Giving herself a final glance in the mirror of their little bathroom, Y/N pads back into the bedroom to find it empty.
The clang of enamel pots resonates from downstairs, along with the chink of china as someone rummages through the cupboards.
With a smile, she hazards a guess at where Sherlock has gone.
The sun is already flooding the hallway, lighting up the curls of gold leaf pressed into the wallpaper like daytime stars, specks of friendly old dust drifting lazily through the still air. Bright pools of illumination warm the flagstones at the bottom of the stairs, the smell of breakfast---cinnamon and hot, greasy butter---luring Y/N to the kitchen.
She finds Sherlock leaning lazily against the counter, prodding some soggy bread around a bright blue skillet with a spatula. A jar of strawberry jam sits open beside the egg basket and he dips a spoon in, scooping a globule up and popping it into his mouth.
Smiling, Y/N steps up behind him and takes his hips, looping her arms about his waist. "Hello."
Comfortably, he leans back into her, his chuckle humming against her chest. "Hello."
"What are you making?" She rubs her hands over the firm plain of his stomach and he hums appreciatively, turning around in her arms.
"French toast." He's grinning, his eyes roaming over the outfit she's chosen to wear as if he approves of what he sees, and, when he bends low enough to kiss her, his pink tongue is sweet with jam.
Hungry for it, Y/N drags him back down, searching for more of that taste and he hums, distractedly drooping the spatula down amongst the flour and sugar and eggy mixing bowl. Keenly, he grasps the swell of her hips, tugging her closer as if silently showing he'd very much like her to pin him against the counter.
Liking the feeling of The Great Sherlock Holmes melting below her touch like butter, Y/N obliges, deepening the kiss and he gasps breathlessly, a little overwhelmed. Her palms climb his belly, up his chest and find their new home in his hair, her teeth catching his bottom lip.
Sherlock makes a soft, guttural sound, and, in one strong motion, lifts her up, setting her firmly on the counter. With one hand, almost possessively, he parts her knees so he can get between the soft warmth of her thighs, settling there, very much at home.
"You were making breakfast," Y/N barely has time to pant between a giggle before he pounces on her again.
"I know..." He works her mouth until she quakes against his chest, her little moan twitching his lip into a self-satisfied smirk. "...but this is better."
Agreeing, Y/N drags her teeth over the angular bone of his cheek to his ear, giving the lobe a teasing nip.
Evidently enjoying it a great deal, he pushes himself further between her legs, using a wide hand at the curve of her back to sort of scoop her into him.
She continues along his neck, mouthing fervent, scattered kisses almost experimentally; a bite to the prickly underside of his jaw, a hot press of tongue to the hard muscle of his throat---
Each place earns her another little sound---a weak moan or a deep approving purr---but, over the delicious masculine scent of him, she becomes vaguely aware of a harsh metallic smell prickling the inside of her nose.
Reluctantly putting her exploration on hold, Y/N breaks the kiss, ignoring Sherlock's mumbled growl of malcontent.
"The toast is burning."
He doesn't pay it any mind, but she feels him let go of her long enough to blindly turn the hob down before clutching her again, his kiss so insistent she feels her shoulders bump against the cabinet.
Someone clears their throat and, as if she's been struck by a sudden bolt of something, Y/N jumps, her eyes springing open.
With an expression like he's sniffed sour milk, Mycroft stands in the doorway.
All at once Y/N feels her face flush in mortified blotches. One of her hands had found its way under the hem of Sherlock's shirt and it sheepishly retreats, Mycroft's steel-grey eyes flicking to it with a look she doesn't recognise.
Oblivious in his own little world, Sherlock kisses Y/N's neck coaxingly in an attempt to win her attention, his face shrouded by the feminine curtain of her hair.
Eventually, still getting no response, he gives in with a huff. "What is it?" Pulling away, he follows Y/N's unwavering gaze to find what captivates her so (and then to make it go away).
