Sherlock One shots and Imagines

The wrong one - Part 4 - Moriarty x Greg x Reader

Greg looked at his watch. She was an hour late, and (Y/n) was never late. In her whole life, she had never been late for anything. In fact, she had even been born early. So, to say that this was out of character, would be the biggest understatement, ever. And now, now he was beginning to worry. He knew that if she had had to go and do something, she would have already told him, or called. If she had gone to make enquires about a case, his sister would have advised him. Greg getting a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as the call rang out yet again. The recording of (Y/n)'s voice telling him that she couldn't come to the phone and to leave a message, as the detective inspector got to his feet and grabbed his coat before making his way out of the office and onto the busy streets of London. His car pushing its way into the traffic, Greg's mind filled with all manner of horrors, as he sped through the bustling capital. Thoughts of what could have happened to her. That she might have had an accident. Be on the floor, unconscious. Or worse, someone may have found her. Some criminal that didn't like the fact that she had helped to lock him up. Some criminal that had decided to take revenge. That he could come across a scene, the thought of which terrified him.

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(Y/n) looked out over the capital. Happy that she could see the huge clock face and hear the ring of old Big Ben. The time an hour past that when she should have been at work. The detective well aware that her older brother knew her well enough to know that she would never be late. That she lived by the line written by the bard so many hundred years before. That it was better three hours too soon than a minute too late. Yet what he would find, she didn't know. (Y/n) hoping that Moriarty's goons had left a clue as to who had taken her. A clue that, when Greg made an inevitable call to Sherlock and John, the consulting detective would find. Sherlock instantly being able to tell who was holding her, and where she was. That Mycroft would have captured her kidnapping on the extensive array of cameras that littered the city. Though she had to admit that a little part of her hoped that Greg would do none of that. That he wouldn't, as Moriarty wanted, drag the two Holmes boys and poor John into this whole sorry sad affair. But then again, she had no desire to be stuck with James Moriarty any longer than she had to be. (Y/n) at this moment thinking that she would even like to see the faces of Anderson and Donovan make their way through the door.

"It's a beautiful day, don't you think?" A voice enquired, as she heard the door open. (Y/n) turning to see Moriarty and a big moron make their way into the room. The said moron placing a breakfast tray on a small table before leaving.

"Does it really matter what the day's like? It's not that I can appreciate it from inside this prison. And before you try and protest that this is no prison, that I am just you guest. Golden bars still a prison make." (Y/n) replied, as she moved over to the table and looked at the food on her tray. The fact that it was her favourite breakfast telling her that the consulting criminal had been having her watched for longer than she had thought. That he had had someone follow her, as she would make her way to the little café that she would religiously make her way to once a week, come rain or shine to eat this exact thing.

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James couldn't help but smile to himself, as he watched the quite beautiful, younger Lestrade look at the food on the tray. The glint of realisation coming to her eyes, as she picked up a fork. The consulting criminal sure that she must have just recognised that she had been being watched for some time.

His original plan had been to hold her until Sherlock came out of the woodwork to assist in rescuing her. James having been informed that his nemesis seemed, despite the female detective's protests, to have a liking for her. But from the moment that he had walked into that first room, he had found himself fascinated by her. Intrigued by the way that she spoke to him. About the way that she would act. Sure, that he had never seen another person push their forehead harder against the barrel of a gun that he had pointed at them. That, and he was also fascinated about the way that she had made him feel when he had pushed his body up against hers. When he had looked between her eyes and lips. The criminal hoping that he might be able to solve her puzzle, before the Holmes brothers and her own brother came calling. And perhaps if he did his best to charm her. She might just give up a few of her secrets.

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The tyres of the car came to a screeching halt, as Greg slammed on the brakes. The vehicle pulling to a sudden stop out front of his sister's address. The detective inspector leaving it where he had stopped and jumping out. Racing over to the door and banging loudly. The fear inside him growing as no answer came. Greg's eyes growing wide, as they dropped to the floor. As he saw a few droplets of dried blood on the step. The older Lestrade using his shoulder to bust down the ingress. His heart beating violently as he was greeted by the scene. The living room in complete disarray. Furniture turned over and the contents of draws emptied all over the floor. Yet it was the blood that was sprayed across the walls that was making his mind spin. The pool of crimson that drenched the white, faux fur rug that (Y/n) would always have in front of her large chair. His hands trembling, as he pulled the cell phone from his pocket. His mouth becoming dry, as he called a familiar number. A tear rolling down his cheek, as he reached out and picked up the picture of his sister smiling happily with his children. His thumb trying to move the spots of high velocity blood splatter from their faces.

"Hi, Greg. Everything ok............?" John asked cheerily, as he answered the call.

"I.............no..............I need Sherlock. Its (Y/n). She.........she............" Greg tried to explain. The detective dropping to his knees as he tried to contemplate the thought of losing his sister.