Requested by benedict_snape Happy birthday for the 29th :-)
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CONTEXT:
Sherlock never knew that his flatmate Y/N----whom he's developed quite a crush on---is afraid of thunderstorms.
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"Cause I knew I was in love with you
When we sat in silence"
- 'Silence', by Before You Exit
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The air had been heavy and thick with moisture all day, so it came as no surprise when a mass of cumulonimbus clouds rolled around at about mid-afternoon. Like a tsunami of concrete, they had smothered the pleasant September sunshine by three, and hardened into a hefty wall of moody grey by four.
Then the rain began.
And it didn't stop.
Sherlock watched with mild amusement as chaos ensued.
He'd been called out of his comfortable, dry apartment by Lestrade to solve a case said man had claimed to be 'unsolvable'. Predictably, the case turned out to be very solvable---or it would have been, had half the evidence not just been washed away into a storm drain.
Sherlock could have been at home right now, playing a board game with Y/N, or doing a science experiment with Y/N, or making ginger snaps with Y/N and then eating them---
But he's not, and as a pellet of rain wriggled its way down his neck, Sherlock still feels---understandably---a little nettled. At Greg Lestrade for dragging him out here, and at the idiocy that is Scotland Yard for needing him to be dragged out here.
Not that he turned out to be much use.
The corner of his lip quirked as he regarded one of the technicians chasing a flock of evidence labels down the street. The little yellow cards were being whisked away by a torrent of water that was rapidly becoming a small stream down one side of the road.
Another technician, or it might have been someone from forensics---it's hard to tell when everyone's dressed in sodden disposable overalls---was desperately trying to cover what was left of the scene with a sheet of tarpaulin.
Sherlock almost regretted refusing to don one of those suits himself; the wearable plastic-bags looked ridiculous, but would have kept the rain off. He can already feel it seeping into the wool of his coat, the moisture probably flushing his shirt with dark bruises as if he'd been thoroughly beaten up.
The man attempting to save what little was left of the evidence looked young, despite his screwed-up frown of anguish ageing him ten or so years. Probably a trainee, or some sort of student, Sherlock guessed lazily. The trainee-or-perhaps-student stopped to wipe his plastered-down hair from his face with the back of his hand, then resumed spreading out the tarp with admirable determination. The wind kept whipping up the corners, though, the weather trying to bunch the whole thing up like a sheet of paper and hurl it down the street.
Sherlock almost pitied him, and would have helped had he not known the exercise to be futile; they might as well just summon the bioremediation specialists and call it a day.
Instead, Sherlock approached him, having to raise his voice over the thrashing rain:
"Just leave it, there's no point," he hoped the man could hear the apologetic softness to his tone through the rain.
Having to squint to see who had addressed him, the man yelled back: "Are you sure? Some of it might---"
Sherlock shook his head. "It won't. It's just going to get worse." He pointed to those towering clouds roiling about above their heads like angry, overweight spirits, and said simply: "Storm."
The man followed Sherlock's gloved finger to the heavens, glancing for as long as he dared. When he met Sherlock's eyes again his own were red from being pelted with rain. "Okay," he conceded with a sigh, shoulders sagging with defeat.
Sherlock felt sorry for him again, so he handed over a piece of information he'd been holding onto. His original plan had been to use it himself, but this sodden kid just starting out in the world looked like he could use it more. "Get a warrant for the victim's apartment. You'll find more there anyway."
The trainee's shining cheeks widened in a grateful smile, and Sherlock's phone vibrated urgently a few times in his inside pocket.
Shielding the vulnerable rectangle from the rain with the breast of his coat, he tried to make out the text bubble's contents as they became distorted with water droplets:
Could you come home, please?
- Y/N
A knot of anxiety tied itself about Sherlock's throat and he turned to the direction of home, but something caught his arm. He turned to see the technician looking at him inquisitively.
"Aren't you coming to the victim's apartment?"
How could he worry about some silly crime at a time like this? "No, it's all yours."
...
The taxi Sherlock caught to drive him back to Baker Street took entirely too long to pull up beside him, then entirely too long to set off on its journey.
As soon as he was encapsulated within the safety of the car, he'd slipped his phone from his pocket again. It took several attempts to unlock it, his hands being so waterlogged---even with the gloves---that the device didn't recognise him. After a few unsuccessful jabs at the screen, the blasted thing locked him out for thirty seconds.
