'Hey, where are you?
Y/N has not changed her lock screen since June, when she Sherlock had visited The London Natural History Museum. It's spread behind them in a blurred array of brown and marble as she and Sherlock grin into the camera, the pointy face of a Stegosaurus skull squashed between their faces. They'd sent the photo to Mycroft with the caption 'We found our favourite dinosaur from the Triassic' which had gotten them a very long and angry text about the Mesozoic era, which they had ignored.
When Y/N's phone buzzes, Sherlock's little text bubble pops up, although only Y/N would know it. Presently, his name is saved as 'Dingus'. Last week he was 'knobhead' and, for an amusing few days, he was 'Dr Strange knob' because of that one film character Y/N thinks he resembles.
Sherlock does not see it. His text reads:
At the hope head
*Horse
*Horse's
YN's thumbs pause over the keyboard, puzzled. Cautiously, they tap back:
'Are you ok?'
Another pause.
Yeahh. With Lestrade.
He says come gett me.
...
The hard-working men and women of Scotland Yard have been frequenting 'The Horses Head' since before anyone can remember, the buildings on either side evolving from a cobblers and a wagon workshop to a Pret A Manger and a WHSmiths.
A permanent fixture of London, the walls were once candy-cane-red but have mellowed like whiskey to a maroon sort of brown. The bar is sticky and the carpet is thick below the tables but well-trodden everywhere else, much of it also sticky.
Y/N's nose wrinkles as she pushes her way through the stained glass door, partly because of the thick smell of ale but also because most of the faces that turn to towards her are coppers who have said more than a few rude things to her flatmate.
That's why she's surprised to see Sherlock sitting in a booth, his face actually turned up into a smile. He's not quite socialising, but he's gotten close; he's sitting across from Lestrade who is wearing a worried look that crumples apologetically as Y/N strides over to their table.
Sherlock's smile widens in a grin as he spots her, like a dog wagging its tail when its owner enters the room. "Y/N!" he beams. Delightedly, he pats the booth's cracked leather seat. "Sit next to me."
"Hey, Sherlock." Her brows furrowed, she slides in next to him.
Happily, he budges up to her side until his elbow touches hers.
She stares at him. "Are you...drunk?"
She doesn't need to ask because he almost definitely is, at least a little bit. He's sitting up grinning at her, his eyes still bright---which is good---
---but his hair is all ruffled and floppy, his shirt collar askew. There's a softness to his expression where hard lines would usually be, a relaxed slump to his posture where it would usually sit straight, alert like a spaniel waiting for a stick to be thrown.
Y/N turns to Lestrade and he cowers.
"Y/N, I know what you're going to say---"
"Yeah, you do. You know he doesn't drink." Picking up Sherlock's glass, her eyes narrow at the electric, slush-like mixture. "If you can call this drinking. What are you drinking?"
Snatching it back protectively, Sherlock sips his straw. It's paper and looks like it's been slightly nibbled. "Lestrade gave me a Bailey's but it didn't taste like sugar at all, so he found me something else. It tastes like bubblegum."
"But what is it?"
"I don't know. It's blue."
"Yes, I can see that." When Y/N turns her glower back to Lestrade he shrinks in his seat, holding his hands up as though surrendering to a drawn gun.
"I'm sorry! I know! We thought it was for kids because---well, look at the colour of it! We didn't know it had alcohol in it, but hey, he's fine!"
Sherlock does look fine. He actually looks...relaxed. Something Y/N has rarely seen him. She catches glimpses of it when he's curled up with a book, or picking a Quality Street from the box she holds out, his dressing gown about his shoulders and the tele mumbling away.
"Yeah, I'm fine. I'm not even drunk!" he insists, and Y/N wavers.
"He hates being sick, Greg, why do you think he is the way he is? He's got like, a phobia or something. He's fine now but what about tomorrow?"
"He won't be sick, he's just tipsy. He's only had two."
Y/N's eyebrows touch her hairline. She turns back to Sherlock, sipping his blue drink through his rainbow-coloured stripy straw. He reminds her of a small child whacked off their gourd on Ribena. "Really?"
