"(Y/n)?"
I open my eyes slowly, "Huh?"
"Could you get your hand out of my shirt?"
I'm laying on Sherlock's shoulder, my hand resting on his bare chest. I scoot away as far as I can, my face a bright red. Sherlock buttons his shirt up all the way, my eyes watching his fingers.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to fall asleep."
He stands up, his shirt pulls across his back tighter as he stretches. My mind can't help but imagine what lies beneath the shirt.
"You've been staring at me a lot recently."
"Because I'm developing a fever, I'm delirious," I say quickly.
He leans down and places a hand on my forehead. His face is dangerously close to mine, memories of his lips on mine flash behind my eyes.
"You're not running fever."
His hand moves down the side of my face, his thumb sliding across my bottom lip. "You should stop biting your lip."
"I can't help it. It's a nervous habit."
He pulls away, "You're biting it now."
I let go of my lip, still maintaining eye contact with him. He tilts his head, "Do I make you nervous?"
My breath hitched, I can feel my face heating up. "I'm not answering that."
"You don't need to."
A knock on the door grabs his attention, he looks at me one last time, nodding to himself, and then opens the door.
"I can't find, (Y/n)! She's not at her house, and she wasn't at the cafe. We've been looking for her for an hour!"
Sherlock opens the door wider, allowing me to see who it is. Enola and Tewkesbury stand there, along with Timothée.
"Good morning," Tewkesbury says, smirking.
I stand up, "Good morning."
"Are you in your pj's?" Enola asks.
I look at Sherlock, but he's staring at Timothée, the two of them glare at each other. Timothée breaks the eye contact and looks at me with a smile, "How are you?"
The three of them enter the apartment, Sherlock's eyes staying on Timothée the whole time. There's an obvious tension, but no one says anything.
"I'm gonna go get dressed," I say with an awkward smile.
I grab an outfit and walk to the bathroom. They weren't supposed to be back for another hour. When I'm done I step out to see Sherlock talking to Timothée.
"Do you live alone?"
"Yes."
Sherlock nods, "How old are you?"
"Twenty-seven."
"I'll need to go home to drop off my stuff," I say to Enola.
She nods, "I'll meet you at the office then."
"I'll walk you home," says Timothée.
"I need to have a word with you, (Y/n). So I'll walk you home."
I look between Sherlock and Timothée, the two of them glare at each other.
"Well, he needs to speak with me," I say, gesturing towards Sherlock.
Timothée nods, "Alright, I'll see you around. Maybe tomorrow we can go for a walk?"
"Sure, we can meet at the bookstore at nine," I say with a smile.
Timothée smiles back then leaves, bumping into Sherlock along the way. Enola gives me a weird look, "I thought you said you didn't like Timothée?"
Sherlock watches me closely, I look away nervously. "I don't."
"Then why go on a date with him? It wouldn't be fair to lead him on," says Sherlock.
Tewkesbury covers his mouth, his eyes as wide as a dinner plate. I look back to Sherlock, tilting my head. "I don't remember anyone saying it's a date."
Enola grabs Tewkesbury's arm, "We'll meet you at the office."
She pushes the boy out the door and gives me a thumbs up. I roll my eyes as she slams the door shut.
"He's older than you."
"And you're older than him."
He stiffens, "I don't trust him."
"You don't have to."
He gives me a nod, "I need to change my clothes."
He walks to his bedroom, the door shutting loudly behind him. I let out a breath and fall back onto the couch. I've never seen him act so cold to a stranger before, not even me when we first met. So what is it about Timothée that he doesn't like?
The door behind me opens, I look back to see Sherlock walking out. His shirt is completely unbuttoned.
"Holy shit."
He looks up at me in surprise, but looks back down to his shirt. There's a mischievous glint in his eyes, "Sorry, I forgot you were here."
My eyes trail up his chest, admiring his muscular build. Why the fuck has he been hiding those abs? He sits on the couch next to me, tying his shoes, but leaving his shirt unbuttoned. I'm respectful, I really am, but how do you expect me to not stare?
"You're staring-"
"Can you blame me?!"
He leans back against the couch, an amused smile on his face. I try to keep my eyes from drifting down, but I am not as strong as I thought. "You should button your shirt."
"I thought you were enjoying the view."
The smirk on his face makes my legs shake, there's no denying the effect he has over me now, and he knows it.
I stand up quickly, tripping over the coffee table. "I'll wait outside."
My feet feel like they're glued to the ground as I drag myself to the door and out into the hallway. I close the door behind me, leaning against it, as I try to catch my breath.
"What the fuck just happened?" I whisper.
Just a few days ago I had sworn that I was over him, and that I actually hated him. The two of us ignored each other for days, not even sparing a passing glance at each other. Now, I've spent the night with him twice, and my self respect vanishes anytime I'm near him.
The door behind me opens, I stumble back, almost falling to the floor. Sherlock grabs my arm and helps me steady myself. "You alright?"
I pull myself away from him, and walk down the stairs. Trying to put distance between us, but he catches up to me within seconds.
