The Science of Sentiment (BBC Sherlock x Reader)

Chapter 7: Back to Normal

The next morning you opened your wary eyes to midday sunlight streaming through the blinds. You were cocooned comfortably in stiff, white sheets. You noticed that the bedding around you was used, but not worn very well. Sherlock must not sleep here very often, you deduced.
You glanced around the rest of the room. The events of last night after returning to the flat were a complete blur, and you hardly even remember laying down to sleep. The room is clean and simple compared to the rest of the sociopath's flat. A periodical table of elements hangs on the wall near the door by way of personalization. His closet doors stand ajar, revealing neat lines of suits, dress shirts, ties and shoes.
For a while, you just sit there in his bed. You relish the scent of him found in his comforter, using it as a small escape from the horrible memories of last night. You're staring off at the window when the door swings open.
"Ah, you're awake."
You turn to the source of the voice to see Sherlock standing in the doorway in his usual pristine dress clothes.
"It's nearly two o'clock, I was just coming to wake you."
"Oh really? Sorry, I should have set an alarm or something..." You frantically move off the bed and try to get around the detective, a slight blush creeping onto your face.
He blocks your path, staring at you intently. "No worries," he mutters. "How are you feeling this morning?"
"Just fine."
"You don't look well."
You give him a half-hearted glare. "Let me through, Sherlock."
With a huff, the man moves out of your way. You stumble down the hall and into the kitchen to make tea. Sherlock is behind you in seconds, directing you to the living room to make you sit down. Agitated, you purposely sit in his chair to spite him.
Sherlock ignored this and turns back to the kitchen to finish making the tea you had started on.
John is typing furiously on his laptop, oblivious to the strange scene before him.
"What're you working on?"
"Hmm?" John glances up to see you staring at him, curiosity brimming your eyes. "Blog," he replies curtly, going back to work.
You only nod in response, not wanting to distract him further.
Sherlock comes back a moment later, holding a tray of biscuits and steaming cups of tea. You pour some milk into yours before taking a sip.
"Thanks."
"No problem."
John finally stops typing to look up at the pair before him. His eyes widen slightly.
"You made tea, Sherlock?"
"Yes," he hums.
"You never make tea-"
"Well I just did. Care for some?"
John nods uncertainly, accepting a cup. "And...it's not drugged or anything?"
You giggle and Sherlock sets his tea down roughly, turning to argue with the doctor.
They go on bickering for another five minutes. Finished with your tea, you slip out of the flat going unnoticed by the angry men.
You make your way down the stairs quietly and turn into your own flat, locking the door behind you. You wanted to take a shower and you didn't need Sherlock to see you half-naked again like the last time.

The hot water soothes your anxious nerves almost immediately. You stare at the drain below you, pretending like all of your pain was being washed off along with the events of last night.
After the shower, you put on a gathered mini skirt with a black and white flower print. You pull a button-up, (f/c) blouse over your shoulders, and add black tights to complete the look. You brush on make-up and try your best to look confident in the mirror. Once satisfied, you pull on a peacoat and black Converse and head out the door.
You hail a cab from the curb, and eagerly jump into the first one to slow down.
"Saint Bart's, please."
---

