The beam of Mr Morghan's porch light glares persistently through the slashing rain, somehow managing to illuminate Y/N's fingers as she pushes the barn door closed and slides the lock into place. The cold metal meets with a satisfying clank, startling a few alarmed 'baas' from the jittery sheep safely enclosed inside, and, linking hands, she and Sherlock make their way back across the paddock.
After so long spent in near-darkness, they squint against the glow of the farmhouse as they approach, their shadows casting stretched, drenched shapes on the gravel.
Mr Morghan has been waiting for them in the kitchen.
He's sat at the table, facing the window, staring into the black square of glass his eyes tracking the swaying glow of Y/N's torch. His hands are dwarfing a steaming cup of Horlicks, his shoulders being sympathetically rubbed by his wife; a strong, stout woman in a ginham dressing gown.
When he catches sight of Y/N and Sherlock forcing their way up the driveway, he leaps to his feet with the energy of a much younger man and prizes the door open.
A gust of wind whips through the kitchen, sending pans clanging and paper flying, and Mrs Morghan just manages to press an umbrella into her husband's distracted hand as he rams his socked toes into some wellies.
Fighting to open the brolly against the storm, he hobbles up to meet Sherlock and Y/N half way, one foot not entirely squeezed into its boot.
His sun-browned face creases into a grin as he manages to make out the smeared, two-pronged hoof prints stamped onto their clothes, and he seizes Sherlock's hand. Shaking it up and down vigorously:
"Yer found 'em? Oh, I knew yer would! I told my missus, I told her if anyone in England could find 'em it would be our Sherlock." He flushes, dipping his head hastily in Y/N's direction. "And his special lady, of course. What do I owe yers? I can't pay much but I'll give what I can."
He's shielding them from the rain with his umbrella but it's too late for that now, a steady stream of water trickling from the top of Sherlock's head like a leaky tap. He's still heartily handshaking Sherlock's hand so his voice wobbles up and down as he says:
"You don't owe us anything, Teddy, honestly."
"But I want ter thank you fur yer trouble, goin' out in the wet and so late at night an' all." He shouts through the rain which comes down faster for a brief moment as a gust of wind blows.
It's pelting the umbrella's canvas with a sharp smacking sound.
Sherlock gives him a smile. "It was no bother, I enjoyed it."
Being a proud man with simple, traditional values, Teddy looks disheartened that he can't repay the debt he sees himself in. He thinks for a moment then turns back to the house, leading his guests to follow with hand gestures. "Come with me, I know what I can gives yer."
Treading bootprints onto the stone floor, he bustles into the kitchen and returns with an armful of glass jars.
The porch light sets them aglow like amber.
Teddy presses them into Sherlock's hands and grins, puffing his chest out so his jacket buttons strain more than they already are. "Collected this jus' this morning. I know how yer love my hives; yer can stop by an have a visit anytime, yer know that." With a huge paw, he pats Sherlock's shoulders heartily, nearly knocking him onto the driveway. "Now, let me take yer both home."
...
It is only in the back of Mr Morghan's Landover, her hand absently stroking Wicket's wiry coat, that it occurs to Y/N he had called Musgrave Cottage 'home', and neither she nor Sherlock had corrected him, even in the sanctuaries of their own minds.
The car wades up the woodland track, rocking and sinking over heaps and dips of mushy leaves and cloudy, silty puddles. As it rounds the corner and enters the driveway, the headlamps illuminate a steady flow of water running from the overflowing gutters, down the slight slope of the garden and into the forest.
The house is dark besides the upper floor where the inviting glow of a few bedside lamps just manage to peek through the curtains. When Y/N leans over to read the clock on the dashboard, it tells her it's just past 11 pm.
Leaving his headlights on, Teddy insists on stepping back out into the rain to hold Y/N's door for her, helping her out with surprising softness of hand.
Escorting her all the way onto the doormat below his umbrella, he bids them a few more "Thank yers" and, after a parting bark from Wicket, drives off into the night.
Sheltering under the honeysuckle's laden leaves, Sherlock digs into his pocket for the house key, his other hand supporting several jars of honey. Before he can insert it into the lock, it clicks from inside, the door swinging open to reveal Mr Holmes wearing a dressing gown and slippers. A Pair of reading glasses dangles from a chain around his neck, and Y/N catches Sherlock wilt.
"You didn't have to wait up for us, Dad."
Charles' forehead is tall rather than wide, and currently drawn together with a stern frown, his receding hair making it look even more tall and frownier than ever. "Didn't have to. Wanted to." His eyes, usually blue as a Cornish sky and twinkling with boyish mischief, are grey and weary with concern as they scan his son (and his companion) up and down in the overprotective way fathers do.
