AUTHOR'S NOTE: I mean, if you had the chance to kiss Sherlock's neck, you'd do it. I know you would, don't even lie
__________
Y/N's elbow is pointy, digging insistently into Sherlock's person. She seems to know this, and repositions herself under the duvet, tucking both her arms neatly into her lap.
Sherlock tries not to smile. She's like a little bird arranging its wings in a nest, jiffling and fidgeting about until everything is to her satisfaction.
She's stopped jiffling now, having apparently gotten comfortable. There's no pointy elbow anymore, just the curve of her side, all pressed up against Sherlock's arm.
Comforting.
Warm.
Soft.
He'd almost rather her pointy bones; they'd kept him focused. Kept him alert so he doesn't...
Sherlock sighed contentedly, his body melting a little, like a heap of snow warmed by the sun; by Y/N, by the worn material of her pyjamas, the scent of her duvet. It's all flowery, and he's drawn to it in ways he can't explain. Tugging it tighter about himself, he wrangles in his long legs and pulls his knees right up under his chin.
He's glad he let Y/N pick the film. It's one of her favourites, and even though she's seen it God-knows-how-many times, expressions still flitter across her face every now and again as she shares her favourite character's emotions. She probably doesn't realise she's doing it---smiling, frowning, furrowing deep rifts into her brow.
Bittersweet hot chocolate runs smooth on his tongue as Sherlock finishes the last of his drink. He swirls the dregs around to collect up the goopy powder left thick at the bottom, then places the mug on the coffee table.
He had to wriggle his arm from the duvet to do so. Y/N had been leaning against it, and, with it gone, she fell against his side.
And didn't push herself back up.
Sherlock's breath catches in his throat. His whole body had sort of jerked to a halt, and doesn't seem to be able to get moving again, his arm still hovering just over Y/N's shoulders.
He's wondering if he should snake his arm back to where it had been.
But Y/N is nestled into the nook he'd inadvertently created, and he likes her there.
He'd decided that, just now; that he likes it. Her being this near to him, in his little personal bubble.
People don't seem to enter his personal bubble very often. He's not sure why, exactly, but he has theories.
He'd wondered, on occasion, if it's the way he looks; the hard lines of his cheekbones, his serious, pressed suits, colourless skin and even more colourless eyes.
Other times, he thinks it might be because of...the way he is. At home, he sleepily pads about in faded pyjamas, loose and limber as he sways to the music of his violin, curls in his chair with a plate of biscuits and a warm, milky tea. But then he'll go outside, with people, and suddenly his limbs get all stiff and his nerves go all coiled up. He can't un-muddle their words, can't catch their jokes, shrinks from their eye contact. Perhaps his clunky, awkwardness around others is what not only makes them incorrectly assume he wants to be left alone, but also makes them want to leave him alone?
Or maybe he's just cursed. Each time someone even gets close to his personal bubble---to jesting with him in a playful way, giving him a little shove, or a punch on the arm---they change their mind at the last second and retreat back into themselves. An invisible fortress he's always been locked inside, an aura Sherlock just can't shake.
There are a few exceptions---Mrs Hudson, of course, Lestrade, his own parents. But even they can't hide expressions of mild surprise when he lets them touch him; that they'd been allowed to get so close to the detective. As if he's been pushing them away for years, and is now suddenly letting them near. He can't remember pushing them away, though. They've always been allowed to get close to him.
The only outlier is Y/N.
She seems to be the one person Sherlock has met so far that is immune to his (apparently) off putting bubble of standoffishness. She walks through the prickly boundaries of his personal space as if it's not even there; accidentally bumping into him, excitedly shaking his arm to get his attention, nudging him out the way if he's standing between her and something she wants (usually a delicious snack or an animal she wants to pet).
His heart speeds up every time; every time she adapts her own words to fit around his clunky awkwardness, every time she thinks his suits make him look 'smart' rather than coldly formal. Every time she sees his eyes as friendly blue rather than metallic grey.
This is one of those times; where Y/N has just utterly paid no attention to his personal bubble; has seen him as someone she'd like to get closer to than something that wants to be left alone.
He doesn't want to be left alone.
Heart in his mouth, its pulse thrumming a wild beat into the backs of his teeth, Sherlock lowers his arm. His hand is directly in line with Y/N's waist, but the duvet muffles the alluring curve; a thick wall of downy feathers and cotton.
But perhaps that's for the best. Even with that barrier, Sherlock feels as though he's touching something dangerous and forbidden.
He likes it, though. His cheeks crest with red.
Y/N doesn't seem to mind. She barely notices, apart from curling a little closer.
Sherlock looses a breath.
he's cuddling a woman he's cuddling a woman he's cuddling a woman
This embarrassing, asinine, pointless quest for physical contact needs to stop, he tells himself firmly.
And then proceeds not to move.
...
When Y/N had finished her hot chocolate she'd leaned forwards to put the mug on the table, then---to Sherlock's delight---settled right where she'd had been; back under his arm, her hand resting on his chest. He hoped she couldn't feel his heart flurrying under her fingertips.
