Organised Chaos - Sherlock x Reader

XCVI • 96

The door opened into a small hallway lined with doors labeled 40a, 40b, and 40c respectively.
You stopped in front of C and Sherlock was about to retrieve his lock pick when you stopped him.
"What if she's home?" You asked.
"I'm hoping she's home." He replied, confidently. "Like I said before, we're not here to cause harm. We just need information."
"Then why are we breaking in?" You asked, slightly irritated.
Sherlock turned to you. "Do you really think that she'd open the door if we just knocked?"
You sighed. "I guess not."
"Precisely." He turned back to the lock.
There was a quiet click and the doorknob turned freely.

The flat was modest and neat, the furnishings few and far between.
There were no visible lights on and it was eerily silent.
"I don't think she's home." You murmured.
"I have a bad feeling about this. Stay close." He replied, quietly.
"Wh-"
"Shhh." He cut you off, lowering his voice. "We need to find the darkroom."
"Why?" You asked.
"Because she's obsessed with those photos. If she's here, she's in the darkroom."
You nodded. You supposed that made sense.
"Where do you think it is?" You asked. "Absolutely no idea." He responded.
"Well there's a first time for everything." You smiled.
You looked around again, searching this time.
There was no upstairs, so it had to be one of the four rooms that branched off of the main sitting room.
Four doors.
A darkroom would need absolute darkness. Just a sliver of light could ruin it. Just light coming from underneath the door could make the difference.
The door...

"Sherlock, the doors." You said.
"What about them?" He asked, quietly.
"Underneath the doors, are any of them blocked off?"
He began looking, catching onto your thought process.
"Here." He beckoned you. The third door he'd checked, the furthest from the outside door, had a towel shoved against the inside edge, blocking the light.
"Do you think she's in there?" You murmured, joining him.
"Only one way to find out." He replied.
This door was harder to open due to the towel inhibiting it's movement, but with a little pressure it did, revealing the darkroom. There was a red glow permeating the room, which hadn't been visible from the other side.
"Oh God." Sherlock muttered. He was staring at a clothesline of photos hung from the ceiling. Every single one of them was of either you or him, sometimes together, sometimes not. You recognised several of them, but the photo that hurt the most was the one that captured every detail of Sherlock's agonised scream when he realised that Alondra wasn't coming back.
You tore your eyes from the picture and looked around the room. There were trays and chemicals, rolls of film and negative prints. Several more photos were scattered across a table nearby. You looked up when you heard a clatter behind you, though Sherlock stood beside you.
"I think we just found her." He said and began to turn around slowly.
Before he'd made it halfway, you saw a streak of silver and you heard a sickening thump as it collided with his head. He fell to the ground, unconscious.
You turned to see your attacker and just barely caught a glimpse of her when the metal tray came down on your own head, catching your right temple.

******

You opened your eyes groggily and lifted your head. There was a sharp pain in your temple and you could feel the sticky blood in your hair and on your face.
You remembered where you were and what had happened.
You squirmed in the chair you were bound to, the rope burning your wrists.
You looked around and saw that the woman who had tied you to the chair, your stalker, was struggling to position Sherlock's unconscious body in a chair directly facing your own.

She must've hit him a lot harder.

"Having trouble?" You asked, trying to act like you weren't scared at all.
"Shut up!" She snarled, finally sitting him upright and tying him down.
"Good job!" You approved, cheerily.
"Sarcasm is one thing I will not tolerate." She said, turning to you, carelessly playing with a very large knife.
You said no more, realising that you were at a serious disadvantage.
"Good girl. Now we wait for lover boy to wake up."
You ground your teeth at this description of Sherlock. Maybe you were in love, but he was so much more.

Sherlock's POV:

I looked up, suddenly aware of a throbbing pain in the back of my head. I tried to lift my hand to investigate it further, but found myself tied down. Suddenly alert, I looked around the room and, in the red haze, saw you tied to a chair opposite me, a mix of fear and relief on your face. A woman stood beside you, and it didn't take me long to recognise the photographer from the river, Mary Wellington apparently.
She held a wicked blade and was inspecting it with faux thoughtfulness.
"Ah, it's good to see you again Mr. Holmes." She said, a nasty smile taking over her face.
I said nothing, just studied her.
"You see, I've been watching you two for awhile." She grinned again and indicated our surroundings, gesturing at the clothesline strung out behind her, lined with photos of you and I.
"I know." I replied evenly.
"Do you?" She raised an eyebrow.
"In case you don't know who I am, I'm going to tell you that I take great pride in the skill of observation but it doesn't take a genius to notice you're being watched when you see the photographer following you." I spat, then added, "Or asking for photo shoots."
"Photo shoots? I don't do photo shoots Mr. Holmes."
"Then who was it down by the river? Do you have a less evil twin?" I asked defiantly.
"It wasn't me, I can assure you of that. But never mind." She strode over and lifted my chin with the tip of the knife. "I'm not a conversationalist."
I stared her down, doing my best to ignore the deadly cool of the knife, to forget that she held my life in her hands, that one flick of the blade and I'd be dead.
She dropped the knife from my chin and used the tip of it to play with my hair. I closed my eyes and clenched my jaw as I felt it's sharp edge scrape harmlessly across my forehead. I took a deep breath and swallowed hard. I wouldn't allow this idiocy to provoke me. I opened my eyes and looked to you, gauging your reaction. You looked as though you too were trying to keep it from messing with your head. We both knew that that was exactly what she wanted.
I took the time that she was standing over me to study her up close, trying to figure her out.
"Am I an open book, Mr. Holmes?" She asked, smirking.
"Yes." I responded simply.
"And what do you read?"
"I'm not under any obligation to tell you that."
"Fair enough. But playing fair has never been my strong suit." She held the knife to my throat. "What do you read, Mr. Holmes?" She growled.
"You're desperate for attention, you've been abused, you're a mother and you've lived by the ocean most of- oh." I cut myself short as realisation dawned on me. "Oh."
She smirked. "Well done. You really are as good as they say. But no matter. Here's how this is going to happen." She smiled as though she found great fun in the prospect of torturing us.
She probably did.
"I'm going to kill you" she pointed the knife at me, "and you're going to watch." She pointed it toward (F/N) now.
"No!" You cried out. "Please, kill me."
I shook my head sternly, but she just chuckled darkly. "Aw, won't you look at them. They're already fighting for the privilege of death."
She turned to you. "But no, sweetheart, killing you would be boring. I need to see you watch the only person you've ever loved die in agony." She stopped, then shrugged. "After that I'll kill you. If you insist."
"Who the hell are you- you sadist."
"Oh my! You haven't figured that out yet? How disappointing."
"(F/N), this-" She whipped around and pressed the knife to my throat.
"Say one more word and I will end you."
I looked up at her and shook my head slowly. "No you won't. You want (F/N) to watch me die a slow, painful death. Slitting my throat wouldn't gratify that desire."
She smiled. "Clever boy. You're right. I won't slit your throat, but I can do this." She smiled again as she drove the knife into my thigh.
My mind screamed in pain, but I was incapable of making a sound apart from the short gasp that escaped my lips as the knife sunk in.
Every muscle in my body tensed involuntarily, which only made it worse as she pulled the blade out, deliberately twisting it as she did.