Y/N falls asleep as soon as her eyes close.
Sherlock just sits for a moment, her breathing soft beside him. He can still feel the ghost of her kiss; a faint tingle across his lips.
He touches his fingers to his mouth and finds that he's smiling.
Eventually, he brings himself to stand. Before leaving, he pops two paracetamol from Y/N's medicine cabinet and leaves them on her nightstand with a glass of water.
...
Sherlock wishes the weekend would hurry up and get itself over with.
He passes the time by ushering in every client that comes to his door, and listening patiently to their case, no matter how trivial their problems.
He needs to, otherwise, his thoughtsâas they so often doâwill wander back to Y/N.
To what it had felt like when she'd kissed him.
And when he'd kissed her back.
He'd have liked to do other things, now that he thinks about it. Let his fingers run through her hair, to cradle her in his arms.
Or at least kiss a bit more.
He wishes she hadn't been drunk so he could ask her exactly why she'd kissed him, and he wishes she hadn't fallen asleep right away so he could have asked her if she'd liked it.
Of course, he could ask her these things in person, but he's not sure he'll be able to push the words off his tongue.
...
By the time Monday eventually makes an appearance, Sherlock has gathered enough evidence over the weekend to warrant a visit to the labs of Scotland Yard.
Upon placing his bag down on an empty workbench, however, it occurs to him that Y/N might not even show up.
She doesn't always use the lab; as a forensic scientist, she's often called to a crime scene or stuck in the briefing room. Or, as a public servant, she might be getting trained in all the things police staff need to be trained in these days---CPR, and classes on the newest politically correct words.
Sherlock would understand if Y/N is too shy to make an appearance right awayâeven if they hadn't kissed, she'd still gotten embarrassingly drunk. And even though he doesn't regret their kiss, with hindsight and the harsh light of day, she might.
...
By 2.15 pm, Sherlock starts to think he won't see Y/N today.
He's despondently wiping down his microscope slides when the door opens and she hurries in, her usual heap of paperwork threatening to topple at any moment.
"Good afternoon," Sherlock greets, lighting up, and Y/N's cheeks instantly colour.
She keeps her eyes on the papers in her arms as she lowers them onto her desk, her raspberry-pink blush a stark contrast against the white A4. "Hi."
Sherlock's heart sinks a little.
He moistens his lips, finding them peculiarly dry. "Did you have a nice weekend?"
Keeping her eyes lowered to her hands, she starts hurriedly sorting the stack of papers into several messy piles. "It was okay."
He waits for her to ask the question back, but she doesn't. Clearing his throat, still absently wiping down the same slide:
"About Friday night..."
Y/N's shoulders visibly stiffen under her oversized lab coat.
"Do you want to just forget it? Because we can, if you want."
The pink splotches on her cheeks darken to two concentrated circles of red, and she finally turns to face him. "How can I forget it?"
Sherlock blinks, a little startled.
Her eyes are all wide like a petrified hare. "I got accidentally drunk in front of every single one of my colleagues, had to be escorted home, and had a breakdown about being single!"
So...she's not upset about the kiss?
He can't help a smile twitch at his lips. "Well, I wouldn't call it a breakdown..."
Y/N flaps her scarf at him. "Stop smiling, it's not funny! It's embarrassing, its---"
"It's irrelevant. So you've never been with anyone, so what?"
"So..." She sighs. "...It's humiliating."
Sherlock shakes his head. "Not to me." He flushes---although he's sure everyone knows.
Clients never ask if he's married during absent small talk, his acquaintances never give him a little nudge with their elbow and ask with a wink 'So, are you seeing anyone at the moment?'. People who've only just met him seem to know that he's not---that he hasn't, ever---as if his clothes reek of touch-starved loneliness.
Y/N waves him away. "But, I've never even kissed anyone."
"Nor had I, until the other day." And then he blinks, suddenly noting her wording. "...And, actually...so have you."
Y/N stares at him. Carefully:
"No, I haven't."
"You have." He feels his brows furrow. "Don't you remember?"
Y/N's mouth opens and closes, images no doubt flashing through her mind of possible drunken encounters with various colleagues. "...No. When?"
"Friday night. At the end."
All the colour drains from her face as though a plug has been pulled. "Oh God. Who...who was it?"
Sherlock's throat suddenly turns very dry.
She really doesn't remember.
He moistens his lips again, his whole mouth prickly sandpaper, and turns away from her. His voice oddly small:
"Me."
Y/N's eyes widen with mortified horror. "I-I kissed you?"
Still wiping that same microscope slide, he gives a small nod of his head.
Y/N has begun pacing.
"Sherlock, I'm so sorry! I've never been very good at drinking alcohol, in fact, I didn't even know that punch was alcohol; it just tasted like berries and stuff---" She turns to him, her palms held up. "I'm really really really sorry."
Sherlock watches her, her face crumpled, her tightly fisted hand twisting her lab coat around and around her thumb. She looks so brokenly humiliated that Sherlock says, stopping her:
"Don't be, it was nice."
It's not even a lie.
It had been sweet and soft and innocent.
He'd kept thinking about the way she'd looked on his way home, her shy little accidental smile, her pupils full as she'd gazed up at him from the pillow.
No one's ever looked at him like that before.
"More than nice."
For a moment, neither Sherlock nor Y/N says anything.
They're both still, apart from Y/N's teeth gnawing persistently at the ragged skin of her lower lip.
Sherlock remembers something.
"So...if you don't mind me asking..." he starts, finally slotting the now very clean slide into its case. "...Why haven't you?"
"What?" Y/N turns to him, puzzled, and he brings himself to face her.
"Why haven't you...you know...dated anyone. Seeing as you seem to want to. You're..." he takes a deep breath. "Well---you know---you're attractive and funny and smart. You're...appealing. Lots of people would want to be with you. What's stopping you from being with them?"
She laughs. Not a nice laugh; a bitter, bark-like laugh. "'Lots of people'? You're nuts."
"How so?"
"Because I'm me," she says as if it's obvious, a hint of irritation in her voice. "I'm shy. And awkward. Men want chill, confident, laid-back women; someone they can have a good time with. I'm not...like that." Her shoulders sink a little. "I don't like loud nightclubs or rowdy bars. I never know what to say to people, and when I do say things I feel like they're the wrong things. I don't...fit in anywhere." She looks at him, her gaze heavy. "Do you know what I mean?"
Sherlock looks solemnly back at her. "Yes. Yeah, I do."
"I don't get dates because I don't go out. I don't get noticed." She shrugs as if to turn back to her work, but Sherlock stops her, gently reaching out and cupping her face.
"I notice you."
She looks at him, visibly surprised, and he pulls his hand away as if she'd burnt him.
"Sorry. I just mean...I think you're fun. Even if you are shy, and you don't like nightclubs. I...like those things about you."
She's still staring at him, so he adds, his cheekbones hot:
"If I do, there's probably lots of other people that will as well."
If he didn't know any better, he could have sworn her shoulders drooped again.