Organised Chaos - Sherlock x Reader

LXXI • 71

You were fuming, absolutely livid. There were but three words going over and over in your mind; How dare he.
How dare Sherlock fake his death? How dare he be silent for two years, until you'd finally moved on?
Who were you kidding? You hadn't. You probably never would have either...
How dare he tell John but not you? How dare John never let on? How dare either of them for playing you like that?
How dare he?

'Should I even go back to the flat? Or just catch the first tube back to Scotland?' You wondered out loud.
You had made your way to a local bar and were stewing in a corner booth.
Your phone had been buzzing every few minutes for the last hour.
You finally looked at it. 12 missed calls from John, 3 texts from Sherlock. You ignored the texts and listened to your voicemail.
'Hey sis, it's me. Call me back when you can.'
'(N/N), it's John, Sherlock told me what happened. I'm sorry. Call me.'
The messages continued in this fashion. Usually John would've been getting increasingly frantic with each message, but he knew you needed to cool down.

You took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then got up and headed outside.
What did you have to lose? They could explain all they liked, but you couldn't imagine yourself forgiving either of them anytime soon.
It had started raining since you had abandoned Sherlock, but you didn't bother hailing a cab.
By the time you got back to the flat, you were soaked to the bone.
You dried yourself off in the mud room the best you could for Mrs. Hudson's sake, then went upstairs.
The scene that met your eyes nearly made you turn around and walk back the way you had come.
It was just like two years ago. John at the desk with his laptop, Sherlock at the window with his violin.
The violin that had sat in the corner for two years, untouched, collecting dust. Neither you nor John had been capable of moving it.
John looked up at you. "(F/N), Hey."
"Hi." You replied, coldly.
"Look, sis... Actually, can we go to the room for a sec?" John nodded toward the other room.
You followed him grudgingly. Normally, he would have tried to hug you or pat your back, or something, but he didn't this time. He knew you were just as upset with him as you were with Sherlock.
He sat on the bed and looked at you for a moment, gathering his thoughts.
"(N/N)..."
"Don't call me that!" You snapped.
He looked hurt, but corrected himself. "(F/N), I can't really explain to you the reason. But it was valid, I promise."
You scoffed, but he continued, quickly.
"I didn't know either at first. At the morgue, the funeral, I thought he was dead, too. It was only afterwards that he started contacting me. I thought it was some sort of sick joke at first. But the messages kept coming and I realised that no one but Sherlock could've sent them. He asked me to keep an eye on you, to make sure you were doing well and to let him know. But he said specifically not to let you know he was alive. I guess he was afraid that Moriarty had faked his death as well. And if you still had any contact with him, the word might get out. It's not that he didn't trust you, (N/N), he just wanted to keep us safe. Because he knew that Moriarty attacks his victims by hurting their loved ones. He loves you. He's been at that window playing since he got back. He's crying, (F/N)."
Your own tears had begun at this point. You didn't have the energy or even the desire to stay angry.
"I'm sorry, John." You hugged your brother tightly.
"So am I, (F/N), I really am. There were so many times  I wanted to tell you- I wanted to so bad." Now he rubbed your back.
"That's why you were so adamant that it was impossible." You said, making a statement more than asking a question.
He nodded sadly. "Oh, and (N/N), He's been through a bit as well in the last year and a half. Just ask to see his scars." He gave you a sympathetic look, then nodded toward the door.

You opened it a bit and peered at Sherlock through the crack. He stood with his back facing you, clad in the same bloody sweatshirt and jeans as before. He clutched his violin in one hand, and as you watched, bowed his head, resting his chin on the small instrument. His bow moved slowly and evenly across the strings, the sound it produced resonating throughout the room. The low, haunting tune made you shiver. He moved slightly in time to the song he played, as if dancing with himself.

You walked up to him and gently took the violin from his hands. He didn't resist. He had indeed been crying, a silent waterfall. The trails of tears gone were obvious on his dirty face.
His hair was damp, likely from the rain, and his eyes were red. He had been too upset to even clean up.
You set his violin down carefully on the table, then moved to wrap your arms around his middle, laying your head on his chest. He winced slightly, but returned your hug, his strong arms around you a reassurance. He kissed the top of your head, confirming his love for you.
After a few moments, you pulled away and he looked at you like a wounded dog.
"I really am... sorry." He managed, his voice a hoarse, barely audible whisper.
"I know." You returned his kiss, yours a quick one to the side of his mouth.
"Scars, Sherlock?"
He sighed. "Back."
You went to his back and lifted his sweatshirt slightly. His pale skin was mottled with the scars of old injuries. You drew in a sharp breath, pulling his shirt back down gently. You gave him a concerned, questioning look.
"German intelligence. I had to infiltrate their stronghold to get information on Moriarty. Apparently they don't like foreigners sneaking around at night." He tried on a smile, but it ended up looking more like a grimace.
"Sherlock... " That was all you could manage.

******

A/N: I'm honestly really, really sorry guys. Don't kill me.