Sherlock nods, stirring his ice cubes around with the clink of cold glass. His pale eyes are all pupil and, lazily, he drags a hand up from the table and strokes it through Y/N's hair.
"...Hello?"
"You're so pretty."
She blinks. Then, righting herself, she almost smiles. It twitches her lip at one corner, and she nudges him with her elbow, so close to his ribs now that he's scooted even closer. "You're not too bad yourself."
He perks up. "You think so?"
"Yes. Why is that such a surprise?"
"You never say."
On the other side of the room, someone drops a glass and everyone cheers.
"Nice one, mate!" Lestrade hollers, holding up his own pint, and there's a rumble of police officers laughing.
Y/N giggles too but, when she turns back to Sherlock, his eyes are still fixed on her face, unblinking, waiting.
"I do say."
"You don't."
"I do. What do you think I mean when I say 'Ooh, 'ello ' when you come downstairs in a suit? Or 'I like that shirt on you'? when we have breakfast in the morning?"
"Don't know." His wide shoulders rise and fall in a half-hearted shrug. "I thought you were just being nice."
Y/N just stares at him, his words all wobbly and tripping over themselves. His face is open, oddly expressive and scribbled all over with something awfully close to sadness.
"I'm sorry, Y/N," Lestrade says apologetically.
"It's okay, you didn't know, and he's fine. I think. I've just never seen him like this."
Sherlock's hand is still in her hair. He's leaning the heels of it on her shoulder, winding it around his forefinger absently, staring at it as if watching the overhead lights reflecting off of each individual strand.
She turns back to Lestrade who downs the rest of his pint. "How did you get him to go to a pub anyway?"
"He wanted to have a chat about something."
"Is he okay?"
"Yeah, everything's fine, it's just guy stuff."
"Guy stuff like he needs to see a doctor?"
"Nah, nothing like that."
Relief floods over Y/N in a wave and she releases a breath she didn't know she'd been holding in. "Okay. Good." Gently, she moves a stray curl from Sherlock's eye.
It makes his face turn all soft and pink with a blush, his silver eyes all pupil, and dropping sleepily.
Y/N fights the urge to cup the wide line of his jaw. "I know you're having a good time, but do you want to go home now?"
His ears prick hopefully. "With you?"
"Well, yes." There's that smile again. "We live together, you cretin."
"Oh yeah." He grins as if the realisation delights him.
She stands up and Sherlock follows dutifully, swaying a little. To steady him, she quickly takes his hand and he blinks down at it, grinning. "What?"
He squeezes it, his long, pale fingers dwarfing her little palm. "You're holding my hand."
"Is that okay?"
"Yes. I like it."
"Bye Greg. Thanks for taking him out. He looks like he had a nice time."
"He did get into it in the end, yeah. Do you want me to come help you put him to bed? I feel bad for...this." He gestures at the detective, usually so poised but currently leaning into Y/N so much she has to hook an arm around his narrow waist.
He's not that drunk, Lestrade thinks with a private smile.
Her hand comes to rest on Sherlock's stomach, propping him up, and Greg could have sworn the detective's eyes met his for a second, the corner of his lip twitching.
If Y/N wasn't staring right at him, he'd shoot him a 'way to go, mate' wink.
"It's okay, I think we'll manage."
...
Bidding a final goodnight, Y/N steers Sherlock towards the door. Pliantly, he stumbles along next to her and, from the bar, a couple of officers shoot them a wolf whistle.
Sherlock frowns at her, confused as they step out into the bitter October air. His question plumes in front of his face as they walk hand in hand down the road:
"Why did they do that?"
"Do what?" Y/N hopes he can't see her pink cheeks as they pass under a street lamp.
"They whistled at us."
"Oh. They saw me holding your hand and thought we were leaving to...you know."
"No."
"They thought I was taking you back to my place."
"We share a place."
"No, they thought we were leaving to have sex."
"Oh."
There's a long pause.
The clouds break apart enough to let a slither of moon fall down onto the pavement. Then:
"Thank you for picking me up."
"I'll always pick you up."
He's still holding her hand.
She gives it a squeeze. "You know that, right?"
...