For each one that ticked by, a metaphorical stitch-picker unravelled an inch of Sherlock's nerves.
Why does Y/N want him to come home? What had happened while he'd been out? Why hadn't her message been clearer? It gave him nothing to work with---nothing to deduce---its simplicity could be interpreted in so many ways---
Maybe someone has died and she wants him to come home so she can deliver the bad news in person?
Is she tied up somewhere, and had to spell out the entire thing with well-placed jabs of her pinkie finger, hands restrained and mouth duct-taped shut?
Is she in such terrible pain she doesn't have the strength to type any more than a halting, short sentence?
Sherlock told himself to shut up, then, his stomach coiling in on itself painfully. He'd bought a takeaway cheese and tomato toastie from Costa for lunch and was now wishing he hadn't.
If it was an emergency, Y/N would have called, wouldn't she?
There's probably nothing wrong at all, the logical part of his brain tried to soothe. After all, Sherlock has begged Y/N to bunk off work hundreds of times to amuse him when he's moping around the flat.
He's asked her to come home just because he wanted someone to talk to.
Or because those chemicals he needed for an experiment had finally been delivered, and he wanted Y/N to be there to witness what he planned to do with them.
Once he'd asked her to skip work just because he was having a particular craving for Caramel Nibbles and wanted her to pick some up from the shop on her way home.
Perhaps Y/NÂ is just bored? Or wants someone to talk to? Sherlock posited to himself hopefully, trying to ease the clenching sensation in his stomach. If she does just want someone to talk to, that would be okay. Nice even.
As soon as the insolent little timer dropped to a zero, Sherlock fervently wiped his hands on whatever dry parts of his trousers he could find, and pressed the pad of a finger to the screen. His phone granted him access, this time, and he hurriedly tapped out:
Why?
-SH
There was a long pause, while he waited for the reply, Sherlock's right leg bounced rhythmically up and down, his breaths and damp clothes fogging up the windows. Due to the darkened sky, the street lamps had switched on earlier than usual, and Sherlock watched their orange glow slide by through the murk of condensation.
His phone buzzed.
Just come home pls.
- Y/N
...
When Sherlock burst through the front door, he found Y/N sitting in the hall.
Not on the floor, she was perched in one of the chairs that occupy the space at the end of the corridor. Mrs Hudson had put them there to make it feel less empty, but it hadn't worked; they just made that nook of the building look slightly spooky. It's a bit like a room from a doll's house; all set up for guests that will never come.
In all the time Sherlock has lived at 221B, he'd never seen a person sit there before.
No one except Y/N, at this very moment.
Sherlock crossed the long, narrow space between him and his flatmate before the front door had even clicked shut behind him. "What's the matter?" His eyes raked over Y/N's form, which seemed to slacken at his arrival, a grateful smile curving the lower half of her face. That's a good sign, surely?
"Nothing's the matter," she said less than convincingly, but as far as Sherlock could tell, it was true, at least in part. She didn't look okay but she didn't look hurt either. Nervous, yes; her face as though it had been drained of most of its colour. Worried but not afraid. She had her knees drawn up below her chin and headphones lodged firmly over her ears, but she removed them, now, giving Sherlock her full attention.
Her full attention usually makes him feel good, like someone was rubbing two sticks together in his chest and had finally succeeded in producing a spark---but he didn't revel in it, today, because why isn't Y/N meeting his eyes?
"What's the matter?" He repeated again, more firmly this time.
Y/N had begun wrapping the wire around her headphones methodologically. "Nothing. I just wanted you to come home."
"Because...?"
"I'm just bored." Her voice is higher than usual. Sort of taught and thin like a rope about to snap.
Sherlock didn't like it. Carefully: "You called me away from solving a crime because you were...bored?" Not that he minded. A drip of water rolled down his forehead and he had to blink it away from his eye. If Y/N hadn't have summoned him he would have left anyway.
Y/N squared her shoulders, jabbing an accusing finger into the air between them. "You do that to me all the time." She looks more like Y/N, now. As if she'd withered whilst alone, and then been revitalised by the presence of another human being.
This dumped another dose of confusion onto Sherlock's brain, and his curiosity flared up all over again. This is Y/N. The same person who locked herself in her room for two days just so she could plough through a novel series; and now suddenly she takes issue with a few hours by alone?
"Yes, but you never do. So why today?"
"Maybe I'm just more bored than I usually am." She dared a glance at Sherlock's face, and tried to hold his scrutinous stare. The battle was short and inevitable.
