Y/N dusts her hands and brushes Sherlock's shoulders with her palm.
A few stray strands flutter to the linoleum like autumn leaves, and Y/N shakes one off the toe of her sock.
"I think you should apologise."
"To whom?"
"I don't know. Everyone. Especially Mr Candicciâalthough I think I could give him a run for his money. Is he looking for an apprentice?" Y/N fluffs the back of his hair up with her fingers, admiring her work.
"Right, I'll go ask Mrs Hudson if we can borrow her broom. Could you get the dust buster? "
Sherlock waves a hand. "That's broken, I tried to hoover lentils and it didn't like it."
As Y/N turns towards the door, he catches her wrist.
"Wait, what about the front?"
"The front of what?"
"My fringe." Sherlock gestures to the chocolate-coloured twists of hair at his forehead. They're so long they're brushing his dark eyelashes, his bright blue eyes staring up at her from where he's perched on the bath.
Frustratingly, Y/N's cheeks pick that moment to turn quite warm.
There's something about his eyes. They're so sharp she finds them hard to look atâlike the sunâbut they're so bluey-green she can't look away.
Like she's drowning.
"It's not that long."
Flatly:
"Y/N, I can't see."
"Yes, you can. How many fingers am I holding up?"
"Eighteen."
Y/N rolls her eyes. "Fine." Crouching a bit, she leans back until her face is more or less level with his. Her hand wobbles as she tries to stay level, lining the scissors in a shaky line. She sighs, straightening. "How do you want me to...? I need to be at eye level."
Sherlock thinks for a moment then stands, his hand taking hers.
She stumbles along behind him as he leads her into the kitchen, and pulls out a dining chair. Spinning it to face her, he takes a seat. Briskly, both his hands pat his thighs. "Sit on my lap."
"Sherlock, I'm not doing that."
If anything, he looks affronted. "Why not?"
"Mr Candicci doesn't sit on your lap."
One of his dark eyebrows rises into his overgrown fringe. "Mr Candicci doesn't get inside my coat when it's cold, or fall asleep on me in cabs, or hide against my chest when we watch horror filmsâwould you like to stop doing those as well?"
"You watch horror films with your barber?"
Flatly:
"You know what I meant."
Y/N's feet knead the floorboards, because yes, yes she had known what he meant.
One of the boards is sticking up a little more than the others, the wood prickly. It catches a thread of her sock.
"This is different."
"Bad different?" He's wearing an expression she doesn't recognise.
It makes her want to shake her head just so he'll stop looking at her like that.
"No, not bad. Just...different."
He sighs and stands, and Y/N thinks he's going to take the scissors from herâ
âbut, instead, his hands firmly take her hips. Easily, he lifts her up, her toes leaving the ground and plonks her onto his thighs.
Straddling him, she feels herself grow white and then red in rapid succession.
The solid muscles in his leg shifts below her as he adjusts the position of his feet to rest squarely on the floor.
Y/N edges her own apart, making an effort not to let her knees touch his hips. She has the curious feeling that, if she let them grip his strong, slender middle, she'd have a job convincing them to let go.
And she doesn't want to make him uncomfortable. To say she is invading his personal space is an understatement.
Sherlock doesn't move apart from his eyes blinking up at her through his curls.
He's waiting for something.
Stupidly, Y/N wonders what.
"Is that better?" He asks, and Y/N remembers what this had been for.
Frustratingly, he's right; she is now exactly in line with the part of his hair she needs to cut.
Clearing her throat, she reaches out, suddenly overly aware of her limbs and her body and whether Sherlock can smell that she's wearing the perfume he bought her for Christmas.
She can smell his cologne. He always smells nice.
She tries not to think about it.
Gently between two fingers, she stretches out a curl. "Could you hold out your shirt?"
He blinks. "Hm?"
"Your t-shirt. Hold it out to catch the fluff."
Distractedly, he stretches the hem of his pyjamas. He can't stretch it very far with Y/N on his lap, his hands bumping into her stomach. Ever so slightly, his cheekbones turn pink.
It's quieter in the kitchen without the bathroom fan, the sitting room windows closed against the street.
She can hear the fridge motor buzzing.
And their breathing.
His is slow and relaxed.
Hers is shallow. Each breath exits through her nose and sets his hair fluttering.
...
Several minutes pass and Y/N is still carefully snipping.
She'd held a bundle of curls between her fingers but chickened out as the blades closed around them and opted instead for cutting five individual hairs at a time.
She's pleased with the outcome but frowns meekly at the speed of her progress. "Sorry, I don't know why this is taking so long; I think I'm scared of fucking it up because it's at the front."
"So fucking up the back is okay?"
She doesn't often hear him swear. It's another one of those things that make the back of her neck itchy. "You know what I mean."
