Quietly: "No, I wouldn't, because I didn't want to scare you away."
Sherlock stared at her fixedly, and said in a measured tone: "'Wouldn't or 'didn't'?"
"Didn't. I didn't say anything because I didn't want to scare you away." Y/N was still holding one of his wrists and gave his arm a little shake in helpless agitation. "God, Sherlock, I felt so much love for you that night I thought I was going to pass out from it. I still do, right now. I did before you kissed me, I did before the wedding, I did weeks ago because, well, Jesus, Sherlock, how could anyone not fall for you?"
He was so still, eyes wide and unblinking, that if it wasn't for the frantic pulse flurrying under her fingertips Y/N would have worried he was dead.
"You danced with the Y/N who wanted to kiss you, you made love to the Y/N who wanted to kiss you, you woke up with, ate brunch with, went home with the Y/N who wanted---wants---to kiss you. I thought you saw it as just a fling, you aloof fool, you. You said nothing so I said nothing, I thought you were just...I don't know, using me or something. But we hadn't specified that it meant something so I had no right to be upset with you when I thought you'd finished with me."
Moving for the first time since Y/N had started talking, Sherlock distractedly let the laundry basket fall to his feet and took the side of her face in his now-free hand, his expression softening as he tenderly cupped her jawline. A swell of sadness had turned his grey eyes a delicate, damp, pastel blue and Y/N wondered for a horrible second if he was about to cry. "Don't. Don't say it like that. Don't talk about it like that, I can't believe you thought I'd ever..." his voice trailed off, not being able to bring himself to say the word 'use', and Y/N realised that touching her hadn't been something Sherlock had meant to do because he hastily retracted his hand.
'You're focusing on the wrong part,' Y/N wanted to say. She wanted to stand on the upside-down laundry basket so she'd be tall enough to properly grab his shoulders and give them a good shake. She very nearly did, but then they probably would have had to buy a new laundry basket.
And there was no need. Sherlock's expression had broken out into a restrained smile, hesitant, hopeful elation waiting for the go-ahead to brighten his eyes. The struggle between belief and disbelief brought a pained tautness to his voice: "You've fallen for me?"
"More than you could possibly imagine."
The use of his own line, or maybe simply at what it meant, made Sherlock...beam? Was that word strong enough? Is it accurate to say someone is beaming when actually they are doing way more than that, their whole being glowing with so much elation it could power the whole of London and maybe half of Canterbury? He brought his other hand to rest on the back of Y/N's neck, pushing it up to tangle his fingers in her hair as if he needed to touch some part of her, any part. Breathless, his gaze flicking from Y/N's eyes to her lips as he stared searchingly down at her face:
"But, at the hotel, when John gave us our phones, you didn't want him to see me, to see we'd---"
Y/N had felt like she was invading his space a few seconds ago, but now, so close to his body, she was reminded of how perfectly they slotted together, how every part of him seemed to be designed specifically for every part of her, and that sense of being an imposter was replaced by an instinctual, thrumming sense of belonging. "It was all a misunderstanding, a stupid misunderstanding." She slid her arms around his neck, pulling him down to press kisses to any part of his skin she could find.
He took this as permission to tug her into a proper embrace, gathering her closer, crushing her against him as he took her offering with passionate hunger.
"I asked you to get the door and you said---" Y/N was cut off by Sherlock releasing her, pulling out of the hug enough to kiss her forehead, over her nose, down her chin, stopping to glance at her eyes apologetically:
"I said the person would know we'd spent the night together if I was the one to answer the door. I figured that one way for me to tell if last night had meant anything to you was to see how you would react to that prospect. I figured you'd either say you didn't care if they knew, and tell me to answer it, or you'd do what you did and get it yourself. And then you hid me from view with the door I thought---"
"You thought wrong." She held the sides of his face, furrowing her brows at him. "Why didn't you ask me what it meant? I know you thought that's what one night stands were like, but why didn't you ask while we were kissing, before you thought it was a one night stand? Why did you have to be so calculating?"
Sherlock's gaze broke contact with her piercing eyes, his hands at her waist running a thumb anxiously over her hip, his lips pressed into a line. Y/N could feel a tension building in her chest at what he'd say and let her hands fall to her sides. Would dating Sherlock Holmes be like that? Him being too proud to simply converse, to talk when something's on his mind? Him testing her, gauging her emotions and intentions via intricate social experiments and exams?
Was he really that cold---?
In a small voice, so uncharacteristically small: "I was scared of a verbal rejection."
No, he's not cold. He's the complete opposite. He's warm, so alive and full of feelings he doesn't know what to do with them apart from build protective walls around them, keep them safe behind booby traps and tripwires.
Y/N's jaw slackened, her mouth falling open slightly. Every cog in her brain had suddenly ground to a halt, gotten stuck, jammed by that one, tiny, overwhelmingly innocent string of words. Her body had started to work on its own, wanting to pull him into a cuddle, cradle his face as she kisses him until he's dizzy, utter that she loves him until she's dizzy---her limbs wanted to do so many things at once that they sort of remained stuck, stationary, unable to complete even one.
