CONTEXT:
Whilst wrestling with his girlfriend, Y/N, over the last piece of Chocolate Orange, Sherlock learns something interesting.
__________
It's only been December for just over a week, and yet the Christmasy tang of pine needles and cinnamon has already settled in nicely to most homes, clinging to England like a sweet perfume.
Every year, the 25th of the twelfth month seems to advance more rapidly than the last. Lights are strung up earlier than before, radios begin blasting 'Santa Baby' before November has even pootled past, and nightfall seems to bite its way further and further into the day with every passing winter.
Sherlock and Y/N are not complaining; they favour the darkened streets, the fuzzy lights, the world narrowed to their immediate vicinity; encapsulating them in their own little world. There's something about the comforting cloak of dusk that makes you feel less guilty about doing nothing at all. During daylight hours, Sherlock will be antsy and wriggling with boredom, and Y/N rushing about to complete this task or that. However, as darkness pulls in---like thick, heavy curtains drawn on the world---their anxiety appears to settle; as though silenced and stifled by the night.
Sometimes they'll read together.
Sometimes Y/N will pester Sherlock until he reads to her, his intoxicating rumble of a voice vibrating Y/N's atoms, drowning them in infinitely pleasant syllables.
Sometimes they will play board games, or word games, or any other kind of game, which will usually end in accusations of cheating, and the pieces/and/or cards being scattered and lost under the sofa.
Sometimes they will watch a film, which is what they are doing now, taking it in turns to pick from a Chocolate Orange sat squatly in its little nest of bright, spotted wrapping like an overweight bird.
At first, Y/N and Sherlock had been sitting up, propped against each other neatly. But, like a melting mound of snow, they'd slowly succumbed to the insistent pull of gravity, and now Sherlock is spread languidly along the entire length of the settee, Y/N nestled snugly under his left arm, the chocolate balanced on the plane of his stomach.
Despite the mildly cramped quarters, they had been rather content; lulled by the purring fire and soothed by the soft glow of the lamps. However, now they're both somewhat animated, Sherlock's eyebrows knitted into a baffled frown, Y/N's hand pointing persistently at the television screen as if that would somehow aid her case.
"He looks nothing like me," Sherlock stated, tilting his head a little in search of a new perspective. It didn't help; still, not a single smidgen if likeness presented itself. Dr Stephen Strange continues to appear as similar to Sherlock---in Sherlock's eyes---as a toaster does to a weasel.
"How can you say that?" Y/N protested, gesturing at the screen again with vigour. "Look at him! You're almost identical."
Sherlock didn't even dignify that with an inquisitive narrowing of his eyes. Blandly: "I don't see it."
Y/N let her arm fall across his chest, finally admitting defeat. How could he not see it? The narrow face, the colourless eyes, the cheekbones. They even share that arrogant, self-righteous hint of a sneer at the corner of their cupid's bow lips when they're particularly pleased with themselves. "Then you're blind."
"No, you're delusional."
Mildly nettled, now, Y/N decided to change tactics. She shrugged---as best she could with her shoulders wedged between Sherlock's side and the sofa cushions. "Oh, yeah, maybe you're right, he doesn't really look like you; he's clearly fitter." Smirking: "And has nicer hair."
"I know you're just saying that to piss me off."
She couldn't read his expression because she can't see his face; her head is resting on his chest, tucked under his chin. Hopefully: "It's working, isn't it?"
He didn't sound affronted, thought. In fact, he popped the 'P' smugly as he drawled lazily: "Nope. I've actually never been more content."
He does appear content---or, if there's a word for more than content, he's probably that. Even though he's slightly too long for the sofa so his pale feet hang over one armrest. And the sofa isn't exactly wide enough for two people, so at least a fifth of his body is protruding precariously over the lip of the cushions. And his neck is beginning to twinge with the onset of a crick from having to turn it to the left to see this insufferable Strange character on the television.
Even so, he sounded sincere, and stretched leisurely as if to emphasize his point. Y/N felt his torso expand with a yawn, then slacken, and watched as he plucked a slice of Chocolate Orange from the wrapper still balanced on his stomach.
