The Science of Sentiment (BBC Sherlock x Reader)

Chapter 22: Just a Little Too Late

Sherlock tapped his armrest and chewed his lip as he stared out the helicopter window. He focused his attention on the water passing below them in an attempt to slow his racing heart.
"Would you please quit that incessant noise?" Mycroft sighed from the seat across from him.
He immediately stopped drumming his fingers and glared at his brother. John, who would usually chuckle at the sibing's exchange, remained silent beside them. His worried eyes were fixed to his lap and he let out a long breath.
Mycroft gave another short sigh, taking notice of the tension in the air. "Sherlock, I'm sure she's fine. There's no need to be so worked up."
The detective snapped his eyes up, his expression a mix of rage and heartbreak. "Well, we don't know that for sure, now do we? Brother dearest." He fired back in a venomous tone.
Mycroft gave a humorless chortle. "My, you've grown too fond of her. You're getting soft."
Sherlock snapped his mouth closed and looked away angry and defeated. "Is that really so wrong?" He murmured after a long silence.
"Perhaps not. Though, your abilities to reason have been dwindling these past few hours." His brother turned his chin up arrogantly and crossed his legs.
"Oh, do shut up," the younger Holmes snapped.
Mycroft hummed and turned away, pleased with getting a rouse from his brother.
"There's just so much I haven't told her yet- she was angry with me when we left..." Sherlock mumbled, mainly to himself.
John turned to look at his flatmate, something like sympathy passing over his eyes. "She'll be alright."
Sherlock nodded and watched out the window. The helicopter was nearing land, meaning that it wouldn't be too much longer now before they arrived at the flat.
She'll be alright.

--

The moment the trio stepped off of the helicopter, the detective's phone made a few obnoxious chirps. He pulled out the device and with one glance at the screen, his face drained of color.
"Lestrade tried to call while we were flying," he tried to keep the panic from rising in his voice.
"Ah, you see? He must be calling to tell you she's all right," Mycroft piped up from behind him. He moved to the side of the road to hail a cab.
"He tried to call sixteen times over the past hour," Sherlock hissed back.
John ran a hand down his face. "Christ..."

The three hopped into the first cab to slow down. Sherlock demanded that the cabbie go faster and that they were in a hurry- This wasn't too much of an issue since the streets of London were fairly empty at three in the morning.
The car bounded down the road at a dangerous speed, but slowed once they arrived at their street.
Police tape and squad cars packed the street, sirens blaring. A small crowd of worried faces had gathered around the scene. The detective spotted a distraught-looking Mrs. Hudson right away, but he didn't see any signs of his lover.
"Oh my God-" John's breath hitched beside him.
Sherlock tore the door open before the car had even come to a complete stop. He raced over to the police tape, John following suit. The detective managed to get past the crowd surrounding the flat and he dashed through the door, despite the annoyed looks from the police officers.
"(Y/n)?!" He called into the flat, emotion choking his voice.
Lestrade walked up the stairs from your flat, his face ashen grey. His hair looked disheveled, and he avoided eye-contact with the detective as best as possible.
"Where is she?" Sherlock croaked. He swallowed hard and kept his chin up, trying to appear calmer than he felt.
"Sherlock...Oh Sherlock, I'm so sorry..." Lestrade murmured. He ran a hand through his hair, looking rather close to tears himself.
Sherlock immediately shook his head. "No...no. That's not right. She's not...?"
The D.I. let out a long sigh."It's not looking good, Sherlock...we rushed her to Saint Bart's the moment we found her, but..."
"What happened?" The detective demanded, already making his way towards your flat.
"We aren't sure," Lestrade answered, following him into the room. "There wasn't any sign of forced entry- all of the windows and doors were locked."
They stopped once they reached the living room. A few officers were taking photographs of the scene and looked up at them with dull expressions as they approached. A large pool of blood stained the carpet in the center of the room, and a few paintings had been knocked down. Bits of a shattered vase lay near the fireplace, and a crystal lamp lay broken in the kitchen.
John stood in shock, his eyes fixed to the crimson stain. His face was pale and serious, a grim air surrounding him. Sherlock immediately set to work, searching the room for clues as to where the culprit could have escaped to.
"We think she must have laid there bleeding for a while- Mrs. Hudson found her unconscious and called for an ambulance. The suspect was long gone by then," Lestrade spoke up, guessing Sherlock's thoughts.
The detective gave a solemn nod and walked back towards the door.
"Take me to her."

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