The Science of Sentiment (BBC Sherlock x Reader)

Chapter 12: My Boyfriend, the Consulting Detective

Sherlock arrived at the police headquarters with a heavy feeling in his chest. Despite his efforts to rid himself of emotion, he did care about you and it pained him to leave you when you were sick. However, his work was also very important to him and he knew very well that this case wasn't one that could be easily solved by the police.
He strode into Lestrade's office to be greeted by several worried faces, one of which was his flatmate, John.
"Well there you are," Lestrade grumbled impatiently.
"What do you have for me?" the detective asked.
"Mass suicide. Thought it'd be a simple ruling, but one of the friends of the victims thinks something's off."
"Off? And how many people are we talking about? I need details."
Lestrade huffed. "Three days ago. Four girls were found dead in a parking garage. The cause of death was quickly ruled as a self-administered poisoning. Their friend, Michelle Rare was hysterical. Going on about how they were being 'tricked by someone' and how it 'shouldn't have happened.'"
Sherlock hummed slightly, thinking over everything. "I'd like to see the bodies."
"Figured you would," Lestrade mumbled. "They're with Molly in the morgue."
"Come along, John," Sherlock said, already walking away.
John scrambled to his feet to follow the fast-paced detective.
"Where's (y/n)?" John piped.
"Home."
"You just left her?"
John's response leaves a guilty twinge in Sherlock's mind. "She's asleep. She won't even notice we're gone."

---

When you finally came out of your deep slumber it was well past noon. Your entire body felt sore and stiff, and an awful headache had set it. You groaned noisily, rolling over to face Sherlock's chair, expecting to see the man. Instead, you were met with a torn piece of notebook paper marred with messy, black ink.
You picked up the note, holding it near your eyes to read the hasty handwriting.
'Went to Scotland Yard. Should be back by five. -SH'
You heaved a dissatisfied sigh and placed the note back in its original spot. With stiff limbs, you pushed yourself off of the couch and meandered over to the kitchen. You eventually found where the coffee was kept and brewed a mug for yourself.
You checked the clock. 3:22.
'What to do for two hours...' You wondered.
Now finished with the hot drink, you make your way downstairs to your own flat. You undress and take a cold shower, put on a fresh outfit and reapply a minimal amount of foundation. Deeming yourself presentable, you grab your sketchbook and head back upstairs. You still feel terrible, but it feels better to be out of bed.
You make your way back to the boys' flat and fold yourself into Sherlock's chair, positioning yourself to face the window while you draw.
You start working on a few pre-sketches for client's paintings, but eventually find yourself doodling small pictures of Sherlock. After a while, you pulled yourself out of your thoughts and looked at the paper before you. What had once been a detailed sketch of a Carnation, was now covered in different drawings of your boyfriend. Some looked confused or worried, but most of them wore that clever grin of his. You laughed a little at your own inattentiveness and closed the sketchbook.
You peeked over your shoulder at the clock. 5:02. Late.
You pouted and watched the sunset from the window, awaiting the detective's return. Your stomach growled, but you weren't sure about venturing into the kitchen when you were so comfortable in the chair.
Around ten minutes later, the door to the flat swung open, and you could hear Sherlock's footsteps followed by John's.
"-I told you not to do that anymore," John was saying.
"What?" Sherlock whined. "We needed to question her."
"You don't have to be so rude, though! The poor woman was- oh, hello (y/n)."
"Hey," you mumbled, not looking up from the window. You had begun watching the passerby's in your boredom, deducting everything that you could about them.
John walked over to you, placing a hand on your forehead.
"How're you feeling?"
"Bored."
"Well you don't feel as feverish, which is good. I'll go get you some medication-"
"No need. I'm fine."
"(Y/n), don't be stubborn."
You finally turned to make eye-contact with the worrisome doctor.
"It makes it harder to think straight. I don't want it."
John sighed, going back to the kitchen. "You're just like Sherlock," he mumbled.
Sherlock came around and took a seat on the couch by you.
"Sorry for leaving you," he said flatly.
"It's fine." Your monotonous reply only made the guilty look in his eyes worse. You immediately tried to correct yourself, "No-no, I didn't mean it like that- I mean, it really was fine. I took a shower and doodled and-" You trailed off when the detective gave a small smile. You laughed a little in relief, taking his hand.
"So you aren't mad then?"
"Of course not."
"Good. Then hopefully you can forgive me for this," as soon as the words left Sherlock's mouth, he clasped his hand over your mouth. You gave a muffled yell and realized that he was holding two small tablets to your lips.
You gave him a sinister glare, refusing to take the pills. John wouldn't be able to get you to take them and neither would Sherlock.
He stared back at you, undaunted. In a swift motion, he pinched your nose to block your only airway. After a minute, you were forced to draw a breath through your mouth and swallow the bitter pills.
Sherlock retracted his hands with a relieved smirk. John came rushing in from the kitchen, realizing what Sherlock had done.
"Sherlock? What the bloody- that amount of force wasn't necessary!"
"(Y/n)'s better at fighting than she looks- no offense, (y/n)- so yes, it was necessary."
You scoff. "I didn't need to take them in the first place..." You mumble under your breath.
John plopped onto his chair with his laptop position on his knees. "You two are ridiculous."
To this, you and the detective both give an amused smile.
"Perhaps we are," you reply softly.

----

The fever drugs made you incredibly tired, so the events of the rest of the night are hazy and blurred. You try your best to stay awake, but this only seems to make you more disoriented.
Currently, you were laying on the floor wrapped so thickly in blankets that you resembled a caterpillar. John had gone out again. He had been spending quite a lot of time with a woman named Sarah from the clinic he worked at, probably in an attempt to avoid the 'sociopath-lovebirds'.
Sherlock had been in the kitchen for a while, causing quite a bit of ruckus. You were beginning to smell a burning scent wafting from the kitchen, and soon enough, the smoke alarm began to go off. Sherlock slammed something on the stove and shouted a string of obscenities.
You lifted your head up to see him waving a dishtowel over the alarm to get it to stop.
"What's wrong?"
He flushed a shade of pink, looking thoroughly embarrassed.
"I was just trying to make you dinner..." He grumbled.
You padded into the kitchen and draped your arms over the dissatisfied man from behind. You had changed into a set of pajamas that consisted of a pair of cotton blue shorts and a black tank top.
"You're so sweet," you cooed. 
He glared at the floor for a minute, blushing an even darker tint at your intimate proximity.
You glanced over at the stove and saw a pot holding what looked to be charred potato soup. You giggled a little and your boyfriend turned around to return your embrace.
"Oh well. John did the shopping the other day, so I think we have something." He went to work scouring the cabinets for something suitable while you paced back to the living room.
You shrunk back into your covers and turned on the television. You flipped through a few channels, but nothing seemed to hold your interest. You could feel yourself dozing off to a historical film, but the sound of Sherlock's footsteps pulled you out of the haze.
"Here you are," Sherlock said, handing you a sandwich on a plate with a cup of tea.
"Merci," you replied sleepily. You ate the sandwich contently as Sherlock found a Disney movie while surfing the channels. He sat next to you on his chair, snuggling close to you to get comfortable. You didn't mind the affection, though. In fact, it was really nice. You had never had a boyfriend who had been this...sweet. It was definitely much better than your recent relationship with Jim. Even when he wasn't hitting you, the psychopath rarely showed you any affection. You were beginning to wonder what you had seen in the man in the first place.