Organised Chaos - Sherlock x Reader

LXXXIII • 83

You crept up the stairs, swallowing your fear.
It would be okay, he'd understand. Everything would be fine.
You kept trying to reassure yourself, but you knew that he had absolutely no reason in the world to forgive you. You'd been a complete twit and you knew it. You heard the music John had been referring to. You too had never heard anything so incredibly dreary.
Realising you'd been standing at his door reasoning with yourself for a full minute, you took a deep breath and knocked. You knew that he would answer if he would only retreat from the confines of his head.
You knocked again and the music stopped.
After another long moment he opened the door a little, his eyes bleary and his hair sticking up in all directions. He wore cotton pyjamas and a white shirt beneath an untied dressing gown, violin and bow in hand.
"I'm sorry, did I-?" You began, but he interrupted you.
"No." He replied, his voice cold.
John was right. My actions had cost both of us.
You swallowed the lump in your throat.
"Can I- can I come in?" You asked, weakly.
The door opened wider and he walked off, leaving you alone in his sitting room.
You were actually grateful for his temporary absence, as it allowed you time to think about what you'd say to him.
He wasn't gone for long, he'd only went to his room to change. He seemed so much more severe now and you felt nervous once again. He sat in his chair, his arms stretched out along the armrests, fingers tapping idly and one leg crossed over the other.
"What do you want, (F/N)?" He finally asked, after studying you for a long moment.
You tried to talk but only managed a pitiful squeak before you were once again too shaken to even give thought to the elaborate apology you'd planned.
His features softened, seeing your discomfort. He uncrossed his leg and leaned forward, elbows on knees and hands loosely clasped.
"(N/N)." He used your nickname carefully, as though he was afraid it was too familiar for someone who'd so distanced themselves.
But it was music to your ears, and not the depressing kind.
"Sherlock..." You managed, your voice a squeaky whisper, incapable of looking him in the eye. You plowed on before you couldn't anymore. "I'm here to apologise... I was such a twit- thinking shutting down was the answer." You took a shaky breath and continued. "I was wrong, Sherlock, and I don't expect you to even try to open back up to me, I just wanted you to know that I'm really, truly so-"
"(F/N), stop." He'd gotten up at some point and now he stood over you. You were afraid for a moment, but there was kindness in his eyes. He extended his hand and you took it- the first expression of your trust. He held your hand so you were standing quite close to him. "Please don't apologise. If we both felt that was necessary all the time I fear that would be our main source of communication." He allowed a small smile and you couldn't help doing the same.
You were very close now, and you saw him glance at your lips for just a split second before continuing.
"I don't want an apology, (F/N). I want trust. I want you to trust that I will not hurt you and that I will not exploit your deepest feelings and memories. I want you to trust that I love you and that I only want to help you." He wrapped his arm around your waist now. "Can you do that?" He whispered.
You managed a fervent nod before he kissed you, eagerly binding any break between the two of you. His kiss seemed to carry the power and energy you lacked and you saw the same zest in his eyes when you pulled away for a moment. They sparkled and danced, and looking into them, you saw the love that he was so earnest to share.
It was only afterward that you realised that was what you'd needed- the confirmation of someone who loved you even more than you hated yourself and your biological family. Someone who's love could fix everything- heal every wound and bind any break. You realised that you needed him.