A/N: Hey I am pleased by the response to this story S/O to new readers missmystery, ArianaRocker, TheTidesAreGettingHigher, llama-hunter-on-fire and Madsbrain. You guys rock. Hope this chapter is to your liking!
The shop door rang and Imogene smiled, flipping to the next page of her newest book. "I saw you on the telly. I adore the hat."
"You and the rest of the general public it would seem." Imogene bookmarked her page, took off her reading glasses, and looked up at Sherlock as he browsed through the Mystery bin. "These books must be so dull."
"Not to the rest of the general public. That's a useful skill you have," Imogene acknowledge. "Consulting Detective by day, bomb diffuser by night."
"You don't know how to diffuse a bomb?" Sherlock asked, approaching the counter, a slight smirk on his face.
"Unfortunately no but now I know who to call if I ever have that problem." Imogene got up from her stool. "So to what do I owe this unexpected visit?"
"Hmm." Sherlock reached forward, picking up her book and looking over the cover. "John was wondering why you weren't at Baker Street for the newscast."
"Oh? I hadn't known I was invited."
Sherlock glanced up at her. "Of course you were invited. Everyone was invited."
"Was this a written invitation or just word of mouth?"
"Neither, they just came over."
"Well next time I know," Imogene responded, rolling her eyes. "Who is everyone?"
"The usual I suppose. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, John's Fiancée Mary, Molly –"
Imogene gave Sherlock a sly grin. "Molly you say?"
"—and her fiancé Tom."
"Fiancé?" Imogene leaned back. She hadn't been expecting that . . . not that she wasn't incredibly pleased, both for Molly and . . . well – "What was he like?"
"He's – well, someone you would have to meet. Either way, I didn't come here just for that." Sherlock put her book down, reached into his pocket and pulled out a mobile. "I need you to track a number for me."
"I'll do my best." Imogene reached under her counter and pulled out her laptop and her plugs. "What did they send you?"
"Just a message," Sherlock said vaguely.
Imogene paused before taking the phone, looking up at Sherlock disbelievingly. "A message about what?"
"Just a message! Are you my Hacker or not?"
He was hiding something. Imogene ignored him, turning the phone over in her hands. "This isn't your phone. . . . Nor is it John's."
Sherlock glared at her. "No it isn't."
Imogene glared right back. "Stop it."
"Stop what?"
"This thing you and John do, where you treat me like a little sister or something equally as vulnerable. You hide things from me as if I can't take it or as if it will scare me and then I have to find out from the telly of all places. Were you going to tell me about the bomb?"
"I didn't find it relevant to the current situation," Sherlock explained, obviously confused by her reaction. "Besides, both John and I are clearly fine and –"
Imogene pushed the phone towards his face. "What happened?"
With an aggravated sigh, Sherlock pushed her hand away from him. "Someone kidnapped John."
Imogene stared at him for a moment before reaching across the counter and swatting his shoulder as hard as she could. Sherlock jerked back, annoyed. "Imogene Weaver!"
"Don't you 'Imogene Weaver' me! This is exactly what I'm talking about." She sat back on her stool, reaching under the counter to grab her computer and cords, shooting a glare up at her friend as she put her reading glasses back on. "I'll track, you talk."
The Consulting Detective walked around the counter to lean against the wall behind her, arms folded across his chest. He always did that when she worked, as if trying to memorize what she did and how she did it. "Someone sent a message to Mary's phone, that phone, a skip code."
"You don't get many skip codes now a day." She hooked the phone up the laptop, her eyes glued to the screen now, tapping away at the keys. "What were they trying to tell you?"
"How to find John . . . after they had drugged him and trapped him inside a fireworks pyre."
The hacker stopped, turning on her stool to look at Sherlock. "They trapped him inside a fireworks pyre?"
Sherlock watched her warily. "Are you going to hit me again?"
"Did you not think this was relevant for me to know?"
"John didn't want to you to worry."
"Didn't want me to –" Imogene scoffed, running a hand through her short curls. "I'm supposed to worry! That's my job as your friend! Of course I would worry but that doesn't mean you shouldn't tell me what's going on! I mean, really, Sherlock, how dare you –"
"Damn it, Gene, we didn't want you to worry that you might be next!" Sherlock snapped.
Startled by his outbreak, Imogene turned back to her computer, staring at the screen. "That's ridiculous. Why on earth would I be 'next'?"
"This person is obviously targeting the people I am closest too." Sherlock leaned back against the wall. "It's only a logical thought."
Instead of answering, Imogene typed in some numbers, running diagnostics on the phone. "Should I be?"
"Should you be what?"
She glanced over her shoulder at him. "Worried?"
Sherlock scoffed at her. "Of course not. As if I'd allow anything to happen to you."
