Observers- BBC Sherlock x Reader Chpt. 40

It turned out Timothy was staying in a small house on the outskirts of London, the three of you looking up at it from the sidewalk where the cab had left you. The windows were dark but it was late and he was probably asleep, so you mounted the steps and pressed the bell but got no answer. You looked to Sherlock and he gave a nod so you tried the door and found it unlocked, Sherlock pushing past you so you were safely between him and John as you ventured forth.

Every room was trashed as you moved through them to get a cursory overview of the first floor, going from the front living room to the kitchen, then to a spare bedroom, and finally a small office. Sherlock paused there, something catching his eye so that he crouched to examine a few of the many papers scattered about the floor. You and John exchanged a glance before slipping back into the main room to let him think and you took in the destruction of the room as John wandered into the kitchen. You abruptly had a very clear thought- his studio.

There was no studio space on this floor but there had to be one and, from the size of the house, there had to be two bedrooms upstairs, meaning one of them was more likely than not his workspace. Your thoughts raced as you mounted the stairs; if there was anything here to tell you what had happened or where Timothy might be, it would be in his studio.

Your suspicions were correct. When you got to the top there were two doors across from each other on a corridor -one closed and one open- and from where you were you could see canvases and papers through the open door. You stepped over and through it, shaking your head at the state of the room you had just entered. If possible, it was worse than any of the ones below, likely whoever had done this must have assumed as you did and thought they would find what they wanted here.

There were sketches, paintings, and supplies strewn across the floor and your mind struggled to take it all in, so you closed your eyes and took a breath before opening them to try and focus on just one section. You quickly scanned the room, looking for anything of interest, and something caught your eye: two canvas of roughly the same size thrown haphazardly against one wall. You stepped foreword turning them to face you and gave a small gasp as your mouth twisted into a deep frown.

Both paintings were fantastic and you recognized Timothy’s distinct style but they radiated an almost overbearing sense of darkness and tragedy, his palette dark and muted instead of the brilliant colors he normally worked with. These were the paintings of a troubled soul, something you knew all too well, and you reached out to let your fingertips hover over the surface of one as you murmured, “Oh Timmy… What have you gotten yourself into?”

You were so consumed with your sympathy for your friend as you looked over his work, that you didn’t feel the presence of someone else in the room until it was too late and a hand was clapped over your mouth.

You saw the flash of something metal out of the corner of your eye and instinct kicked in. You stomped down on your attacker’s foot and elbowed him the ribs before spinning to kick the knife out of his hands and quickly shoving your palm up to break his nose. The man choked out, “Bitch,” and rushed you before you could do anything else, pinning you against the wall to hold you off the ground with both hands around your neck in a chokehold. You kicked out but every move just made his grasp on your neck painfully tight and you could feel the darkness starting to creep up on the edges of your vision.


Downstairs both Sherlock and John had heard your scuffle, quickly emerging from their respective rooms, and Sherlock’s eyes widened when he saw you weren’t with your brother, “John… (F/n).”

Your brother’s expression grew panicked as he followed Sherlock up the stairs at a run, skidding to a stop at the two closed doors for a moment before, in a last-ditch attempt to do something to save yourself, you smashed your heel into the wall as hard as you could, creating a resounding thud. Sherlock came literally bursting through the door, assessing the situation in a split second before punching the man in the throat so he would drop you and then throwing him so hard against the wall that he was knocked unconscious.

You took a few gasps of precious air, leaning against the wall behind you, before wheezing, “Thank god for your gift of good timing.”

John was already by your side doing the doctor thing but you shoved him away, using the wall behind you to help you stand, “I’m fine… There’s a knife.”

You stumbled in the direction it had gone when you kicked it as John began a fretful rant and Sherlock searched your assailant- giving him a swift kick in the gut for good measure. You had just spotted it, bending to pick it up, when Sherlock grabbed your arm and spun you to face him, catching you off guard when his lips crashed against yours desperately in a relieved and fretful kiss. You returned it only briefly before he pulled away, his fingers grasping your chin and tilting your head so he could get a better look at the hand shaped bruises already patterning your neck.

“You idiot. You could have gotten yourself killed wandering off like that. What have I told you about your observation skills?” he angrily snapped, scrutinizing your injury carefully,

You winced as his fingers brushed against one of the marks on your neck, croaking back, “That you expect me to use them… to be fair I did notice the knife before he could use it and I’m fine. Bruised but fine.”  

He let his hands fall with a dissatisfied frown and you looked down at the knife in your hands, your eyes going wide, “Sherlock.”

He followed your gaze and both of you turned to bolt out the door and towards the one across the hall. John’s jaw had hit the floor when Sherlock kissed you and he stood completely frozen in his spot. He looked like he had short-circuited mid-sentence, unable to process what he’d just witnessed without his head exploding. When you both moved to leave, he quickly recovered, moving to follow you as he furiously demanded, “Where the bloody hell do you think you’re going?”  

“There’s blood on this knife and it’s not mine,” you croaked, trying to get the door across the hall open. Sherlock pulled you away from it, pushing you into John’s arms before giving it a solid kick, breaking the weak lock and sending the door flying open. You were meet with nothing. The room was the only one not completely torn apart, the only sign that something was amiss the blood-soaked sheets of the simple bed in the middle of the room. The knife clattered as it hit the ground, sliding from your hands as you floated towards the bed as if on autopilot. Your fingers hovered over the blood as tears welled up in your eyes, “That’s too much blood. There’s no way…”

You trailed off with a heavy, painful gulp before proceeding to tear the room apart frantically. You could hear the sirens outside that signified Lestrade’s arrival- took him long enough since Sherlock had texted him on the way over. Forgetting about the kiss momentarily, John tried to stop you, knowing that you were grief-stricken from the implied loss of your friend, but Sherlock held him back just as you growled, “This is the only room left untouched and that blood is dry. If he’s not here then they were looking for something and if they haven’t found it yet it has to be in here.”

You tore open the drawer to the nightstand and froze, having a thought and reaching your hand into it and up to the roof of the otherwise empty drawer, a hiding place that he often used when you were flatmates and he didn’t want your other flatmate to find something. A triumphant but tight smile graced your lips as you felt the corner of an envelope taped there, “Oh Timmy, you sly bastard… Somewhere only I’d look.”

You tugged it out to stare at it, your fingers shakily tracing your initials on the front of it before Sherlock gently pulled it from your hands.