The Gingerbread Series - Benedict Cumberbatch x Reader

#9 "I'm not the kind of guy who falls for gorgeous strangers in coffee shops."

A/N: Finally pushed through that damn writer's block. Quite liking this bit. I hope you do too!

I'm also going to shamelessly plug my other recently published ficlet "Backstage At The National". It's not dissimilar to this, but with a wee bit more adult content ;) If you enjoy this, perhaps you might like to check it out.

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“Excuse me Ma’am, my name is Officer Frank Richardson. Could we have a word?”

It’s early evening, the sun having just dipped below the horizon, leaving a dusky twilight. The porch is bathed in the blue glow of the lights flashing atop the 3 police cars parked outside. The uniformed officer standing before you is looking at you, his face grave.

“Of course, officer. What’s wrong?”

“Can I confirm that this is the residence of Joshua Edlerson?”

You nod affirmatively. “Is he OK?”

“And can I confirm your relationship to Mr Edlerson, please?”

“I’m his fiancé. Please, what’s going on?”

“We’ll have to come inside, ma’am.”

You open the door fully, apprehensive as several men traipse in. You’ve seen this in films; it’s how the police deliver bad news about road traffic accidents or murders. Dear God, please let Josh be alright.

Wordlessly you lead them through to the lounge, strewn with bridal magazines and fabric samples. You clear space on the sofa and arm chairs; two of the four officers sit, the other two remain standing stiffly by the door.

“When was the last time you saw Mr Edlerson?” the officer’s tone is gentle. You notice the blue lights in the corner of your eye, visible through the windows.

“This morning, before he left for work. Is he OK?”

Again your plea is ignored in favour of another question. “And is it usual for you to be aware of his whereabouts?”

“Well, yes, most of the time. He’s usually at school, or tutoring. I guess he’s running errands or at the golf course the rest of the time. Sometimes he goes out with friends.”

“Tutoring, ma’am?”

“He’s tutors some of the schoolkids – well, they’re not kids - the older years – for their exams, for a bit of extra income. We’re saving for our wedding, ” you explain, gesturing at the magazines, desperate to co-operate so that they will tell you what’s happened. “Has something happened?”

“And he teaches… maths is it, at the local high school?”

“Yes.”

Suddenly you hear screaming outside. It’s the hysterical voice of a woman, muffled through the windows, and you can’t make out the words. The officer takes a deep breath, sharing an uncomfortable glance with one of the other policemen. Your instinct is to get up and look, but Officer Richardson reassures you.

“Don’t worry about that ma’am, we’re taking care of it. We need to get a good understanding of what’s going on first. Please continue to answer these questions.”

You bite your lip, anxious to get to the bottom of this. “OK, what else?”

“Mr Edlerson also tutors at the school?”

“After class some evenings. Occasionally he’ll go to their house, or sometimes they’ll come here – that’s usually only on a weekend when I’m out. He was supposed to be there tonight. Please, where is he?”