The rain had ceased, finally, but when Sherlock hunted for the moon upon drawing the bathroom blind he found the sky as blank and dark as ink. The storm had long since advanced, and was now settled directly over London, Canada Square, the Shard, and BT Tower stabbing into its underbelly as if trying to ward it off.
They were unsuccessful, however, because as Sherlock lay in bed, a tremendous light illuminated the room to such an extent he could see it through his eyelids.
He hadn't achieved sleep yet, and doubted he would for a while, his best friend's earlier expression still haunting him. That desire to find her wherever she is in the apartment and just...be with her was still just as persistent and unwavering as it had been when he'd left her in the hallway.
And the pad of his thumb remembered the touch of her lip from when he'd freed it from her teeth; the soft slip of her skin below his. He'd liked it, and he couldn't put his finger on why, but it was keeping him from achieving unconsciousness.
Glad for a distraction, and overcome with childish curiosity, Sherlock swung his legs out of bed and crossed the room quickly to the window, pulling back the curtains. He'd been counting in his head---that old trick used to estimate the distance of the storm---and barley got to three before that inevitable roll of thunder rippled its way across the city.
Sherlock grinned as it barrelled into him, the magnificence of its unbridled force still just as fascinating and exciting as the first time his parents had permitted him to stay up to watch a storm.
He caught the next flash of lightning this time; a prickly white beam slicing the horizon in two as though God herself had taken the inky fabric of the sky and ripped it violently to shreds. It left an imprint on the backs of Sherlock's eyes, a lingering mirage that he couldn't blink away.
It was awesome.
Then there was a different noise, and it hadn't come from the turbulent heavens. This one sounded more like bare feet landing rapidly on wooden boards. Someone is running in the directions of Sherlock's room.
Before he had a chance to be surprised, or even wonder how Y/N managed to descend the stairs at such a speed without ending up a bloody and splintered heap on the floor, Sherlock's door was thrown open and something collided with his middle.
"Y/N?"Â The force of her embrace violently shoved the word from his lungs, and he stumbled backwards before managing to right himself. Quickly, he found her shoulders and peeling her back from his body, trying to make out her face in the fuzzy light of the street lamps.
To his horror, it was written with terror.
"I lied earlier," the words weren't even words, just air, all rushed and high and riddled with panic.
Sherlock hated it. His hands subconsciously tightened their grasp on her shoulders.
"When I said nothing's the matter."
Another burst of lightning lit up the city, and Y/N made a startled little yelp, leaping back up against Sherlock's chest. You'd think the lighting had prickled down her spine as if it were an umbrella in an empty field, judging by the way her every muscle went rigid as if electrified; but she loosened when Sherlock's arms came about her instinctively, bundling her closer.
"Well obviously," he almost growled, frustration at his helplessness nudging him closer and closer to the end of his tether. Y/N wouldn't be in this state had she just told him what was wrong earlier---
He'd be lying if he claimed not to enjoy her embrace, though; her body all pressed up against his front. The contact made his chest do that warm and tingly thing again, stronger this time---but he'd think about that later.
"Can we move away from the window?" Y/N asked from his sternum, the last few shaky little words drowned in a flood of thunder.
Confused, Sherlock nodded even though she couldn't see him, and tried to lead her---still clinging to his middle---over to the bed. He planned to perch on the lip of the mattress so they could sit side by side and Y/N could give him a calm, detailed explanation of what the Hell is going on.
But she didn't move. Didn't or couldn't.
He gave her a gentle nudge, then a self-consciously firmer one, but she remained as stationary and awkward as a marble statue. The only giveaway that she was alive and breathing at all was the frantic flurrying of her heart, hammering away against the front of Sherlock's pyjamas.
Seeing no other option---and too scared of Y/N's wellbeing to worry about the great taboo of unsolicited contact---Sherlock softly pried her fingers from his back. Before she could cling back onto him again, he slipped his arms underneath her legs and shoulders and began carrying her over to the mattress.