That had been inexplicably, undeniably, atypically, adorable.
Sherlock must have noted her stunned expression but not known what to make of it because he filled his lungs with fresh oxygen and elaborated:
"I wanted to ask you. I came close, when you were unlocking the door to your hotel room I nearly blurted it out then. But that would have meant confessing my feelings for you. What if you would have said you don't return my love? What if you'd gotten uncomfortable and pushed me away, the one person I care about most in all this world? I wouldn't have been able to... I've never loved someone before. Not like this." He scratched behind his head, a shy, regretful smile curving the corner of his mouth. "And...I didn't want to ruin---you know---the mood, or anything. If you would have kicked me out of your hotel room we wouldn't have got to...and I really wanted to do that with you. So I...said nothing." Meeting Y/N's eyes, he took his lower lip in his teeth and Y/N ran her thumb over his mouth, freeing it.
She gave him a kind smile. "I really wanted to do that with you too."
He huffed a laugh. "You didn't act like it. Not until yesterday."
Y/N's brow was still furrowed with bewilderment. "I did. I tried not to but I did, I couldn't help it. Every time you so much as looked at me I quaked like a love-sick teenager. Didn't you notice?"
Sherlock looked boyishly pleased, a pink sprinkling of a blush spreading across his cheekbones. "No. I guess I was too distracted trying to hide my own love-sick-teenager-isms."
They both chuckled, not really because it was funny but in relief. In that kind of relief where everything has gone back to normal, maybe even an improved version of normal. That kind of relief where their nerves can finally loosen after too long of standing as taut as bowstrings.
Despite their new knowledge, that they loved each other, that they wanted to touch each other, neither one moved to do so. So much had changed in such a short space of time it was as if their brains were taking a minute to re-boot, to catch up. That, or they were both, for some strange reason afraid to make the next move.
'There's nothing to be afraid of,'  Y/N mentally scolded herself. 'Being afraid is what got us into this mess in the first place.' She couldn't take it anymore, and said: "Well, what do we do now?"
Looking as though he was about to bite his lip again, but decided against it, Sherlock shrugged his shoulders instead. "I don't know. Are we...? I mean, do you want to---"
"Do it again?"
Sherlock went crimson, his eyes widening and he sputtered: "I was actually going to say 'do you want to go out to dinner tomorrow?'."
A hot flush crawled it's fingers up the back of Y/N's neck, although it was unjust. He didn't look uncomfortable at her suggestion, he looked elated. Elated and endearingly bashful.
"But I like your suggestion more. So yes please."
...
It had only been one day since Y/N had made Sherlock do that groaning sound she was so fond of, and yet she'd already forgotten just how delicious that helpless purr of ecstasy felt rolling into her ears, vibrating against her lips as she stifled it with her mouth. She'd daydreamed about it all day, pretty much, and yet her imagined versions never quite captured the full effect it had on her body, how it wrapped around every nerve, exciting things within her she'd never even known were there.
Y/N doesn't know why her flatmate has such an effect on her, and even now while she stares down at him sprawled on her mattress, inquisitive eyes gazing wondrously up at her, she still can't put her finger on it.
Maybe because Sherlock is incredibly attractive. His dark curls falling about the pillow. His lithe, powerful, alabaster body shifting under hers as she touches places---does things---that makes him roll back his eyes and moan. His soft, perfectly curved lips parting to do so, giving Y/N glances at his white teeth and pink tongue.
Maybe because he's extraordinary and thus her mind and body have some kind of fascination with him.
Or maybe, simply, she loves him.
She tried to show him this with every touch she gave, every word she uttered, breath humid against his bare skin as if she hoped it would absorb her words, the meaning behind them.
Sherlock was more eager this time, now that he knew what he was doing, what to expect, that he was allowed to do everything he wanted. That Y/N definitely wanted him to do that stuff. His large hands were less hesitant in their roaming exploration of her curves, his body more involved. Because he'd done it before, now---although only once---Y/N noticed he was able to relax, muscles no longer slightly knotted with anxious anticipation, with that ever-present fear that he's doing something wrong, and were now loose and rhythmic, guided by instinct as he let himself be completely taken away with the experience.
He'd clearly taken mental notes last time, when he could, when he wasn't distracted by...well everything. And he's more self-assured, Y/N noted with satisfaction, not as hesitant now that he knows she wants him to touch her, now that he knows how to. He's more confident this time, and it was obvious with everything passing second that one day the innocent, almost bumbling in the bedroom Sherlock would be gone forever and replaced with a sensuous, generous, assertive lover that could play Y/N's nervous system, make her sing, just like he does the violin in the sitting room. He's a perfectionist, a collector of information, his intellect and knowledge like a piece of art he was always adding to, refining. Y/N couldn't help a curl of excited anticipation tighten deep in her stomach as she realised he'd, no doubt, try to master this new skill as well.