You arrive home from the hospital a few hours later. Instead of going back to your own flat, you trudge up the stairs to see how to residents of 221B are doing. You can hear faint violin music resonating from behind the closed door. You give a short knock before letting yourself into the flat, knowing that Sherlock probably wouldn't hear you anyway with his playing.
As expected, the man doesn't even notice you come in and continues staring out the window while he plays a familiar Bach sonata.
You take a seat in the detective's armchair, admiring his playing. After a minute, you feel your eyelids droop slightly. Before you fall asleep completely, the playing abruptly stops.
"I didn't hear you come in," Sherlock says from behind you.
"Your playing is lovely."
"We were worried you know."
"You sound like my grandfather," you snap, finally turning to look at the man.
"I answered your text saying that I was fine, didn't I? You don't have to get so worrisome."
Sherlock turned back to the window with a childish pout. "Where were you, anyway?"
"Visiting Lillian in the hospital."
Sherlock gave a quiet "oh." He had apparently forgotten about your kidnapped friend in all of this.
"How is she?" He asked half-heartedly, plucking at the strings of his violin.
"She'll be discharged tomorrow. Her wounds were fairly minor, but they want to keep her around to run a few tests." You trailed off, staring at the floor.
"Don't blame yourself," Sherlock said, guessing your exact thoughts.
"But, if I hadn't-"
"Stop that," he snapped, coming around the chair and crouching in front of you. "That's not going to make it any better."
Tears stung the back of your eyes, and you only nodded in response, not trusting your own voice.
Sherlock went back to the window to pack up his violin. After a minute, he came back around to you, taking your hand.
"Come along," he said, pulling you off of the seat and out the door.
"Where are we going?" You ask as he pulls on his coat and scarf.
He doesn't answer, but continues to hold your hand as he leads you out of the flat and to the curb. He hails a cab and you both climb in. He mumbles some directions to the cabbie and you two are soon on your way to some unknown destination.
After a long silence, Sherlock asks, "What's your favorite color?"
You stare at him with the best 'what the hell?' face you could manage.
He sighs. "Aren't those the kinds of questions people ask on a first date?"
Realization hits you, and you blush a deep crimson red. Before he could get defensive, you answered "(f/c.)"
Sherlock smiles slightly. It's the first time you've seen him give a genuine smile like that.
"What's yours?"
"I don't know. Colors are simply reflections of light-"
"Sherlock."
He sighed, feigning annoyance. "I suppose I like (f/c), too."
You giggled and a faint blush dusted the detective's cheeks.
The two of you quickly melted into a pleasant conversation, exchanging trivial opinions and stories. Sometime later, the cab pulled to a stop outside of a restaurant.
You couldn't help but ogle in awe at the shop before you. It looked almost like a boardwalk-style diner from back home, and had soft glowing lanterns strewn across it's wicker patio.
The sign on the front of the diner read 'closed' in bold, black scrawl, but the lights were still on inside and you could see waiters and chefs working in the kitchen. Besides that, it was only six o'clock on a Friday night and you couldn't figure out why they would close up so soon.
Sherlock led you to the front door, and entered with ease. The restaurant was empty besides the staff, but no one seemed surprised to see the two of you standing there.
A teenage waitress approached Sherlock and asked, "What'll it be, Mr. Holmes?" as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"Table for two," he replied.
She smirked, mumbling "Well, I think we have a table available."
She led you both to the center of the dinning hall, seating you at a small square table built for two. The table had obviously been prepared in advance- a small vase with a a few white daisies and a lit candle acted as center pieces, while all of the other tables in the room were devoid of such personalizations.
You laughed, looking around the empty room. "How'd you manage this?"
"What do you mean? I haven't done-" He was cut off with a playful glare from your end. He sighed. "Jonathan Barnes. He's the owner of this restaurant. I helped him get off a nasty assault charge a couple of months ago."
"So you just called him up and asked him to clear out his diner?" You asked with another laugh.
Sherlock smirked. "Yes, about an hour ago. It's good to have connections, you know."
You smiled and the two of you picked up on your conversation from the cab.
"Did he really say that?" You laughed. "John is adorable, but he really can be so ordinary some times."
Sherlock laughed in his melodic baritone voice. "Yes he can be. You know what he did the other day?"
"What?"
"He spent three hours on the telly with Hrs. Hudson. The telly."
You giggled, taking another sip of wine. "I can't imagine how you put up with it every day," you replied in a mocking tone.
"Yes, it really does kill me," he joked along with you.
The two of you went on like this through dinner, sharing anecdotes and enjoying each other's company.
As you two were getting ready to leave, Sherlock stopped, staring at you for a while.
"What is it?"
"How do you feel about John?"
You gawked at him. "What makes you ask?"
"Didn't he ask you to dinner or something?" You noted that the detective's voice had become slightly bitter.
"Well sure, but I don't plan on pursuing a relationship with him. I just wanted to get to know him better."
Sherlock's jaw set slightly. "And what do you think about me?"
You stared at him for what felt like an eternity. Unsure of how to answer, you stood on your tiptoes and planted a chaste kiss on his lips. Before he could even react, you quickly turned on your heel and began walking out of the diner.
Sherlock followed behind after a moment of shock, climbing into the cab with you.