Sherlock X Reader One Shots || 𝐹𝐿𝑈𝐹𝐹 + 𝑆𝑀𝑈𝑇

What Happened In Room 32 (Part 6)

The cab Sherlock had arranged drew to a halt outside 221B at around four in the afternoon. There had been traffic; roads clogged by shiny black cars like hoards of beetles flowing between slabs of pavement. Their taxi valiantly fought its way into central London, however, so did all the other vehicles. The battle was long and drawn out and taking place at about five miles per hour.

Y/N had contemplated just vacating the cab and walking home. It was an understatement to say that she found the ride uncomfortable, and not just because it was unbelievably boring. 'Usually,' she had thought, watching the traffic lights before them turn red just before they reached them---again, 'when someone has a one night stand they never see the person again. I, however, have to share a three-plus hour car ride with mine. And then an apartment.'

Not that Y/N regretted any of it; what happened in room 32 will now forever be a shining jewel nestled in her memories. That didn't mean it sat comfortably with the logical part of her brain, though. Or the emotional part either, for that matter. Every time Y/N replayed a moment from that night---Sherlock helplessly arching his back with pleasure, Y/N's hands sliding over his upper leg, his lips scraping her skin---a voice in her head would remind her that he probably wasn't thinking the same thing. At least, not in the way Y/N was thinking about it. She was thinking 'I made the love of my life feel so fantastic last night' and he was probably thinking 'sex feels great'. She was replaying the way her chest had overflowed with affection at hearing him say her name. He was probably replaying what it felt like to have someone---anyone---slide his underwear from his hips.

Yes, if Sherlock's insides curled in on themselves as much as Y/N's now did every second they spent together, he definitely wasn't showing it. Y/N had found him eating brunch, as he said he'd be, in brooding silence at the hotel's dining area, peacefully lost in his own head like he so often was. Usual Sherlock behaviour.

Not like Y/N's behaviour, which she realised with a sigh, would take a little while longer to become anything even close to recognisably normal. When Sherlock had left her room he seemed to take some of Y/N's zeal with him because it took a surprising amount of self-discipline to nudge herself into packing her case and starting the day.

And even when she did finally manage to start it, she did it slowly, easing herself in by pacing back and forth in the hotel lobby a few times first, mentally debating with herself whether she should go and join Sherlock's table. Not to eat---God knows her stomach was tied in too tight a knot to do that---but as a way to make things go back to how they had been before. When she saw him as her friend and flatmate, and didn't have the sound of him groaning playing in her mind whenever she looked at his lips.

Eventually, Y/N had settled on fetching some tea from one of the machines at the table still set up as a breakfast buffet and took the seat opposite her flatmate. After much deliberation, she had reached the conclusion (and hoped) that acting normal would be the fastest way to, well, get back to normal---fake it 'til you make it, as it were.

Sherlock didn't seem to need to fake it. He'd smiled at Y/N genially as she'd sat down opposite him and started a casual conversation as if nine hours ago he hadn't been moaning to high heaven because she had been kissing his neck in a particular way. As time went on, he seemed to stray further and further from the cuddly, sleepy Sherlock he'd been this morning. The only evidence of the fact that he had had sex at all last night was a love-bite Y/N knew to be hiding below his clothes. He'd regained his self-assuredness, his confidence. He wasn't exactly cold to Y/N, but he wasn't treating her like a lover either. He was treating her like...well, like how he usually does; like his best friend. He's clearly back to his old self.

Y/N, however, only became more self-conscious as the day went on. The reality of last night became clearer with every passing minute, time sharpening it like an incriminating photograph being pulled into focus. She'd had a one night stand with her flatmate, whom she was head-over-heels in love with, and now had to pretend like it didn't mean anything? How was she supposed to do that? How do you act casually platonic with someone after sharing such an experience?