Imogene focused on her computer to keep herself from blushing. She knew that Sherlock considered her a close friend but it was always strange to hear him say something like that, so unlike Sherlock. But then, of course, he ruined all her happy thoughts by adding, "Who else would I get all my information from?"
The Hacker rolled her eyes, typing a few last things and frowning at her computer. "That's strange."
Sherlock moved next to her, bending over so that his face was next to her, trying to decipher the codes on the screen. "What is, what is it?"
"The number the message came from, it's untraceable."
"But you can trace everything."
Imogene frowned up at him. "Not this. They've, whoever they are, have it blocked, firewalled, so hypothetically chained up, security code, locked that if this were a real safe, not even The Woman could find her way through it. It's secure, Sherlock. I'm sorry."
Sherlock tsked, taking the phone from her. "It's alright. I wasn't really hoping for much."
"Well thanks for your confidence in my skill."
"Whoever it is wouldn't have made it easy for them to find me. The fact that you can't track them means they've got the best to keep you out."
"There was a compliment in there. You're slipping." Imogene grinned at her friend as she closed down her laptop and stuck it back under her desk. "Anything else you need before you go running off into the streets of London?"
"I believe that's all." Sherlock started towards the door, turning up his coat collar like he was want to do, causing Imogene to give him a slight smile. He turned back to look at her. "Are you keeping out of bank accounts?"
He asked every time now, Imogene realized, every time he stopped by ever since he came back to London. She hadn't thought he had minded it so much before but now it was almost as if it disappointed him. But though owning a neighborhood book store didn't put much money in her pocket beside enough for rent and Sherlock certainly didn't pay her, she hadn't given into temptation because he had asked her not to. She raised her hand to her forehead in a salute. "Sir, yes sir."
Sherlock shot her a reproachful look for the sarcasm but still nodded his head. "Good. Do keep your eye out, Imogene, for anything suspicious."
"What qualifies as suspicious?"
"Everything." Sherlock paused, just staring at her for a moment. It was hard not to feel exposed under that extreme gaze of his, never mind the fact that he could deduct everything about you within a second or two. Imogene always wondered if he knew how she felt about him, suspected that he did, but she figured he never said anything because of their friendship. "Good afternoon, Gene."
"Afternoon Sherlock."
A week or so later on a normal Thursday afternoon, Imogene sat in her shop, reading as she always did on slow days. She had only had maybe four customers that entire morning, enough time to read through the next three chapters in her book.
When the shop door opened she glanced up with a smile and a brief 'hello' before returning to her book. She put her book away and took off her reading glasses, watching the customer as he absentmindedly went through the books. It was strange she thought. Most customers, especially those new to her shop asked what kind of books she sold and her prices before they even started browsing. This guy hadn't stopped at all when he walked in. Her phone buzzed and she checked it under the counter. It was from Sherlock.
Get out of your shop. Get to your apartment. Lock your door.
No 'SH'. He always signed 'SH'.
Imogene looked up out of the corner of her eye, noticing the weird customer was slightly closer to her than he had been . . . he was also strategically between her and the front door, her only exit. She looked back down when the customer moved to look in her direction. Under her counter she shot a quick text back to Sherlock.
Trapped.
A moment later her shop phone rang. She was proud of herself for not jumping as she reached slowly for the phone, answering halfway through the second ring. "Booklovers Anonymous, this is Imogene. How may I help your book needs today?"
"Are you alright?"
She was shaking, she realized and she turned to the side so that she could still see the man in her shop and hide her trembling hand from his view. Imogene put a wide smile on her face. "Yes, we do sell that copy here."
"Good girl," Sherlock responded, acknowledging her attempt to stay calm and respond in a manner that wasn't suspicious. Imogene thought she could hear cars behind him, the honk of a horn, and he might have been running. "Can you get out?"
Imogene frowned, shaking her head. "I'm afraid I don't have that book here."
"You'll have to make a way out Imogene," Sherlock told her fiercely. "John and I will be there soon but we're not close enough to help you."
"What would you like me to save for you?"
"Get out of there and up to your apartment. Lock the door. I'll be there quickly."
"Will do, sir. Thank you for calling."
The phone disconnected and Imogene placed her end back on the receiver. She could make up an excuse to leave but that would be suspicious she supposed. No the only thing to do would be to book it out of there as best as she could, try not to get caught. Sherlock had gotten warnings after John's kidnapping to try and find him. The fact that Sherlock had already known she was in danger could possibly mean that this wasn't a kidnapping. She wasn't being given a chance like John had been given.
Imogene got out off the stool, moving out from behind the counter. She saw the man turn slightly in her direction but she kept moving, eyes focused on the door.