She caught his wrist before he could drop it into his mouth.
"That's the last piece."
"So?" He made to resume transporting it to his tongue---probably already excitedly anticipating the citrusy tang---but Y/N was still holding his arm captive.
"So it's my go."
"No, it isn't."
"Yes, it is. You've had ten segments, and I've had nine."
"Actually, you've had ten, plus that rod of chocolate down the middle. So technically, you've had eleven and I've had ten."
"The middle part doesn't count as a segment---"
"I disagree. And even if it doesn't, you've still had ten."
Admittedly, Y/N had not been counting. Well, she had, but the numbers all sort of merged together and got all jumbled during a shower scene; which isn't exactly her fault, is it? "No, I've had nine," but she sounded less sure now, and she knew that he'd noticed.
Because of course he had.
"Liar," Sherlock stated simply, the ghost of what could have been a smile playing across his lips. He tried to pop the little wedge of chocolate into his mouth again, but Y/N snapped an indignant:
"I am not---" And snatched it quickly from his grasp with her other hand.
Sherlock blinked at his empty finger and thumb, a pitiful, vacant space between them where his rightful property had just been a moment ago. Then he looked down at Y/N, whose lips were a centimetre from closing around---
"Hey!" Sherlock plucked the segment free just in time, and extended his arm far over his head, well and truly out of reach.
Y/N growled irritably as if offended, despite having just done the exact same thing to him a second ago. "Give it back!" She pushed herself up, away from the tight little spot by Sherlock's side, and tried to reach for it.
"No, it's not yours."
"Yes, it is."
"No, it isn't."
"It's going to melt!"
"Then let me eat it." Sherlock countered her advances by pushing against the armrest with his feet, adding a few extra inches between Y/N and the chocolate.
"Haven't you eaten enough?"
"Look, I didn't know that hamper was intended for you as well---"
Prickling: "My name was on the label!"
"Blame John for his appalling handwriting; I thought that said 'Enjoy'."
Y/N was straddling him, now, and leaning over his head to grope at his arm, her hand sort of climbing down the length of it like a determined spider. "Bullshit."
Sherlock's eyebrows just raised in an over-dramatised appalled expression. "A thief and a guttermouth; Mother will be so proud of me."
"Fuck off." Y/N made a desperate grab for the treat clasped in his fingers, and nearly topped off the sofa.
"You fuck off!" Sherlock used her momentary unbalance to give her a push with his free hand, sending her into the mound of discarded pillows at the other end of the sofa.
Disorientated, Y/N blinked at her boyfriend now smiling unnaturally wide opposite her as he pushed himself up quickly. Taking advantage of his freedom, he drew the piece of chocolate back down within reach; he'd probably thought he'd won, that he was now free to enjoy his spoils.
But his victory was short-lived, however, because as soon as Y/N has assembled her bearings, she lunged at him like a person scrambling for a vine whilst falling down a cliff.
She hadn't actually done any calculations; her aim was more to shock Sherlock into dropping the chocolate, rather than to actually make a grab at it. However, the gods must be smiling down upon her, because, when she drew away and retreated to a safe distance, in her hand was a (now slightly misshapen) wedge of orange-flavoured chocolate.
A grin split her face in two, and she barked a triumphant: "Ah-ha!" in the general direction of the settee.
But her flatmate wasn't there to sneer at her conceited grin.
Confused, Y/N's smile faltered, and she scanned the room quickly, hunting for advancing, creeping, or lurking, Sherlocks.
She felt him before she saw him---his hands closing around her hips from behind---and she squeaked, managing to wriggle free just before he could tug her backwards and into his lanky figure.
"You know it's mine, Y/N," Sherlock crooned, the timbre slick like a reel of black satiny ribbon tangling about her nerves as she fled to use his armchair as a shield. He's only playing, it's all just a game, and yet, in that tone, with that grin, he sounded more threatening than anything else.
