Sherlock X Reader One Shots || 𝐹𝐿𝑈𝐹𝐹 + 𝑆𝑀𝑈𝑇

Thunder ((Final) Part 4)

"That you liked it. Sharing a bed with me. And that you think I'm pretty."

There's no point in denying it, and definitely no way he can do so convincingly, so Sherlock just nodded again. He had meant it, he still means it; even now as Y/N is trapping him, as he's unsure of what exactly is going on; he's still just happy to have her on his bed.

And, if he's completely honest with himself, he actually likes the trapping.

"I think you're pretty too."

Sherlock's brain did something peculiar, then, a sort of double-take, as if there had been a glitch in the matrix.

Y/N's cheeks are red. "Or handsome. Attractive. Whatever."

Yes, he had heard her right. And her pupils are all big, swelled wells of ink that don't seem to be able to settle on anything. They keep finding Sherlock's eyes, then darting away, as if startled by the transparency of them, the sharpness of his gaze.

It's very concentrated right now, as though his perception is a camera lens brought into focus. He's paying attention all of a sudden, on full alert---despite the rather distracting, pleasing pressure of a pretty woman straddling his waist.

The corner of his lip twitched. Sceptically: "You do?"

"Yes."

There was a moment of silence, heavy and laden with thought and tension.

Then, his mouth curving with amusement at her little squeak of surprise, Sherlock took Y/N's shoulders and pushed her down onto the bed.

She looked up at him from the mattress, and he's crouched over her now, smiling down at her wolfishly---although that part is completely by accident.

Sherlock isn't resting his full weight on her---for several reasons. One of them is because she looks so utterly small underneath him, her waist fitting easily between his thighs, his broad hands smothering the knotted bones of her shoulders. He remembered how it had felt to clutch her little body to his chest last night, the tiny, frantic beating of her heart---

And suddenly became overly conscious of intimidating her. Hastily, he released her shoulders.

Her wrists are either side of her head, and he takes them instead, softly, gently, tenderly. Hopefully, his latent strength, his hesitation, will show Y/N he's is only playing.

She doesn't seem to mind either way. She hasn't tried to wriggle free, or pushed him off her, even though he's keeping himself pliable enough for her to do so. She's just gone the colour of candyfloss, her lips parted to breathe.

Sherlock resolved not to look at her lower face. Y/N's appealing little mouth seems to have an annoying habit of not only threatening his composure, but shattering it, shooting it dead and dancing on its grave. One glance would make interrogating her with any conviction near-impossible. "What are you doing?" He asked. "Really?"

What is she doing? Coming into his room, climbing on top of him and calling him pretty? What kind of game is this, and is he playing it right?

Y/N took a second to speak, for some reason, and when she did it was breathy.

Inexperienced-and-very-much-in-love Sherlock will need to get off her and wrap his duvet around his waist if she doesn't stop doing things like that.

"I'm trying to tell you...that I didn't mind. What you said earlier."

There was another one of those silent stretches, but this time Sherlock's eyebrows weren't raised in pleasant surprise, they were pulled together tight in puzzlement.