She hasn't done much else since then, apart from clutching onto Sherlock slightly at a jump scare (which made him feel big and protective).
The prickling sensation from her cuddle wore off a little once he'd become used to it. Well, about as used to having a pretty girl snuggle him as he could get. After half an hour, he even thought he was doing quite good; his cheeks haven't heated with pink in a while, and, although it's taking some effort, his breathing has evened out into what could be described as some kind of rhythm.
Then Y/N stretched, her arm draping lazily over Sherlock's middle, and, instantly, he was whisked back to square one.
Her hand had fallen onto his hip. Just an innocent embrace, a sleepy cuddle. But it didn't feel innocent to him. He wouldn't be surprised if the area is glowing like a strange heat-responsive mood ring.
Y/N moves slightly, just getting comfortable, and her fingers brush absently over the bump of bone. It makes Sherlock tense under the duvet.
He's sure she can feel it.
She must have done, because she rubs her thumb over him, curiously, and he wriggles.
"Okay?" She asks. The question is so gentle, the tone edged with confusion. She has no idea she's setting things alight inside him he didn't even know he had.
He nods and then remembers she can't see him, with her head on his chest. "Yes."
Seemingly pleased she hadn't made him uncomfortable, her palm slides up over his stomach. It loops about his middle, squeezing him closer. A sigh blooms in Sherlock's chest but he swallows it, his other arm moving around to pull Y/N closer.
He hadn't meant for it to pull her closer. It had just done it all on its own, and he looks down at his own hand holding her to him as though it belongs to someone else.
Y/N's stroking of his waist stops, and a knot rises in Sherlock's throat. He waits, thinking Y/N will say something, but she doesn't. He wonders if he should say something, perhaps 'sorry'? He's not sure why. It just feels like the right thing to do.
He opens his mouth but the words don't come---
Under the duvet, Sherlock feels Y/N push herself up a bit and onto him, nudging him a bit onto his back. Stunned, he just lets her, going more than willingly, trying to hold in a wide smile as she settles onto his front. She's between his legs, and he's sort of encompassing her in his long lanky limbs.
He's stopped breathing all over again. It's a wonder he hadn't passed out yet, all this blushing, and skipping heartbeats, and ragged breaths. He's supposed to be getting tired, but all he's feeling is more alive than ever.
The nub of her nose nestles into the crook of his neck. Joyfully, he lets his arms wriggle under the covers and hold her properly, his heart beating quickly as he tentatively takes her waist.
She nestles closer and he can feel her sigh happily against his throat.
And...and he can feel her lips. Soft. And hot. Why is all of Y/N soft and hot?
Not hot like the milk he'd stirred in the pan earlier, not hot like the fire that had crackled away in the hearth that afternoon. A completely new, different kind of hot that made him have to concentrate hard on mental images of 'mouldy sandwiches', 'expired tuna' and 'centipedes.'
It's not really working.
Y/N must notice Sherlock hitch under her lips, because she turns her head a little, as if trying to make him do it again. His hands on her hips grip of their own accord, his jaw going tight.
And then she kisses his neck.
He makes a soft, stifled noise.
She'd almost seemed shocked at such a reaction, because she goes still as if replaying the sound over in brain.
He wished she wouldn't. It had been such a stupid, pitiful little noise.
Then, shyly: "Do you want me to stop?"
He clutches her, suddenly scared she'll leave. "No, don't."
Oops.
There's an odd moment where neither of them move. The television is still mumbling away to itself---at least, Sherlock thinks it is. Is that what they'd been doing? Watching a film? He's not sure. He can barely hear it; there's nothing else; only Y/N, in his arms, eyeing him critically---he can feel her gaze not just see it, as if she's reading the thoughts right off his brain.
How had she gotten there? Right on top of him, that wonderful reassuring press of her body. They'd just been cuddling, like friends; now the cushions at his shoulder blades are flat under two people's weight. He's right underneath her, under a woman; Sherlock hadn't realised quite how far down he'd let himself slump; with each inch he'd fallen, their embrace had edged from platonic to intimate. And now he can't stop blushing.
It doesn't matter. What matters is that she stays.
Her face is a little blurry, she's so close. Yes, the television is still on; it's creating little bright shapes over her cheek. They change colour with each scene, shifting, moving about.
And then she dips down, to where she had been, and kisses his neck again.
Sherlock's head tips to the side automatically to grant more access, the feel of it making him inhale softly in surprise.
Y/N's kissing him more, pressing her lips to his throat, pulling away, moving a centimetre, kissing. Another centimeter, another kiss. Apparently she's inadvertently found a sensitive spot because Sherlock's hands grip the linen of her pyjama top, balling it into fists.
"Okay?" Y/N asks again. Another kiss, longer, a little suck that worries his sensitive flesh.
It makes him hungry for something, something he can't quite name.
Y/N must feel him tense.