For a moment, Y/N forgot he was talking about the chocolate. A little chill skittered down her spine, and her grin returned as she took a step backwards, holding the slice of Chocolate Orange close to her chest protectively. She wondered vaguely about just shoving it into her mouth, but he's still so close he'd probably swipe it before it got there.
"It's mine---" she stamped one foot indignantly on the floor, but the faded old carpet dulled its effects into a small thump, "---and you know it."
For the second time, Y/N tried to eat the treat, but, as predicted, as soon as her hand made the slightest movement towards popping it between her lips, Sherlock lunged forwards, crossing the room in one quick stride.
He missed only narrowly, Y/N side stepping with a little shriek at the last second and setting into a run, gasping for breath between giggles as he pursued her, their socked feet skidding haphazardly when they reached the smooth kitchen floor.
Y/N knew she could not rely on speed to outrun Sherlock; his extensive powerful legs vastly outmatch hers; for every one of his steps, she's taking two. She will have to rely on tactics; zigzagging, circling the dining table and doubling back on herself in an attempt to throw him off.
Predictably, though, Y/N felt the inevitable brush of his fingertips as they just about clipped her waist. She had made the mistake of sprinting down the centre of the living room. Like a greyhound down a track, Sherlock had easily caught up with her, his smug laughter tickling the back of Y/N's neck.
"Hey!" She had meant to yell, but it came out as more of a yelping gasp as Sherlock's grip finally got purchase on the swell of her hips.
He didn't hesitate, enveloping her into him and dancing his fingers up her ribs, a grin creasing the corner of his eyes. Y/N made a screeching noise and doubled up immediately, crumpling to the floor like a house of cards.
Drowning in her own peels of laughter, she fought a short, futile battle, trying to crawl away, but Sherlock just flipped her neatly onto her back and pushed her shoulder blades into the carpet. Catching her flailing hands, he pinned them above her head, using his new control to straddle her waist, his breath coming through lips parted and wide with a smirk.
"Let me go!" Y/N squirmed, hoping to slip from his grasp like an eel, to no avail.
Sherlock just laughed at her, and interlaced their fingers, his large palms hot against Y/N's much smaller ones, smothering them. She had dropped the segment of chocolate and it lay, unprotected and accessible, just above her hand.
Sherlock didn't take it, though.
He appeared distracted.
"Get off me!"
The corner of his lip curled. "I don't think you really want me to do that, do you?"
Y/N blew a huff of air up into her face, a few strands of her hair brushing her left eye. "Yes I do---" she wriggled again, then tried to physically push Sherlock off of her. Obviously, it had no effect---apart from widening his grin, showing three more of his teeth.
Simply: "No, you don't." As if to prove his point, he pushed Y/N's hands a little higher, her arms stretched out now.
A little sound escaped her lips, and she stifled it---a moment too late.
Sherlock's grin faltered, his brow pulling together in confusion. A hesitant, hint of a smile ghosted his mouth. "...Did you just moan?" He didn't need to ask that question. The answer was scribbled all over Y/N's face. He just wanted confirmation. He'd made her moan. And so easily. He's already preening.
Y/N scoffed, but not very convincingly. "No."
Sherlock just gave her a disbelieving smirk, and released his grip slightly on her left hand.
She watched him, confused, and felt his hand slide down to wrap gently about her wrist. "What are you doing?"
"Taking your pulse." The syllables fell down onto her face, calm and competent. He's found something, he knows it, he's just not sure what exactly it is.
Yet.
"It's going to be elevated, Sherlock," Y/N tried. "I just did seven laps of the living room."
"Nine, actually."
"Exactly!"
"Maybe so, but, you'll notice---" his voice sank lower all of a sudden, his baritone now as deep and dark as the night outside, "---it speeds up significantly... if I do this."
Before Y/N could protest, he dipped his head down enough for his breath to lightly caress the tender skin of her throat. It stirred something in her stomach---currently imprisoned below the majority of Sherlock's weight---and she couldn't help the sound that pushed up from her lungs.
It was feeble, and breathy, and completely, utterly pitiful.
