Sherlock X Reader One Shots || 𝐹𝐿𝑈𝐹𝐹 + 𝑆𝑀𝑈𝑇

"You Have A Lot Of Explaining To Do" (Part 1)

He was in love.

It was because he was in love that Sherlock had offered to go to the store at midnight, in the pouring rain and the icy chill that came with the first dusting of winter. Y/N had opened the fridge to make hot chocolate and noticed they had only a few drops of milk left. She'd put on her coat to get some, but Sherlock had cringed at the thought of Y/N having to brave the weather (and he wanted her approval), and offered to go in her place.

Presently, Sherlock fumbled with his numb fingers to try fit the key in the lock, then dropped them, cursing, and bent to pick them up. The door opened and he slumped in relief when his landlord---Mrs Hudson---bundled him into the foyer, closing the door behind him. The ringing of the wind still sounded in his ears and he slipped off his coat, handing it to her as she fussed about him.

"You shouldn't have gone out there! You're freezing! And look at your hair! Practically dripping wet! Let's get you a towel." The older woman took his sodding coat into her small but homely kitchen, spreading it out on the radiator while the detective stood in the doorway, rubbing his hands.

A singular droplet of water rolled off his head and over his eyebrow, landing on the floor.

Mrs Hudson handed him a towel from her airing cupboard and he buried his face in it, scrubbing it over his hair and soaking up the dampness.

"Thank you. Is Y/N still awake, do you know?"

Mrs Hudson's face turned to a fond smile, "Yes, I think so. That's why you went out, isn't it? To get the bloody milk for her?" she chuckled and had crossed her thin arms over her boney chest and raised her brow. She knew about Sherlock's smouldering passion for his flatmate and had warned him that if he didn't tell Y/N about it soon, he may very well burn out.

Sherlock had denied all of it, but half-heartedly.

She saw right through him.

"We both need milk. Thank you for---this." He handed the towel back to her. "I'll be going up now. Good night."

Mrs Hudson sighed, tutting at his determination to keep his feelings hidden. "Sweet dreams, you silly boy."

The detective went upstairs to his flat on the first floor, picking up his feet happily at the thought of what might be waiting for him on the other side of the door; even if it was just a grateful smile. He opened it, already beaming, but the living room was empty.

Confused, and a little hurt that there wasn't a pleased and sympathetic Y/N to coddle him after his horrifying walk, Sherlock advanced further into the apartment, checking the kitchen.

Y/N wasn't there either. He put the milk in the fridge quickly, then went upstairs to his flatmate's room, knocking, then going inside. His abdomen curled into a tight and uncomfortable knot as rising fear leaked through him.

Where was Y/N?

Had she been kidnapped?

No sign of a break-in, a struggle. And Mrs Hudson would surely have noticed if someone came in and took her.

Panicking, Sherlock hurried back downstairs and checked the bathroom, then last, his room.

He didn't know why Y/N would be in his room. But when he opened the door ajar, it was dark, and there she was, curled up in Sherlock's bed, asleep.

Sherlock paused, still for a bit, thinking this over. The fear of his flatmate being hurt---or worse---lessened, then disappeared completely and was replaced by a hopeful thought that maybe she was in his bed because she wanted someone to sleep next to. Sherlock understood that; it was cold and miserable, and sharing a bed would be warm and comfy and safe.

Mind made up about how he was to proceed, Sherlock took his pyjamas off the dresser, tugging them on after visiting the bathroom quickly, and stepped back into his bedroom. Y/N hadn't moved, she was still on her side, back to the door, hair slightly fuzzy from where she'd been laying on it before.

Sherlock took a deep breath and clicked the hallway light off, plunging the room into darkness. When his eyes had adjusted, he felt his way over to the bed, and slipped into it, gently wrapping himself around Y/N.

Sherlock let out the air he'd been holding in. Y/N was warm. Wonderfully warm, it was heavenly after being outside, beaten by the elements. And she smelled nice. Sherlock nuzzled his nose into the back of Y/N's neck as he drifted off to sleep, feeling more content than he had in ages. He'd never cuddled anyone before.

"What are you doing?!" Y/N woke suddenly the next morning, feeling something weighing her down, something warm and moving, and sat up quickly, scrambling away from it. When she'd seen it was just her flatmate, groggy and tired from sleeping in his own bed, Y/N's anger and embarrassment had replaced the fear. She went red.

"Sleeping?" Sherlock offered, sitting up as well, rubbing the haze from his eyes and staring at her, confused.

"You have a lot of explaining to do!" Y/N had exited the bed, her clear distaste for the situation making something inside Sherlock crumble as he realized what was actually going on, and his face fell, cheeks heating from shame.

"I'm sorry! I thought because you were in my bed that that meant you wanted to cuddle--- or- or something---"

"Cuddle?! Cuddle?!" Y/N looked at the detective in disbelief, messy-haired and drowsy, oddly innocent looking. And hearing him say 'cuddle' in that way, the look as if---if she didn't know any better--- hope disappeared from Sherlock's eyes; it made her feel guilty. And ashamed. She'd actually quite like to get back in bed with him---

"To be fair, you were in my bed," Sherlock fought back, that look of disappointment gone now, and replaced with an offended and irritated frown.

"It was just there so I thought I'd have a nap! I thought you'd wake me up when you came back!"

"Yeah, I get no thanks for that, do I? Going out in a storm to get your bloody milk for you!"

"Thank you," Y/N snarled, too proud to show the wave of gratitude that nearly threatened to wash away her charade.

Sherlock stared at her, emotionless, expression a stony blank.

Y/N finally broke eye contact and left, muttering something about having a shower.

...

Breakfast was awkward that morning. Sherlock felt hollow and disappointed. In himself, and his stupid heart for wanting someone who obviously didn't want him. He remembered the cuddle, that night, how he'd woken up every now and again whenever Y/N moved; because it felt lovely against his body, and he wasn't used to someone next to him while he sat out the often sleeplessly lonely nights.

"Sorry I yelled at you," Y/N suddenly said, quietly as if he'd sensed his thoughts. Her gaze was fixed on her bowl of cereal.

'She can't even bear to look at me' Sherlock thought. "It's fine. Sorry, I didn't wake you."

"No. I shouldn't have been in your bed. And I wasn't as repulsed as I seemed---by the... cuddling. I was just shocked. Let's forget it, okay?"

"Okay."

Y/N offered Sherlock a tentative smile, which he tried to return. 'Forget it' kept replaying in Sherlock's head. He didn't want to forget it. It had been wonderful.