His shoes scuffed against the floor and Imogene darted towards the door, skirting around the bins of books. Just as reached the handle, hands grabbed the back of her shirt, yanking her back. She screamed and struggled, knocking the pair of them into a shelf of books. The books fell to the floor and so did she and her captor, he on top, straddling her.
"Let go of me!" Imogene yelled, pushing against him as he tried to pin her down. In her struggle, she tried to memorize his face; brown eyes, stubble around his chin, strong jaw line but otherwise there were no distinguishable features.
He somehow got a grip of both of her wrist in one hand, pinning her arms to the floor. She twisted and turned as he pulled a needle from his pocket. Imogene stared at it in horror for a moment, the clear liquid within it before she begin to struggle anew, flailing and trying to get away from him. The man forced her arms towards her body, raising one knee and pressing it down on both of her wrist, hard. She gritted her teeth against the pain, determined not to scream even as tears sprang to her eyes. His free hand came up and forced her head to the side, exposing her neck. The needle entered her neck and stung as he pressed the plunger in.
Stars burst in front of her eyes as her pulse began to slow. "No," she murmured as the man's hand fell from her face. He let go of her completely, standing up, and Imogene turned over on her stomach, trying to crawl away. Sherlock had said get out. She had never not followed through with a request from him. She had to – she had to-
She stretched her hand out towards the door as her vision became blurry. Her hand fell to the ground again with a dull thud and the last thing she saw was the man who attacked, reaching down to pick her up.
When Imogene awoke again, she felt as if she were floating. Everything was fuzzy and heavy and she blinked hard to clear the darkness out of her eyes.
But it wouldn't go away. Why was it so dark? Imogene reached up, finding a roof just above her head, her elbows still bent as she touched the plush surface. Plush . . . Velvet . . . She turned to the side, her fingers running along the velvet as her heart began to beat faster.
Oh God… Oh God no….
A coffin! She was in a bloody coffin!
She kicked the lid and it didn't budge. Had they already buried her? She tried to cry out but her voice wouldn't come. She kicked again.
"Help," she tried again, her voice only coming out in a gasp.
Okay, okay, calm down, Imogene, she thought to herself. Coffins weren't meant for people who were alive, who needed air. Who knew how long she had been in there, unconscious. Her air was probably running short. She needed to calm down, slow her heart rate and her breathing if she planned to survive this. Sherlock would find her, he would, he had to. . . .
But what if he didn't. . . .
No! No, she'd only work herself up like this if she thought about the what if's.
She didn't think she'd be able to last much longer. Tears streamed down her face and she let out a quaky breath. She didn't want to die like this. Not already buried in her coffin. She never really got to properly meet Mary, the woman John practically glowed about. She'd never get to try Mrs. Hudson's tea again (that woman sure knew how to make a good cuppa). She'd never get to make up for the lost time with John. She'd never get to see Sherlock again.
She let out a fresh sob. No. No giving up now.
"Help!" She yelled banging her hands against the lid again. She screamed and cried and kicked the walks, punching them. "Somebody help me! Somebody please! Help . . ."
She was getting lightheaded. The air was becoming thinner. She hit the lid again. "Help me . . . please."
No one was coming, she realized as she pressed her hands to her face. She was going to die, already buried. Her hands fell back down to her sides as her breathing continued to slow. She closed her eyes.
"Gene!"
Hallucinations usually came next, when you were dying. She thought she had heard –
"Imogene!"
Sherlock . . .
He was here, he came. . .
Raising a hand, she hit against the lid of the coffin again. Here, I'm in here.
Something heavy landed on the lid. "Imogene! Imogene can you hear me?"
Once again, she raised a hand and banged it against the lid as hard as she could. Hands pulled against the lid. She thought she heard Sherlock mutter a curse before he said, "It's padlocked."
"John!" a woman's voice cried out. "John, your gun!"
"Imogene, roll over!" John cried out. "Roll to the left! Cover your head!"
Imogene did as she was told as quickly as possible. The shot hit the padlock sending a ringing through the coffin and through her ears. Someone jumped back down onto the coffin, and Imogene heard the creak of the lid as it was opened, felt the rush of air to her lungs.
"Imogene. . . ."
She uncovered her head, rolling back over onto her back. She blinked, the light blinding as a shadowy figure appeared in her view. Sherlock reached for her, helping her to sit up.
They, whoever they were, had placed her in a shallow grave. Sitting up she could see that they had buried her in Sherlock's fake grave. John and the woman next to him, who could only be Mary, were standing in the same exact spot Imogene and John had stood during Sherlock's funeral. How horrible were these people?
Reaching up, Imogene wrapped her arms around Sherlock's neck, placing her face against his shoulder. She was going to pass out any second and she'd rather Sherlock be able to catch her than fall back down into the coffin.