Flicking the flat's light on, Y/N helps Sherlock pry off his oxfords and drag his coat from his shoulders. The wool hangs heavily from the peg as she hooks it up beside his blue scarf, her own jacket joining it, the sleeves crossed as though they're holding hands.
"Have you eaten?"
Sherlock has to have a think before he replies. "We had chips."
"Do you want anything else?"
"Not really."
"Do you want to watch tele?"
"I don't think so."
"How about you go to bed?"
"I'm not tired."
"I think you are. You were up until two last night."
"I was thinking."
"Thinking?"
"Yeah. I couldn't sleep."
Y/N has seen mothers drag their children around Sainsbury's on a Friday afternoon, their school uniform lopsided, their backpacks dragging. The mothers gently nudge their floppy children along, patiently asking if they'd like Monster Munch or Mini Cheddars, and Y/N adopts the same tone as she coaxes her flatmate to his bedroom.
"What were you thinking about?"
"Things."
"Anything important?"
"No. Stupid things."
"Why did you stay up until two if they were stupid?"
"Because I'm stupid."
Depositing him by the bed, Sherlock watches her as she fetches his pyjamas from his pillow and presses them into his hands.
He blinks at the faded material, then at Y/N. His cheeks turn pink. "You're in my room."
"Fantastic work, detective."
He preens as though the compliment had been genuine. "Thank you."
"So..." Y/N waits. "Are you just standing there?"
There's a smirk pulling at his lip. "I can't dress myself."
Y/N's eyes roll. "Don't be stupid, of course you can."
"Can't. I'm drunk like you said. Here." He holds out his pyjamas, trying to press them back into her hands.
She takes a step back, holding her palms flat. "You don't need me to do that."
"I do. Look." Furrowing his brows at his shirt buttons, he begins clumsily fumbling with them, his long, narrow fingers tripping each other up.
At first, Y/N is convinced he's messing with her.
However, after a few seconds, she has to stifle a laugh.
"You really can't do them?"
Sherlock's brow has knotted into disappointed confusion. "I don't think so."
On his bedside table, his clock blinks with a big number twelve.
Tiredly, Y/N sighs. "Come here."
His frown smoothing over in an instant, Sherlock steps over happily, letting Y/N move his hands aside.
One by one, she slips each button from its loop, exposing a pale column of his firm chest. She shakes her head. "The great Sherlock Holmes can't unbutton his own shirt."
"'S not my fault the blue drink had alcohol in it," he grumbles. "I should sue Lestrade."
"Okay, we'll write up the legal documents tomorrow." Gently untucking his shirt from his waistband, Y/N reaches his flat belly and he pulls away suddenly. She blinks up at him. "What's wrong?"
"Don't look at that."
A second ago he'd been watching her hands with quiet fascination but, now, he's stepped back, his hands holding his shirt closed like it's a gaping wound he's scared will bleed out.
"Why not?" She asks, baffled. She tries to step back up to him but he backs away, his legs touching the mattress of his bed.
Finding himself cornered, he mumbles something.
"What?"
"I said, I don't want you seeing."
"Seeing what?" Y/N begins, but the words choke in her throat. "You didn't...you didn't get stabbed again, did you?"
"No!"
She reaches out again, trying to take his waist but he evades her, squirming free. "Sherlock, it's okay if something went wrong---well, it's not okay, I'm furious but, mainly, I'm worried. I care about you---let me see."
Wriggling loose, Sherlock shakes his head. "There's nothing to see, it's nothing to do with that."
"Oh." Relieved, Y/N's hands flop back down to her sides. "What is it, then?"
"I don't want you looking at me."
"But why?"
"Because...I don't look like those men you like."
"Those men I like?"
"From those superhero films you made me watch."
"But you do look like them."
He shakes his head despondently. "I don't."
"You actually, genuinely do. And anyway, who cares about those men? I prefer you anyway."
Another moody head shake.
"I do. You're very handsome," she promises gently, trying to coax him over. "For God's sake, Sherlock, come here, let me help you."
Reluctantly, he lets her cross the room to him once more, his hands still clasping the starchy fabric of his shirt.
Gently, she pushes them aside and they fall, defeated to his sides.