Deeming them unscathed, however, he steps aside to bid them passage, his entire visage brightening as he jests---again, in the way only fathers do:
"So, been swimming, have you?"
Sherlock helps Y/N peel off her sodden jacket. "No, we decided to partake in a leisurely hike around old Ted's place."
Taking their outerwear---presumably, to hang over a bucket by the last embers of the fire, Mr Holmes rolls his eyes. "Pigs escaped again?"
A boot jack sits squatly by the door and Sherlock uses it to pry his wellies from his feet, their entire lower half encased in a rather substantial portion of the British countryside. When he gets them free, even his socks are darkened with wet. He shakes his head. "Sheep, this time."
Their clothes moistening the floor, Mr Holmes goes with them upstairs, bringing their small company to a halt by the airing cupboard where he draws out several fluffy bath towels.
Tenderly, he wraps one around his son's shoulders, and Y/N expects him to pass her the other---
---but he swaddles her up too, tucking the cotton snuggly under her chin like a fur shawl.
It smells of laundry detergent and the little bundle of lavender Mrs Holmes hangs in the cupboards 'to keep them fresh as a posy'.
"You're lucky your mother's already asleep," Charles mutters, his voice lowered. "She was worried enough about you as it is, being out at this hour, but I said: 'Wendy, he's a grown boy' and she said 'But what if he gets lost?' and I said 'Lost, woman? He knows his way home like it's written on his damn heart. Spin him around a hundred times and plonk him in Timbuktu, he'll still show up on this doorstep eventually, even if it takes him a hundred years."
He'd lead them down the hall with carefully placed footsteps and stops at the master bathroom, pulling the light.
With a tired click, the old bulb hums to life, the fan taking up a slow rhythm around the high ceiling.
"You two get cleaned up now, or you'll catch your death. And if your mother asks tomorrow; you got back two hours ago, got it? Okay, goodnight," he presses the words down firmly but still tilts his head expectantly.
"Night, Dad." Automatically, Sherlock stoops to kiss his presented cheek. "And thanks."
Charles waves him away, needing no recognition for doing what he sees as his duty as a father.
As he turns to leave, Y/N catches his cheek for a kiss too, and the old man gives her a smile. "You're a good kid for putting up with my boy," he laughs, chucking her on the chin. "Sleep well."
...
Sherlock closes the door and locks it, turning to Y/N with a wobbly smile.
The rain is still audible, but muffled, the night suddenly oddly quiet without it beating and slashing at them from every direction like a flurry of wild cats.
Y/N can feel the warmth of the family's home slowly managing to penetrate her skin; the central heating, the fireplace downstairs, the bodies in their beds, and the oven and gas stove from dinner. She's enjoying its creeping warmth, spreading over her like the embrace of warm hands, but Sherlock is filling the bath hurriedly, his mouth in a pressed line.
The pipes groan at being awoken so late, and, with a shudder, water gushes from the tap's mouth, hurling itself into the porcelain with a billow of steam.
"I'm sorry about this evening," he apologises, his brows furrowed together as he sets the sink running too.
It fogs the mirror up with droplets, beading and rolling down the glass like the rain streaking the window.
"This hasn't been romantic at all. I wanted to treat you special, but you're covered in mud and all cold---" Taking a flannel and soaking it, he begins dabbing tenderly at the scuffs of dirt drawn across Y/N's cheek like warpaint.
"Sherlock, you don't need to try to be romantic," she insists, surprised at his sudden shift in mood.
Freed from the unwavering focus of the case, he seems to have awoken from a sort of trance, suddenly seeing everything for how it is.
And how it is is wet and cold and speckled with grass stains.
He blots at one now, and Y/N stops him, catching his wrist. "I love spending time with you whatever we do. And this was fun; we were out in a storm looking for runaway sheep---how often would we do that in London?
He's sponging a scrape of lichen from her eyebrow with all the tenderness in the world and pauses, raising his head to meet her eyes sadly. "But---I wanted it to be romantic. I wanted to show you I could be a desirable partner and...you know..." he colours "...a good boyfriend."
Meeting his eyes, Y/N raises a palm to cup his hand against the side of her face. It's gritty with dirt and slick with rain water but warm where her skin meets his. "This is romantic. And you are."
Sighing---but the beginning of a smile loosening the line of his mouth---he tossed the cloth back into the sink, freeing his hands to take her waist. They drag her closer until their hips meet, and closer still---as if he can't help it, his long body stooping to nuzzle his nose into the warm space below her ear.
