The Science of Sentiment (BBC Sherlock x Reader)

Chapter 18: Serenade

(Quick author's note): Sorry for that last chapter being so short- it wasn't finished yet, and I must have accidentally published it without realizing it. Anyways, this chapter will just pick up right were it left off in the last. Again, sorry about that.

Sherlock slid into the seat beside you, continuing to hold your hand. You stared out the window during the ride. An overwhelming sense of serenity washed over your mind as you watched the grey of London pass you by. Ever since moving to England, you had been safe from your psychotic ex (besides a few minor mishaps), made some new friends, and now you had a man who loved you for who you were. This month had been quiet and slow, but you couldn't be happier.
Sherlock noticed your broad grin. "What're you smiling at?" He looked out the window, but didn't see anything particularly interesting.
You turned and met his lips with a soft kiss. "You," you whispered against his sharp cheekbones.
He didn't really understand what you meant, but decided to embrace your intimacy instead of question it. He hungrily nipped at your neck, drawing something between a squeal and a moan from you.
Your little make-out session was interrupted as the cab pulled to a screeching stop. You glanced out the window and realized you had arrived at the music hall earlier than anticipated. Sherlock handed the flustered cabbie some money and soon joined you outside.
The theater looked aged and beautiful from the outside, with rain-washed cobblestone and manicured hedges lining it. You wondered how much it must have cost the detective to get you both a seat in the concert, but you decided to ignore the thought.
He intertwined his fingers in yours, pulling you from your awestruck state. He wore a small smile as he led you into the quiet music hall. You found your seats towards the back, and sat down, being careful with your new dress.
In no time, the orchestra finished tuning and began to play Mozart's famous requiem. After nearly an hour of listening, the opera singing was beginning to lull you to sleep. You rested your head on Sherlock's chest and let his heartbeat soothe you. He pulled you closer, keeping a protective arm over your shoulders. He seemed to be just as content as you were.

--

The orchestra was finally wrapping up with their last song. As much as you loved classical music, you were beginning to grow a little bored. You were mad at yourself for leaving your sketchbook at home- there were so many things here you wanted to draw. You made a few mental notes while glancing around, trying to remember everything to draw when you got home.
Hmm...That woman's funny-looking broach, that violist towards the back of the group, the man sneaking around backstage...wait, what?
You sat up a little, peering behind the orchestra, trying to get a better look without looking too concerned. There was definitely someone back there. They seemed to be wearing all black, including dark shades over their eyes. You would've just passed it off as a stage hand, but this person appeared nervous and fidgety. They looked like they were trying to hide behind a pillar. As the orchestra reached a grand crescendo marking the finale, you saw the man give a quick signal into the darkness on the other side of the auditorium.
"Sherl-" before the name could leave your mouth, several gunshots rang out throughout the concert hall. The playing stopped and people began screaming and rushing for the exits. Sherlock stood up fast, pulling you behind him protectively. He scanned the room frantically, searching for the assailant, or possible victims.
Your lip quivered and you reached for the small handgun at your hip. Sherlock pulled his own revolver from his waistband, along with his mobile phone. He held the gun in front of himself and walked the aisles slowly. You kept close behind with your own weapon. Your eyes searched the corner of the room where the signal seemed to have been given. You saw a a flash of metal, but nothing more. Lowering your weapon, you jogged over to the spot.
As you suspected, the culprit had fled, but his sniper rifle was still laying on the ground.
"Bloody hell..." You griped under your breath.
"(Y/n)!" Sherlock called from a middle section of seats. You rush over, tucking the gun back into your dress. Your breath hitches in your throat when you catch sight of the two motionless bodies.
"Are they...?"
"Dead. Shot clean through the skull. Precise."
You immediately reach for the necks of the victims- not to search for a pulse but to check for a specific tattoo. Sure enough, both the corpses bear the Chinese marking you've been searching for this month.
"Sh-Sherlock..." You gesture to the tattoos, your blood running cold.
His eyes widen- a ghost of a grin playing his lips. He searches the couple carefully, already dialing Lestrade. In the elderly woman's pocket he finds a rolled piece of paper. He hands it to you and turns to pace as he explains the situation to the police on the phone.
With trembling hands, you slowly unroll the paper. The slip of parchment is marked with curvy ink in a simple phrase. A phrase that would stop you cold in your tracks.

A simple phrase that reads: Having fun yet, (y/n)?