The Post-it Predicament (a Sherlockxreader fan fiction)

Ten- Freak Show

A/N: It feels wrong if I at least don't say hi, so, konichiwa reader-chan. Hope you like the chapter.

Your POV

You had just started to regain feeling in your body. When Christopher jumped, you went completely numb. When you felt the fabric from his jacket slip through your fingers, and heard him hit the far ground below you, you became paralyzed.

You and Sherlock sat on the couch. You didn't want to move and he didn't want to leave you in the state you were in. It was only two o'clock in the afternoon. You sat there, no music, no telly, no book, just complete silence in Sherlock's arms.

He petted your hair and softly whispered in your ear over and over again, "You didn't kill him. You didn't kill him. It was him. You're so wonderful. You didn't kill him."

You could tell he was upset- in mourning- but didn't know how to deal with it. From years and years of having to push back emotions, when he was finally safe to display them, he was unable to.

You wondered how safe you were. You thought you were a strong person, that whoever was convincing these people to kill themselves wouldn't be able to persuade you, but you still felt fear. Sherlock had told you that he loved you. You had told him. He told you all the bollocks about Peter Parker but yet here he was, holding you and comforting you. Do friends do this?

You softly fell asleep in his arms, feeling a bit less in shock.

***

The room was dark around you. You couldn't move your arms or legs. You tried to scream but only a muffled noise came from your mouth. As you came to, you realized that you were bound and gagged. The only light source came from a desk in the corner. You were in St Bart's hospital.

"Good morning, starshine." A  familiar voice said to you. His posh accent echoed through the building and rang in your ears. The ground shook as his footsteps echoed throughout the room.
Without warning a fluorescent light clicked on, it blinding you with its surprise.
"It's a pity really," the voice said. His features were now illuminated, but you still couldn't make out his face because of the dots in you eyes. "That you have to be here. That we have to go through this."

The dots eventually cleared and you were able to clearly see his face. Your heart sank at the sight. Sherlock Holmes stood in front of you, a wicked grin plastered upon his face. He walked up to you and removed the gag from your mouth. 

"W-what's going on?!" Your voice was hoarse and crackled in distress. 

He chuckled the same way he would if you told a joke, but it sounded so different now; evil and menacing.  

"Oh, (f/n), you should have seen this coming. Truthfully, I thought you were smarter than this."

"W-wha?"

"I played you. Can't you see that?! How didn't you know? You've been warned about me since you were eighteen. For years you were taught about me and what I do to pretty little girls like  you. Janine Hawkins, Molly Hooper. You, on the other hand, got too involved. Usually I could get away with a slap in the face or a few angry words, but you, you're in my way."

You didn't believe this could be happening. You tried to fight it. Something didn't seem right about any of it. Like, somehow someone had placed Sherlock as the wrong role. Like he was saying all the wrong words. He was supposed to be the superman that barged through in the next scene, not the villain that got too close. 

You felt the pit in your stomach worsen: If Sherlock wasn't the superman, then no one was. 

You were about to start screaming when you heard the delightful scratching of a violin. Both you and Sherlock looked around the hospital. When he saw you were distracted, he swiftly grabbed a knife off of a counter and sliced you across the throat.