Organised Chaos - Sherlock x Reader

XXXVIII • 38

John's POV; Later:

You had told me that you'd be at the music shop, so I wasn't terribly worried, although you were gone longer than I expected.

You came home several hours later with a small portable keyboard, something which I had not expected. You had stopped playing several years ago because it brought back the memories of your childhood. I was worried that you'd begun again, despite the fact that you seemed to enjoy it.
I heard the music you played drifting upwards, and recognised it as the piece that you had written with Sherlock. It sounded different on piano than it had on violin, but it was still distinct.

He had texted me again that morning, with a request.

Please update me on her well being.

Another had followed, moments later;
If it's not too much to ask.

I wanted to tell him that this was his own problem, that he could come back and check on you himself, but I remembered that he'd said he'd only done it to protect us. I didn't fully understand his reasoning, but I'd learned to trust him in intellectual matters. If there had been any logic to it, I could trust him.
I stared at the message for several moments, the protective brother in me still wanting to refuse. Just when I'd begun to approve of your relationship with him, he goes and fakes his death but won't tell you. It was twisted.
Finally, I decided which was more important. He obviously cared for you deeply, and he was still my best friend, no matter which way you cut it. His manner of handling things may not have been the best, but I was going to work with him on this. At least for now.

She's started playing again. She just bought a keyboard. She's playing the one you wrote together.

I sent the message, hoping against hope that it was the right thing to do, although I couldn't help but feel like I was betraying you a little.

Sherlock's POV; Somewhere in Germany:

I gulped.
I didn't know what to think about this. I was happy that you had begun playing again, but was it because of my absence? You'd only played when you were truly depressed. That was what John didn't quite get. He thought that playing caused your depression. But I knew, just from reading you once, that you only played when you were depressed. It hurt my heart that I might have been the reason for your playing again, although I was happy that you were playing our song.
Memories flashed behind my closed lids of the day- well, night- that we'd written it.

You hadn't been able to sleep and, although I'd been asleep, you'd woken me coming up the stairs and I had no intention of letting you know that I had been sleeping. You already thought I didn't sleep enough, and you would've felt awful about waking me. I simply sat up and steepled my hands, so you would assume that I'd been thinking, and looked up when the door creaked open.
"Hey..." You'd said, hesitatingly.
I'd patted the sofa next me, gesturing for you to sit down.
You did.
"I can't sleep." You'd said.
"Do you know why?" I'd asked, trying to be practical, though it wasn't really my area.
You'd shaken your head.
I'd gotten up, then attempted to rearrange the pillows so that you could lie on the sofa like a bed.
You'd concurred, snuggling up into the makeshift bed.
I'd then picked up my violin and started playing a very low and melodious song that I'd recently written.
Generally this never failed to put you to sleep, but you were still smiling up at me when I'd finished.
"Did you write that?" You'd asked.
I'd nodded, turning away slightly to hide the pleasure that I felt at your still being impressed by my music.
"Do you have anything unfinished?" You'd asked, sitting up a little.
"What?" I'd asked, rather startled.
"Do you have anything you've not finished writing? I like writing music."
Now this was something I had not perceived. The fact that you'd played was obvious, but I hadn't known that you composed.
How had I missed that?
I'd shaken my head to clear it.
"Yes." I'd turned and flipped through the several sheets of music on my stand until I found the one I'd never finished.
I'd handed the sheet to you, then began to play from memory what I'd already written. I could see you scanning the page, following the notes as I played.
When I'd stopped short, you'd given me the biggest smile, then asked; "Can I help you finish?"
I'd sat down next to you with my violin and showed you where the the notes on the page corresponded to the fingerboard, and you'd learned very quickly, suggesting how to complete the song within the hour.
You had leaned on my shoulder as I wrote in the rest of the notes.
"I think this will be very nice." I'd said as I finished it off.
You hadn't responded and I soon realised that you had fallen asleep.
Composing helped me think. Apparently it helped you sleep.
I'd shifted ever so slightly, so that I could lean back against the sofa and you could still lean on me. You hadn't woken up, but rather snuggled into my side. I'd smiled at the sight of you, sleeping peacefully on my shoulder. I'd loved it.

I opened my eyes, my frown from earlier having been replaced by a smile at the memory.
I missed you so much, and it hurt my heart to imagine what this was doing to you. What I was doing to you. I wanted so bad to rush back to London and hold you, but I needed to wipe out Moriarty for good. I couldn't allow him to come back. Even if he was dead, he could still come back through the threads of the web he'd woven all across Europe, and I couldn't let that happen.