Organised Chaos - Sherlock x Reader

XIV • 14

Sherlock had eaten. John had come home. Now the two of you were sitting across from each other at the kitchen table, sorting newspapers.
He had said to look for 'Moriarty'.
So far, neither you nor John had seen it.
You continued flipping through the pages until one heading caught your eye.
"Vermeer to be on display at London Gallery"
You scanned the article and found no mention of the name, but set it aside anyway. Perhaps working with Sherlock had taught you when to listen to your gut.
Suddenly John let out a little squeak and held up a newspaper.
"Murderer's last words"
The article used excerpts from John's blog, specifically the case 'A Study In Pink', but added that, according to Sherlock Holmes, the last word uttered by Mr. Hope had been 'Moriarty'.
You looked at him with question on your face. Sherlock had never shared that with either of you. And he hated the press. Were they making it up?
These unspoken questions swirled in both your minds, as John set the paper aside and continued searching.

A couple of hours later, neither of you had found anything more of interest.
About half an hour earlier, Sherlock had gotten up from the sofa and went to the window to play. He was still in a world all his own, but the music he played had helped you continue searching, despite wondering why you were wasting your time on a seemingly useless request of his.
You set down the last paper and leaned back in your chair to watch Sherlock play. He continued, unaware of his audience.
You had seen him play many times, but it still amazed you. He made it look so effortless, not even really thinking about what he was playing as his hands danced along the fingerboard. He swayed slightly, his head bowed against the instrument, eyes closed.
You shuddered slightly as the haunting song ended, only to smile as a new one started up, this one much more exciting.
You eventually left the kitchen and collapsed onto the sofa, your exhaustion finally hitting you full force.
Sherlock stopped playing for a moment, then started again, this time the song soft and sweet, neither haunting nor happy. It seemed almost like a lullaby, and you drifted off to sleep after a few moments.

You awoke at about 4 in the morning, still on the sofa.
Sherlock was in his chair, the couple of newspapers you and John had set aside spread out around him. He appeared to actually be sleeping. It was the first time you had ever observed him sleeping. In fact, the only reason you knew he did sleep occasionally were the times he left his room in a hurry, still clad in pyjamas, to check on experiments.
You chuckled, remembering the incident with the eyeballs.
You could think of several awful pranks to pull on him in this rare vulnerable state, but you simply couldn't follow through. He was just too cute.
His eyes were closed, but not squeezed shut like they often were when he was thinking. Rather than steepled in front of him, his hands were lax, one resting on the armrest, the other hanging over. He was slightly slumped in the chair, his chin resting on his chest. As a result, his curls were hanging in his eyes. His violin rested in his lap, bow and rosin on the end table next to him.
The moon was nearly full that night, and as it shone through the window, it illuminated his angular face. It was then that you realised just how much you were in love with him.
These feelings came at the strangest times. You settled back down on the sofa in hopes of falling asleep again, but your brain was having none of it.
You glanced at Sherlock every few minutes, each time finding him in the exact same position. Eventually you fell back asleep.

Sherlock's POV:

I awoke with a start, cursing myself for sleeping so long. It was 5:30 in the morning.
You were still sleeping on the sofa. I had put you to sleep playing last night, that much I knew. It made me feel warm, being capable of that. Mycroft had always told me that sentiment would be the death of me, but I couldn't see this being anything but good. Perhaps he just wanted to deprive me of this feeling of contentedness. 'That's something he'd do'. I muttered to myself. I set my violin aside gently, then gathered up the newspapers as quietly as I could. I unfolded myself from the chair and was about to slip off to my room when I realised I had one more thing to do. I padded back over to the sofa, then leaned in and kissed your forehead as gently as I could. You snuggled down into the cushions a little more, a contented smile on your face. I felt that same smile take over my own face, then I slipped into my room.