The Gingerbread Series - Benedict Cumberbatch x Reader

#22 "Jesus Christ, anyone would think you've got a fucking death wish, woman!"

I blame circa1927 for today's sudden flash of inspiration, and as a result you can have another chapter right away. Thank you again for all the terrific feedback. I realised the other day that this has been ongoing for about 8 months or something ridiculous like that - I'm just awed that you guys have the patience to stick with me for so long. Thank you, you superstars!

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The low wall you’re sat on is damp and very hard, although after three-quarters of an hour most surfaces would probably start to smart a bit. Periodically a curtain twitches as one of your former neighbours peers out at you, wondering how long you’ll be perched on their front garden wall glowering across at your own front door.

In the meagre orange light cast by the streetlamps the red paint covering the house looks black, dark like oil choking the walls, windows and doors. The burnt out car sits on the driveway with smashed headlamps staring back with the hollowed eyes of an empty skull.

Even now, looking at the house from an external angle, your brain pieces together the scene and presents it to you despite your unwillingness to see it. Flashing lights fill your field of view and you can picture where each of the patrol cars were parked.

“You’ll pay for what you did, you fucking scum! You disgusting piece of shit!”

Heidi Beauport’s mother is screaming, trying to make her way to your front door. Joshua exploited her child, and here she is, baying for his blood. Unbeknownst to either of you at the time, Joshua was already in a police cell confessing his sins.

An inquisitive and not all together friendly face appears at the window again and you decide that it is time to venture inside. Last time you were bolstered by Benedict’s presence. This time you’re very much alone.

The door sticks as it did before and you throw your weight against it, flakes of peeling paint clinging to your cardigan. The accumulation of mail clogs the hallway and you kick it, sending a flurry of envelopes across the carpet. You can make out the glint of a metal picture frame sitting on the bottom step of the stairs.

You take out your phone, wanting to speak to someone – anyone – for a bit of courage. But it’s late, gone midnight, and your options are limited. Your mother knows you’re here but she needs to be resting after worrying over your grandmother. You don’t want to disturb Izzie at this time of night either.

I went back to the house where it all happened.

You send it to James, knowing that if anyone understands, it will be him.

Is anyone with you? Are you OK?

You’re not sure how to answer that. Physically you’re alone, but you feel Joshua’s presence in all the memories the house invokes – the good as well as the bad. You’ve no idea if you’re OK, either. You’ve lost track of what that even means.

Now you’re here, you’re not sure what to do with yourself. You look around, taking in the familiar décor. When your grandfather had passed away, your grandmother had moved to a warden-assisted flat in a community of older people just a few roads away. So she'd sold her house and insisted that you and Joshua use a large proportion of the capital to buy your own place, arguing that as a young couple renting was akin to just throwing away money.

You run your hand along the wall to the light switch. Josh had worked as a labourer during the summers away from university. He knew how to hang wallpaper, and he’d done all the tiling in the bathroom and plumbed in the new shower. Having spent so much time on the island as a child it quickly felt like home to you and with a few tweaks the house was a perfect reflection of the both of you.