Someone was rummaging through a cutlery draw in the next room, and the sound grew louder as Sherlock approached the kitchen, bleary-eyed and mid-way-through pulling a dressing gown around his shoulders. Then---as the person located whatever they had been looking for---the draw slid shut and the hob clicked as they turned a few dials.
When Sherlock rounded the corner he found Y/N breaking an egg into a pan, which crackled and spat angrily at the heat. Y/N ignored its protests and added another, dropping the shells in the open bin before kicking it shut with her foot. She turned around as Sherlock approached, perhaps hearing his bare feet on the floor, and gave him a wide smile. She, too, is still in her pyjamas.
Sherlock felt tempted to ask her to get back into bed with him.
"Good morning."
"Morning." He returned her smile, genuinely happy to see her, but too disappointed about their cuddle being cut short to beam with Y/N's level of enthusiasm.
Would she mention last night? Should he mention last night? Sharing a bed, cuddling into the early hours of the morning seems like one of those things you can't just brush under the rug. Sherlock doesn't want to brush it under the rug. He'd learnt something, huddled on his mattress while the rain spat from the sky and the heavens roared outside; he and Y/N had touched, and it had been pleasant---more than pleasant---and he desperately wanted to know if they'd ever do it again.
"Did you sleep okay, in the end?" He asked as casually as he could.
Y/N finished popping open a can of Heinz baked beans and tipped them into a saucepan. "Yeah, thank you."
Sherlock waited for her to say something else---'Your bed is comfy' or something like that---but she didn't, so he just reached up to disappointedly pour himself some Cornflakes.
Y/N's turned to him, then, her brows pulled together. "Don't you want any cooked breakfast?"
He blinked at her, the smell of fried eggs tickling the inside of his nose. He would, very much. "Yes please?"
"Don't sound so afraid, it's not poisoned." Y/N gave him a teasing nudge in the ribs with the point of her elbow.
Sherlock chuckled, and would have nudged her back, had she not been in the process of teasing the eggs in the pan.
They crackled unhappily as she jabbed at them with the spatula, the fringes of the whites starting to curl as they crisped.
"What's the occasion?"
"No occasion." Her cheeks went pink, and Sherlock thought it looked very pretty---not that he'd admit it, to her or even himself. " I just wanted to say thank you...for last night. For making me feel better."
"Don't mention it." Do mention it. Let's talk about it. Help me explore those new, strange feelings you somehow manage to illicit, those prickly ones that made my skin do that tingly thing. "Could I have another egg?"
...
Craving cheese, Sherlock had decided to swap a wedge of toast for a panini, and was presently leaning on the sandwich press to squash the bread between the grills. While he waited for them to turn a pleasant gold sort of colour, he propped himself up against the counter and regarded Y/N with mellow curiosity as she methodologically worked, grinding flakes of pepper onto this, and using the prongs of a fork to tweak that.
He could observe her for hours.
They ate in silence, but not because no one could think of anything to say. Sherlock, for one, was brimming with sentences, but he restrained them because he's not sure what would happen if they got out.
He pushed one corner of his panini into the orange swell of his remaining egg yolk, and riffled through his brain for something that wasn't along the lines of: 'I think I'm falling in love with you and I don't know what to do about it.'
Half the panini was gone by the time he found one. "This is delicious, thank you." Tedious, frivolous, and he's pretty sure he's said it about three times already, but Y/N's face lit up all the same.
"I'm glad you like it."
Then Sherlock said, because he had to know: "So...storms?"
That new snippet of information about his flatmate had been somewhat unexpected. As someone whose only fears included obvious things like 'harm coming to those he cares about', and 'having to work a nine-to-five desk job', it had never really occurred to Sherlock that a phobia of English weather could even exist. Although, clearly it does, and Y/N appears to be affected by it to such a degree it's almost alarming. Is there a reason? Some childhood trauma, or root cause? He found his brain wandering into a state of cold, scientific fascination, and reigned it back in disgust.
Y/N's eyes remained lowered to her plate as she poked at it with her fork. "Yeah. I'm not sure why; I've been scared of them for as long as I can remember."
Confused: "We've had storms before, though, and you never said anything."
"Never ones as bad as that. And, usually, I just play music as loud as I can to drown it out. I couldn't stand it last night, though, so I came to find you." She lifted her head, then, to give Sherlock a small smile before dipping back to stare fixedly at her breakfast. "You really helped. More than you know."
Sherlock preened at the idea of Y/N seeing him as some kind of protector. "I'll always help. With anything." That had sounded stupid, and he felt the back of his neck heat, but Y/N looked relieved.
"Are you sure? I did keep you up for most of the night."