She made a small noise as her feet left the ground, her whole body being lifted suddenly up and into the air, but it was of surprise more than anything else. Both her arms soon knotted themselves around Sherlock's neck and held on tight, her nose finding refuge in his hair.
It was nice---holding her---in a strange way; it made him feel big, and tall, and...sort of...manly. Or something like that.
When he got to the bed, he didn't want to place her down.
He did, though, and was pleasantly surprised when Y/N seemed equally reluctant to let go.
Now on the mattress, she pulled her legs up, right to her chin, shrinking herself down, and Sherlock wondered if she'd stop, or just keep going, folding in on herself like a collapsing star until she disappeared completely.
She did stop, though, when she could draw her limbs in no further, and sat there, head lowered and eyes pushed against the caps of her knees. She's so small on the wide stretch of cotton sheets, all curled up like a flower afraid to bloom.
Before he knew what he was doing, Sherlock was on the bed with her, encasing her in his arms.
Y/N let him.
"What's wrong? Really?" He asked, partly because he wanted to know who it is he has to murder, and partly because he didn't want Y/N to have time to comment on his uncharacteristic display of affection. If she did comment---or ask him why he's doing what he's doing---he has no idea how he'll answer.
Because I don't want you to be scared?
Because I hoped it would be comforting?
Because it feels like heaven---
Sherlock's weight made the mattress dip, and Y/N seemed to pool into it, like water drawn by gravity. She had her both legs going over one of his thighs, her body twisted enough to wrap her arms around his ribcage.
"Don't laugh at me." She's pressed so tightly to him that her words brushed his neck.
It made Sherlock's skin prickle.
He turned his head to the side, his cheek resting on the hard curve of her crown. Her hair smelled sweet, like food rather than shampoo. The scent touched the back of his throat and it made him slightly hungry. "I'd never laugh at you." He couldn't see Y/N's face, but he knew he'd elicited a raised eyebrow. He flushed, a regretful smile twitching the right corner of his mouth. "Not over anything important."
There was a pause, but it wasn't silent. The rain had started up again, resuming from where it had left off; just heavy, grey sheets throwing themselves against the windowpane. Sherlock could feel Y/N trying to summon some words from her chest, but they must have kept slipping through her fingers because it took a while to push out:
"I'm scared of storms."
One of Sherlock's hands had found the back of her head and had engulfed itself in her sweet-smelling hair. He'd been working up the courage to give it a little comforting stroke, and was so close to succeeding---but stopped, distracted.
"What?"
Y/N's nose is pushing against his throat, the faint scratch of gritty, impending stubble grating against the tip of it. "Storms," she managed at last. "I hate them." As if to solidify the point, a bolt of lightning lit up the room again, and she clutched onto Sherlock so tight he struggled for a moment to draw breath.
Not that he's complaining. Luckily, the bellow of thunder probably diverted Y/N's attention away from the excited little skip his heart did in answer to her embrace.
Storms?
No stalker? No malevolent ex, no psychopathic criminal using her to get to him?
A smirk curved Sherlock's lip, and the tone of his voice betrayed the fact. "Really?"
One of Y/N's hands at his back let him go for long enough to ball into a fist and give his shoulder blade a quick little punch. "I told you not to laugh!"
"I'm not laughing!" But he is, Y/N can feel it; she can feel everything; the shaky convulsions of his giggles, the rises and fall of rocky ridges of bone, gentle swells of muscle, latent strength. But also a little bit of soft, the tenderness of his palm cupping her skull, and that heat, that warmth of his life-force.
Despite her irritation---Y/N nestles closer.
Without realising he's doing it, Sherlock held her tighter appreciatively. "It's just...storms? Really? I thought it was something important." He can't stop smiling. It's nothing important.
"It is important!" Y/N fought back indignantly.
"Is that why you were sitting outside Mrs Hudson's when I came home?"
Y/N blushed, and was grateful that her face was tucked securely under the detective's chin so he couldn't see. "Yeah. No windows."