Although, Y/N pondered, he will never master it. Not really. He'll never be able to stop the groans of enjoyment that push up from his lungs when Y/N catches the tender skin of his ear between her teeth. He'll never be able to keep his cool when she runs a hand agonisingly slowly up the fragile, sensitive inside of his thigh. He won't be able to prevent every shred of logical thought being washed away with that final wave of catastrophic pleasure, no matter how good he gets at the rest of it.
He probably doesn't want to. Sherlock may be a genius, an eccentric, an extraordinary individual, but all Y/N would have to do is drop her clothes to the floor and he'd be just like any other man; transfixed by the female form and the pleasure it can provide, humbled, controlled, a slave to his aching desire. And that's just the way he'd want it.
'He deserves it,' Y/N thought as she pressed a slow trail of kisses over the base of his neck. 'He's been tightly-coiled for too long. He deserves to unwind.'Â Â And she grinned at the fact that she had the pleasure of showing him how to.
...
Presently, a good while since Y/N had pulled Sherlock to her room, she was now nestled up to his side, his long slender fingers absently rubbing a pattern onto her shoulder. They hadn't left the mattress yet, Sherlock having tackled Y/N in a tight cuddle when she'd tried to leave to freshen up. She'd giggled and told him he'll get too hot after five minutes, decide he felt uncomfortably sticky and was in need of a shower. Since then, it had been much longer than five minutes, that landmark having come and gone unnoticed, and Y/N was still encapsulated by Sherlock's long, strong arms. If Y/N didn't know any better she'd say he was making up for that morning's cuddle that had gotten cut so dreadfully short.
Or maybe he was just a cuddly guy. Her heart fluttered excitedly in her chest at the realisation that she'd soon find out whether that was true; she'd learn a completely unseen side of her flatmate, her best friend, her Sherlock now that they were lovers (that word felt good. Lovers). She'd get to lean up to catch his lips whenever she liked, feel his shoulders relax as he melts into her addictive embrace. She'd get to hear him moan, be the reason he does so, step into the shower with him, the bath, have him lift her onto the counter, push her up against the fridge. Would he be interested in those things? Y/N couldn't help smirking at his gasp of surprise, how his eyes had widened, pleasantly startled when she'd done something as simple as press a kiss to the base of his ear. Of course he's interested.
Y/N's mind was running away with thoughts of all the new experiences suddenly at her fingertips when Sherlock's deep baritone pulled her out of her stupor:
"I was so close to asking you if we could do it again, you know."
Y/N stretched a little, letting her arm fall across his waist. She felt him shift below her, getting a little more comfortable as she gave the softer centre of his stomach a small rub. Partly because her hand was bored. Mainly because she enjoyed touching him. And he makes lovely little sighing noises when she brushes over a sensitive spot. "What?"
Sherlock took a few lazy seconds to reply, his mind and body thoroughly spent, the slow soothing motion of Y/N's hand having the same effect as a mug of warm milk before bed. "This. I kept thinking about asking you if we could do it again...This morning as soon as we'd woken up. When we got back from the hotel. And pretty much every single second since. When I realised---thought I realised---that it hadn't meant as much to you as it had to me, I was...I don't know. I felt betrayed. Not by you, mainly by myself, for thinking it was a good idea. I reached the," he smiled, not that Y/N could see, "wrong conclusion that you saw it as just a fling, and I vowed to myself that I'd never let myself do it again. It hurt too much. Emotionally. I thought you saw it as meaningless so I assumed you wouldn't mind if I asked to spend the night with you again, but I promised myself I wouldn't give in to my body's desires. I wouldn't ask you for a second time. Even when you came down for breakfast with your hair freshly washed. Even when you put on your coat and your T-shirt rose up a little. Even when I could hear you laugh at something you were watching upstairs and it lit up my whole day just imagining your smile. My fingers were aching to run through your hair, my mouth longing to kiss down your body, my lips wanting to capture your grin---even though every fibre of my being craved you I didn't give in."
Despite his fatigue, Y/N felt his body feebly react to the images now floating before his mind's eye, the slight awakening of his tired muscles, the thrum of his heart. She couldn't help her lips pulling into a smug smile at his neediness, his body's obvious love for this new activity, this welcomed change to his life. Movements drugged with sleepy satisfaction, Y/N turned herself around to face Sherlock who watched her with an expression that could only be described as utterly love-sick.
He reached up to cup Y/N's chin with his finger, running his thumb over her lips. "You're incredibly hard to resist, Y/N."
Y/N couldn't help beaming---that's all she seemed to have done for the past several hours. Apart from when Sherlock had done that thing and her mouth had turned into a sort of 'O' shape instead.
She tangled her fingers in his hair, stifling the answering groan with her mouth. "And you are surprisingly romantic."