"I didn't mind, I enjoyed it." Oops. "Not, you know, you being scared---I hated that, all of it---but spending the night---" that sounds wrong "---being with you---" also wrong  "I liked---" Just shut up---
All Sherlock's sentences were rushing free at once, gumming up his tongue and it felt like the engines were dropping off a plane one by one and now he's plummeting from the sky---
"What I meant was," he began again, "I enjoyed hanging out with you." The words 'hanging out' felt alien in his posh-British-boy mouth, and his voice caught a little on the 'H', the syllable tumbling a few times in an embarrassing stutter.
But at least this time he hadn't insinuated that they'd had sex.
Would he have liked to have had...?
Sherlock shut that thought out before it could even fully develop. He took a sip of his water, kind of wishing he could fall into it and drown. What's happening to me?
Y/N was watching him like he was a toy that had run out of batteries and was now sputtering amusing nonsense. A small smile twitched at the corner of her lip---at least he hasn't made her uncomfortable.
He's made her smile, which is almost worth losing the little bits that have crumbled off his dignity.
"I enjoyed it too." She waved a hand. "You know, besides being scared out of my skin."
Sherlock let himself chuckle, not at her comment; just to release some of the nervous energy that was buzzing about his ribcage like a swarm of bees had decided to make a nest between his lungs.
"Honestly," Y/N said with no particular tone, "I'm surprised you let me stay."
Sherlock's brow knitted together. That's how she sees him? With a heart so chilly he'd push her away when she needs him most? "What do you mean?" he asked, admittedly a little hurt.
Y/N must have picked up on his tone, and continued carefully, not meeting his piercing grey eyes: "Well, you're not really one for snuggling and pampering, are you?"
Indignantly: "Am I not?" After all, how could he know if he is or isn't if no one has ever given him the opportunity to find out? "Just because someone is never offered something, that doesn't mean they don't want it---"
"What?" Y/N's words were so saturated with disbelief they were dripping: "So you're saying you liked having to put up with me clinging to you all night?"
Something about her tone, her assumptions, touched an old wound forged by years of societal neglect, and Sherlock found himself slightly nettled. "I am human, Y/N, I'm not immune to cuddles from a pretty girl."
"You think I'm pretty?"
Oh.
A hot flush turned the tips of Sherlock's ears as red as his ketchup. "That's not the point, the point is---" What is the point? Even if he can somehow convince Y/N that he is, in fact, interested in casual physical contact, affection---even, maybe, a romantic relationship---there's no way she'd ever indulge him. "Everyone assumes I don't like affection, and I have no idea why---I do it all the time."
There was a moment where the pace between Y/N's eyebrows furrowed; her mind perhaps filling with all the occasions she had, indeed, seen Sherlock gladly shake a stranger's hand, press a kiss to Mrs Hudson's forehead, his mother's cheek, allowed Lestrade to wrestle him into a fatherly bear-hug.
He has a point.
"Huh," was all she said, which Sherlock found rather anticlimactic.
Moodily, he dragged a tomato through the sauce of his baked beans. He's still tired, his body cranky and unused to being roused earlier than usual. Maybe when he's eaten he'll flop back into bed and nap until noon. "Is that why you snuck away so early? Because you thought I'd be repulsed by your human sentimentality?"
Why is this upsetting him so much? So what if Y/N is under the impression he doesn't like to be touched? All he'll be missing out on is...tight hugs when he returns home safe from a dangerous case, play-wrestling over the last segment of Chocolate Orange...having her hold his arm so they don't get separated in crowds...
"No," Y/N answered back, affronted, thus matching his defensiveness. "I didn't sneak away, I gave you space because I'd already imposed enough."
"Y/N, having you in my bed could never be an imposition."
Silence crashed into the room like a train.
How can lack of something carry more force than so many somethings? How can no sound suffocate, stifle, charge a room with energy more than a sound ever could? Why is silence so loud?
For what must have been three years, no one moved. It was as if something had just blown up in the next room and neither Y/N nor Sherlock dared to go assess the damage.
Y/N's jaw had ceased chewing, her fork suspended halfway between the table and her mouth.
The bite of cheesy bread Sherlock had just swallowed halted somewhere in his oesophagus.
It's amazing how quickly and efficiently the brain can conduct itself in a time of crisis. As soon as the words left Sherlock's mouth, his mind clicked into action as though a panic button had been pressed, thoughts whizzing about, crackling down neurons like static through a cable. Every metaphorical cog in his head churned at a million miles a second to produce, perfect, and execute the perfect plan of action.
And that plan was:
Run.
"Thanks for breakfast," Sherlock threw the words down before Y/N like a man tossing a tip onto a table as he dashes out of a restaurant. Perhaps if he buries his faux pas under more words, Y/N will forget about it? "Really, it was delicious." Hurriedly, he stuffed the rest of his meal---just a small heap of baked beans---into his mouth and snatched up the remainder of his panini, and pushed his chair away from the table.