"What is it that you wish to speak to me about?" I ask, as we step onto the street.
He looks at me in surprise, "I forgot."
"The great Sherlock Holmes has forgotten what he wanted to talk about?"
He nods, "I'm not perfect."
"Yeah right," I mumble.
We make it to my house, I open the door and turn back to him. "Thank you for walking me home."
"I'll wait for you in the living room," he says, walking inside.
Doesn't he have more important stuff to do?
I walk to the living room, "I have to bathe, so it'll take me a while to get ready."
"I'll wait."
He walks around the living room, looking at all of the pictures. I nod to myself and head upstairs. Why is he here? I grab a new outfit, a much nicer looking blouse and trousers. Then, I go to the bathroom to bathe.
~~°°••°°~~
I look in the mirror and take a deep breath before walking downstairs. Sherlock is sitting on the couch, his head resting on the back of it with his eyes closed. I sit on the opposite end of the couch and slide my shoes on.
"That boy in the picture with you, who is he?"
His eyes never open, if he hadn't just spoken, I'd think he was asleep.
"An incredibly annoying boy that was constantly following me around like a lost puppy."
I stand up, smoothing my blouse out. Sherlock opens his eyes, "You sound irritated."
"Just the thought of him makes me cringe, I should've burnt that picture years ago."
He stands up, and walks over to me. I stiffen as he grabs a lock of my hair, "Your hair is wet. You'll catch a cold."
I step back and walk to the door. "I'll be fine."
He follows me outside, I expect him to leave, but he continues following me. I smile to myself, "You could at least walk next to me, you look like a stalker."
He falls into step beside me, I sneak a glance at him to see that he's already looking at me. "You're staring."
He turns away, "I am not."
"Whatever you say."
We make it to the office, Edith greeting us as we walk in. She gives me a questioning look, but I simply shrug, and walk up to my office.
"She's here.... as well as your brother," says Tewkesbury.
I sit at my desk, there aren't many papers for me to look over, because we haven't had many cases. Sherlock gets them all.
"He followed me here, it's like I have a second shadow."
Sherlock sighs, "You've made it here safely, so I'll leave you be."
He walks down the hall, my eyes follow him until he goes down the stairs. Tewkesbury clears his throat, and when I look at him, I see that he's smirking. I look to Enola, but she's scribbling on a paper.
~~°°••°°~~
It's been hard to focus today. Every time I finally focus on my job, my mind lingers back to Sherlock, and his bare chest. My paper rips, for the sixth time today. I let out an annoyed groan and reach for a new paper.
"You seem stressed."
Enola is looking at me, a concerned frown on her face.
"I'm fine," I reply.
She looks at her pocket watch, "It's already ten, you should go to sleep. I'll finish the paperwork."
She points to the door. "I'm not taking no for an answer."
I let out a sigh and walk to the door, "I'll see you tomorrow. Good night."
"Good night."
I make my way out of the building, waving to Edith as I walk by her. The streets are busy as usual, a different kind of crowd comes out at night. My eyes shift back and forth nervously. You can never be too careful.
An image of Sherlock flashes through my mind, I shake my head, trying to get rid of it. But like I've said before, the more I try not to think of him, the more I think of him. Except now, all I can think about it what his hands feel like on my bare skin.
I make my way to the bar, one drink will be fine, I just need to get him off my mind. Before I go manic.
"Back again?" says the bartender.
I glare, "I'm not an alcoholic."
"Funny, he says the same every time," he says, pointing to a man a few seats away from me.
I drop my head to the table, repeatedly hitting it against the counter. I came here to get my mind off of Sherlock, but how can I do that when he's right next to me? The bartender sets a glass of whiskey down next to me, I throw some money on the counter, and look up to see Sherlock staring at me.
"You shouldn't be drinking."
I roll my eyes, "Neither should you."
"I'm an adult," he says.
I grab my drink and make my way over to him, sitting in the chair beside him. "I'm an adult too."
He takes a sip of his drink then mutters, "Barely."
"What are you doing here?" I ask.
He sets his glass down, "Drinking. What are you doing here?"
"Drinking," I say in annoyance.
I guzzle the rest of my whiskey and stand up, "And now I'm finished, so I'll be going home."
I don't wait for him to reply, if I do then I might be tempted to stay with him. That's not what I want right now.
I find myself standing on my porch, my eyes staring at the door in front of me. There's a voice in my head telling me to turn around, to go back to Sherlock, but I ignore it. I light the lantern in the living room and sit on the couch.
The scent of his cologne still moves through the air around me. It's like he's taken over every part of my life. My emotions, my thoughts, and now my house. The weird thing is that I'm not mad about it like I used to be. It only makes me love him more.
I love him, even though the thought of love makes me nauseous. But the love I have for him is much different than the love I had for Sadie. This love is wild and relentless, the more I try to push it away, the stronger it becomes. Whereas the love I had for Sadie was full of melancholy.
Maybe it's the alcohol, or maybe I did in fact catch a cold. All I know is that I need to tell him how I feel before it's too late.