Unbuttoning the last button, Y/N's hands climb his torso to slide his shirt down, over the strong knots of his shoulders. He sneaks to the gym, she knows he does. Lowering her head, she dares a peek at his pale, porcelain skin. "See," she says, quietly, her cheeks heating. "Handsome."
He's watching her through his floppy fringe. "If I'm handsome...why have we never had sex?"
Y/N stops, her hands already holding his pyjama top open for his head to duck through.
He hasn't moved towards it, though. He's still just watching her.
"What?"
"Why don't we have sex?"
"Should we be having sex?"
"I think so."
"Why do you think so?"
"Because I like you. And you're so pretty. And I think it would feel good."
Moistening her lips, Y/N holds his pyjama shirt out to him and thanks God when he bends enough for her to drag it over his head. She watches as he slots his long arms into the holes. It's easier to talk to him when he's clothed. His skin is so pale, so perfect, it drags her eyes to it, the smooth mounds of his pectorals, the surprisingly soft centre of his belly. She can't form words when she can see his collarbones. And those lines leading down into his trousers---
She clears her throat and the words come out rough, like sand. "You've never asked me for sex before."
He shrugs. "I thought you'd say no."
"I might not."
His eyes widen, sparking like blue electricity. "So can we have sex?"
It takes every atom in Y/N's body to force her head to shake. "Not right now."
For a fraction of a second, that spark dies---
---but it brightens again, glowing as he asks hopefully:
"But later?"
She struggles.
Will he remember this later?
Will the idea still thrill him later? Or will it disgust him, the idea bright and dreamy in the moment but, when sober, will it come into focus? He's avoided physical intimacy his whole life, there must be a reason---
But he's still blinking at her expectantly. Right now, in this moment, he doesn't look like he's been avoiding it. He looks like it's been avoiding him, his eyes all wide and waiting, needy, almost, touch starved, desperate. He's edged closer to her without her noticing, his hand twitching as though he wants to reach out and take hers.
"Yes, if you go to sleep, when you wake up, if you still want to...we can."
"Amazing!" Not mucking about anymore, he quickly pulls off his trousers and Y/N manages to turn around just in time as his underwear joins the heap about his feet. There's a shuffling as he kicks them off and tugs on his pyjamas. "Do you promise?"
"Yes, I promise."
"You can look, now."
When Y/N turns around, his cheeks are red. "Well, you could look before, if you wanted."
He climbs into bed obediently, and pats the space next to him, just like he'd done in the pub. Sighing, she takes a seat and he gazes up at her with an expression she can't read.
It's difficult looking down at him and not kissing him.
His mouth is right there.
It's all soft, sinfully wide and pink and biteable, for a man, Y/N thinks.
She bets it would taste of that drink he'd had. Sugar. Sweet.
She bets his moans and happy sounds would taste the same.
"Why can't we have sex now?" He's asking, and she realises he must have been thinking the same thing.
She strokes a hand over his forehead, smoothing his curls back, and smiles.
She wonders if he'll remember any of this tomorrow. She hopes he will.
"Because you're drunk."
"I'm not drunk! I keep telling you!"
"Just go to sleep, Sherlock." Making to stand, he catches her arm.
"Wait." Instantly, he pulls her back down, onto the bed. "Please stay. I hate it when you go."
Taken aback, Y/N has to take a moment to collect herself. When she has, she props herself up on her elbow and strokes his hair again.
Because it looks so soft.
And he's letting her.
For months, she's wished he'd let her.
"You never go to pubs," she says, her voice quiet amongst the air, all full of his sloppily, besotted smiles.
"I don't like them."
"I know. That's why I'm surprised you went. Greg said you wanted to talk about something."
"Yeah."
"Can you talk about it with me?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because you're the person it was about."
He yawns. His teeth are all white, his tongue pink. The faintest hint of stubble is beginning to prickle his jaw.
"What is it?"
"I can't tell you."
"Why? Did I do something wrong?"
"No, the opposite, you do everything right, that's why I'm in love with you."
Y/N blinks. Slowly, her hand strokes over his hair again. "...Okay. You don't have to tell me."