She props herself up a bit, pulling away enough to read his (rather flushed) expression. Cold air floods into the space where lips had been, and Sherlock misses the heat of them immediately.
It's odd looking up into Y/N's face rather than down. His body is filling with signals to spread itself open.
He moistens his lips.
Y/N's hand at Sherlock's side strokes again, watching his face. Up, and then down, slower than before, delicate exploration. The tips of her fingers brush the underside of his ribs. The heel of her hand graces the band of his pyjamas.
Once again, Sherlock wriggles below her touch.
Some curious, unexplored part of him wishes she'd bend back down and kiss him. Properly, on the mouth.
She looks at him questioningly. "When was the last time you did this?" Her eyes dip to watch the muscles in his throat work as he swallows.
"...Never."
Something ghosts over her expression. Surprise, maybe? Pity?
Sherlock drops her gaze shamefully, cringing away, suddenly shy. He doesn't want her to see his swelled pupils, how his eyes have gone sort of wide and interested and hopeful.
What had she thought? Surely she's known all along? He's never had anyone come around to the apartment. He's never spent the night around anyone else's. Every time relationships, past or present are brought up in conversation---anywhere---he falls suspiciously quiet and suddenly finds intense interest in the laces of his shoes.
Y/N dips her head and kisses his neck again, in a reassuring way.
Sherlock is glad that's all she's done. Not laughed or comforted or done that 'Awww' sort of sound, with the creased eyebrows and tilted head. That one that says 'Don't give up!' as if he's sick with some relentless illness.
She just...kisses his neck. Her lips to a pulse point, right where she'd left off. She's smiling too, the edges of her teeth scuffing his skin; but it's not a sympathetic smile, it's more like that smirk she gets sometimes. Like when they're playing Uno and she's just set down a Take Four.
"I think we've solved the mystery of why you can't sleep." Another kiss.
His knees bend either side of her hips to hold her between his thighs, and he feels her react. Like she likes it. "I don't---" forms on the tip of his tongue, but he bites the end of that sentence off.
He does.
Y/N's hand has found his hair and it runs through it, the sharp ridges of her nails scuffing his stupidly sensitive scalp. He can feel each strand of every curl pass under them, each root pushed the wrong way.
He swallows a shaky moan
Y/N twirls one of his curls around her index finger:
Around.
And around.
And around.
She gives it a playful little tug, and Sherlock's breath hitches, a proper, desperate little sound almost seeping out between his clenched teeth. Y/N's hand slips down from his hair to hold his face, the pad of her thumb brushing against his tightly gritted jaw.
"It's okay to like it, Sherlock," she says. There's a gentleness to her voice, that teasing tone softened as if she's trying to soothe his ruffled feathers.
With her hand cradling his head, he has to fight off the urge to close his eyes.
"I do like it." It feels good to admit it. His whole life Mycroft had tried to weasel the need for affection out of him, Sherlock continuing his work long after he'd moved out. But why? Why had he been afraid of this?
"You can touch me back."
He knows his eyes have gone wide now, and tries to tug a mask over his flustered expression, but Y/N catches it, he knows she does. He can tell because her lip is sort of curling at one side.
Her pinning him to the settee, her smirk falling down onto his flustered expression:
It makes his knees feel like butter.
"What?" he asks, having to give the word a firm shove before it would leave his mouth. He'd heard it, that string of syllables; he just wants to hear them again.
"I said you can touch me back."
Sherlock has a feeling her cheeks have gone pink. Tentatively, he lets his right hand climb Y/N's back to burrow in her hair, and grips it as she gives his ear another kiss. She seems to like it---his reciprocation---because her tongue joins in. She can probably feel the muscle tight against her lips.
"You're all tensed up. You don't need to be. It's supposed to be fun."
He'd like to ask 'What is? What are we doing?' but part of him doesn't want to know. He'd rather just let her...do it. Whatever it is.
And he'd like to participate, very much. Does his touch---by some miracle---have the same affect on her as hers does on him? Imagine if he could make Y/N feel how she makes him feel; the spirals of sensation, the little grips of pleasure in his stomach.
"...What do I have to do?"
"You don't have to do anything," Y/N says, each word a little hot brush against his throat. She sounds bashful all of a sudden, and uses another kiss to hide it, her nose at the collar of his t-shirt. "Just do what feels nice."
It all feels nice.
Sherlock considers her words.
She must feel his hesitation because she nudges his skin with her nose encouragingly. Her kisses are following the muscle up to his ear again. Catching the lobe between her lips, she gives it a little suck.
For the first time, Sherlock lets himself moan properly.
It's heaven, allowing himself to loosen. He turns his head a little, Y/N's sweet shampoo flooding his nose all at once, her hair brushing this face. Excitably, he bundles her closer, pulling her further over his front.
She pulls away to look down at him, surprised, then gives him a soft smile and kisses his cheekbone, and then the other.
His hand is at the back of her head, her little skull cupped in the large spread of his palm. He directs her caresses over his closed eyes, his jaw, the corner of his lip.
And then suddenly he's kissing her mouth.