Sherlock drew back, triumphant. "Hm"
Y/N is not entirely sure if they're playing anymore. "What?" She knew what, and shifted below his thighs, pushing up between his legs, just to try and take back a smidgen of power.
He ignored the little tantalising brush of friction with admirable self-control, waiting out the pleasure it caused with gritted teeth. He must have known what Y/N had been trying to do, because he chuckled, continuing (albeit, his voice a little shaky now):
"You like me pinning you to the floor." A new kind of smile is flicking just behind his lips as his mind begins to process this new information. He's probably already formulating the ways he'll be able to use it to his fullest advantage.
All those times Y/N had teased his body---withheld kisses and satisfaction just to hear him beg for it, slipped a hand onto his thigh and smirking as he squirms in public----
He hadn't returned those tormenting taunts because he'd been too shy. He'd had his first kiss---what? Two weeks ago? He's still new, still innocent, still bashful.
But now.
Now he's seen the effects he can have when he takes the reigns a little. The results of his gentle teasing. And they are marvellous. So marvellous, in fact, that all his bashfulness at taking the lead now-and-again has been swept out the window. Pushed out of his mind by those luscious little sounds Y/N can't help making.
Revenge will be sweet.
"No, I don't."
"Yes, you do."
They're playing again, now, Y/N can tell by the sparks igniting in Sherlock's widened pupils. Or, at least, he's playing. With her. Like a cat bullying a mouse before swallowing it whole.
"No."
Not believing her for a second, Sherlock collected up Y/N's other wrist, bundling them both in one hand, and sat back comfortably on her hips. With his knees either side of Y/N's torso, Sherlock is, of course, making sure not to crush her. He's just about letting her support enough of his body to remind her that she is well and truly trapped, and there is nothing she can do about it.
Y/N just scowled up at him as he used his now free hand to pluck the chocolate up from where it had fallen---momentarily forgotten---on the carpet. "That's been on the floor." She stated blandly (although, if she's honest with herself, that wouldn't have stopped her either).
Sherlock merely shrugged as if it was all the same to him, and tossed it into the air, catching it in his mouth.
"Gross," Y/N said.
"Delicious," Sherlock replied.
The segment had melted slightly, warmed by the crackling fire, central heating, and rushing red blood cells, and Sherlock licked up the smudges it left behind on his hand. He took his time, the corner of his lip turned up into an insufferable smile as his pink tongue slipped over the pads of his fingers. He knows Y/N is watching him.
Her pupils are all swelled up, her cheeks the colour of the cherry-red Christmas tinsel sellotaped to the mantel.
Sherlock's eyes slid up and down her throat as she swallowed.
"Gross," Y/N muttered again.
A few amused, rumbling chuckles vibrated through Sherlock's body as he delicately cupped Y/N's jawline with his palm and leant forwards enough to brush his lips against hers.
She tipped her head up instinctively, chasing them, and he hovered just out of reach, feeling her straining slightly against his gentle grip at her wrists, still keeping her well and truly pinned against the carpet. Frustrated, she huffed, the little breath of air blossoming on Sherlock's chin. She has to wait for him to kiss her, now.
Having a pretty woman pamper and play with him is fun. Pampering and playing with a pretty woman seems to be fun too.
'He's found a new favourite toy,' Y/N thought, both exhilaration and nervousness coiling in the pit of her belly, 'and it's me.'
Sherlock drew a chain of kisses up from Y/N's exposed collarbones to her cheeks, revelling in her hisses and gasps as he hit tender spots, then mouthed at them, drawing out more little very unladylike noises. He seemed to like how she twisted under him, her body wanting to arch and clutch onto him with the pleasure, but unable to.
After a long time, too long, Y/N thought; hot and frustrated and desperate, he finally kissed her on the mouth. Properly, a deep commanding kiss that stirred her blood.
He tasted of Chocolate Orange.
When he eased away, the corners of his lips were tugged up in a smirk. He's clearly very pleased with himself, and took a minute to delight in the fact that he'd made Y/N's pulse flurry frantically against his palm. "Delicious."