Sherlock had managed to stifle his chuckles now, forcing them back down like a man trying to stuff a jack-in-the-box back into its housing. Y/N may not have been worried about a stalker, criminal, or some sort of impending doom, but that doesn't mean she isn't genuinely afraid. Her fear was real enough to convince Sherlock that her life was in jeopardy, and his new and confusing compassion returned with full force. It was so strong it overrode his bashfulness, and his right hand started tenderly stroking the back of Y/N's head.
He felt her settle, letting her arms fall from being wrapped about his torso to his much slimmer waist. His pulse flurried, and he smiled again, for a whole different reason this time. Gently: "Why didn't you go inside Mrs Hudson's?"
Another blinding bolt of lightning.
Another ground-shaking growl of thunder.
Another stretch of near-silence as Y/N reassembled her senses.
Sherlock waited for her to find her voice, patiently; after all, he has nowhere he needs to be---besides here. This is where he needs to be, with Y/N. He had resolved early on in their friendship to protect her, from anything and everything. Sure, he'd thought this would mean warding away leering drunks in dark alleyways, or fending off legitimate criminal masterminds; but if Y/N's present adversary is a bunch of moody water molecules, who is he to retract his promise?
If anything, this makes a pleasant---and very welcome---change of pace. There are significantly fewer knife-fights, flailing fists, and trips to A&E when your opposition is astraphobia.
And the physical contact is a charming bonus.
"She's at her sister's."
Sherlock's brow creased. "Is she? Then who made me tea this morning?" That had been good tea. All creamy and sweet, just the way he likes it.
"That would have been me," Y/N answered flatly.
"Oh." His cheekbones flushed, for what was perhaps the millionth time this evening, and he moistened his lips. "Thank you."
"Can we get back to the point, please?"
Sherlock hummed in answer, her words coming to him as though through a fog. Why had he looked at down at cuddling with scorn and disgust? It's great. "What was the point?"
Y/N gave him a little shake, and it oscillated through him like a wave through water, his body having gone unusually slack and sated. He's slumped over her, curved lazily around and over her head like he'd been draped there, his bones softening and muscles heavy.
Another bolt of lightning lit up the room but Y/N didn't see it; her face had found comfort at Sherlock's neck, and remained there, in the soothing darkness, focusing on nothing but his warmth, the rise and fall of his breaths, and the fuzzy old cotton of his pyjamas.
Another crash of thunder rattled the pipes in the walls, but Y/N barely heard it, the sound coming dulled and muffled because it has to travel through Sherlock's bicep before worming its way into her ears. She feels sort of like she's being crushed under his weight, constricted by his limbs, the world folding up around her.
Perfect.
"That I'm terrified of storms."
It took Sherlock a moment to remember what the question had been. "Oh, right." His eyes had closed, but he opened them now, only for one lazy second, to read the glowing numbers of his bedside clock.
It's almost half-two in the morning.
He wondered if Y/N would mind him falling asleep curled around her. He'd been unable to quieten his thoughts earlier, but they seem to have settled now. He's not laying down, which would have usually posed a problem, but, at present, that doesn't seem to be a bother. His hand continued to pass over Y/N's head, occasionally catching a few hundred strands of hair and threading it through the gaps in his fingers.
He let his eyes shut again. "Well, what do you want me to do about it?"
"Make it go away."
Another low rumble rippled through Y/N's core, but this one wasn't thunder, it was Sherlock's deep, mellow chuckle. "Y/N, I believe you are confusing me with Thor."
"Not the weather!"
"Then what? I don't think I have the power to make the fear go away---if that's what you mean. For that you'd probably have to see a psychologist, although I guess I could---"
"No, I just meant...can we stay here?"
Sherlock's leg---the one Y/N's own were not forming a bridge over---had been stretched out over the bed, and he dragged it in now, so it was up against her back. "Okay."
Without thinking, he pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
...
