Organised Chaos - Sherlock x Reader

XXXIX • 39

Your POV: Earlier

Zak cocked his head. "I've already been privileged enough to hear your beautiful playing, but I don't even know your name."
You smiled softly. "I'm (F/N)." You said, extending your hand.
He shook it. "Zak."
"I know." You smiled, nodding toward his name tag.
"Oh, of course." He grinned. "(F/N).." He turned slightly awkward, and you knew what was coming.
"Would you like to... Go out with me sometime?"
You shook your head slightly. "I'm sorry Zak, I'm not ready yet."
"Oh." Understanding and disappointment, if only a little, crossed his face. "I didn't realise he'd been..." He trailed off.
"It's okay, I didn't tell you, you couldn't have known." You paused, then, to ease the awkwardness, "But I'd love to come and play again sometime."
He smiled. "I'm here every day."
"I'll come again soon." You promised, getting up and collecting your music. "It was good to meet you, Zak."

You were about to leave when you saw a lap sized keyboard on the shelf. It was only £90.
You figured you'd be needing it a whole lot, so you decided it was worth it.
You brought it up to the counter. Zak took one look at it then asked, "Do you not have one?"
You shook your head.
"If you buy this, will you still come back and play here?" He questioned gravely.
You smiled. "Of course."
"Then it's yours." He handed it back to you without bothering to ring it up.
"I couldn't possibly.." You were shocked and knew that you looked it.
"It's nothing. Just keep playing." He smiled, "That's what matters."
"Th-thank you." You managed.
He smiled, then went to help another customer who'd just walked in.

Did he really want me to keep playing, or was he just trying to get me to like him so that I'd accept his asking me out?
You couldn't help but wonder about his motives, despite how grateful you felt.
You continued to think about it the whole way back to your flat, but you soon forgot about your worries.
He'd just been being kind.

You entered your flat and immediately unpacked the box, then rummaged around in your kitchen for batteries.
When you'd found enough that worked satisfactorily, you inserted them into the holder on the bottom of your keyboard, then flipped it over and turned it on.

******

It was late spring when he came back.
You had just come home from work and you were cross legged on your bed. You still followed the same routine as always- get up, shower, eat, go to work, come home- but everyday the depression set in when you woke and didn't ease until you could get home and play.
Your keyboard was beside you and a notebook was in your lap.
You were so close to finishing this piece.
You looked up when you heard the knock.
"Come in!" You called, expecting to see John.
The door creaked open and you had to look up again because your visitor didn't speak.
You did a double take. There was no mistaking him. His tall, lithe figure in the doorway, clad in its usual coat and scarf. He looked just the way you remembered him.
You felt a stab of pain, but the flood of joy quickly washed it away, and you jumped up, your notebook flying out of your lap and onto the floor face down, several of the sheets wrinkled. You didn't care. You wouldn't need it now.
You flung your arms around his neck and caught his relieved grin just before you kissed him.
You'd missed him so much.
His hand went to the back of your neck, the way it always did. You loved that. He'd always hold you against him with his large hand pressed gently to your neck. Occasionally it would move up to the back of your head and his fingers would tangle in your hair.
You had missed every bit of him.

He didn't run his fingers through your hair this time, but he still held your neck even after you'd broke away.
His grip was tightening.
You were aware of a groan of pain, then realised that you had uttered it.
"Sherlock.. Sherlock you're hurting me." You tried to wriggle away, but now he had a vise grip on your neck.
You gasped for air as his long fingers reached around to your windpipe.
"Sherlock." You squeaked, although you knew talking wasn't the greatest idea in this situation.
He held you at arms length now, and, as you looked up into his face, you realised it wasn't Sherlock at all.
Jim stared back at you, a maniacal grin on his face, but his eyes- his eyes were dead. There was absolutely no light in them whatsoever. He looked far too like he had on the roof.
As you watched, the death grip on your throat suddenly no longer a worry, blood began to run down his face from an unseen wound, but his grin never changed. He cocked his head and uttered one sentence.
"Did you miss me?"