However, when Sherlock's love-drunk eyes meet the slight arch of his brother's eyebrow, Y/N feels the muscles in his stomach harden like concrete against her thighs, his hand faltering on her waist.
The two siblings look at each other for a long time.
Eventually, Sherlock clears his throat, his expression tightening with a warning glare. "Don't tell Mother."
Almost imperceptibly, the corner of Mycroft's thin lips twitches.
"Or father," Sherlock adds and gets a disappointed eye roll.
"You're no fun." Mycroft crosses the little room to the fridge and Sherlock sighs irritably, stepping out of Y/N's legs.
Smoothing her shirt, Y/N slides awkwardly off the counter, attempting to extinguish the feelings that had blazed up at the sounds Sherlock had made when she'd sucked his bottom lip.
On the hob, the pieces of toast have browned to a honeyed gold, and Y/N hastily slides them onto two plates, scraping a little of the blackness off with the disregarded spatula.
"I thought you were going back to London," Sherlock jabs moodily, opening the fridge door with a little more force than necessary. He brings out the orange juice and a blueberry Yeo Valley---
---but Y/N notices him pause to disreetly bask among the cool milk and crisp vegetables.
"I was going to but Mother practically begged me to make her entry for that ridiculous village bake sale she insists on getting involved with."
"You mean that bake sale you obsess over every year because you keep being beaten by an old lady?" Sherlock jabs. "What's her name? Mrs I-Make-A-Lighter-Sponge-Than-Mycroft-Glick?"
Nettled, Mycroft's glower is just visible for a second as he leans into the pantry. From amongst the jars of pasta, mint sauce, and baked bean tins:
"It's just Mrs Glick, actually. And she doesn't." Exiting the cupboard with several bags of icing sugar---and yet somehow managing not to get a single white speck on his pressed suit jacket---Mycroft turns to stalk away. Having to duck under the low little door, he stops as if remembering something, his eyes holding a sly twinkle. "Oh, and Y/N? Thank you, by the way. You've won me twenty pounds."
Sherlock's head snaps up from the fridge. "What?"
"I had a little wager with Wilber about how many nights of sharing a bed it would take to break Sherlock's willpower." His lips curl into a snake-like smile. "You are pitifully weak, brother mine."
...
When the noon sun piques behind a few stodgy clouds, a barely perceptible change seems to ripple through the house. Like birds feeling in their bones that it's time to fly south for the winter, the guests of Musgrave Cottage decide it is time they make their way back home.
Having taken advantage of the breakfast impulsively provided by Mrs Holmes' maternal nature, the aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents bid forlorn goodbyes with long hugs and kisses on both cheeks.
At first, Y/N dithers somewhat awkwardly on the fringes of the jostling group of dark curly heads, bidding polite it-was-a-pleasure-to-meet-yous like a bashful doorman---
---but several pairs of arms soon grab her and haul her into the heart of the throng, passing her from one bosom to the next, her body vigorously squeezed and her face peppered with kisses.
Only Mr and Mrs Holmes, their sons, and Y/N remain waving from the front step as the Audis, Mercedes and Bentleys draw away from the cottage like a monochrome procession.
Wendy and Charles want to spend as much time as possible with their sons before they, too, are due to return to their foggy old London the next morning.
Mycroft somehow manages to skulk off back to the kitchen, where he promptly commands the whole room, permitting no one to enter besides his mother; whom he consults periodically for very serious discussions about sponge density and buttercream smoothness.
A little jealous, Y/N and Sherlock somehow get roped into aiding Charles with patching a hole in his tool shed roof, and helping Wendy re-shuffle the chaos in her sewing room.
At half one, they prepare a modest lunch of sandwiches and crisps and enjoy it on the patio, the long table feeling much emptier with the five of them spread out between the empty chairs. After a quick reshuffle, they all decide it would be much more comfortable to squash down one end, even Mycroft moving down a chair or two to sit by his father.