"Y/N," he sighs, not for any particular reason, just to taste it. The word is a breath against her neck, somehow so unique and exciting when he says it, each letter electrifying the base of her spine.
She kisses him and he falls into it as if he's been aching to get into her arms all day, not hesitating to ease her jaw open with a strong thumb at her chin.
His mouth still tastes a little of mint ice cream, their candle-lit meal at 'The Red Fox' feeling like a millennia ago.
Outside, the rain suddenly patters harder against the window, a gust of wind barrelling through the branches of the oak trees outside like a wave.
When Y/N and Sherlock part, breathless, her fingers are tangled in his curls. They're not curls anymore, but flat to his head and darkened from chocolate brown to a slick, inky black. Every couple of seconds, a drip falls onto the carpet.
Y/N feels one drop from his nose land on her cheek.
He shivers.
"You're cold too."
He smiles in that dazed, love-sick way. "Yes. But you're warming me up."
The corner of her lip twitches but she shakes her head seriously. "Even so, you should get out of those clothes." Her hands travel down to his waistband where she eases his shirt free and begins unfastening the buttons.
The fabric is cool below her fingers, the pearly buttons slippery, but she manages to get the bottom few undone. They reveal a chink of Sherlock's flat, pale stomach, and suddenly Y/N's hands falter. She realises he hasn't moved, and raises her face to read his expression.
"Sorry...is this okay?"
She finds him grinning, his gaze following her fingers as they undress him with quiet fascination. "...It's more than okay." His grip on her waist tightening, he bends closer and presses a kiss to her neck. "I really, really like it."
Her fingers fumble over the last few buttons, the one between his collarbones hard to reach while he's bent over to kiss her. And it's difficult to concentrate when he's moving his jaw in that way; smooth and hungry against her shoulder. Unable to help it, her fingers slide below the silk of his shirt and splay on his chest, savouring the feel of his heart beating rhythmically against her palm.
Humming in answer to her touch, his hands glide higher, past her waist to toy with the hem of her shirt. The pads of his fingers climb, touching a rib and she gasps, which he must enjoy because he dances over that spot again, his touch breathing fiery life into her icy skin.
She moans in encouragement and, panting between fervent kisses, Sherlock takes Y/N's shirt distractedly, pulling it up over her head. It peels away and his gaze roves over her skin, glistening and tight from the cold, a wolfish grin curling his lip.
He groans softly when her breasts touch to his chest.
With great strength, she breaks the kiss, but he just latches onto somewhere else, adamant in his apparent mission to set every one of her cells melting. "...Sherlock, you know I want to..."
Half listening, he mouthes at the back of her neck, burying his nose into her damp hair. It must smell of summer rain, and he kisses it appreciatively again and again, his tongue creeping out to taste his home on her skin.
"---but you know we can't," Y/N apologises, keeping her voice low. "Not here. Everyone's alseep."
There's a pause where time seems to slow, his lips closing on her collarbone one last time. They linger, absorbed, savouring her pulse beating below his mouth.
Then he sighs, his hand relaxing its squeeze on her breast, and he drags himself away.
Cool air fills the space where the broad weight of his palm had been.
He's looking down at her, unblinking, his pupils swelled up and drowning out their greeny-blue. Taking his lip between the strong edge of his teeth, he tries to suppress a sheepish, pleading smile. "...What if we were really really quiet?"
For a moment, Y/N imagines taking the detective right here on the rug by the fireplace, having him all spread out below her---or crouched atop her possessively, her thigh drawn up to his hip in an adamant, powerful hand.
One of her slicked-down eyebrows raises challengingly. "...Do you think you can be quiet?"
She can see he is genuinely considering it, his expression calculating as he runs a quick self-analysis.
Then it falls, his shoulders sagging. With despondent honesty:
"No."
Y/N gives him an apologetic smile and tries to smother the fantasy still playing through her mind---something to do with kneeling, and that earthquake-like groan he can somehow make in his chest. The thought of it brings prickly goosebumps up all over her skin, and she shivers.
Mistaking her arousal for a chill (his deduction skills apparently hindered while the blood that should be in his brain is otherwise occupied) Sherlock says, his gentleness returning:
"Come on, you should get in the bath while the water is still warm. I don't mind going after." Respectfully, he turns away to allow Y/N to remove the rest of her clothes, but she catches his wrist.
Peeking up at him with a shy, coy smile:
"...I was thinking we'd get in...together."
He goes pink. "You want to?"
"If you do."
Sherlock'scheekbones flush with undisguised delight. "Absolutely."