Organised Chaos - Sherlock x Reader

XXIII • 23

I got back to my flat at two in the morning. I hated to admit it, but I was exhausted.
John had fallen asleep in (F/N)'s flat, and I actually didn't have any pressing work that needed doing, so I took up my violin and sat down in my chair. I rosined the bow and began to play, softly.

Your POV:

The music drifted downstairs and woke you up. You smiled and climbed out of bed as quietly as you could. You saw John asleep in your chair and smiled again. He worked so hard and you knew he loved you.
You climbed the stairs slowly, gripping the railing as you still felt slightly dizzy.
The door to B was cracked and you pushed it open. It creaked, and Sherlock whipped around, but softened when he saw you.
"Did I wake you?" He asked quietly.
"Yes, but it's okay. I love your music."
You could've sworn you saw him blush, even in the low light.
"Do you need something? He queried.
"I just wanted to hear it better."
He set his bow and violin down on the end table, then got up and went to his room, coming back moments later with a blanket and pillow. He arranged them on the sofa.
"You can stay here if you'd like." He said.
You laid down gratefully, pulling the blanket over yourself.
He smiled, just slightly, then sat back down and resumed his playing.
You fell asleep to his soft music, and slept soundly through the night.

******

You woke at seven and were surprised to find Sherlock asleep. It appeared as though he'd fallen asleep playing last night and never moved.
His hand still loosely gripped his bow, violin in his lap. His head was turned so that you could only see the left side. His curls hung in his face, and he was slumped in the chair.
You smiled at this scene. It was so rare, but he was adorable when he slept.
You gently removed his violin and set it on the table so that it wouldn't be damaged when he woke up. You tried to follow with the bow, but apparently you can't take things from his hands without waking him.
His eyes shot open, his head popped up, everything suddenly alert.
"Relax." You whispered. "I'm just moving your bow."
He sighed and allowed you to take it.
"How're you feeling?" He asked.
"Better." You smiled. "My head still hurts a bit."
"That's inevitable." He said, sleep still in his voice.
"How was Mackenzie?" You asked, worry lacing yours.
"She's fine. Wanted to go home as soon as she woke up but the doctors wanted her overnight due to minor concussion."
"Sherlock?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you. I don't think I said that last night."
He nodded curtly, then stood up.

"Do you have anything to work on?" You asked him.
"Nothing pressing. Not until Moriarty contacts me again at least."
"Okay, well I'm going to go have breakfast downstairs. You can join me if you want."
"No thank you." He responded, but smiled slightly.

You left B and headed down to your flat for breakfast. You opened the fridge and scrounged up enough, but reminded yourself to fit your shopping in somewhere. You had three more days to your week off, but you wanted to spend as much time with Kenzie as possible.
You toasted some bread and made an egg, then brewed yourself a pot of tea. You read the news on your phone as you ate, not terribly surprised to find that Sherlock's exposing of the fake painting was a headline.

You finished up, then took Bowie for a quick walk around the block.
When you got back five minutes later, you grabbed your book and headed back upstairs, Bowie at your heels.

Sherlock was in the shower when you reentered the flat, so you just curled up on the sofa and opened your book. Bowie lay down next to you and fell asleep almost immediately.

Sherlock emerged from the bathroom several minutes later, drying his hair with a hand towel.
He looked slightly surprised when he saw you. "(F/N). I didn't hear you come in."
You smiled in answer but continued reading.
He strode over and crouched down next to Bowie, rubbing the dog's head absently.
"What are you reading?"
"Fiction. Filling my head with useless knowledge so that I can't get to the stuff that matters, you see?" You replied with a smirk.
"Are you mocking me?" He asked with uncertainty on his face.
"I'm just saying that you probably wouldn't enjoy it." You said, looking up from the pages of your beloved book with a smile.
He was still petting Bowie, scratching behind his ears and running his fingers through the dog's soft red fur. "You really like my dog, don't you?" You asked, smiling at his interaction with the setter.
"Yes." He replied, almost sadly. His head was down as though he didn't want you to see his face.
"Redbeard?" You inquired, softly, closing your book and setting it aside. He didn't look up, and didn't say anything for several moments. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet and it shuddered a bit.
"He was my dog. When I was young. An Irish setter just like Bowie. He had to be put down. I came home from school and he was just gone. I never got to say goodbye to him. I'm not sure why it still upsets me so much, but it does." When he looked up you saw that his eyes were red and there were tears sliding down his face. You had never before seen him like this, never even dreamed you'd see him like this. He was always so strong willed and often emotionless. You had never seen him cry and figured you'd never see it again. It took you off guard.
You could see so much pain behind his eyes, and knew that talking about Redbeard had triggered more than just memories of the dog.
You brought your hand up to his face and wiped his tears away. He looked up at you, his eyes bloodshot.
In that moment you realised that he was vulnerable. He wasn't the ice cold man that most of the world knew. He wasn't even just the man that you had come to know. He was vulnerable and broken. There was so much hurt built up under his sociopathic mask that if you had been privileged enough to see behind it, he would crumble.
He was falling apart in your hands and you had no idea what to do.