Regretfully, Sherlock softened it, softened everything about himself. "You can tell me." He almost moved to take the chair across from her, but stopped himself, not wanting to transfer his dampness onto Mrs Hudson's furniture.
"Tell you what?" The quiver in Y/N's voice betrayed the fact that she knew exactly what he was talking about. She's clutching a secret to her chest, making sure her hands hide every inch.
Why doesn't she trust Sherlock to take a peek at it?
Something like hurt ghosted over his expression and Y/N ran a hand through her hair.
At least she doesn't appear to like keeping the secret from him. But still; the obvious lack of trust has wounded him more than he'd care to admit.
"There's nothing wrong. Really," she assured, a bit more convincingly, now. She's not so sallow anymore, and looked Sherlock's drenched form up and down properly for the first time.
He looks like he's been standing under a waterfall for a while, a little pool of moisture collecting around his soggy oxfords.
"You're soaked! You should dry your hair or you'll catch a cold."
"Colds are purely viral infections, you can't actually get them from being cold."
Y/N gave him a look, and the corner of his lip twitched.
"But I see your point. Can I use your hairdryer?"
"Of course."
Sherlock waited for Y/N to rise and lead the way to wherever she'd left it, but she didn't.
A few seconds passed where the only sound was the rain beating against the front door as if it wanted to be let in.
"Aren't you going to show me where it is?" He knows where it is, he sees it every time he enters Y/N's bedroom, which is a lot.
Sherlock often takes his work up there---preferring to have company---and sits by Y/N as she watches television, sneaking glances at the screen, which is pleasingly larger than the one downstairs, whenever he feels like it. Y/N's room is nicer than downstairs in general, occupying the entirety of the top floor---besides a squat little bathroom in one corner---and is situated just about high enough for the view to look out over the top of the opposite buildings. The space is light and airy and, usually, one of 221B's inhabitant's favourite places to spend their time.
So why does she seem so reluctant to go up there now? Or to even enter their own apartment?
"It's in my room, you'll see it as you walk in."
"Are you planning to stay down here?" Sherlock quipped, but the good-natured chuckle died in his throat.
Y/N had her bottom lip between the rocky edges of her teeth and was chewing the already slightly raw flesh, the gap between her eyebrows creased like a stitch pulled too tight. "No, of course not."
She stood uncertainty, and there was a strange moment where they both seemed to be waiting for the other to lead the way.
Seeing that Sherlock was obviously not going to, Y/N sighed and eased past him; carefully as not to touch his dripping coat.
Sherlock just watched her as she ascended the stairs; checking for a limp, a twinge of pain, anything that might explain her skittishness; but found nothing. He didn't know if this eased his fears or just worried him more. Both, probably, and his nerves tangled themselves into a confused bunch.
...
Y/N did not cease acting strange all evening. If anything, it grew worse; her strangeness set the whole flat into an alien sense of disarray that Sherlock couldn't quite put his finger on. It was as though he'd entered a parallel dimension by accident somewhere along the way home, and was now in a reality that was a lot like his own, but definitely not the one he knew.
It's as if Y/N and himself had swapped...something.
Personalities?
Roles?
Something.
After changing into some dry clothes and giving his hair a quick blast with Y/N's hairdryer, Sherlock found her in the exact place he'd left her; perched on the sofa, her eyes glazed and far-off.
To restore some sort of natural order to things---and in an effort to settle Y/N's obvious but mysterious bout of anxiety---Sherlock suggested they both watch some television.
Y/N paid little attention, just raised the volume until Sherlock commandeered the remote, rambling something about 'our poor neighbours' (which made him stop and wonder what the Hell had happened to him).
It was Sherlock who suggested they have dinner, and Y/N who picked at hers but ate very little.
They played some Operation, but Sherlock hastily packed it away because the buzzing sound was making Y/N jump every time it went off---which was every time; seeing as Y/N was so immersed in her own thoughts she barely managed to get the tweezers into the cavities at all.
After Kerplunk and Pictionary pittered out also---Sherlock feeling, by this time, that he was living with some sort of ghost---he directed Y/N by the shoulders to the sofa and switched the TV back on. As an experiment, he selected a title he knew Y/N to despise, and waited for her inevitable disgust.
It never came, however, and they sat through three episodes of [something u hate] before Sherlock finally caved and changed it to something else.
