Organised Chaos - Sherlock x Reader

XXXIII • 33

You were still crying slightly when you returned home, although John had managed to dry his eyes.
As soon as you walked through the door, Kenzie rushed out of your flat.
"I heard there was a jumper. Did you see it? Is that why you're crying?" She asked, worry on her face and in her voice. "Why are you wearing Sherlock's coat?" She added with confusion.
You managed a weak reply. "I didn't just see it-" You couldn't continue, sobs racking your body once again. You buried your face in John's jacket, incapable of voicing the facts. You heard John's gravelly whisper. "It was Sherlock."
Kenzie gasped, then said, "Come here love."
You reluctantly broke away from John's arms, only to collapse into hers.
She didn't say anything, just held you in her arms and stroked your hair, indifferent to your tears soaking her shirt.
Bowie had come out of your flat, concerned about his master's agony. It wasn't his fault, he was only doing what was natural, but hearing his whine only made it worse, as images of Sherlock and the dog flashed through your head.
You finally managed to lift your head, then pulled away from Kenzie's embrace.
The tears were silent now, but still steady. You stumbled into your flat and collapsed onto your bed, all motivation to do anything long gone. You cried yourself to sleep, and didn't wake up until 9:00 that evening, hunger the only thing rousing you.
Kenzie sat in your chair, having been there for the last couple of hours in case you woke up. She had witnessed the result of your dreams, about Sherlock no doubt, but was helpless to appease your cries and whimpers.
Bowie slept on the bed, curled up next to his master.
Kenzie knew he wasn't allowed, but she didn't have the heart to scold him.
"Hey there kiddo." She said softly as you lifted your head.
"I'm hungry." You said, through clogged sinuses and a dry mouth.
"What do you want?" She asked, getting up.
"Anything." You moaned, falling back onto your pillow.
She went to the kitchen, then came back several minutes later with a tray of soup, bread, and tea.
She set it down next to you.
"Thanks." You said, weakly.
"Anything else?" She asked gently.
"Tissues." You replied.

Despite your hunger, you only picked at your food.
"Do you want me to stay?" Kenzie asked.
"I don't expect that of you." You replied, tears streaming down your face again as you stared blankly into your bowl.
"But do you want me to?"
"Yes." You said quietly, pushing your soup aside after several tears dripped off your nose and into the bowl.
"Then I'll stay."
"But you have a job and friends and family." You replied, finally looking up.
"Screw the job. You're my friend and right now, you need one more than ever, especially at the-"
"Okay." You cut her off. You couldn't bear hearing the word 'funeral' out loud.
"I'm sorry." She said, realising her mistake.

*****
Three days later:

The morning was rainy and dreary.
How stereotypical. You thought, bitterly.
You were still crying. It hadn't really stopped, but there were intervals in between where you were just immensely depressed.
You'd strongly considered returning to the roof and following suite. He'd been everything to you. What was left to live for?
But every time, you thought about how you felt. How angry and depressed you felt because of him. And how it would make John and Kenzie and everyone else that you loved feel if you mimicked his selfish actions.
It was the morning of the funeral. You'd had barely enough motivation to get out of bed, and now you just stared out the window at the cold rainy day.
It made you angry. Why were funeral days never sunny and warm? Why did the weather always have to reflect the way the funeral goers felt?
The immediate sorrow and pain was fading and now you felt angry. You couldn't quite believe that he'd done it. He'd said that he was afraid Moriarty might kill him. He never said he'd kill himself. You were so angry at him for being that selfish.
But maybe... There was still a flicker of hope in your mind that he might just have been forced to do it to keep you and John safe. Maybe. But he'd been so clever. Even if that was the case, he could've worked his way around it, you were sure. Your face hardened once again.

It was to be held at the police station, where he'd made most of his friends and enemies.
Black. You thought. Why black? Why add to the misery?
You didn't want it to be a stereotypical funeral. Of course, you didn't want there to have been a need for one at all, but you knew Sherlock would scoff at the idea of conforming to the stereotypes.
Which is exactly why you were going to do it.
You hated him so much right now. You knew, however, that you were only in the second stage of grief, and that you likely wouldn't be this angry at him forever.

******
"You ready?" John asked gently, after knocking on your door.
"Yeah." You mumbled.
You opened the door to see John, also head to toe in black formal wear.
You saw the pity on his face, and knew that he was trying to be strong for you, despite the inner battle with himself. He'd known Sherlock for so long, and they'd had some of the greatest memories together.
He'd been John's best friend.
You wanted to collapse into his arms again, but you kept your head up. You would stay strong, and you wouldn't allow Sherlock to ruin you again.