Organised Chaos - Sherlock x Reader

LIII • 53

Sherlock's POV:

I wasn't really angry at him. I just didn't want him inquiring about my injuries. He was a doctor and he would try to treat them. I didn't want any attention on mine when you were still comatose.
Because of me.
I still had tears in my eyes as I stepped into the lift, and I didn't wipe them away.
I exited the hospital and, head down, walked back to my flat at Baker street. My flat. It wasn't my flat anymore.
When I arrived, I stood at the door for a long moment before reluctantly opening it.
I didn't want to give Mrs. Hudson a heart attack, but I couldn't think of a way to approach this.
I decided to allow her to find out in her own time. I climbed the stairs quietly, then opened the door. I knew John hadn't locked it. He never did.
The door squeaked as I opened it, much like the door at the hospital.
It looked the same way as it had two years ago.
I walked slowly toward the window, looking around.
My violin was still where I'd left it. It was dusty and I knew you and John had never moved it, but the fact that neither of you had ever cleaned it meant that you still held a slight grudge, whether you knew it or not. That was simple psychology.
I wasn't upset. That was the least I'd expected.

I stifled a sob thinking about you, then picked up the instrument, blowing the dust off it, running my fingers over the elegant curves of the wood. I had missed playing it. I blew the remaining dust off its fingerboard, then picked up the bow that had been leaning against the wall next to it. I wiped the dust off of it and rosined it.
Raising the violin to my chin and the bow to it's strings, I played a low tune, the haunting notes resonating through the room.
I heard steps coming up the stairs- the steps I'd come to know to belong to Mrs. Hudson. She stopped by the door, muttering sadly to herself. I caught a few words.
"Sounds different than usual. Sounds real."
I stopped for a moment, then, reluctantly, spoke.
"That's because it is." I said, quietly.
She continued muttering. "He doesn't usually talk. That's new."
I knew that she had heard my playing ever since I'd left. Just in her head, just memories.
I started playing again, something I'd never played before, heard her speak once more.
"That one's new." She muttered.
I spoke again. "That's because I've never played it before."
Eventually, she reluctantly opened the door.
"I don't usually see ghosts." She said quietly, speaking to herself.
I dropped my violin from my chin. "I'm not a ghost. Ghosts are a ludicrous fantasy created entirely by the mind of those who see them."
She drew in a breath. "It's not possible." She said. "That can't be possible."
"It is possible." I said, equally quiet.
I stepped forward, my hand extended. "I'm real. Go ahead." I implored her.
She walked forward, her hand shakily reaching out, touched mine reluctantly.
She jumped a little.
"Sherlock?" She spoke, disbelief lacing her already shaky voice.
"I'm here." I responded.
"Sherlock?"
"I promise, I'm real."
"You died." She had an emotion in her voice that I couldn't identify.
"I faked it."
"Why? Why Sherlock?"
"I needed to. To keep you and John and (F/N)-" I choked a little, turned away, then continued- "s-safe."
She looked almost sympathetic, like she knew I felt that I'd failed in keeping you safe.
"If there had been any other way, I swear to you, I would have done it."
She stepped forward and hugged me tightly. I winced, but again, returned the hug.
"I've missed you." She said. "Everybody's missed you." She grinned.
"As have I. I'm glad to finally be back."
I smiled down at her affectionately, then kissed her cheek.
She bustled out, back down to the kitchen.
As soon as she left, I turned away, my smile long gone. I couldn't live with this. I couldn't live with the fact that I'd faked my death to protect you but made one fatal slip that led to this. This.
I laid my violin back down, then pressed the heel of my hand against my face.
I would make that excuse for a human being pay for what he'd done. I didn't blame you, he could be very charming and friendly when he wanted to be. You had probably just needed someone to talk to and he'd been there.
I still couldn't get over the idea that he was your brother. Was it really possible? Was there even the slightest chance that you were related to that psychopathic murderer?
And yet, why wouldn't he have just killed you? Why did he administer just enough poison to induce coma but not kill you?
Tetrodotoxin was extremely potent and there was a fine line between how much was lethal and how much was not.
Unless it was a complete coincidence, he had purposely spared your life. Did he still have some sort of brotherly love under the nasty creature he had become?
These questions swirled in my head, but I couldn't connect any of the pieces. I couldn't come to a conclusion like I normally could.
I was distracted, angry, and exhausted.
Despite my rage fueled mind, I needed food and rest. It had been 24 hours since I'd eaten and thrice that since I'd slept.
I heard you in my head. "You're not that special, Sherlock."
I wasn't. I wasn't special at all. I was the lousy git who had gotten you into this mess.
I clenched my fists, then went to the kitchen, in search of something to eat.