignored him. The detective flipped through the charts; male, late forties, average height, all together rather ordinary.
Sherlock pulled his magnifying glass out of his pocket sliding it open. Now John moved to the other side of the table, and he began looking over the body with Sherlock. He talked about all the technical medical terms that had already been said in the autopsy, but Sherlock let him continue. He liked the sound of John's voice. It was nice. it reminded him the he wasn't alone. Sherlock examined every inch of the body before inspecting the head. once again the skull was nearly caved in.
"Do you see how powerful that blow was?" Sherlock mused aloud to John. It must have been an extremely heavy object, so it was odd that it hadn't been found yet. Maybe the trick behind this wasn't the object itself, but the force behind the object. Someone strong then.
"Of course I do, I'm part of your head." John said from across the table. Sherlock felt a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth.
"Oh, don't get snippy." Sherlock huffed leaning down to examine what was left of the man's face. Finally Sherlock was done and he straightened and turned pocketing his glass again. Lestrade was staring at him giving him an odd look. Sherlock frowned.
"What?" His eyes flicked over Sherlock.
"Sherlock...you do know that no one is there right?" Sherlock scoffed rolling his eyes, but he couldn't keep his gaze from to place where John standing before looking away.
"Of course, I know Lestrade. I have no delusions about the fact that John is not real." That may have been true, but there was always this sinking in his gut went he thought about the fact the John wasn't really there. He was only in Sherlock's head.
"John?"
"Yes, John is the an embodiment of my thoughts and a personification of a separate entity I use as a method of thought processing." Sherlock shrugged. John was standing to the side, his arms crossed over his chest. Lestrade paused and was silent. Finally Sherlock turned walking towards the door only to be stopped by the older man's voice.
"Aren't you a bit old to have an imaginary friend?" Sherlock spun on his heels while John just pursed his lips.
"John isn't an imaginary friend. He's more than that. He helps me process my thoughts...and...He's just more than that Lestrade." Sherlock turned slamming out of the room leaving a worried and concerned Detective Inspector in his wake.
Sherlock walked down the halls his hands clenched into fist a his sides and his feet pounding into the ground, as though it had cause him some personal offense. John had to jog a bit to catch up and soon fell into step next to Sherlock. They walked silently through the halls on Saint Bart's together before Sherlock could finally speak.
"You're more than that John. You know that?" Sherlock stared at his feet as he walked his shoulders sliding forward till he seemed to disappear into the expanses of his coat. Sherlock looked up as a comforting weight rested on his arm. John smiled at him, his bright warm smile that lit up Sherlock's world.
"I know Sherlock. I know." John reassured. Sherlock looked back down.
"Is there something wrong with me?" Sherlock asked quietly. John shook his head appalled.
"No, Sherlock. There is nothing wrong with you. You can't let what others say bother you. They don't matter."
"You're not real John."
"I'm as real as you make me." John said looking at Sherlock with a small smile. Sherlock stopped walking and they just stood there silent for a minute.
"Let's go catch a killer, shall we?" Sherlock finally said smiling, and John grinned back at him.
"I'm right behind you." John said and Sherlock turned walking away with John behind him as they left Bart's.