Organised Chaos - Sherlock x Reader

XL • 40

A/N: Yo mates, thanks for staying with me this long! 40 is definitely a milestone in stories I've written and hopefully I'll keep it going. I've enjoyed writing this one just as much as I hope you've enjoyed reading it :)

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You woke with a start, sweat running down your face. You looked out your window and saw Baker Street, illuminated by lamps. You were never so happy to see the dreary cold drizzle of winter.
Your chest rose and fell heavily. The dream had been so vivid. His dead eyes were staring at you every time you closed yours. You tried not to blink, but it was impossible.
You glanced at the clock by your bed. 1:47.
It was going to be a long night.

Just as you were about to lie back down, John burst in, a terrified expression on his face.
"Christ, (F/N), are you okay?"
"Nightmare." You whispered.
"You screamed, (N/N). God, you scared me so bad." He looked relieved as he sat on the edge of your bed.
"He scared me, Johnny." You had assumed a foetal position at the head of your bed, your knees tucked under your chin, and rocking slightly.
"Who did?" John sounded defensive now.
"In my dream. It was Sherlock, he came back, but- but then he hurt me and he kept hurting me and then it was Jim and- Oh God, John, he was dead, he looked so dead." You'd started crying now, not sobbing so you couldn't speak, but that silent waterfall that was the most painful to observe.
"He- he asked if I'd missed him and he was grinning, but it wasn't happy, it was psychotic and- and there was blood on his face- it was coming from nowhere.. John I think he was dead, but he was choking me."
Your fingers instinctively went to your throat, which felt raw, where you'd evidently been grasping at it yourself in your sleep.
John enveloped you in a hug, gently rocking you. "It's okay, (N/N), it was just a dream, Jim is dead, I promise."

John's POV:

As I held you there, I felt like I was making an empty promise. Sherlock's haunting message flashed through my mind.
Anything is possible.
I couldn't say anything better to soothe you, so I just rocked you, rather like I had when you'd been a child of seven and the memories of your family kept you up at night.
We'd been immensely close after that.

Your face was buried in my shoulder, soaking my shirt with your tears.
I was mentally cursing Sherlock. This seemed to happen all too often now- you, distraught because of him, terrified and crying because of him- I wish he could just tell you.

I lifted you up as gently as I could.
"C'mon. You're coming upstairs."
You didn't resist, but took your pillow and climbed the stairs with me.
You stood sleepily in the doorway as I made up the sofa, entirely intending to sleep on it myself and let you have the bed, but as soon as I turned away to collect my blankets, you collapsed onto it, turning your face towards the back of the sofa and falling asleep instantly.
I spread a quilt over you and brushed your hair off your forehead, then kissed your temple.
It didn't matter how old you got, you were still my baby sister and I was still going to be your protective older brother.
I planted myself in my chair and watched you until my exhaustion overcame me and I too fell asleep.
You didn't have another nightmare, at least not one bad enough to cause you to scream. I was thankful for that.
I wasn't sure how much more of this I could handle.

******

Your POV:

You woke up on the sofa in Sher- no, John's flat, and stared at the ceiling for several minutes. Your dream from last night was still fresh in your memory, and try as you might, it wouldn't go away.
You could still see the sweet smile of Sherlock just as you'd embraced him, and feel the pain of his hand on your neck, and see the psychotic grin of the man who'd killed him. The most disturbing part, you thought, wasn't Jim's grin, but his eyes. There was no white in them, just black. It was flat black, too, as though there was only an empty space where they should've been.
The lack of eyes and the blood running down his face from nowhere confirmed it to be just a nightmare, but it was so real- so vivid. You couldn't get it out of your head.

John was sleeping in his armchair across from the sofa, and he woke suddenly, as though he'd just remembered that he was looking after you.
"(F/N), are you okay?" He asked, when he saw you were already awake.
"He won't go away." You whispered. "Oh John, it's all my fault. I should've... I should've just listened to him when he told me not to talk with Jim anymore. It's my fault." You'd begun crying again.
John sighed. "(N/N), Moriarty had been trying to get to him since Hope's case. It's not your fault."
"That's what he said too, but I'm the one who gave him the opportunity. He used me to get to Sherlock and- and if I hadn't been there, he'd still be trying to figure it out."
"(F/N), you can't blame yourself. It was his life's work to beat Sherlock. He was an organised psychopath. Even if you hadn't been in the equation at all, he would've done it."
You wiped your eyes. "But he used both of us. You know Sherlock wouldn't have done it if Moriarty wasn't threatening us, you know he wouldn't have. I would much rather have had him kill me than make Sherlock kill himsel-"
John cut you off. "Don't talk like that, (F/N)." He said, severely. "It was Sherlock's decision, not yours."
"But now- now everybody thinks that he was a selfish drug addict. He wasn't, John, he wasn't!" You sobbed weakly, then; "He wasn't. He was mine." You said, quietly.

John's POV:

That rattled me. Ever since that night that I'd punched him, something for which I was extremely sorry now, especially under the circumstances, you hadn't ever spoken about your relationship with him. At least not to me. Although I'd begun to approve it, hearing you say this rattled me to the core. I missed Sherlock because he was my best friend, but you'd just lost the only person other than myself and Mackenzie that you completely trusted. You'd opened up to him, and he to you. I'd never seen either of you act the way you did around each other. You had removed his sociopathic exterior, so much so that he'd even begun to be more considerate when you weren't around.
He'd been the only one you had ever trusted enough to have a romantic relationship with, and he'd killed himself. Well, you thought he had.
Despite the confident way you spoke about how he must've done it to protect you and me, I could tell you were still trying to convince yourself of that.