"It's okay," his voice is quiet. "I'd prefer you do it right rather than fast."
"That's what she said."
They both chuckle, if Y/N didn't know any better she would say nervously. She can see his eyes properly now, his curls just about tickling his dark eyebrows.
They keep flicking down to her lower face then back up to her eyesâas if he doesn't quite know where to look. His lips twitch with an abashed smile. "I'm glad I have to hold my shirt because I wouldn't know what to do with my hands."
Y/N smirks teasingly. "Not used to having a woman on your lap?"
His eyes meet hers levelly. "No."
Y/N snips another curl, watching it bounce back up like a soft little spring. "Well, I'm nearly done so you'll be free soon."
"It's okay. I don't...I don't mind it." He's gone red, and from Y/N's angle, she can see it disappears right the way down into his t-shirt. "...It's actually...quite nice."
...
Y/N's day has been long, but she climbs the stairs to the apartment with brisk steps and opens the door wearing an exuberant smile. It broadens when she catches sight of her flatmate at the table his eyes lowered to his microscope. "Sherlock!"
He raises them at the sound of her entry, a beam lighting his whole face. He stands, his chair distractedly pushed back and his microscope forgotten. "Y/Nâ!" he begins, his tone matching his energyâ
âbut Y/N is already throwing words at him, a tote bag swinging from her arm as she tries to shrug off her coat with the other:
"I brought you something to help with your boredom!" Out of the bag, she draws a small plastic box with a childish, colourful label.
Sherlock's grin twitches even wider as she presses it into his hands. "'Sea Monkeys'?"
"I had these as a kidâ"
"Me too! I used them to fake lice so I'd be sent home from school." Distracted for a moment, he turns the box over to observe the little labeller sachets, the tiny yellow spoon and creepy, humanoid illustrations.
That confession has the power to momentarily throw Y/N off her train of thoughtâ
âbut only momentarily. Shaking her head, she continues, finally managing to shed her duffle coat:
"Okay, well, I thought we could try to raise them. Only a few of mine survived when I was younger but we're adults now and you've got a chemistry degree, how hard could it be? We could watch them with your microscope and maybe name them. I was thinking "Norbert", "Richard Magubbins" and "Long Sharon"."
Y/N's suggestions of names for their future brine shrimp gets a little laugh out of Sherlock, and Y/N revels in it becauseâat the momentâher whole life seems to revolve around trying to win even a second of that sound.
Hanging up her coat, she stops, turning to him. "Wait, weren't you going to say something?"
Sherlock raises his head from reacquainting himself with the sea monkey's instruction booklet and, for a moment, appears quite puzzled. Then his eyes turn from merry seafoam green to animated, electric blue. "Oh yes! A client stopped by today; I got a case!!!"
The pink flush drains out of Y/N's cheeks as if a plug has been pulled. "Oh?" She hadn't meant it as a question, but, not wanting to betray her disappointment, she hopes he takes it as one.
Correcting her tone, adding an interested upward inflection:
"What do they want you to do?"
"The CEO of Blakeley Hospitalâyou know, the one Mycroft goes to because he thinks he's too good for the NHS?"
Y/N nods, watching Sherlock cross back to the dining table in two quick strides.
There's a plate of Party Rings next to a stack of ziplock bags. He's ordered them into piles, separating them by colour. The yellow and purple ones are almost gone, but her favourites are untouched. He takes a pink one, offering it to her.
"She thinks someone's offing his rich patients to steal their belongings."
Y/N accepts the biscuit and nibbles off a chunk of sugar icing. "And what do you think?"
"I think she's right."
"But don't people die in hospitals all the time? Unless rich people have found a cure for death the rest of us don't have access to yet."
His lip twitches as he enjoys the flavour of her satire, and his biscuit. "Not when they just came in to donate a kidney, or to cure a troublesome UTI."
"Ew."
"I know, sorry. But anyway, Mrs Hammondâshe's the CEO. She took me to look around the hospital today so, finally, I can use my microscope to look at something other than crumbs and dust we found under the sofa." He shakes one of the ziplock bags, a pair of blue medical gloves flopping about inside like a dead fish.
Y/N lets herself lean against the kitchen counter with the same zest for life as the gloves. "Do you have any suspects?"
"Well, Mrs Hammond kept saying it's a Dr Arthowitz," he presents the notion as if its a piece of paper he wants to screw up and throw into a bin.
"It's not a doctor though, is it?"
"No, I'm pretty sure it's a nurse. No one ever checks on the nurses. I just have to prove it." He raises his head from the ziplock bags and frowns.
Oops.
Quickly, Y/N drags the corners of her lips up, trying to mirror his excitementâ
âbut it's already drained from his face, his smile replaced with concern. "...What's wrong?"