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In fact, his are actually a little better than the slightly scuffed, out-of-date labs of Scotland Yard Police Station, but he likes bringing his work here because---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.
She keeps placing things down until her horseshoe is more of a clump---as if she's worried about taking up too much room---even though she and Sherlock are the only ones here.
"No," Sherlock corrects, "I meant: I thought you'd finished the Marshall case." With the end of his pen he taps her stack of papers, all full of scribbles and stamped with the proud Scotland Yard Metropolitan Police logo.
"I did, but some new evidence was found," Y/N sighs as if she wishes it hadn't been.
"Anything good?"
"Just some clothes." Her now latex-gloved hand prods some ziplock packets as if they have personally offended her. "The case is over as far as I'm concerned, but I've been asked to have a look at them because," she curls her fingers into air quotes as she delivers the unspoken motto of their profession:
"You never know."
Sherlock rolls his eyes, his mouth opening to chastise her for taking on extra chores---
---but he can't quite push the words out.
After all, if Y/N didn't work late, he wouldn't get to see her as much.
...
The slender hand of Sherlock's watch has risen from the Seven to the Eight, and Sherlock and Y/N's conversation still hasn't moved on from 'the general incompetence of Scotland Yard'---which is okay by Sherlock.
He'll talk to Y/N about anything.
He'd finished looking over his sand-or-maybe-gravel a while ago, but he picks the first vial up again anyway and hopes Y/N doesn't notice he's looked it over three times already.
Y/N is telling him about the case she'd been dragged back into---the one she'd assured her superiors was a dead end.
Sherlock would like to help her---give him five minutes and he'd prove they've got the wrong end of the stick---
---but he can't because he wouldn't do it their way---the police's way---the legal way, with all the bureaucracy and protocol and paperwork (he'd also like to chastise the people who keep dumping their workload onto Y/N's selfless, (slightly nieve) shoulders---
---but he wouldn't do that in a bureaucratic way either).
Once, in one little guilty fantasy Sherlock had found himself having, Y/N had quit the force to join his consulting detective business.
His company?
His club?
If he's in it for the thrill of the chase rather than financial gain, it's more a recreational hobby than a career, isn't it?
Either way, he and Y/N would make a great team, Sherlock thinks.
Had thought; he doesn't let himself stray to those daydreams anymore.
"---we'd thought he'd left the country years ago," Y/N is saying, bringing Sherlock back to earth, the conversation, and his magnified slide of gravel. "As far as we know, he's been in Spain, doing odd jobs. Not odd jobs like we would think of them---like fixing the sink or finally clearing out the garage, but odd jobs like moving cocaine about on ferries."
Sherlock hums to show he's listening. Sometimes people think he isn't listening, but he is. Usually, he doesn't bother to correct them, but he wants Y/N to know he cares about what she has to say---even if it is about run-of-the-mill crimes Scotland Yard has to deal with on a daily basis.
"But then we find his calling card at a recent crime scene and he's a suspect again. I told my supervisor it's a waste of time looking into him---it's probably a fake anyway, but they're adamant I look into it."
Sherlock is about to open his mouth to say that yes, anyone can plant a fake calling card---he'd done it last week, in fact---but something makes a click sound and suddenly the room is plunged into darkness.
"What was that?" Y/N asks, an unmistakable hint of panic nibbling the edges of her tone.
Sherlock almost reaches through the darkness to give her hand a squeeze.
"Oh, sorry," a friendly voice answers with a chuckle.
There's another click, and the tube lights lining the ceiling slowly buzz back to life.
Sherlock isn't surprised to see Lestrade leaning through the doorway; he'd recognise those gruff, rounded London syllables even if he heard them underwater.
"I didn't realise anyone was still here," he apologises.
"Well, we are," Sherlock says, a little more snappy than he'd meant to. He had enjoyed hearing Y/N complain---because she doesn't do it often---and didn't appreciate her being interrupted.
Y/N hadn't complained at all when he'd first met her, which had been a shame because Sherlock likes complaining. He likes complaining about bad TV shows, fashion, the tube, his brother, how many different types of milk there are nowadays---
---anything really.
Complaining about things is good for you, Sherlock thinks. It gets all the bad stuff out.
At first, he had suspected, with a sinking feeling, that Y/N might just be one of those weird people that are happy about everything all the time---
---but actually she'd just been too shy to speak ill of anything or anyone.
Now, however---to Sherlock's delight---most of their conversations seem to be hearty rants.
"Well, can you not be here?" Lestrade is saying, his hand reluctantly falling from the light switch. "I can't lock up until everyone's gone."
"Sorry, we're nearly done," Y/N's fingers start darting about, packing her things away into their bags.
Sherlock frowns, but Lestrade doesn't seem to notice.
"Okay, great." He turns to leave, then his head pops around the door again. "Oh yeah, are you two coming to the Christmas shindig?"
Y/N turns to him: "You're having a 'shindig'?"
Sherlock furrows his brows: "I'm invited?"
Greg gives a good-natured shrug. "The more the merrier, although, Y/N, you won't get paid overtime I'm afraid." He smiles and Sherlock realises that that had been a joke. "It'll be at the town hall. Nothing fancy, at all, really, just drinks, a buffet, music, chatting---"
Sherlock sneers. "I don't think that's our sort of thing---"
"Yeah, sounds fun," Y/N says.
Sherlock looks at her as if she'd grown a second head. "It does?"
"Sure." She notes Sherlock's expression and a slight redness comes to her cheeks, making her lab goggles fog up. "I'm trying to be more...social." She faces Lestrade again. "Yes, I'll be there. What time?"
"Doors open at eight.
"Okay, I'll see you then."
"Me too," Sherlock adds quickly.
They all blink, even him.
Lestrade is the first to get over his shock, partly because he hadn't been shocked so much as puzzled. "You just said it didn't sound like your sort of thing."
"Well, maybe I've thought about it and I've realized it is."
Greg and Y/N exchange a look.
...
Sherlock hesitates before pushing the tinsel-lined door open.
A muffled bass beat thumps through the wall, the rec hall pulsing to the rhythm of some over-used Christmas song from the Eighties.
Y/N is in there, somewhere.
He'd like to get to know her outside of work.
They've got coffee together a few times---sipped from polystyrene cups in the break room---and such.
Sometimes---this summer having been pleasantly balmy---they'd built a habit of leaving the labs to perch on a wall in the courtyard and eat vending machine sandwiches.
They'd been a drab grey sort of colour and tasted of nothing in particular, but Sherlock didn't mind.
Sometimes he'd go to the police station at twelve-thirty in the afternoon even if he didn't have any work to do.
It would be nice, Sherlock thinks, to go somewhere with Y/N where they serve the coffee in a proper mug; a porcelain one with a saucer and a spoon you don't throw away afterwards.
Or, perhaps, to have lunch at a place that offers specials and has waiters. A place Sherlock can say things like 'A table for two, please' and 'May we see the dessert menu?'.
Stepping into the rec hall's little vestibule, Sherlock lets an obnoxious electric-keyboard solo drag him to the main hall.
This definitely is not his favourite Italian restaurant or a quaint Parisian cafe in Soho---but it's a start.
Hopefully, Y/N will be easy to find.
Sherlock is surprised to realise he's wondering what she will be wearing.