BBC Sherlock Imagines

Sherlock: The Arranged Marriage (Part 1)

Request for @wandar90

~

June 2015

You watched your father scribble down the rest of the contract. He was left handed, and his arm kept smudging the ink. Nervously, you tapped your fingers against the leg of the chair and waited for him to be done.

"Please stop," said the deep voice across the table. He glared at you, annoyed with your anxious habits. His dark curly hair fell just above his eyes, and his eyes, they sparkled like a thousand oceans gathered together with sun shining down from the clouds. Even in the damp darkness of the room, you could see the glow of his eyes. Every time he looked at you, fire shot through your body. You squirmed under his gaze; you could feel him dissecting every inch of you.

"Okay, this is what I'm asking." Your father slid the paper over to him. His eyes crinkled with worry, you knew he just wanted you to be safe, but he was hurting himself in the process. You looked to find the man, Sherlock I think his name is, reading the contract intently, his eyes moving furiously side to side.

"I'm sorry, I have to decline this Mr. (y/l/n)," he stated firmly, sliding the paper back to your father.

"Wh-why? Sherlock please. Mycroft said you could help us, please."

"Yes, help indeed. But marriage? That's more than helping, that's getting involved." Tears fell from my father's eyes, a sight I had never seen before. Through all the loss and suffering we had endured, he had never once let himself cry, at least not in front of you.

"Very well then. Thank you for considering," my father announced shakily, trying desperately to hold it together. And with that, he stood up from the chair, grabbed your hand, and pulled your back to the helicopter. Before we exited the building, you looked back once to find the curly haired man staring back at you, a detached look locked onto his features.

~

August 2015 - Present Day

"Sorry sweetie, daddy can't save you now." The cold knife pressed up against your throat. The covers from your bed had been ripped from you seconds earlier, and you lay shivering. You already knew who it was. It was always the same, always him. Same dog, new tricks. He smelled of apples and peaches, his signature scent, and you flinched as his breath shot into your ear. "Are you cold? Should I warm you up?"

"Please, pl-please stop." He laughed manically, so much so that his elbow dug into your stomach, where he had it resting. You try to wriggle free, but the more you did, the deeper the knife dug into your neck. You were trapped.

"You probably shouldn't move at all darling, this knife might slip a little too far into your neck. Of course I'm going to kill you anyways so you could choose to die now if you want." A single teardrop fell from your eye. "Crying are we? Funny, your father did the same thing just moments ago before I slit his throat. Life father like daughter I gu-"

"Dame, we have a situation. They are coming. Guys spotted them about 7 miles away. We got five minutes to get the hell out of here." Dame sighed, frustrated, and tugged you up by your hair. You shrieked, pain echoed through your head.

"Shut it," he growled in your ear. "I thought I told you not to bother me up here Greg." His assistant said nothing. Dame yanked you out of your room. The house was pitch black, but he maneuvered flawlessly through it. Probably helped that he had been in here dozens of times in this setting, all the time looking for you and your father, searching, tearing the house apart, but never finding you, till now. This had been his lucky time. Downstairs, he trekked to the back door. The moonlight shone in, giving you some vision.

"Make sure they've secured the back, we're going out that way. Forest will give us some coverage and time to run," ordered Dame. He still gripped you by the hair, the knife dangling from his other hand. His right hand man, whom you did not know the name of, he had a new one every time, stared at you earnestly, his eyes begging for something you couldn't quite grasp. His eyes. The man. He glanced down at the knife in Dame's hand, then back up at you, and you understood. Dame was inspecting the outside darkness, and when he was facing away from you, you dove for the knife, knocking him down in the process. At the same time, the man flung the door open, grabbed you by the arm, and pulled you out the door.

"Run." You did as you were told, hurdling logs, ducking under branches, and pushing past bushes. Once you looked behind you to find your helper, but he was nowhere to be seen. You tripped over a tree branch that wrapped around you leg, but soon realized it was a hand. You started to scream, but another hand covered your mouth and helped drag you to the side, underneath a bush. Your breathing, already being rapid, turned into wheezes as panic flooded every neuron in your body.

"(Y/n), I'm John Watson, you're safe now, just breathe."

~

"Would you consider the marriage now?" Here you sat in the same building with the same damp darkness and the same people. Well, besides your father. Instead, Mycroft Holmes, practically the British government, sat next to you in his place. Like your father had, he slid the contract across the table to Sherlock Holmes. This time, Sherlock signed the paper with no hesitation. In short, you owed Sherlock your life. He had saved your life two nights ago, when you thought Dame was really going to kill you, when he had pretended to be Dame's assistant Greg. "Well it's official now. I'll take care of the paperwork for all of this. I'm proud of you for doing this brother."

"I don't need your praise Mycroft, I need to go home so I can figure out a way to change my old life to fit this new one with my," he gritted his teeth, "wife." You cringed at the word. His tone was harsh, obviously not happy about having to take you in. You weren't happy either though. Had you had it your way you'd still be in Rushfore, living your life freely in your home country surrounded by your friends and family. But that fairytale life had ended years ago when it became Dame's mission to tear your family apart so that he could rule the country instead of your great uncle. So boohoo Sherlock. Sherlock stood abruptly from the table, walking briskly towards the door. "Coming (y/n)? I'm afraid there won't be a honeymoon to celebrate our happy marriage, but I'm sure we can pick you up a fake ring on the way if you want," he offered dryly. Not even been married for five minutes and you already wanted a divorce.

A/N

Part 1 of 2 of an imagine that was requested. I really felt the need to go deep into this one, I've been slacking lately. But the wheels in my head were definitely turning tonight! I mean I even created a new country. Rushfore. Kinda like Rushmore, but this is a country that's off the southeastern coast of England only a couple miles and not a mountain with faces carved into it.

Anyways

Thank you readers for almost 3k reads?! Insanity I tell you. Insanity. I love you all. I hope to have the second part up by tomorrow night, maybe earlier, it all depends! But until then, sleep tight, hydrate, and stay sane my friends.

Enjoy