Yesterday, when overweight drops of rain had been leaking from the concrete mass of black clouds hovering over the city, sunshine felt like something that the inhabitants of London would never witness again. The sky appeared to have hardened---been compressed---into a heavy sheet of coal, black, stubborn, and impenetrable.
However, the next day began with feeble yet determined rays of light, the storm clouds having moved on and replaced with a few grey splotches; weighty and dismal, yet ultimately harmless. They'd been smudged over the sky like soggy lumps of paper mache, a few determined beams of sunlight already having managed to weasel their way through them just to proudly thrust themselves between everyone's curtains to rouse them much earlier than necessary.
Only a select group of people were unaffected: those that were up already due to an alarm clock and overly-demanding work schedule, insomniacs that had never fallen asleep to begin with, and Y/N.
Y/N couldn't see the sun because she was pressed up against Sherlock's chest, facing away from the window. It just played with her hair, innocently dancing up the strands where they lay splayed across the pillow.
The sun woke Sherlock up though, its teasing caress tickling his eyelids until he opened them to glare at that gap between the fabric of his curtains. He'd forgotten to tug them shut properly when Y/N had burst into his room last night, and now a plank of sunshine was falling on his head.
Groggily, he wondered about turning over, then realised that he could not.
Well, he could, but that would mean peeling himself from Y/N's arms, and he really didn't want to do that.
The storm last night had shown no sign of relenting, and he'd had watched the digits of his clock morph slowly from two-thirty, to two-forty-five, to three.
Y/N's fear showed no sign of relenting either, the storm and her flared-up anxiety seeming to be in some kind of competition to see which could outlast the other. The only time Y/N had ceased clinging to Sherlock's chest had been once; when she'd repositioned herself to nuzzle into the other side of his neck, so she wouldn't get a crick in hers.
In an attempt to distract Y/N from what was happening outside (and, admittedly, to prevent himself from falling asleep) Sherlock had tiredly stumbled through conversation after conversation, him and Y/N passing words back and forth in the dark.
None of the words had much meaning. They were just useless nothings; plans for tomorrow, films they had been meaning to watch, etcetera. Most of them were 'etcetera'. Sherlock couldn't remember half the things they'd talked about, but he'd enjoyed every second.
Eventually, though, their sentenced became too limp to support themselves, the syllables morphing and stumbling into one. Their bodies wilted too, like plants with saturated stems and leaves brimming with raindrops, pushing their embrace further and further down onto the bed.
Sherlock had, admittedly, encouraged it, slumping to the side and tugging Y/N with him, his body on some kind of autopilot. It knew cuddling her lying down would feel good, and it knew they needed sleep. He just let it do as it wished, and bundled Y/N up against his chest, the only part of his brain still awake rejoicing sleepily that she hadn't pushed him away.
Y/N had remained there all night, tucked neatly against his front, one of Sherlock's arms draped heavily over her waist, her's gripping onto his.
It's there still, suffused and floppy with sleep, her head still nestled under Sherlock's chin. Each time she exhales it swirls in that little hollow between his collarbones. Perhaps seeking his warmth, Y/N pushed her head closer, her lips replacing her breath.
Sherlock sighed contentedly. Suddenly the sun in his eyes doesn't bother him anymore.
...
For about an hour, or it could have been a week, or even a month, for all he cared, Sherlock drifted in and out of consciousness, dreams slipping lucidly before his inner eye, telling vague tales of rain, and clouds, and the smell of Y/N's hair.
Then suddenly the smell was gone, and he reached out with one arm to find the other side of the bed empty.
Puzzled, and suddenly swamped with cold despite the warmth of the developing September day, he pushed himself up into a sitting position and surveyed the rest of the bed.
That too was empty, however, the covers were rumpled---so Y/N had slept there---he hadn't dreamt it. A small smile lit up his lips.
Then it dulled and went out.
Y/N had been there, but she isn't there now.
He wished she was. Some pitiful, weird little wishful part of him had hoped she would be; seeing as it's a Sunday, and all. Neither of them have anywhere to be, so why not be here?