Oneshots, imagines, and ideas, oh my! *discontinued*

Sherlock Holmes Imagine

The entire thing had been John's idea. A few weeks after the kiss incident, he asked if they were still together. By her behavior, the answer was yes. More kissing. Not unpleasant. He asked if they'd been on a date. The answer was no. That was certainly strange by cultural standards, but they way their 'relationship' had behaved up to that point didn't make him feel like a date was necessary. It had been very easy and pleasant. Y/n started changing very slowly as if she were trying to test him with every little thing she did. She didn't assume he was automatically in love with her from the start, he could tell she had doubts. When she did something odd uncertainly he'd try to seem more indifferent than usual, and he figured that was his contribution to a healthy relationship.

But the date, John insisted, was necessary. To prove that they had 'it', and could make it as a couple. He felt silly asking, and one morning, when she sat between his knees while he was leaning forwards on the couch, he decided to fuss with her hair. She liked to touch him, he figured it couldn't have been so bad. It was probably very odd and awkward, but he could see where she was coming from on the enjoyability of physical contact.

"Would you be interested in an outing with me?" He'd asked, immediately aware of how ambiguous that sounded. Was he proposing that they run away to Spain, or go out to a diner?

"Like where?" Like where, god, who knows? The moon?

"Wherever you'd like, I don't care."

"Right, well, I can give you the time. Custom dictates you pick the place."

"You hate me. I knew it."

"I don't hate you."

He paused, for a minute, hands frozen. It all hit him very quickly--he was in a relationship with a woman for whom he cared greatly, got along with excellently, and held romantic feelings for. He took a moment and then responded.

"I know. I don't hate you, either."

She chuckled, reached up for his other hand. He offered it, and she pulled it down until it was just close enough that she could turn her head and kiss the joint of his thumb before resting her cheek on his hand. They sat like that for a few minutes, and she finally told him Friday, at seven-thirty. Her part of the deal.

Of course, there was another odd thing about it all. Usually, the dating couple didn't already live together before the first date. Y/n had taken up residence at 221 while Sherlock was 'dead', due to the fact that her professional reputation was as run through as the name Sherlock Holmes, and Mrs. Hudson wasn't a cruel landlady when bills were tight. Not so cruel, anyways. He had asked her to leave when he came back. She refused to.

So, she was taking up the bathroom, getting ready for it. The date. In all honesty, he'd never been uncomfortable with anything Y/n had done. It had been easy, and strange, but nice. This was the very opposite of nice.

She came out after taking a traditionally long time to get ready, hair artfully styled, make-up light but there. She didn't look much different, aside from the fact that she was wearing a (F/c) dress and her shoes were heeled. She looked nice, but she couldn't run. He wasn't sure why that occurred to him.

"You look nice." He commented, dryly, and she cracked a smile. Y/n's smiles were different than most others, as indeed they did crack. They cracked her face, and all of the things she wouldn't tell you came pouring out through it.

"I do? I'm not sure you notice. You look rather sharp but ready to put a bullet through your brain."

"It's not as bad as all that, I'm sure. Some things must be done."

"Poor you. Where'd you pick?"

"Hmm. Dinner. I made reservations."

"We're blowing them off."

"Why?"

"Executive decision." She slipped her shoes off by the door. "Not sure what I was thinking. Can't even run in these."

"Planning on doing any running?"

"Well, no." She huffed, trading out for her usual flats. "I'm just saying."

They each took their coats and headed off. Sherlock wasn't interested in where they were going, knowing it was likely an overrated, trivial activity. Oddly enough, they pulled up to a crime scene, complete with flashing lights.

"I thought we were on a date?"

"Greg called, this sounded interesting. Sorry love, but I'd rather be doing this than watching you deduce a room full of doomed relationships over my overpriced meal."

"You'll disappoint John."

"We're on a case. John can wait."

He regarded her for a moment before breaking out of the car, storming to the scene, fully aware and glad that she was floating behind him. Maybe he'd catch her off guard, for once. Kiss her in front of a murderer or a suspect, that would show her. She wouldn't expect it, that was sure. He was going to take his time, and throw her off guard completely. Nothing big, just a light peck. Not for any reason other than to show her that she wasn't the only one who could be surprising.

He stopped just short of the caution tape and whirled on her, causing her to stop just shy of hitting him.

"Problem?" She tilted her head, waiting for him to say something. Very slowly, his arms moved of their own accord, wrapping around her and pulling her close.

"Okay..." She breathed, letting him move her as he wished until they were touching, and she had to look up farther than usual to catch him in the eye. The moment she did, however, he did end up taking her by surprise as he kissed her. Women like Y/n didn't come around every so often. He would hate to see her go. He rationalized that he needed to keep her happy as he kissed her desperately until they both had hands on each other.

The only (very quickly) broke apart when Lestrade cleared his throat. Everyone had turned away from the murder to watch a very rare thing happen, as Y/n took deep breaths like they would take the vibrant pink away from her cheeks. Sherlock was still holding her close, and upon realizing this, retracted his arms completely and turned to their interruption.

"What's going on?" He asked, moving attention to the dead body no doubt waiting for him.

"Shouldn't I be asking you two that?"

"It was a kiss, Greg, certain you've seen one done before." Y/n crossed her arms. "What about the murder?"

"Oh don't bother asking him." Sherlock sighed, picking up the tape for her, waiting for her to duck under before unceremoniously tugging at it, ripping it down so he could walk past uninhibited. "Were's the body?"

"Bodies," Lestrade admitted, accepting their brush-off bitterly. "Lots of blood. Dining room."

"Tragic. Let's go." Y/n led the charge, clearly in need of something to do. That's how they worked, that's what they did. He usually let her go first, get the obvious out of the way, before coming in after her and pointing out all the little things. She was socially inept but better at it all than him, not too nice like Watson. And, after all, she was his girlfriend. He didn't mind it so terribly.