Organised Chaos - Sherlock x Reader

XC - 90

Your POV:

You were exhausted when you got back to the flat an hour later, but you felt about as successful as you could be after the day's events. You wanted nothing more than to go to bed when the three of you filed through the door, but Mrs. Hudson immediately rushed in and thrust an envelope into Sherlock's hands.
"This was slipped under the door while I was out." She looked slightly worried. "It's for you." She added, unnecessarily.
"Thank you." Sherlock took the envelope and started up the stairs. You followed, the mysterious package enough to keep you from your bed. John followed as well, although he looked as though he were about to collapse. Despite the fact that Sherlock too looked exhausted, his full attention was riveted on the creamy white envelope in his hands. He turned on a lamp and held it up to the light. His name was printed in fancy cursive, the letters well formed.
"Chinese ink. Interesting." He murmured, not addressing anybody in particular.
"What's the significance of the type of ink?" You asked.
"It's outdated." He replied, distractedly. He held the envelope on his open palm, determining its weight. He lifted it to his his nose and smelled it, then turned it over in his hands, continuing his examination.
It made you antsy, wanting to see what was inside.
"Can't you just open it?" You asked.
He shook his head. "A lot of people want to kill me. This could conceal any kind of poison or intricate explosive."
You stepped back instinctively, and noticed the corner of his mouth twitch up.
"Oh you little twit. You made that all up!"
His smile widened. "Not exactly. Any of that could be possible. Just not this time." He flipped the envelope in his hands and tore it open using a forefinger. He slid out several photographs and his breath hitched in his throat. His own face stared back at him.

Sherlock's POV:

I felt my jaw clench and unclench. I should've seen this coming. I knew something was off about that photographer that I kept seeing. And yet, I hadn't expected them to be so bold. Rather, her. The woman at the river that I had spoken to so briefly had given me the same sensation as the shadowy figure with the camera that I'd seen several times. I'd shaken it off, but it seemed so likely at this point.
"Sherlock..." I was jarred back to reality by your voice, slightly shaky, almost scared. "Is this the.. stalker?"
"Stalker?!" John interjected. "You never said-"
"Stop." I cut him off. "I very briefly mentioned the possibility that I may have had a stalker, yes. It was never a concern to me nor did I think it would turn into anything worthy of my attention." I paused, looking back at the photos in front of me. "It seems that I was mistaken."
John shook with something like anger. "Why didn't you tell me about this?" He asked, his voice quiet but fierce. "Because it was never relevant. I was busy with Oliver's case and it didn't worry me. In fact, I'd nearly forgotten about it."
John planted himself in his chair, his exhaustion long forgotten.
I continued to flip through the photos, and you hung over my shoulder. I recognised a few of the photos- the first time I'd seen the mysterious photographer, when I was returning from visiting you in the hospital. Then the time I'd collapsed onto the bench somewhere in downtown London after our fight- but it was clear that the photographer, whether it was the same woman I'd met at the lake or not, had been there far more times than I'd actually noticed them.
I continued flipping through the photos until about halfway through, a slip of paper fell out of the stack.
Written on it, in the same fancy printing as before, were two sentences.
"So very smart and such a beautiful face. It'd be a shame to spoil it."
I winced. A threat couldn't get much more blatant.

Your POV:

Sherlock seemed truly distraught over this. It worried you slightly. He'd normally not let anything faze him. He picked up the note and examined it under the light as he had the envelope.
"Same writing. Right handed... Woman." He muttered.
At this point you were used to these little deductions and didn't bother to ask how he knew that the author was a woman and what her dominant hand was.
The threat worried you too, as it was so obvious and yet immensely vague at the same time. You were mulling this over when you heard Sherlock mutter again.
"Oh God, no." He sounded almost agonised. The photo now on the top of the stack was of both of you, the day that Sherlock had revealed that he was very much alive.
He flipped to the next picture quickly, but John was already on his feet and wrenched them out of his hands. Sherlock bit his lip in anticipation of the anger he knew was coming. John shook with rage and he addressed you, his voice quiet with anger.
"Stay away from him."
"No." You replied, staring him down.
"Yes, (F/N)." Sherlock spoke quietly, though he looked hurt. "I won't let you risk your life because someone wants to kill me."
"That's not your choice! Neither of you can dictate my life." You glared at John as you spoke, knowing that Sherlock didn't actually want to make decisions for you.
"I wasn't giving you an option. It's my job to protect you, it has been for years."
"I'm an adult, John!"
"(F/N), you should really listen to him. You saw the note, there's no doubt that someone is out for blood and for all you know, they don't care who's it is. I'm not going to let you die because of me."
"But the note was for you, they obviou-"
"How do you know?" He asked. "It could've been for either or both of us. There was no specification."
John looked even more livid at this statement and he grabbed your arm and led you away from Sherlock.
"Let me go!" You pulled out of his grasp, anger in your voice. "You're not my father. You're not even my real brother." You immediately felt bad about saying this, but continued to glare at him.
Hurt flashed across his face, but he returned your glare and shot back, "And your real brother was a psychopathic maniac!"
"Stop!" Sherlock yelled, suddenly.
You both turned, rather surprised. His back was toward you but his shoulders were shaking. "I'm going to work on this alone, and that's final. Nobody else is going to die because I wasn't good enough."
John stalked off without another word, but you stayed where you stood, watching Sherlock's back tense as he tried to keep his head.
You walked over to him and laid your hand on his shoulder. "Sherl, if I want to risk my life to help you, that's my problem."
He looked up. "I can't lose you, (F/N)."
"And I can't lose you. Not again."
He tried to give you a stern glare, but after a moment his eyes softened and he looked away.
"Sherlock. I love you, you know I do. But I'm not going to allow you to force me to do, or rather not do something that I want to. Besides, this obviously involves me as well." You nodded toward the photo of the two of you.
He still refused to look at you, but after a long moment he gave a single, almost imperceptible, nod.
"Don't mind John. He'll get over himself, and even if he doesn't, he has no place to tell me what to do."
He nodded again, though he didn't look up.
"Now I'm going to bed, and you should too. It's been a very long day."
He didn't say anything, and you knew he'd ignore your suggestion.
You lifted his chin and looked at his face, at the pain in his eyes. You pressed a kiss to his lips and smiled a little. "Goodnight Sherlock. Don't worry about me."