Organised Chaos - Sherlock x Reader

XIII • 13

"He's dead. The original blackmailer. He died seven years ago. Somebody wanted to scare Stauffer. It must've been a game of power for those three years, because nothing ever happened once the money was delivered.
It was a game to this man, but now he's dead. He played a dangerous game with a dangerous man, and I'm not speaking of Stauffer."
Sherlock had made this conclusion after visiting with several of Stauffer's regiment.
Harvey Wieland had been the original blackmailer. He had coveted the role of Major, and had concocted this elaborate plan to get revenge on Stauffer. Somewhere along the way, he had met up with a high class criminal and gotten in over his head.
Suicide, the papers had said, but it didn't take Sherlock long to overrule that.
The problem was, if it had been a game all along, why continue it?
"I suppose because someone wants to continue to haunt Stauffer." You said.
"Hmm?" Sherlock looked over at you from where he had been staring intensely at the headrest of the front passenger seat, chewing his lip thoughtfully.
"You asked why continue it."
"Oh, did I say that out loud?" He seemed distracted.
You knew his mind was racing in a thousand different directions at once, so you just smiled and looked out the opposite widow of the cab.

"Sherlock."
He continued staring absently at the headrest.
"Sherlock!" You shook his shoulder a bit.
"Yeah?" He asked, head snapping toward you, suddenly alert.
"We're home."
"Oh. Right." He opened the door of the cab, still in another world.
You sighed and paid the cabbie. "Sorry. Don't mind him."
You got out and followed Sherlock.
He was muttering to himself about 'that name' and 'over and over' as he unlocked the door.
He made his way up the stairs, still talking to himself.
You had just unlocked the door to your flat when he spun around by the doorway of B.
"Are you coming?" He asked, a tiny bit of irritation, you could tell he was trying to hold back, lacing his voice.
"I didn't know you wanted me to." You responded, coolly.
"I thought that much was obvious."
"Not really, Sherl. You need to work on your communication skills." You gave a half smile as you climbed the stairs.
He nodded briefly, which you'd learned meant he had heard, understood, and would try to take said matter into consideration.

"When's John coming back?"
"A few hours, why?"
"I need both my Watsons."
You knew he hadn't meant it to do so, but this comment made you melt inside.
"And what can I do until then?"
He handed you a stack of newspapers. "Look through these. Set aside those with any inclusion of the name Moriarty."
You looked at the huge stack of papers, already feeling slightly overwhelmed.
You got up to make a pot of tea. Perhaps it would energise you a bit.
By the time you got back with your cuppa, Sherlock had already left the realm of the living, having retreated into his head. His hands were steepled under his chin, the same way you'd so often seen, but instead of the mask of concentration and alertness that he usually wore, you could tell that he hadn't eaten or slept in days.
You flicked the side of his head in an attempt to bring him back to earth.
He opened his eyes and looked at you with distain.
"Food, Sherlock."
"No thank you, I'm thinking right now."
"I wasn't asking." You levelled his gaze with a glare of your own.
He rolled his eyes dramatically. "(F/N), I'm fine."
"Don't even try lying. It doesn't work on me."
"(F/N), I'm thinking. I don't eat when I'm thinking."
"Do you really not know that food is what fuels the brain and allows it to think more clearly?"
"Not mine."
"If you really think that just because you're a 'High functioning sociopath'"
You used air quotes for sarcastic emphasis, "your brain doesn't require nutrition to function, you are sadly mistaken. You're not that special, Sherlock."
"If I eat, will you let me think?" He asked, exasperated.
"Of course." You smiled sweetly.
And that was how you got Sherlock to eat after three days of starvation.

******

A/N- More fillers, sorry! I'm building it up, promise.