Benedict Cumberbatch Imagines

Crash This Train

About fifteen minutes later, the interview was over and he ignored everyone who came his way, just so he could get to his motorbike and go home. He was a wreck and he desperately needed a drink.

He weaved his way through the London traffic in a daze. He thought back to when you would cling on tightly to him when he took you places on this thing. You hated it, but you loved it. You'd squeal if he made a sharp turn or slammed on the brakes, making him laugh at you. After he would get you both to your destination, he'd lift off the helmet he got for you and give you a chaste kiss, muttering apologizes against your lips. You'd whack his arm, but then tell him you forgave him.

He snapped out of his thoughts when a horn started blairing beside him. His usual reaction would to stomp on the brakes, but when he did, he flew off and ended up toppling over the roof and down the front of a taxi, on to the street. He groaned and slammed his helmeted head into the pavement in frustration. He managed to get up and get back on his bike before anyone could make a fuss and sped off again.

He sighed as he walked into the old, lonely house and dropped his helmet right on to the floor where yours was still laying from your last ride with him. He groaned, as his muscles cracked where he fell. Thank goodness he was wearing leather, or else his mother would kill him if the pavement didn't.

Speaking of his mother, he needed to call her. I'll do it tomorrow, he thought to himself. Then again, he's been thinking that everyday for the past three weeks. He's surprised she hasn't come over to check if he's still breathing.

After getting his scruffed up jacket off and kicking away his shoes, he went straight to the liquor cabinet. Every bottle of his was almost gone. He wouldn't dare touch any of your stuff, as he knew how you'd get if he did. You always looked like a kicked puppy, but then rage out on him like an angry Pitbull. He thought it was cute. He always thought it was cute when you got mad.

It's memories like this that drive him to drink. It numbs the pain when the memories start coming back. He also picked up smoking again, even though he willed himself not to because you worked hard on getting him to stop. But that numbed the pain, too. It relaxed it.

So, he picked out a bottle, grabbed his pack of cigarettes, and headed into the bedroom. He walked past the empty boxes his mother had brought over a few weeks ago for him to put your clothes in. That got them into quite the arguement and that's why he hasn't bothered to call her.

That's why he hasn't called anyone. They're all telling him to "move on", but how can he? All he wants that time back. If he didn't spill that coffee on his shirt before he left, then he wouldn't have called you to ask to pick up his dry cleaning for the premier the next day; if you didn't forget your wallet and had to go back to retrieve it; if you didn't drop your purse in front of the car, making everything spill out...you might be here.

Time. He wanted to erase that part of time and he wanted you here, with him.

He took the first swig from the bottle and lit the first cigarette. This was how it was now. And he hated every torturing second of it.

At one point, he started looking through your clothes, smiling when he saw one was torn from him literally trying to rip it off of you, or silently crying when one brought back a special memory. He wouldn't put these in boxes. He couldn't. He won't.

As he got nearer the back of the closet, he found something sticking out of one of your shoe boxes. Sometimes you kept little knick-knacks in them from trips or from your past. He opened one of them and saw a onesie, big enough for a baby.

This broke him. He held on to the small piece of clothing and sobbed into it. You both had been trying so hard for a baby before all this happened. He always found little baby things lying around that you had bought "just in case it happens".