The Science of Sentiment (BBC Sherlock x Reader)

Chapter 20: The Science of Sentiment

AHHH sorry it's taking me so long to update- I've been having the worst writer's block- this one'll be a bit longer to make up for the wait.

Also, I've kind of been switching between first and second perspective without realizing it? I prefer writing in first person, but which do you guys prefer? Let me know and I'll accommodate! :^)
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I opened my eyes the next morning with a content sigh. The space next to me was empty, but I wasn't surprised. I curled up, hoping to sleep a little longer, but recalling Sherlock's words from the night before sent a flutter through my heart, jolting me awake.
I'm in love...
The phrase repeated itself in the mess my mind had become, washing me in a flustered frenzy.
You shouldn't get so carried away- you know how your last relationship turned out, I mentally scolded myself. In truth, I was terrified- and for a good reason. But, Sherlock had said that he loved me, hadn't he? Why was it so hard for me to trust those words?

I pulled myself out of bed, the lull of sleep now gone. I removed my loose pajamas and pulled on a pair of black skinny jeans, and a (f/c) blouse. I left my hair down and trotted upstairs, flinching at the cold floorboards beneath my bare feet.
"Good morning," I called out as I stepped into the flat, hoping i wasn't being intrusive.
"Morning," Sherlock's familiar, deep voice called back. I stepped into the kitchen to find him pouring over his latest experiment. A pair of goggles adorned his face, tangling his hair slightly. His blue eyes switched from his microscope and his notes and back again, deeply focused in his work.
I walked over lazily and studied the table- a severed hand was laying on a plate and several microscope slides sat around it, each with a bit of skin or hair on it.
"What's all this about?" I came behind him and draped my arms around his waist.
"I needed a break from the case," he replied monotonously, ignoring my position behind him.
With a pout, I reached for his notepad to see what the experiment was about. It seemed to be some jumbled notes about the rate cells decompose in a hand after death, along with a few variables thrown in. I didn't understand all of it- science wasn't really my strong suit. I flipped the page over, and noticed that the next page was written in different ink, most likely for another experiment.
My chuckling abruptly stopped when I read the title of the page- "(Y/f) (L/n) and Sentiment." The page started out with a few bullet points- my favorite color, hobbies, and things of the sort.
Sherlock tore the notebook from my hands before I could read any further. "I need that..." He started to say, but stopped when he realized which page I had been staring at.
I removed my arms and took a step back, studying him as if I were seeing him through new eyes- in a way, I was.
"(Y/n), let me explain-"
"What the hell is that...?" I interjected in strained voice.
"It's not what it looks like," he replied firmly. He reached for my arm, but I stepped back. A look of hurt flashed behind his eyes, making me want to take it back.
"Am I just a bloody experiment to you...?" I cleared my throat, trying to keep the emotion from my voice.
"Well, yes, but-" He looked exasperated and a little annoyed.
I clenched my jaw and looked at the ground. "Save it, Holmes," I hissed.
He leaned forward and gripped my shoulders, making me flinch. I stared up into his eyes, trying not to cry for what felt like the hundredth time this week.
"Sentiment," he began, choosing each word carefully and slowly. "Is a foreign concept to me. Of course this was an experiment- but I said so on our very first date, didn't I?"
I didn't even know how to reply. Thinking back, I did remember him say that, but I didn't think he meant it so seriously.
"Dating another person- empathizing and bonding with another human being- it was something that I never saw to be necessary before. You must understand-"
"Well, I don't," I cut in coldly. "And here I thought you had actually fallen in love with me."
That was it. The nail in the coffin. He dropped his arms and gave me a look as if I had just stolen his favorite toy. Rage, pain, confusion- countless emotions swam through his eyes faster that I could watch.
"I'm not going to sit around and be an experiment," I turned to leave the kitchen, feeling my confidence crumbling with every step.
I could hear Sherlock sighing behind me. "For someone so brilliant, you can be so, so...difficult."
My heart sank, but I kept walking, determined to make it to my flat before I burst into tears. "You really are a sociopath," I mumbled before leaving.

