His Great Game (Sherlock x Reader)

Chapter 12: True Colors

I opened my mouth to answer, but Sherlock beat me to it. "Why would you be getting food? You know I don't eat while I'm on a case, John. Digestion slows down my brain."

John's face, put quite simply, radiated the phrase really? He gestured to me with one hand, reminding Sherlock that he wasn't the only other one in the flat anymore. Sherlock didn't seem to understand, looking at John with a glazed look. I rolled my eyes. Sherlock truly was impossible. Pity I'd have to be stuck with him for a few hours.

Electing to ignore Sherlock, I turned to John. "Pizza's perfect, thanks."

He nodded and headed out the door. "I'm out to see Mycroft- be back in a jiffy."

"Bye John!" I called out, and the door slammed shut.

There was an awkward silence for a few moments before I turned away from Sherlock and headed for the living room. I scanned the bookshelves on each side of the fireplace mantle before settling for Hamlet. A personal favorite. One can never go wrong with a bit of Shakespeare. I was going to settle down in John's chair, but I wanted to keep an eye on Sherlock, who was still studying the evidence and shoes in the kitchen. So, I decided to sit in Sherlock's chair- giving me a full view of the living room and kitchen. I sat Indian-style in the chair and propped the book open between my knees. A light drizzle, a sun shower, began outside.

An hour passed in comfortable silence. Well, I say comfortable. The only sounds were the turning of pages and the shuffling of papers, along with the occasional baritone mutters from Sherlock. But every time I glanced up to make sure he wasn't doing something crazy, I was met with his glaring. It was the same every time. Brows furrowed, his icy gaze staring straight at me. Each time, I held the gaze, trying to decide if it was disgust, anger, hatred, or intrigue.

Finally, upon receiving another glare, I gave up. I sighed and closed the book with a soft thud. Sherlock had resumed his work by the time I looked back up. He was fiddling with the papers again, not really reading them. He seemed distracted. I took in a deep breath and spoke softly. "Why do you hate me?"

He looked up slowly, alarmed. But he soon regained his composure and asked evenly, "I beg your pardon?"

"Are you going to explain yourself?"

He quirked an eyebrow. "I don't believe I have anything to explain for."

"Oh, yes you do. What is it with you?" I asked, annoyed. "Sometimes you're kind to me and other times you act as if I don't exist. And don't even get me started on that ruse you pulled yesterday while John was out. The hell was that?" I spoke quickly, relieved to finally get those questions out. He opened his mouth, and for a moment, I thought he might give me a real answer. But my heart sank when I saw him deadpan.

"Maybe you shouldn't be so clever one moment and totally insufferable the next. Besides, have you ever considered that perhaps that's just simply the way I am?" He dragged out his last three words, emphasizing them.

I scoffed. "So you're really, truly, this rude to everyone?"

"Yes." Silence. "Is there a problem?"

I realized I had been scowling, and I softened my features. "No." I said softly, hanging my head. As much as I hated to admit it, Sherlock might be right. Rude, but right. More silence followed.

Sherlock's voice cut through the silence, thoughtful and sincere. "You are quite the puzzle, (Y/n)."

I lifted my head, confused. "What?"

He stood slowly and walked over to where I was sitting. I watched with wide eyes as he circled the chair once before heading to John's and sitting down. He placed his chin on his fingertips, which were in steeple position.