Observers- BBC Sherlock x Reader Chpt. 68

Faint violin music resounded from the closed door to your room when John returned the next morning and he cocked his head to the side in thought before swinging it open. The room was covered in a plethora of paper animals, a good number of them cranes, and a symphony John recognized filled the air. You were sitting cross-legged in the middle of the hospital bed, your fingers busy folding yet another animal, and Sherlock was in the chair next to you with his feet kicked up on your bed and his eyes closed, violin and bow in hand.

You finished what you were working on, which turned out to be a paper balloon, filled it with air, and then threw it in Sherlock’s direction, hitting him square in the face. He stopped playing and you giggled triumphantly, “Direct hit?”

“You got lucky,” he said pursing his lips and you pouted, “Even if I did- It still hit you. Now pick a new spot… further away this time.”

Sherlock’s eyes flickered open as a small smile made its way to his face and then he spotted John in the doorway, holding up a hand for him to stay where he was, “John is back. If you can hit him then I will admit it’s more than luck.”

He placed your balloon back in your hands as you greeted your brother, “Morning, Johnny. Did you sleep well?”

“I did, Squeak. How was your night? Sherlock didn’t give you any trouble did he?”

Your head swiveled to where he was and you chewed at your lip in concentration as you responded, “They gave me more pain meds for a while after I rolled on my arm and split the stitches but other than that it was good and Sherlock gave me just enough trouble to keep me happy.”

John was about to respond when he was hit in the face with your paper balloon and you demanded, “Did it hit him? It hit something.”

Sherlock actually looked proud as he flatly stated, “It wasn’t luck,” and you squealed happily, making John smile. He came and kissed your cheek, “I’m glad to see you’re feeling better. You ready to go home?”

“You have no idea, Johnny,” you sighed, rubbing at your face and he ran his fingers through your hair before placing a kiss on top of your head, “I’ll go get the doctor. Sherlock, would you gather her things?”

The next couple of hours had the doctor giving you a final once over, writing you a prescription for pain meds, and going over proper care for your injuries with John, while Sherlock gathered all your paper animals and things. Knowing John needed to feel helpful, Sherlock let him be the one to usher you out to the cab, one of his arms around your waist as you wound the arm not in a sling around his shoulders. You chatted happily despite the hint of fear in your face and the tremors in your hands and John felt a strong sense of relief- this was the sister he remembered. You were beat to all hell and temporarily blind but still joking and laughing, none of that numbly staring off into space stuff from when you’d first come to London.

You all piled into the cab and you looked out the window out of habit as you huffed, “Would you give me a hand sending in some of my work, Johnny? And groceries? I’m pretty sure my fridge is em-“

“Don’t be an idiot, (F/n). You’re staying upstairs,” Sherlock hummed impatiently, silently panicking at the thought of you being alone and unable to protect yourself, and John nodded, “He’s right, (F/n). Until you’re better you’re staying with us.”

You opened your mouth to argue and then thought better of it, you didn’t really want to be alone and they wanted to make sure you were safe. There was really nothing to argue about. You sighed, “Fine. I still need to send in my work.”

“I’ll help you, Squeak, but let’s wait until tomorrow. Give you some time to adjust to being home again.”  

The cab ride was quiet after that, save your fingers drumming on the door, and you arrived home to Mrs. Hudson fretting. She stopped the three of you in the hallway insisting that you have tea and biscuits and that you stay with her so you didn’t have to climb the stairs, which quickly caused bickering between the three.

Taking their distraction and turning it into an opportunity, you slipped away, using your superb memory to find the stairs and silently climb them so you could slip into their flat. You took a deep breath, reassuring yourself that just because you couldn’t see didn’t mean you were helpless, and felt your way rather successfully to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Confident that they would notice your absence before it whistled and you actually had to finish the tea, you managed to find John’s chair and sank down in it with your legs thrown over one of the arms as you pressed at your shoulder, the pain meds were wearing off quickly.

Downstairs the trio had gotten horrifically off topic, something not very unusual for the inhabitants of 221 Baker St, and while John was talking with Mrs. Hudson about her hip pain, Sherlock finally noticed you weren’t there. His heart rate picked up as he sharply snapped, “John,” and the stalked off towards the stairs, climbing them two at a time.

He burst through the door almost frantically just as the kettle whistled to find you humming contently with the small British flag pillow from John’s chair hugged loosely to your chest, “You really do have the gift of good timing, Sherly. Would you please finish making tea?”

Letting out a nearly silent huff of relief, he stepped over to press an upside-down kiss to your forehead as he murmured, “Of course but you owe me.”

John walked through the door just as you chuckled and Sherlock moved to silence the kettle, once again missing his affection towards you, and sternly scolded, “Not only did you climb the stairs but you put the kettle on? What if you had turned on the wrong burner or set your hand on the stove? Or tripped and fell? You’re already hurt, (F/n). The last thing we need is you in the hospital again.”

You let out a tired sigh, feeling the effects of the nights interrupted sleep, the pain meds wearing off, and the sudden emotional toil, and shifted in the chair uncomfortably as John continued his rant. He stopped when Sherlock came back in with tea and leveled him with an unamused look, “Shut up, John. She’s obviously in pain. Stop being an idiot and go pick up her prescriptions.”

You heard your brother pause in his pacing, likely to look you over, and then let out a growl and leave with a wall-shaking door slam before Sherlock pressed the cup of tea into your hands, “Here. Try not to spill.”

You nodded and listened to his footsteps move about the flat as you sipped at it, despite everything it felt good to be home and the familiarity was certainly comforting. You shifted again and this time managed to find a comfortable spot, leaning back to lightly doze in an attempt to make up for missed sleep.