--

John Watson woke up a bit later than usual that morning. He dressed himself and walked down to his and Sherlock's shared flat, humming a jaunty tune.
"Morning Sherlock," he chirped as he passed his flatmate to get to the kitchen. The man simply replied with a grunt. He laid on the sofa with his back turned to John and his knees drawn up to his chest.
John poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down on the edge of the coffee table. "You alright, then?"
No reply. Sherlock's shoulders shook every so often, almost as is he were crying. John knew better than anyone that the possibility of that happening was slim at best. He prodded his shoulder. "You asleep?"
"No," he croaked out, his voice thick with emotion.
"Good God-" John jumped to his feet and set the coffee down. "Have you been crying?" He asked in disbelief.
Sherlock turned around to look at him- his face was an utter mess. Tears washed his cheeks in an unending flow and his eyes were rimmed red. "Only a little bit..." He replied, quickly wiping his cheeks with his sleeve.
John fumbled for words as he took in the detective's appearance. "...What on Earth happened?"
"I don't know, John- I can't remember the last time someone's made me cry. I t-think I made a mistake, though..."
John sat back down and looked at him in all seriousness.
Sherlock continued, "I-I hurt (y/n)...I don't know how- I didn't think it was something even worth fighting over, but..." He swallowed hard. "I don't think she cares too much for me anymore."
John's brow furrowed in confusion, and he resisted the urge to pull him into a hug. "Sherlock, I doubt that's the case-"
"I was right, John. I was right all along. I shouldn't have strayed from what I knew to be true."
John heaved an impatient sigh. "And what is that, exactly?"
Sherlock wiped away the remaining tears on his cheeks and pulled himself back into his usual, arrogant stance.
"Sentiment is nothing more than a weakness."

--

The next few days were slow and blurred before me. Nothing felt right anymore- I couldn't sit on my sofa without thinking of Sherlock's perfect lips, I couldn't sleep in my bed without inhaling his scent- Hell, I couldn't even bring myself to leave that damned flat.
Every waking moment was filled with him, and it was unbelievably unbearable.
I trusted him after I didn't think I would ever trust again. I'd fallen in love with him when my heart was lost.
And it was all for nothing. I was an experiment all along.
I currently sat in the tub with my knees drawn to my chest. The water had grown cold ages ago, but I didn't feel like leaving. I didn't really feel like doing anything. I just felt so utterly broken.
I knew my behavior was pathetic- I mean, surely, Sherlock wasn't acting the same way, so why should I? Why should I even care?
Our flight to America leaves tonight, but I can't bring myself to join them. Several more days with Sherlock Holmes seemed all too soon to handle. I knew I'd be over it eventually, but it would be a while. Even after everything he had said, I was still deeply in love with him. I was still in love with him and I hated myself for it.

As dusk fell outside, there was a knock at the door. I ignored it at first- I had distracted myself with a book on the kitchen floor, and I was quite content with staying put.
The knock came again, harder this time. "(Y/n), open up please," John's muffled voice called out.
I groaned and folded down the page of my book. I set it aside and smoothed my hair down before opening the door.
John stood there, suitcase in hand. His smile faltered as he took in my appearance. "Christ, (y/n)..." He side-stepped me to come in, closing the door behind him. "When was the last time you've eaten anything? Or gotten a decent night's sleep?"
I racked my brain to remember, but he had a point. The last time I had eaten was the night before the fight with Sherlock.
He shook his head disapprovingly and scanned my living room. "And where's your things? The flight leaves in a few hours-"
"I'm not going."
He whirled around to look at me. "Uh, sorry, what?"
"It's not like you'll need me there- you have the address and everything." I turned around and went to sit on the arm of the couch.
"(Y/n), is this about Sherlock? Really, you two are acting like children..."
At the sound of his name, my body stiffens. "I don't think you'd be so happy in my place either," I spat back.
He huffs. "Look, I don't know what you two are fighting about exactly, but I'm sure it's not as big of a deal as you think..."
I turn to face him, my jaw clenching in anger. "I'm not going with him, and that's final."
John closes his mouth, looking at a loss for words. "Fine," he mutters, turning around to leave.
Guilt consumes me as the door closes behind him. Why did I have to snap at him like that?
I slump back on the couch shamefully, wishing I could take everything over these last few days back. Only last week I felt as if my life couldn't get any better, but now things were very different.
I soon fell into a dreamless sleep with regret on my mind and Sherlock's name on my tongue.

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