Organised Chaos - Sherlock x Reader

LXX • 70

Your POV:

You sat down on a bench right outside the café where you had just finished a grueling shift. You loved your job, but everything seemed harder ever since you woke up. You feared the depression was here to stay this time. You simply couldn't stop thinking about him. You'd had feelings, ones that you tried so hard to ignore, that he was still out there. Somewhere.
It was strange, they came in waves. You'd be immensely depressed one moment, then you'd have the strongest feeling that he was still alive. You tried so hard to ignore them because you knew that it was impossible.
John was right. You'd seen the body. A chill ran down your spine as your brain conjured up images of Sherlock on the coroner's table. That icy cold slab of unforgiving metal. The same metal he had so often leaned over, inspecting other unfortunate bodies. Now there he was, his- Jeez you really needed to stop thinking about it.
You shook yourself out of it and took a pack of cigarettes out of your jacket pocket. They had been his. Unopened. You carried them with you everywhere, but never considered opening them until now. You'd always hated his addiction to them, but he'd always said they were almost an antidepressant. It was a strange thought to you, but at this point you were willing to try anything.
You slit the plastic packaging with your thumbnail and lifted the top of the box. As you slid one out, a voice beside you made you turn. You knew that voice. You'd thought nothing of the nondescript man in the dirty zip up hoodie that sat on the bench beside you. Until he spoke.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you. It's really hard to stop after the first one." His voice was deep and painfully familiar.
You turned to look at him as he pushed his hood down, revealing his black curls.
You felt a shock wave hurtle through you like electricity. You couldn't quite figure out if this was a dream or a nightmare. Or was it reality? You weren't sure how to react- you weren't even sure he was there. Eventually you spouted the only thing that came to your mind.
"You bastard!"
"Well actually, my pare-"
His technicalities were cut short when you slapped him across the face. "That's for leaving." He wasn't an apparition, that much was clear now.
"I deserved that." He mumbled.
Ignoring his comment that made your stomach twist and your heart melt, you continued, "And this- this is for coming back." You didn't really think twice before you took his face in both your hands, ignoring the grime that covered every inch of it and the unkempt scruff that had been allowed to take over, and kissed his mouth. God, how you'd missed him.
"(F/N)." He mumbled again, this time because his fingers were pressed to his lips.
"Sherlock, I love you. You know that, right?"
"But (F/N). I-i left you. I never.." He paused, trying to come up with the right words. "I never expected you to still care about me. I just wanted to make sure you were okay."
"Sherlock. Shut up for a minute and think about that. Use that fabulous brain of yours and think. I was in love with you. I am in love with you. Do you have any idea how many nights I laid awake trying to figure out how you'd faked it? Why you'd done it? I tried to hate you, Sherlock, I really did. But I just couldn't."
He looked at you directly for the first time, his blue-green eyes studying you, then his hand came up and he stroked your cheek.
"You know, I still believe caring is a disadvantage, but I can make an exception."
You leaned into his hand, smiling genuinely for the first time since you woke up.
"I was wondering when you'd come back." You mumbled.
He turned your chin up. "You knew?" He asked, confusion, and yet something like hope, in his eyes.
"I kept getting these feelings. They were so strong, I just couldn't ignore them. But they only made the depression worse when day after day you weren't back." You stared at him earnestly, but he didn't say anything. He looked as though he was still processing what you'd said.
After a few seconds of this, your eyes fell.
Sherlock's hand dropped to his side and he looked away as well.
You had a feeling that it would take awhile for both of you to heal completely.
Only after you stopped looking at his face did you notice his apparel and the blood covering it.
"Sherlock?"
"Yeah?" He asked.
You lifted the hem of his sweatshirt. "What happened to you?"
He glanced down at the blood covered fabric.
"Nothing much." He said, but swallowed hard.
You raised your eyebrows. He was already back to distorting the truth.
"I got cut." He stated.
"More like stabbed?" You asked, noting the amount of blood on his shirt as your eyes travelled back up to his.
"No, just cut." He insisted.
You shook your head. "You're a wreck, Sherl."
"I know." He sighed. "I've been, uh, not home."

Real descriptive, he was.

You got up and went to the kerb. Sherlock followed you and took your hand. "You going home?" He asked.
"Yeah. Coming?"
He nodded.

Sherlock was in disbelief. You had taken it so lightly. You'd slapped him once and that was the end of your anger. You'd reacted a whole lot worse that time you'd only thought he'd begun using again. And now he'd come back from the dead and you just shrugged it off?

You were halfway home when it dawned on you.
"Sherlock?"
"Mm?" He turned to look at you.
"What's John going to say?
He looked guilty and turned away again, not answering.
It didn't matter. Now you knew.
You yanked your hand out of his protective grip and stormed off, with just enough time to hear Sherlock call out, "(F/N)! Please, wait!"
You didn't turn around. You didn't stop walking.