Leaving Wendy and her eldest son once more to their baking in the kitchen---which is beginning to ooze the sweet scent of rising cakes---Charles enlists Y/N and Sherlock's help installing an irrigation system, which involves laying a hole-pricked pipe into the flowerbeds on hands and knees, Mr Holmes declaring every ten minutes, sounding very pleased with himself:
"This'll save your mother having to go round every evening with those bloomin' watering cans."
Finally, as the last piece of hose is pushed into the dry earth, Charles wipes his brow with the back of his arm and turns the tap, water flowing through the great artery with a satisfying rush.
Giving his thighs a conclusive slap, he turns to Y/N and Sherlock, still kneeling in the grass, a little flecked with soil. "Right, I suppose you two want some time alone?" His eyes twinkle with a sly smile, and Y/N and Sherlock exchange a glance.
"I beg your pardon?" Sherlock asks, pulling his face into a puzzled frown as Y/N makes a desperate attempt to cool the pink blooming on her cheeks.
Mr Holmes doesn't seem to notice. From a scuffed-olf fridge in the tool shed he takes out a can of Old Speckled Hen and a Mars bar and sinks into a deck chair with a satisfied sigh. "You two. Your mother is busy with Mary Berry in there, and I'm happy with my beer and a bit of sudoku." He flaps the paper, spreading it over his bony knees. Miming waving a magic wand with a lazy hand:
"You are set free."
Hesitating, Sherlock shifts guiltily, one foot pointed towards the open fields like a child itching to go play, the other remaining stubbornly loyal to his ageing parent. "Dad, we don't mind helping you and Mum with things---"
Charles waves him away as if shooing a baby bird that's overstayed its welcome in the nest. "I mind. You're young, you should be off doing whatever younguns do, not pottering around helping your Mum and I install LED bulbs and put new batteries in the TV remotes. Now go, have fun, quick, before your mother asks you to whisk something."
...
Heeding his father's advice, Sherlock and Y/N scarper, heading in no particular direction into the surrounding countryside.
"I feel like I'm back at school when the bell has rings to dismiss lessons for the day," Y/N pants, falling into a lazy walk as they reach the wildflower meadow.
It's a muted yellow now that the sun is shrouded by a few wispy clouds, but still dry as dust as they begin to wander aimlessly, kicking pollen and crickets up with their feet.
Sherlock plucks a stray ear of wheat from the browned grass and nibbles the husks absently. The mention of school must have reminded him of his own because he brightens with an idea. "We could walk into the village?"
...
It is a long way without the car, but the couple barely notice as they traverse farm tracks and woodland, chatting merrily and revelling in the scenic view.
As the afternoon matures, the air grows heavy and cool which Y/N is glad for as they begin the steeper climb up to the village centre.
The hard earth turns to smooth cobblestones as they eventually meet the main road, the cotton-wool clouds begging to clump together like curdled milk over the tips of the hills.
Enjoying the last dregs of sunlight, Y/N and Sherlock pay them no mind, absorbed in spirited discussion. At a leisurely pace, they meander past the little gaggle of shops and Y/N muses, observing the greengrocers:
"Do you think we should pick anything up for supper? Fresh vegetables, or meat or something?"
The sweetcorn is in season and she eyes the gold kernels peeking out from between the husks hungrily as the grocer hefts out another crate. Her mind is running away with a fantasy of rolling an entire cob in the butter dish when Sherlock says:
"Actually, I was thinking maybe we could...go out for dinner."
He's said those words hundreds of times, in that exact order since Y/N has moved into 221B---
---but they sound different this time and he furrows his brows at himself, puzzled by this new shyness.
"Like a date?" Y/N teases slyly, knowing it will make his cheeks pink.
Sure enough, Sherlock becomes flustered and gives a shrug that he'd probably wanted to be casual but isn't. Unusually abashed:
"Well, yes. There aren't many restaurants around here but there's this one place---it's just a pub but the food is really good." Quickly:
"Unless you wanted to drive out of town. I think I saw a Wagamumas on the drive here---"
Y/N slips her fingers between his, giving a soothing squeeze. "The pub will be perfect."