"Where are you going?"
"I'm going to get dressed."
...
Sherlock felt Y/N's eyes boring into the back of his head as though trying to understand what the Hell was going on inside it as he scurried to the bathroom. Can a six-foot-tall man 'scurry'? He somehow managed to, and only relaxed when he slid the lock to 'occupied'. Well, as relaxed as you can be when you'd just...whatever he'd done.
He didn't really know what he'd done, but he'd done something. He guesses he'll find out the exact nature of it when he next has to confront Y/N.
'Fucked it up', that's probably what he'd done; 'it' being Y/N's trust in him. Tipped that beautiful balance, knocked into and blown down the house of cards that is their friendship. He's not sure what's worse; Y/N seeing him as a reptilian man with a heart of flint, or Y/N seeing him as the opposite; a needy, desperate, touch-starved pervert.
Maybe he should have sent her back to her own room last night.
For a while now, Sherlock has been avoiding a certain topic. He likes Y/N touching him, that's impossible to ignore. He'd just never let himself consider why. Every time so much as a casual daydream on the subject drifted by, he's reacted with blind panic; snatching it from his consciousness, stuffing it into a box and banishing it to the back of his brain.
However, now, it seems he's worked himself into a position where he has no choice but to open up all those boxes and closely examine the contents. One of them had clearly fractured without his knowing, the thought---nay, desire---breaking free, and causing him to say something quite inappropriate to his female flatmate.
His rather... perfect female flatmate. Perfect for what?
Cautiously (and somewhat unnecessarily), Sherlock let his brain wander, him following with tentative steps, nervously behind. He knew where it would take him, but he had to be sure---he had to know his theory was correct before he could begin deciding what to do next.
Obviously---and predictably---Sherlock's mind led him to 'I wish Y/N was in the shower with me', along with several wildly pleasing and inappropriate mental images.
He hurriedly shoved the shower tap down to 'cold'.
Why did he have to be such a man? So his flatmate is pretty and funny and clever---why couldn't his body just appreciate those things as her friend rather than immediately labelling her as an ideal mate? Y/N just so much as brushes his arm, and rather than simply reacting with a light spattering of oxytocin, Sherlock's stupid, treacherous biology gets all over-excited and utterly swamps itself, along with a bucks-load of serotonin and dopamine and god knows what else.
Although these regular metaphorical dips in seas of happy-chemicals seem to have done wonders to Sherlock's anxiety levels, mood, and general happiness, it's still wrong...isn't it?
...
Showering in frigid temperatures helped, at least in part, to cleanse away at least some of that gooey, sticky remorse.
Sherlock had snapped at Y/N earlier, too, he's now realising in hindsight. They'd been snuggled up in bed together just an hour ago, and now---
Now what?
Sherlock doesn't know, so he just remained there, under the stream of water, letting it fill his ears and run over his closed eyes until the cold water went from chewing hungrily at his body heat to just washing over him, there being nothing left to take.
Eventually---and fearing the figure on his water bill---he turned off the tap, stepped onto the bathmat, and began towelling himself dry. He took his time shaving and brushing his teeth and pulling his pyjamas back on---it's not that he was procrastinating, not at all. He just needs time to come up with an idea of what to do next.
Step One should be: Give Y/N space. This works nicely with Sherlock's earlier plan of laying in until noon. He can hole himself up in his room for the rest of the day, if need be.
Step Two should be: 'Apologise'. Goodness knows what damage that little slip of the tongue has probably inflicted upon Y/N's trust in him. In his apology, he should stress that he expects absolutely nothing from Y/N, and that his crush is one-hundred per cent his crush, and thus his problem to deal with.
Step Three would be difficult, and would take patience, effort, and dedication: Rebuilding the bond he'd accidentally shattered. Hopefully, with time, Y/N will forget about the fact that her best friend has less-than-platonic feelings for her, and he will learn to stop his cheekbones going pink whenever she smiles at him.
Eventually, Sherlock's well of things-to-do-that-do-not-involve-leaving-the-bathroom came up dry, and he was forced to begin Step One.
Gingerly, he slid back the lock, checked for Y/Ns, and, finding the coast clear, crept to his room.
...
Shoulders sagging as the door clicked shut behind him, Sherlock gravitated to his bed and flopped onto it. He doubts he'll be able to nap now, but shimmying back under the covers and tugging them up to his ears had a pleasant feel to it; like the world was eating him.
Yes, this could work. He'll stay here for a couple of hours, maybe a year, and try to not think about the fact that his pillows smell of Y/N's hair.