Organised Chaos - Sherlock x Reader

LXVIII • 68

I clutched my injured arm to my chest, trying to ignore the pain, as I made my way to the street corner. It was risky, now that I didn't have my hood to hide my all too familiar face. I hung back in the shadows, where one would be hard pressed to see me without searching, but I could still see the people wandering down Balcombe St.
I saw him walk down the street, looking around. He carried a bag of groceries and a first aid kit. When he looked in my general direction, I stepped further into the light. I could tell he'd seen me when he stopped abruptly and changed direction, now walking towards me.
I stepped back again, confident he'd find me. It was only a moment before he was within talking distance, but he didn't call out, respecting my desire to remain hidden.
When he could speak to me quietly, he did.
"God Sherlock, how many times are you going to do this?" He sounded frantic and worried, if only slightly upset.
"I was helping someone." I said quietly.
"You were helping someone?"
I glared at him, but it was true, my reputation followed me everywhere.
"It was... personal." I hesitated, not wanting to relate the painful memory that had been triggered by the previous event.
John sighed, but didn't ask, knowing I'd refuse to answer. His eyes landed on my bloody sweatshirt, balled up against my chest.
"Christ, Sherlock, what the he..." He trailed off, his eyes bugging out.
"It's not that bad." I insisted.
"Not that bad?!" He shrieked, glaring at me.
I cowered.
Angry John wasn't someone to bicker with.
He took my arm, gently only because of the injury, but when he saw just how much blood there actually was, he handed me my arm back and stalked off, silently imploring me to follow. I sighed heavily and did.
"Where are we going?" I complained, after following him for a few minutes. "Somewhere I can sit you down and stitch you up." He replied darkly, without turning.
"You didn't even look at it!" I argued, but still tailed him.
"I didn't need to."
"I'm losing more blood by the minute." I used this fact almost as a threat, knowing that was the last thing he wanted. I saw him falter a little, but he didn't stop.
"Not too much longer." He finally said, his tone becoming softer.
About fifty yards further and we had made it to a bench on a mostly deserted street.
"Not ideal." John grumbled, sitting down and opening his neat canvas bag that was a first aid kit.
I sat down next to him, concentrating on gently unwrapping the blood soaked sweatshirt that was entwined around my arm.
I stared down at the gash on my arm, the laceration somehow not fazing me, although it continued extravasating. I watched as the crimson fluid trickled down my pale arm and dripped off my fingers. I held my arm out toward John and he'd only taken one look at it before he'd taken my wrist and pinched the edges of the wound together.
"This is going to hurt." He said, but the damage had already been done. I winced and clamped my mouth shut, but didn't pull away.
I squeezed my eyes shut and steeled my jaw as I felt the needle going in and out.
It would make it better.
It would fix it.
"It's done." John announced. He clipped the surgical thread short at the knot and put away his tools, wiped the excess blood from my arm with the sleeve of the already destroyed sweatshirt, then cleaned around the fresh stitching with an antiseptic wipe. He retrieved a cloth bandage and wrapped it around my wound in place of the sweatshirt.
"Thank you John." I said, gratefully. "I'm not sure what I'd do without you." I added with a smile.
"You'd die, that's what." He muttered, zipping up his bag. When he'd finished he redirected his attention to me. "Are almost done slinking around London like a tramp? I'm so sick of lying to (F/N). She's depressed, she's never going to get over you, Sherlock."
This hit me hard.
Depressed? Still? I'd expected you to have moved on. Forget me, even. I wouldn't have minded. I'd be disappointed maybe, but not resentful. You had no obligation to love me anymore. You probably hated me. I'd expected you to have moved on, to have found someone else. I just hoped we could be friends.
"Why would she still care?" I asked.
"Sherlock.. Oh God, you're such an idiot!" He ejaculated. "You did know that she was in love with you, right?"
I nodded once.
"That's not something you just get over, Sherlock. She still thinks you killed yourself. She was angry and then she was depressed and that lasted for months, Sherlock. Months. When she finally accepted that you were actually dead and she finally felt grateful for your sacrifice, Sebastian happened. Then it started all over again. And this whole time, I've had to lie to her. Do you have any idea how hard that's been?" He spoke almost resentfully, and I knew he'd been bottling this up for ages.
"No. No, I'm sorry John. I thought she'd get over me. I thought she'd find someone else. I really did."
He let out a sigh of defeat. "I'm not sure how much longer I can do this, Sherlock. She's my sister and I love her. I can't stand to lie to her like this."
I looked down, chewing my lip. "Truth is..." I sighed. I might as well tell him. "Truth is I'm scared. I don't expect her to love me anymore, but I don't want her to be angry."
"She's going to." He said, simply.
"Going to what?" I looked up.
"She's going to be angry. And she going to still love you."
"You think so? Really?" I was focusing on the latter of his proclamations.
"I know so, Sherlock. She's madly in love with you. She's never going to love anybody ever again if not you. You know, you were her first."
"What?" I asked, slightly startled.
"She'd never loved anyone- not like that- before you. She was too scared."
"Then why me? Of all people, I'm probably the hardest to love. Why would she ever love me?" I asked in despair.
"She always liked a challenge." He said, with a little smile.