It was then Sherlock that tired first, and when he announced that he was going to bed, Y/N finally seemed to surface from her stupor and looked, frankly, startled.
"Why? It's only---" she jabbed her phone screen, then her eyes widened as '1:34 am' glared back at her.
"I'm tired." Sherlock took a step towards his bedroom, watching Y/N's reaction carefully.
Something flashed over her eyes and she stood up. "You don't get tired. Why don't we play something?"
Brows knitted together: "We did play something. Several things, and you lacked interest in all of them. And I do get tired, so I'm going to bed. Goodnight."
Y/N didn't move, but Sherlock could feel her watching him, a tension building with each centimetre of space he added as though an invisible thread was stretched between them.
Eventually, the metaphorical thread became so taught that he drew to a stop, unable to force himself any further against it. When he turned around, Sherlock found Y/N still standing where he'd left her, the curve of her bottom lip nipped tightly between her teeth. She was gnawing on it with such force Sherlock's stomach turned, anxiety flaring at the mental image of her biting it right off.
"You should go to bed too," he said in a tone he hoped sounded friendly and nonchalant. He'd come back over to her and eased her lip from her teeth with the pad of his thumb.
She raised her gaze from the floorboards, then, blinking up at him. A strange tugging sensation blossomed between Sherlock's lungs as he looked down at Y/N's face---her body---so much smaller than him.
He was filled with a strange desire to pull her to his chest---and maybe stroke her hair.
"Nah." A deep-set groove of worry was furrowing that space between Y/N's eyebrows, one hand fervently tugging a loose stitch at the cuff of her jumper. "I think I'll stay up a bit longer, I'm not tired yet. I might read a book. Or listen to some music." Her hand reached out to take her headphones off the coffee table, but Sherlock caught her wrist.
When Y/N gave him a quizzical expression, he returned it, just as puzzled by his own actions as she was.
He cleared his throat. It's hard to keep his voice steady when she's staring right at him like that. And when her skin is all warm against his, sending little prickling sensations up to his elbow. "You need to sleep, Y/N," Sherlock said firmly, as though he's pressing the words to her brain to make them stick.
His hand is so big it can wrap all the way around her wrist. Or her wrist is so small it gets completely swamped by his hand.
Fear that he's entrapping her blossomed suddenly in Sherlock's torso and he released her quickly.
He missed her warmth immediately.
"I don't want to." Y/N's shoulders had wilted, because of Sherlock's uncharacteristic tone, or from the instruction itself, he wasn't sure.
It didn't even occur to him that she was disappointed he'd let her go.
Narrowing his eyes at her: "Why not?" Something about the way she's standing---cowering, all tense and frightened---is making anger prickle at the corners of Sherlock's temper like frost blossoming the damp corners of a window. Not at Y/N, but at whatever is inhibiting her. If it's a person who'd done this to her, it's probably a good thing she was keeping it to herself; Sherlock would most certainly end up in jail within the next twenty-four hours if she'd divulged so much as a name or even a brief description.
"I'm not tired."
Sherlock just quirked one eyebrow, and she frowned at him.
"Okay, well I am, I just don't feel like going to bed."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't want to."
"Yes, but why?"
"I just don't."
"Because of whatever's bothering you?"
"Nothing's bothering me." Y/N raised one foot off the ground as if to stamp it like a petulant child, but just scratched her calf muscle with her toes instead. When she placed it back down on the floor, she made sure half of it overlapped her other foot; as though her edges are being drawn towards her centre. Y/N's body wants to curl up like an autumn leaf.
Sherlock moistened his lips, because he'd ran out of things to say. Those three words---strung together to form one obvious, blatant lie---prodded at Sherlock's heart like a three-pronged spear every time she said them. Surely she knows that if she has a problem, she can drop it at his feet and he'd fix it? That if she's tormented by a dragon, he'll slay it? That should she need him to hand over his own soul---for whatever reason---he would, without a second thought?
He sighed. "Okay, fine"
Y/N watched as Sherlock turned back to his room.
He knew she was just standing there, still, watching him leave. "I'm going to sleep. Good night."
That invisible thread was pulling harshly at him again, growing stronger with every step. It was instantly trying to drag him back to Y/N; he didn't want to leave her alone---he got the feeling he shouldn't leave her alone---and yet what could he do? It's not like he could take her to bed with him, curl himself around her, guard her from whatever is making those lines sketch themselves across her forehead---
Not that he'd want to do that anyway, of course.