Sherlock X Reader One Shots || 𝐹𝐿𝑈𝐹𝐹 + 𝑆𝑀𝑈𝑇

(Social Anxiety Y/N) Fruit Punch (Part 1)

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

I had to make these chapters a little shorter than my others (1500 words rather than 3000) because this book is getting laggy/buggy to edit because it is longgggg 😅😂 

Anyway, as you can probably tell by all the stuff I post here, I am not really into the whole stereotypical straight relationship--- dominant man takes care of the weak little woman---racket. However, I keep getting requests for it, so I'll meet you halfway: they're both inexperienced...

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CONTEXT: Because of her crippling social anxiety, Y/N---a forensic scientist at Scotland Yard---doesn't have much experience with dating. In fact, she's never kissed someone. Sherlock, who is in the same metaphorical boat, would like to help her change that.

(Y/N has social anxiety) (Y/N and Sherlock are not roommates) (Pre-relationship) (Contains mentions of alcohol but not in a scary way coz I personally think alcohol should be outlawed 😅)

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The gritty granules roll in and out of focus as Sherlock adjusts the microscope, bringing the zoom up to 40. Sand---he thinks---not from a beach; they're not smooth---rounded from years of lapping waves; they're chipped shards---sharp---like man-machine-shattered gravel.

Raising his head from the eyepiece, Sherlock pulls a rack of vials over to his workspace; there are a few more tests he could do to be certain, although he could probably do them at home---he's got all the same equipment; same microscope, same beakers, same scales.

In fact, his are actually a little better than the slightly scuffed, out-of-date labs of Scotland Yard Police Station, but he likes bringing his work here because---

"Oh, hi, Sherlock," Y/N says, seeming genuinely pleased to see him---which makes something warm blossom in his chest. She closes the door behind her, dumping her bag on one of the desks. It knocks over a pencil pot, dried-up Biros spilling into the clutter. Y/N ignores them---or just doesn't notice---and drops two empty coffee cups into a waste paper basket.

"Hello." Sherlock greets, his experiment momentarily forgotten. He checks his watch, the two hands close hanging more-or-less around the Seven. "You're working late," he says, although without a hint of surprise.

Y/N works a lot of overtime. She also makes all the coffee runs, collects things from the copy machine, and takes everything back to the evidence locker at the end of the day because---from what Sherlock has noticed---people ask her to do things and she's too nice (or perhaps too afraid) to say no.

It makes him angry, watching her peers---most of them her subordinates---treating her like an unpaid intern, but when he'd confronted her about it she'd mumbled something about liking to be helpful, and looked so pitiful he hasn't had the heart to bring it up again.

"Astute observation, detective," Y/N quips, making the corner of Sherlock's lip twitch into a smile. She takes some papers from her bag and he moves over, offering her room at his workbench.

She'd probably be better off claiming an unused counter for herself, but she doesn't. Instead, Y/N gravitates to Sherlock's side and begins arranging various pieces of forensic scientific equipment next to him with well-practised ease.

Sherlock has his equipment set up in a leisurely line---so he can jump between pieces like hands up and down a piano---but Y/N seems to prefer her tools to curve in a horseshoe shape, encapsulating her in her workspace like fortress walls.